“Bit of luck for me, Doctor, having you with me. If I had been alone and unprotected I shouldn’t have escaped for half-an-hour; and I should have been definitely booked for the barge-boys’ pandemonium. Hallo! What’s Japp up to? Oh, I see. He’s sticking up the notice about that key. I ought to have done that. Japp writes a shocking fist. I must see if it is possible to make it out.”
As we approached the office I glanced at the sheet of paper which Mr. Japp had just affixed to the window, and was able to read the rather crabbed heading, “Ten Shillings Reward.” The rest of the inscription being of no interest to me, I wished Bundy adieu and went on my way, leaving him engaged in a critical inspection of the notice. Happening to look back a few moments later, I saw him still gazing earnestly at the paper, all unconscious of a lady in a pink hat who was tripping lightly across the road and bearing down on him with an alluring smile.
Threading my way among the foot-passengers who filled the narrow pavements, I let my thoughts ramble idly from subject to subject; from the expected visit of my two friends on the following Monday to the alarming character of the local feminine population. But always they tended to come back to my patient, Mrs. Frood. I had seen her on the preceding night and had been very ill-satisfied with her appearance. She had been paler than usual—more heavy-eyed and weary-looking; and she had impressed me as being decidedly low-spirited. It seemed as though the continual uncertainty and unrest, the abiding threat of some intolerable action on the part of her worthless husband, were becoming more than she could endure; and unwillingly I was beginning to recognize that it was my duty, both as her doctor and as her friend, to advise her to move, at least for a time, to some locality where she would be free from the constant fear of molestation.
The question was: when should I broach the subject? And that involved the further question: when should I make my next visit? Inclination suggested the present evening, but discretion hinted that I ought to allow a decent interval between my calls; and thus oscillating between the two, I found myself in a state of indecision which lasted for the rest of the day. Eventually discretion conquered, and I decided to postpone the visit and the proposal until the following evening.
The decision was reached about the time I should have been setting forth to make the visit, and no sooner had that time definitely passed than I began to regret my resolution and to be possessed by a causeless anxiety. Restlessly I wandered from room to room; taking up books, opening them and putting them down again, and generally displaying the typical symptoms of an acute attack of fidgets until Mrs. Dunk proceeded with a determined air to lay the supper, and drew my attention to it with an emphasis which it was impossible to disregard.
I had just drawn the cork of a bottle of Mr. Tucker’s claret when the door-bell rang, an event without precedent in my experience. Silently I replaced the newly-extracted cork and listened. Apparently it was a patient, for I heard the street door close and footsteps proceed to the consulting-room. A minute later Mrs. Dunk opened the dining-room door and announced:
“Mrs. Frood to see you, sir.”
With a slight thrill of anxiety at this unexpected visit, I strode out, and, crossing the hall, entered the somewhat dingy and ill-lighted consulting-room. Mrs. Frood was seated in the patients’ chair, but she rose as I entered and held out her hand; and as I grasped it, I noticed how tall she looked in her outdoor clothes. But I also noticed that she was looking even more pale and haggard than when I had seen her last.
“There is nothing the matter, I hope?” said I.
“No,” she answered; “nothing much more than usual; but I have come to present a petition.”
I looked at her inquiringly, and she continued:
“I have been sleeping very badly, as you know. Last night I had practically no sleep at all, and very little the night before; and I feel that I really can’t face the prospect of another sleepless night. Would you think it very immoral if I were to ask you for something that would give me a few hours’ rest?”
“Certainly not,” I answered, though with no great enthusiasm, for I am disposed to take hypnotics somewhat seriously. “You can’t go on without sleep. I will give you one or two tablets to take before you go to bed. They will secure you a decent night’s rest, and then I hope you will feel a little brighter.”
“I hope so,” she said, with a weary sigh.
I looked at her critically. She was, as I have said, pale and haggard; but there seemed to be something more; a certain wildness in her eyes and a suggestion of fear.
“You are not looking yourself at all to-night,” I said. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The same old thing, I suppose. But I do feel rather miserable. I seem to have come to the end of my endurance. I look into the future and it all seems dark. I am afraid of it. In fact, I seem to have—you’ll think me very silly, I know—but I have a sort of presentiment of evil. Of course, it’s all nonsense. But that is what I feel.”
“Is there any reason for this presentiment?” I asked uneasily; for my thoughts flew at once to that ill-omened figure that I had seen on the bridge. “Has anything happened to occasion these forebodings?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” she replied. But she spoke without looking at me—an unusual thing for her to do—and I found in her answer something ambiguous and rather evasive. Could it be that she had seen her husband on that day when I had followed him? Or had he been in the town again—this very day, perhaps? Or was there something yet more significant, something even more menacing? That this deep depression of spirits, these forebodings, were not without some exciting cause I felt the strongest suspicion. But whatever the cause might be, she was evidently unwilling to speak about it.
While I was speculating thus, I found myself looking her over with a minute attention of which I was not conscious at the time; noting little trivial details of her appearance and belongings with an odd exactness of observation. My eyes travelled over the little hand-bag, stamped with her initials, that rested on her lap; her dainty, high-heeled shoes with their little oval buckles of darkened bronze; the small brooch at her throat with the large opal in the middle and the surrounding circle of little pearls, and even noted that one of the pearls was missing and that the vacant place corresponded to the figure three on a clock-dial. And then they would come back to her face; to the set mouth and the downcast eyes with their expression of gloomy reverie.
I was profoundly uneasy and was on the point of opening the subject of her leaving the town. Then I decided that I would see her on the morrow and would go into the matter then. Accordingly I went into the surgery and put a few tablets of sulphonal into a little box, and having stuck one of Dr. Partridge’s labels on it, wrote the directions and then wrapped it up and sealed it.
“There,” I said, giving it to her, “take a couple of those tablets and go to bed early, and let me find you looking a little more cheerful to-morrow.”
She took the packet and dropped it into her bag. “It is very good of you,” she said warmly. “I know you don’t like doing it, and that makes it the more kind. But I will do as you tell me. I have just to go in to Chatham, but when I get back I will go to bed quite early.”
I walked with her to the door, and when I had opened it she stopped and held out her hand. “Good night,” she said, “and thank you so very much. I expect you will find me a great deal better to-morrow.” She pressed my hand slightly, made me a little bow, smiled, and, turning away, passed out; and I now noticed that the haze which had hung over the town all the afternoon had thickened into a definite fog. I stepped out on to the threshold and watched her as she walked quickly down the street, following the erect, dignified figure wistfully with my eyes as it grew more and more shadowy and unsubstantial until it faded into the fog and vanished. Then I went in to my solitary supper, with an unwonted sense of loneliness; and throughout the long evening I turned over again and again our unsatisfying talk and wondered afresh whether that presentiment of evil was but the product of insomnia and mental fatigue, or whether behind it was some sinister reality.
CHAPTER VII.
MRS. GILLOW SOUNDS THE ALARM
Nine o’clock on the following morning found me still seated at the breakfast table, with the debris of the meal before me and the Sunday paper propped up against the coffee-pot. It was a pleasant, sunny morning at the end of April. The birds were twittering joyously in the trees at the back of the house, a premature bluebottle perambulated the window-pane, after an unsuccessful attempt to crawl under the dish-cover, and somewhere in the town an optimistic bell-ringer was endeavouring to lure unwary loiterers out of the sunshine into the shadow of the sanctuary.
It was all very agreeable and soothing. The birds were delightful in the exuberance of their spirits; even the bluebottle was a harbinger of summer; and the solo of the bell-ringer, softened by distance, impinged gently on the appreciative ear, awakening a grateful sense of immunity. The sunshine and the placid sounds were favourable to reflection, which the Sunday paper was powerless to disturb. As my eye roamed inattentively down the inconsequent column of printers’ errors, my mind flitted, beelike, from topic to topic; from my vague professional prospects to the visitors whom I was expecting on the morrow and from them to the rather disturbing incident of the previous evening. But here my thoughts had a tendency to stick; and I was just considering whether the proprieties admitted of my making a morning call on Mrs. Frood, with a view to clearing up the obscurity, when the street-door bell rang. The unusual sound at such an unlikely time caused me to sit up and listen with just a tinge of uneasy expectancy. A few moments later Mrs. Dunk opened the door, and having stated concisely and impassively, “Mrs. Gillow,” retired, leaving the door ajar. I started up in something approaching alarm, and hurried across to the consulting-room, where I found Mrs. Gillow standing by the chair with anxiety writ large on her melancholy face.
“There’s nothing amiss, I hope, Mrs. Gillow?” said I.
“I am sorry to say there is, sir,” she replied. “I hope you’ll excuse me for disturbing you on a Sunday morning, but I thought, as you were her doctor, and a friend, too, and I may say——”
“But what has happened?” I interrupted impatiently.
“Why, sir, the fact is that she went out last night and she hasn’t come back.”
“You are quite sure she hasn’t come back?”
“Perfectly. I saw her just before she went out, and she said she was coming to see you, to get something to make her sleep, and then she was just going into Chatham, and that she would be back soon, so that she could go to bed early. I sat up quite late listening for her, and before I went to bed I went down and knocked at both her doors, and as I didn’t get any answer, I looked into both rooms. But she wasn’t in either, and her little supper was untouched on the table in the sitting-room. I couldn’t sleep a wink all night for worrying about her, and the first thing this morning I went down, and, when I found the door unbolted and unchained, I went into her rooms again. But there was no sign of her. Her supper was still there, untouched, and her bed had not been slept in.”
“Did you look downstairs?” I asked.
“Yes. She usually kept the door of the basement stairs locked, I think, but it was unlocked this morning, so I went down and searched all over the basement; but she wasn’t there.”
“It is very extraordinary, Mrs. Gillow,” I said, “and rather alarming. I certainly understood that she was going home as soon as she had been to Chatham. By the way, do you know what she was going to Chatham for?”
“I don’t, sir. She might have been going there to do some shopping, but it was rather late, though it was Saturday night.”
“You don’t know, I suppose, whether she took any things with her—though she couldn’t have taken much, as she had only a little handbag with her when she came here.”
“She hasn’t taken any of her toilet things,” said Mrs. Gillow, “because I looked over her dressing-table, and all her brushes and things were there; and, as you say, she couldn’t have taken much in that little bag. What do you think we had better do, sir?”
“I think,” said I, “that, in the first place, I will go and see Mr. Japp. He is a relative and knows more about her than we do, and, of course, it will be for him to take any measures that may seem necessary. At any rate, I will see him and hear what he says.”
“Don’t you think we ought to let the police know?” she asked.
“Well, Mrs. Gillow,” I said, “we mustn’t be too hasty. Mrs. Frood had reasons for avoiding publicity. Perhaps we had better not busy ourselves too much until we are quite certain that she has gone. She may possibly return in the course of the day.”
“I am sure I hope so,” she replied despondently. “But I am very much afraid she won’t. I have a presentiment that something dreadful has happened to her.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. “Have you any reason for thinking so?”
“I have no actual reason,” she answered, “but I have always thought that there was something behind her fear of meeting her husband.”
Having no desire to discuss speculative opinions, I made no direct reply to this. Apparently Mrs. Gillow had no more to tell, and as I was anxious to see Mr. Japp and hear if he could throw any light on the mystery, I adjourned the discussion on which she would have embarked and piloted her persuasively towards the door. “I shall see you again later, Mrs. Gillow,” I said, “and will let you know if I hear anything. Meanwhile, I think you had better not speak of the matter to anybody.”
As soon as she was gone I made rapid preparations to go forth on my errand, and a couple of minutes later was speeding down the street at a pace dictated rather by the agitation of my mind than by any urgency of purpose. Although, by an effort of will, I had preserved a quiet, matter-of-fact demeanour while I was talking to Mrs. Gillow, her alarming news had fallen on me like a thunder-bolt; and even now, as I strode forward swiftly, my thoughts seemed numbed by the suddenness of the catastrophe. That something terrible had happened I had little more doubt than had Mrs. Gillow, and a good deal more reason for my fears; for that last interview with the missing woman, looked back upon by the light of her unaccountable disappearance, now appeared full of dreadful suggestions. I had thought that she looked frightened, and she admitted to a presentiment of evil. Of whom or of what was she afraid?
And what did she mean by a presentiment? Reasonable people do not have gratuitous presentiments; and I recalled her evasive reply when I asked if she had any reasons for her foreboding of evil. Now, there was little doubt that she had; that the shadow of some impending danger had fallen on her and that she knew it.
As I approached the premises of Japp and Bundy, I was assailed by a sudden doubt as to whether Mr. Japp lived there; and this doubt increased when I had executed two loud knocks at the door without eliciting any response. I was just raising my hand to make a third attack when I became aware of Bundy’s head rising above the curtain of the office window; and even in my agitation I could not but notice its extremely dishevelled state. His hair—usually “smarmed” back neatly from the forehead and brushed over the crown of his head—now hung down untidily over his face like a bunch of rat’s tails, and the unusualness of his appearance was increased by the fact that he wore neither spectacles nor the indispensable eyeglass. The apparition, however, was visible but for a moment, for even as I glanced at him he made a sign to me to wait and forthwith vanished.
There followed an interval of about a minute, at the end of which the door opened and I entered, discovering Bundy behind it in a dressing-gown and pyjamas, but with his hair neatly brushed and his eye-glass duly adjusted.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Doc.,” said he. “Fact is, your knock woke me. The early bird catches the worm in his pyjamas.”
“I apologize for disturbing your slumbers,” said I, “but I wanted to see Japp. Isn’t he in?”
“Japp doesn’t live here,” said Bundy, motioning to me to follow him upstairs. “He used to, but the house began to fill up with the business stuff and we had to make a drawing office and a store-room, so he moved off to a house on Boley Hill, and now I live here like Robinson Crusoe.”
“Do you mean that you do your own cooking and housework?”
“Lord, no,” he replied. “I get most of my meals at Japp’s place. Prepare my own breakfast sometimes—I’m going to now: and I make tea for us both. Got a little gas-stove in the kitchen. And a charlady comes in every day to wash up and do my rooms. If you are not in a hurry, I’ll walk round with you to Japp’s house.”
“I am in rather a hurry,” said I; “at least—well, I don’t know why I should be; but I am rather upset. The fact is, a very alarming thing has happened. I have just heard of it from Mrs. Gillow. It seems that Mrs. Frood went out last evening and has not come back.”
Bundy whistled. “She’s done a bolt,” said he. “I wonder why. Do you think she can have run up against hubby in the town?”
“I don’t believe for a moment that she has gone away voluntarily,” said I. “She came to see me last night to get a sedative because she couldn’t sleep, and she said that she was going home as soon as she had been to Chatham, and that she was going to take her medicine and go to bed early.”
“That might have been a blind,” suggested Bundy; “or she might have run up against her husband in Chatham.”
I shook my head impatiently. “That is all nonsense, Bundy. A woman doesn’t walk off into space in that fashion. Something has happened to her, I feel sure. I only hope it isn’t something horrible; one doesn’t dare to think of the possibilities that the circumstances suggest.”
“No,” said Bundy, “and it’s better not to. Great mistake to let your imagination run away with you. Don’t you worry, Doc. She’ll probably turn up all right, or send Japp a line to say where she has gone to.”
“Devil take it, Bundy!” I exclaimed irritably, “you are talking as if she were just a cat that had strayed away. If you don’t care a hang what becomes of her, I do. I am extremely alarmed about her. How soon will you be ready?”
“I’ll run and get on my things at once,” he replied, with a sudden change of manner. “You must excuse me, old chap. I didn’t realize that you were so upset. I’ll be with you in a few minutes and then we will start. Japp will be able to give me some breakfast.”
He bustled off—to the next room, as I gathered from the sound—and left me to work off my impatience by gazing out of the window and pacing restlessly up and down the barely-furnished sitting-room. But, impatient as I was, the rapidity with which he made his toilet surprised me, for in less than ten minutes he reappeared, spick and span, complete with hat, gloves, and stick, and announced that he was ready.
“I am not usually such a sluggard,” he said, as we walked quickly along the street, “but yesterday evening I got a novel. I ought not to read novels. When I do, I am apt to make a single mouthful of it; and that is what I did last night. I started the book at nine and finished it at two this morning; and the result is that I am as sleepy as an owl even now.”
In illustration of this statement he gave a prodigious yawn and then turned up the steep little thoroughfare, where he presently halted at the door of a small, old-fashioned house and rang the bell. The door was opened by a middle-aged servant, from whom he learned that Mr. Japp was at home, and to whom Bundy communicated his needs in the matter of breakfast. We found Mr. Japp seated by the dining-room window, studying a newspaper with the aid of a large pipe, and Bundy proceeded to introduce me and the occasion of my visit in a few crisp sentences.
Mr. Japp’s reception of the news was very different from his partner’s. Starting up from his chair and taking his pipe from his mouth, he gazed at me for some seconds in silent dismay.
“I suppose,” he said at length, “there is no mistake. It is really certain that she did not come back last night?”
“I am afraid there is no doubt of the fact,” I replied, and I gave him the details with which Mrs. Gillow had furnished me.
“Dear! dear!” he exclaimed. “I don’t like the look of this at all. What the deuce can have happened to her?”
Here Bundy repeated the suggestion that he had made to me, but Japp shook his head. “She wouldn’t have gone off without letting me or the doctor know. Why should she? We are friends, and she knew she could trust us. Besides, the thing isn’t possible. A middle-class woman can’t set out like a tramp without any luggage or common necessaries. There’s only one possibility,” he added after a pause. “She might have seen Nicholas prowling about and gone straight to the station and taken a train to London. One of her woman friends would have been able to put her up for the night.”
“Or,” suggested Bundy, “she might even have gone up to town with Nick himself if he met her and threatened to make a scene.”
“Yes,” said Japp doubtfully, “that is, I suppose, possible. But it isn’t in the least likely. For that matter, nothing is likely. It is a most mysterious affair, and very disturbing, very disturbing, indeed.”
“The question is,” said I, “what is to be done? Do you think we ought to communicate with the police?”
“Well, no,” he replied; “not immediately. If we don’t hear anything, say to-morrow, I suppose we shall have to. But we had better not be precipitate. If we go to the police, we shall have to tell them everything. Let us give her time to communicate, in case she has had to make a sudden retirement—a clear forty-eight hours, as it is a week-end. But we had better make some cautious inquiries meanwhile. I suggest that we walk up to the hospital. They know me pretty well there, and I could just informally ascertain whether any accidents had been admitted, without giving any detailed reasons for the inquiry. Are you coming with us, Bundy?”
“Yes,” replied Bundy, who, having been provided with a light breakfast, was despatching it with lightning speed; “I shall be ready by the time you have got your boots on.”
A few minutes later we set forth together, and made our way straight to the hospital. Bundy and I waited outside while Japp went in to make his inquiries; and, as we walked up and down, my imagination busied itself in picturing the hideous possibilities suggested by a somewhat extensive experience of the casualty department of a general hospital. Presently Japp emerged, shaking his head.
“She is not there,” said he. “There were no casualties of any kind admitted last night or since.”
“Is there no other hospital?” I asked.
“None but the military hospital,” he replied. “All the casualties from the district would be brought here. So we seem to be at the end of our resources, short of inquiring at the police-station; and even if that were advisable, it would be useless, for if—anything had happened—anything, I mean, that we hope has not happened—Mrs. Gillow would have heard. She will be sure to have had something about her by which she could have been identified.”
“She had,” said I. “The little box that I gave her had her name and my address on it.”
“Then,” said Japp. “I don’t see that we can do anything more. We can only wait until to-morrow evening or Tuesday morning, and if we don’t get any news of her by then, notify the police.”
Unwillingly I had to admit that this was so; and when I had walked back with the partners to Mr. Japp’s house, I left them and proceeded to report to Mrs. Gillow and to ascertain whether, in the meantime, she had received any tidings of her missing tenant.
It was with more of fear than hope that I plied the familiar knocker, but the eager, expectant face that greeted me when the door opened, while it relieved the one, banished the other. She had heard nothing, and when I had communicated my own unsatisfactory report she groaned and shook her head.
“You are quite sure,” I said, after an interval of silence, “that she did not return from Chatham?”
“I don’t see how she could have done,” was the reply. “You see, it was like this: I was going to see my sister at Frindsbury, and as I came down to the hall, Mrs. Frood opened her door and spoke to me. She had her hat on then, and she told me she was coming to you, and then going on to Chatham, but that she would be back pretty soon, and was going to bed early. I went out, leaving her at her room door, and took the tram to Frindsbury, and I got back home about a quarter to ten. Her sitting-room door was open, and I could see that she hadn’t gone to bed, because her lamp was alight and her supper tray was on the table and hadn’t been touched. I knocked at her bedroom door, but there was no answer, so I went upstairs and sat up listening for her, and before I went to bed I went down again, as I told you.”
“What time was it when you went out?” I asked.
“About a quarter past eight. I told her I was going to Frindsbury, and that I should be home before ten, and I asked her not to bolt the door if she came in before me.”
“Then,” said I, “she must have gone out directly after you, because it was only a little after half-past eight when she called on me; and presumably she went straight on to Chatham. If we only knew what she was going there for we might be able to trace her. Did she know anybody at Chatham?”
“So far as I know,” replied Mrs. Gillow, “she didn’t know anybody here but you and Mr. Japp. I can’t imagine what she could have been going to Chatham for.”
After a little further talk, I took my leave and walked homeward in a very wretched frame of mind. Tormented as I was with a gnawing anxiety, inaction was intolerable. Yet there was nothing to be done; nothing but to wait in the feeble hope that the morning might bring some message of relief, and with a heavy foreboding that the tidings, when they came, would be evil tidings. But I found it impossible to wait passively at home. At intervals during the day I went forth to wander up and down the streets; and some impulse which I hardly dared to recognize directed my steps again and again to the wharves and foreshore that lie by the bend of the river between Rochester and Chatham.
On the following morning I betook myself as early as I decently could to the office of Japp and Bundy. No letter had arrived by the early post, nor, when I repeated my visit later, was there any news, either by post or telegram, or from Mrs. Gillow. I paid a furtive visit to the police-station and glanced nervously over the bills on the notice-board, and I made another perambulation of the waterside districts, which occupied me until it was time for me to repair to the station to meet the train by which my friends were expected to arrive, and did, in fact, arrive.
As we walked from the station to my house Jervis looked at me critically from time to time. After one of these inspections he remarked:
“I don’t know whether it is my fancy, Strangeways, but it seems to me that the cares of medical practice are affecting your spirits. You look worried.”
“I am worried,” I replied. “There has been a very disturbing development of that case that I was telling you about.”
“The doper, you mean?”
“His wife. She has disappeared. She went out on Saturday night and has not been seen since.”
“That sounds rather ominous,” said Jervis. “I presume the circumstances—if you know them—could be communicated without any breach of confidence.”
“They will have to be made fully public if she doesn’t turn up by this evening,” I replied, “and I am only too glad of the chance to talk the matter over with you,” and forthwith I proceeded to give a circumstantial account of the events connected with the disappearance, not omitting any detail that seemed to have the slightest bearing. And I now felt justified in relating my experience when I was acting for Dr. Pumphrey. The narrative was interrupted by our arrival at my house, but when we had taken our places at the table it was continued and listened to with intense interest by my two friends.
“Well,” said Jervis, when I had finished, “it has an ugly look, especially when one considers it in connexion with that affair in London. But there is something to be said for your friend Bundy’s suggestion. Don’t you think so, Thorndyke?”
“Something, perhaps,” Thorndyke agreed, “but not much; and if no letter arrives to-night or to-morrow morning, I should say it is excluded. This lady seems to have had complete confidence in Strangeways and in Mr. Japp. She could depend on their secrecy if she had to move suddenly to a fresh locality; and she seems to have been a responsible person who would not unnecessarily expose them to anxiety about her safety. Moreover, she would know that, if she kept them in the dark, they must unavoidably put the police on her track, which would be the last thing that she would wish.”
“Can you make any suggestion as to what has probably happened?” I asked.
“It is not of much use to speculate,” replied Thorndyke. “If we exclude a voluntary disappearance, an accident or sudden illness, as we apparently can, there seems to remain only the possibility of crime. But to the theory of crime—of murder, to put it bluntly—there is a manifest objection. So far as the circumstances are known to us, a murder, if it had occurred, would have been an impromptu murder, committed in a more or less public place. But the first indication of a murder of that kind is usually the discovery of the body. Here, however, thirty-six hours have elapsed, and no body has come to light. On the other hand, we have to bear in mind that there is a large, tidal river skirting the town. Into that river the missing lady might have fallen accidentally, or have been thrown, dead or alive. But it is not very profitable to speculate. We can neither form any opinion nor take any action until we have some further facts.”
I must confess that, as I listened to Thorndyke thus calmly comparing the horrible possibilities, I experienced a dreadful sinking of the heart, but yet I realized that this passionless consideration of the essential evidence was more to the point, and promised more result than any amount of unskilful groping under the urge of emotion and personal feeling. And, realizing this, I formed the bold resolution of enlisting Thorndyke’s aid in a regular, professional capacity, and began to cast about for the means of introducing the rather delicate subject. But while I was reflecting, the opportunity was gone, at least for the present. Lunch had virtually come to an end, for Mrs. Dunk had silently and with iron visage just placed the port and the coffee on the table and retired, when Jervis, who had observed her with evident interest, inquired: “Does that old Sphinx do the cooking, Strangeways?”
“She does everything,” I answered. “I have suggested that she should get some help, but she just growled and ignored the suggestion.”
“Well,” said Jervis, “she doesn’t give you much excuse for growling. She has turned out a lunch that would have done credit to Delmonico’s. Are you coming to the inquest with us? We shall have to be starting in a few minutes.”
“I may as well,” said I. “Then I can bring you back to tea. And I want to make a proposal, which we can discuss as we go along. It is with regard to the case of Mrs. Frood.”
As my two friends looked at me inquiringly but made no remark, I poured out the coffee and continued: “You see, Mrs. Frood was my patient, and, in a way, my friend; in fact, with the exception of Japp, I was the only friend she had in the place. Consequently I take it as my duty to ascertain what has happened to her, and, if she has come to any harm, to see that the wrongdoers are brought to account. Of course, I am not competent to investigate the case myself, but I am in the position to bear any costs that the investigation would entail.”
“Lucky man,” said Jervis. “And what is the proposal?”
“I was wondering,” I replied, a little nervously, “whether I could prevail on you to undertake the case.”
Jervis glanced at his senior, and the latter replied: “It is just a little premature to speak of a ‘case.’ The missing lady may return or communicate with her friends. If she does not, the inquiry will fall into the hands of the police; and there is no reason to suppose that they will not be fully competent to deal with it. They have more means and facilities than we have. But if the inquiry should become necessary, and the police should be unsuccessful, Jervis and I would be prepared to render you any assistance that we could.”
“On professional terms,” I stipulated.
Thorndyke smiled. “The financial aspects of the case,” said he, “can be considered when they arise. Now, I think, it is time for us to start.”
As we walked down to the building where the inquest was to be held, we pursued the topic, and Thorndyke pointed out my position in the case.
“You notice, Strangeways,” said he, “that you are the principal witness. You are the last person who saw Mrs. Frood before her disappearance, you heard her state her intended movements, you knew her circumstances, you saw and examined her husband, and you alone can give an exact description of her as she was at the time when she disappeared. I would suggest that, during the inquest, which will not interest you, you might usefully try to reconstitute that last interview and make full notes in writing of all that occurred with a very careful and detailed description of the person, clothing, and belongings of the missing lady. The police will want this information, and so shall I, if I am to give any consideration to the case.”
On this suggestion I proceeded to act as soon as we had taken our places at the foot of the long table occupied by the coroner and the jury, detaching myself as well as I could from the matter of the inquest; and by the time that the deliberations were at an end and the verdict agreed upon, I had drafted out a complete set of notes and made two copies, one for the police and one for Thorndyke.
As soon as we were outside the court I presented the latter copy, which Thorndyke read through.
“This is admirable, Strangeways,” said he, as he placed it in his note-case. “I must compliment you upon your powers of observation. The description of the missing lady is remarkably clear and exhaustive. And now I would suggest that you call in at Mr. Japp’s office on our way back, and ascertain whether any letter has been received. If there has been no communication we shall have to regard the appearances as suspicious, and calling for investigation.”
Secretly gratified at the interest which Thorndyke seemed to be developing in the mystery, I conducted my friends up the High-street until we reached the office, which I entered, leaving my colleagues outside. Mr. Japp looked up from a letter which he was writing, and Bundy, who had been peeping over the curtain, revolved on his stool and faced me.
“Any news?” I asked.
Japp shook his head gloomily. “Not a sign,” said he. “I shall wait until the first post is in to-morrow morning, and then, if there are no tidings of her, I shall go across to the police station. Perhaps you had better come with me, as you are able to give the particulars that they will want.”
“Very well,” I said, “I will look in at half-past nine”; and with this I was turning away when Bundy inquired: “Are those two toffs outside friends of yours?” and, on my replying in the affirmative, he continued: “They seem to be taking a deuce of an interest in Japp’s proclamation. You might tell them that if they happen to have found that key, the money is quite safe. I will see that Japp pays up.”
I promised to deliver the message, and, as Bundy craned up to make a further inspection of my colleagues, I departed to join the latter.
“There is no news up to the present,” I said, “but Japp proposes to wait until to-morrow morning for a last chance before applying to the police.”
“Was that Japp who was inspecting us through that preposterous pair of barnacles?” Jervis asked.
“No,” I answered. “That was Bundy. He suspects you of having found that key and of holding on to it until you are sure of the reward.”
“What key is it?” asked Jervis. “The key of the strong-room? They seem to be in a rare twitter about it.”
“No; it is just a gate-key belonging to a piece of waste land where they are doing some repairs to the old city wall. And, by the way, thereby hangs a tale; a horrible and tragic tale of a convivial bargee, which ought to have a special interest for a pair of medical jurists”—and here I related to them the gruesome story that was told to Bundy and me by the old mortar-mixer.
They both chuckled appreciatively at the dénouement, and Jervis remarked:
“It would seem that the late Bill was a rather inflammable gentleman. The yarn recalls the tragic end of Mr. Krook in ‘Bleak House,’ only that Krook went one better than Bill, for he managed to combust himself in an hour or two without any lime at all.”
The story and the comment brought us to my house, which we had no sooner entered than Mrs. Dunk, who seemed to have been lying in wait for us, made her appearance with the tea; and while we were disposing of this refreshment Thorndyke reverted to the case of my missing patient.
“As I am to keep an eye on this case,” said he, “I shall want to be kept in touch with it. Of course, the actual investigation—if there has to be one—will need to be conducted on the spot, which is not possible to me. What I suggest is that you write out a detailed account of everything that is known to you in connexion with it. Don’t select your facts. Put down everything in any way connected with the case and say all you know about the person concerned—Mrs. Frood herself and everybody who was acquainted with her. Send this statement to me and keep a copy. Then, if any new fact becomes known, let me have it and make a note of it for your own information. You are on the spot and I shall look to you for the data; and if I want any of them amplified or confirmed I shall communicate with you.
“There is one other matter. Do not confide to anyone that you have consulted me or that I am interested in the case; neither to Mr. Japp, to the police, nor to anybody else whatsoever; and I advise you to keep your own interest in the mystery to yourself as far as possible.”
“What is the need of this secrecy?” I asked, in some surprise.
“The point is,” replied Thorndyke, “that when you are investigating a crime you are playing against the criminal. But if the criminal is unknown to you you are playing against an unseen adversary. If you are visible to him he can watch your moves and reply to them. Obviously your policy is to keep out of sight and make your moves unseen. And remember that as long as you do not know who the criminal is you don’t know who he is not. Anyone may be the criminal, or may be his unconscious agent or coadjutor. If you make confidences they may be innocently passed on to the guilty parties. So keep your own counsel rigorously. If there has been a crime, that crime has local connexions and probably a local origin. The solution of the mystery will probably be discovered here. And if you intend to take a hand in the solution let it be a lone hand; and keep me informed of everything that you do or observe; and for my part, I will give you all the help I can.”
By the time we had finished our tea and our discussion the hour of my friends’ departure was drawing nigh. I walked with them to the station, and when I bade them farewell I received a warm invitation to visit them at their chambers in the Temple; an invitation of which I determined to avail myself on the first favourable opportunity.
CHAPTER VIII.
SERGEANT COBBLEDICK TAKES A HAND
Punctually at half-past nine on the following morning I presented myself at the office, and, if I had indulged in any hopes of favourable news—which I had not—they would have been dispelled by a glance at Mr. Japp’s troubled face.
“I suppose you have heard nothing?” I said, when we had exchanged brief greetings.
He shook his head gloomily as he opened the cupboard and took out his hat.
“No,” he answered, “and I am afraid we never shall.” He sighed heavily, and, putting on his hat, walked slowly to the door. “It is a dreadful affair,” he continued, as we went out together. “How she would have hated the idea of it, poor girl! All the horrid publicity, the posters, the sensational newspaper paragraphs, the descriptions of her person and belongings. And then, at the end of it all, God knows what horror may come to light. It won’t bear thinking of.”
He trudged along at my side with bent head and eyes cast down, and for the remainder of the short journey neither of us spoke. On reaching the police-station we made our way into a small, quiet office, the only tenant of which was a benevolent-looking, bald-headed sergeant, who was seated at a high desk, and, who presented that peculiar, decapitated aspect that appertains to a police officer minus his helmet. As we entered the sergeant laid down his pen and turned to us with a benign smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Japp,” said he. “What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”
“I am sorry to say, Sergeant,” replied Japp, “that I have come here on very unpleasant business,” and he proceeded to give the officer a concise summary of the facts, to which our friend listened with close attention. When it was finished, the sergeant produced a sheet of blue foolscap, and, having folded a wide margin on it, dipped his pen in the ink and began his examination.
“I’d better take the doctor’s statement first,” said he. “The lady’s name is Angelina Frood, married, living apart from husband—I shall want his address presently—last seen alive by——”
“John Strangeways, M.D.,” said I, “of Maidstone-road, Rochester.”
The sergeant wrote this down, and continued: “Last seen at about 8.30 P.M. on Saturday, 26th April, proceeding towards Chatham, on unknown business. Can you give me a description of her?”
I described her person, assisted by Japp, and the sergeant, having committed the particulars to writing, read them out:
“ ‘Age 28, height 5 ft. 7 in., complexion medium, hazel eyes, abundant dark brown hair, strongly marked black eyebrows, nearly meeting over nose.’
“No special marks that you know of?”
“No.”
“Now, Doctor, can you tell us how she was dressed?”
“She was wearing a snuff-brown coat and skirt,” I replied, “and a straw hat of the same colour with a broad, dull green band. The hat was fixed on by two hat-pins with silver heads shaped like poppy-capsules. The coat had six buttons, smallish, bronze buttons—about half an inch in diameter—with a Tudor rose embossed on each. Brown suède gloves with fasteners—no buttons—brown silk stockings, and brown suède shoes with small, oval bronze buckles. She had a narrow silk scarf, dull green, with three purple bands at each end—one broad band and two narrow—and knotted fringe at the ends. She wore a small circular brooch with a largish opal in the centre and a border of small pearls, of which one was missing. The missing pearl was in the position of the figure three on a clock dial. She carried a small morocco hand-bag with the initials A. F. stamped on it, which contained a little cardboard box, in which were six white tablets; the box was labelled with one of Dr. Partridge’s labels, on which her name was written, and it was wrapped in white paper and sealed with sealing-wax. That is all I can say for certain. But she always wore a wedding-ring, and occasionally an African Zodiac ring; but sometimes she carried this ring in a small purse with metal jaws and a ball fastening. I believe she always carried the purse.”
As I gave this description, the sergeant wrote furiously, glancing at me from time to time with an expression of surprise, while Japp sat and stared at me open-mouthed.
“Well, Doctor,” said the sergeant, when he had taken down my statement and read it out, “if I find myself ailing I’m going to pop along and consult you. I reckon there isn’t much that escapes your notice. With regard to that African ring now, I daresay you can tell us what it is like.”
I was, of course, able to describe it in detail, including the initials A. C. inside, and even to give a rough sketch of some of the signs embossed on it, upon which the sergeant chuckled admiringly and wagged his head as he wrote down the description and pinned the sketch on the margin of his paper. The rest of my statement dealt with the last interview and the incidents connected with Nicholas Frood’s visits to Rochester, all of which the sergeant listened to with deep interest and committed to writing.
Finally, I recounted the sinister incident—now more sinister than ever—of the murderous assault in the house near Regent’s Park, whereat the sergeant looked uncommonly serious and took down the statement verbatim.
“Did you know about this, Mr. Japp?” he asked.
“I knew that something unpleasant had happened,” was the reply, “but I didn’t know that it was as bad as this.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “it gives the present affair rather an ugly look. We shall have to make some inquiries about that gentleman.”
Having squeezed me dry, he turned his attention to Japp, from whom he extracted a variety of information, including the address of the banker who paid the allowance to Nicholas Frood, and that of a lady who had formerly been a theatrical colleague of Mrs. Frood’s, and with whom Mr. Japp believed the latter had kept up a correspondence.
“You haven’t a photograph of the missing lady, I suppose?” said the sergeant.
With evident reluctance Japp drew from his pocket an envelope and produced from it a cabinet photograph, which he looked at sadly for a few moments and then handed to me.
“I brought this photograph with me,” he said, “as I knew you would want it, but I rather hope that you won’t want to publish it.”
“Now, why do you hope that?” the sergeant asked in a soothing and persuasive tone. “You want this lady found—or, at any rate, traced. But what better means can you suggest than publishing her portrait?”
“I suppose you are right,” said Japp; “but it is a horrible thing to think of the poor girl’s face looking out from posters and newspaper pages.”
“It is,” the sergeant agreed. “But, you see, if she is alive it is her own doing, and if she is dead it won’t affect her.”
While they were talking I had been looking earnestly at the beloved face, which I now felt I should never look upon again. It was an excellent likeness, showing her just as I had known her, excepting that it was free from the cloud of trouble that had saddened her expression in these latter days. As the sergeant held out his hand for it, I turned it over and read the photographer’s name and address and the register number, and, having made a mental note of them, I surrendered it with a sigh.
Our business was now practically concluded. When we had each read over the statements and added our respective signatures, the sergeant attested them and, having added the date, placed the documents in his desk and rose.
“I am much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said he as he escorted us to the door. “If I hear anything that will interest you I will let you know, and if I should want any further information I shall take the liberty of calling on you.”
“Well,” said Japp, as we turned to walk back, “the fat’s in the fire now. I mean to say,” he added quickly, “that we’ve fairly committed ourselves. I hope we haven’t been too precipitate. We should catch it if she came back and found that we had raised the hue and cry and set the whole town agog.”
“I am afraid there is no hope of that,” said I. “At any rate, we had no choice or discretion in the matter. A suspected crime is the business of the police.”
Mr. Japp agreed that this was so; and having by this time arrived at the office, we separated, he to enter his premises and I to betake myself to Chatham with no very defined purpose, but lured thither by a vague attraction.
As I walked along the High-street, making occasional digressions into narrow alleys to explore wharves and water-side premises, I turned over the statements that had been given to the police and wondered what they conveyed to our friend, the sergeant, with his presumably extensive experience of obscure crime. To me they seemed to furnish no means whatever of starting an investigation, excepting by inquiring as to the movements of Nicholas Frood, by communicating with Angelina’s late colleague or by publishing the photograph. And here I halted to write down in my note-book before I should forget them the name and address of that lady—Miss Cumbers—and of the photographers, together with the number of the photograph; for I had decided to obtain a copy of the latter for myself, and it now occurred to me that I had better get one also for Thorndyke. And this latter reflection reminded me that I had to prepare my précis of the facts for him, and that I should do well to get this done at once while the matter of the two statements was fresh in my mind. Accordingly, as I paced the deck of the Sun Pier, looking up and down the busy river, with its endless procession of barges, bawleys, tugs, and cargo boats, striving ineffectually to banish the dreadful thought that, perchance, somewhere, at this very moment there was floating on its turbid waters the corpse of my dear, lost friend: I tried to recall and write down the substance of Japp’s statement, as I had heard it made and had afterwards read it. At length, finding the neighbourhood of the river too disturbing, I left the pier and took my way homewards, calling in at a stationer’s on the way to provide myself with a packet of sermon paper on which to write out my summary.
When Thorndyke had given me my instructions, they had appeared to me a little pedantic. The full narrative which he asked for of all the events, without selection as to relevancy, and the account of what I knew of all the persons concerned in the case, seemed an excessive formality. But when I came to write the case out the excellence of his method became apparent in two respects. In the first place, the ordered narrative put the events in their proper sequence and exhibited their connexions; and in the second, the endeavour to state all that I knew, particularly of the persons, showed me how very little that was. Of the persons in any way concerned in the case there were but five: Angelina herself, her husband, Mrs. Gillow, Mr. Japp, and Bundy. Of the first two I knew no more than what I had observed myself and what Angelina had told me; of the last three I knew practically nothing. Not that this appeared to me of the slightest importance, but I had my instructions, and in compliance with them I determined to make such cautious inquiries as would enable me to give Thorndyke at least a few particulars of them. And this during the next few days I did; and I may as well set down here the scanty and rather trivial information that my inquiries elicited, and which I duly sent on to Thorndyke in a supplementary report.
Mrs. Gillow was the wife of a mariner who was the second mate of a sailing ship that plied to Australia, who had now been away about four months and was expected home shortly. She was a native of the locality and had known Mr. Japp for several years. She occupied the part of the house above the ground floor and kept no servant or dependent, living quite alone when her husband was at sea. She had no children. Her acquaintance with Angelina began when the latter became the tenant of the ground floor and basement; it was but a slight acquaintance, and she knew nothing of Angelina’s antecedents or affairs excepting that she had left her husband.
Mr. Japp was a native of Rochester and had lived in the town all his life, having taken over his business establishment from his late partner, a Mr. Borden. He was a bachelor and was related to Angelina by marriage, his brother—now deceased—having married Angelina’s aunt.
As to Bundy, he was hardly connected with the case at all, since he had seen Angelina only once or twice and had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her. Moreover, he had but recently come to Rochester—about six weeks ago, I gathered—having answered an advertisement of Japp’s for an assistant with a view to partnership; and the actual deed had not yet been executed, though the two partners were evidently quite well satisfied with one another.
That was all the information that I had to give Thorndyke; and with the exception of the London incident it amounted to nothing. Nevertheless, it was as well to have established the fact that if anyone were concerned in Angelina’s disappearance, that person would have to be sought elsewhere than in Rochester.
Having sent off my summary and read over again and again the copy which I had kept, I began to realize the justice of Thorndyke’s observation that the inquiry was essentially a matter for the police, who had both the experience and the necessary facilities; for whenever I tried to think of some plan for tracing my lost friend, I was brought up against the facts that I had nothing whatever to go on and no idea how to make a start. As to Thorndyke, he had no data but those that I had given him, and I realized clearly that these were utterly insufficient to form the basis of any investigation; and I found myself looking expectantly to the police to produce some new facts that might throw at least a glimmer of light on this dreadful and baffling mystery.
I had not very long to wait. On the Friday after our call on the sergeant, I was sitting after lunch in my dining-room with a book in my hand, while my thoughts strayed back to those memorable evenings of pleasant converse with the sweet friend who, I felt, had gone from me for ever, when the door bell rang, and Mrs. Dunk presently announced:
“Sergeant Cobbledick.”
“Show him in here, Mrs. Dunk,” said I, laying aside my book, and rising to receive my visitor; who proved to be, as I had expected, the officer who had taken our statements. He entered with his helmet in his hand, and greeted me with a smile of concentrated benevolence.
“Sit down, Sergeant,” said I, offering him an easy-chair. “I hope you have some news for us.”
“Yes,” he replied, beaming on me. “I am glad to say we are getting on as well as we can expect. We have made quite a nice little start.”
He spoke as if he had something particularly gratifying to communicate, and, having carefully placed his helmet on the table, he drew from his pocket a small paper packet, which he opened with great deliberation, extracting from it a small object, which he held out in the palm of his hand.
“There, Doctor,” said he, complacently; “what do you say to that?”
I looked at the object, and my heart seemed to stand still. It was Angelina’s brooch! I stared at it in speechless dismay for some moments. At length I asked, huskily: “Where did you get it?”
“I found it,” said the sergeant, gazing fondly at the little trinket, “where I hardly hoped to find it—in a pawnbroker’s shop in Chatham.”
“Did you discover who pawned it?” I asked.
“In a sense, yes,” the sergeant replied with a bland smile.
“How do you mean—in a sense?” I inquired.
“I mean that his name was John Smith—only, of course, it wasn’t; and that his address was 26, Swoffer’s-alley, Chatham—only he didn’t live there, because there is no such number. You see, Doctor, John Smith is the name of nearly every man who gives a false description of himself; and I went straight off to Swoffer’s-alley—it was close by—and found that there wasn’t any number 26.”
“Then you really don’t know who pawned it?”
“We won’t exactly say that,” he replied. “I got a fair description of the man from the pawnbroker’s wife, who made out the ticket and says she could swear to the man if she saw him. He was a seafaring man, dressed in sailor’s clothes—a peaked cap and pea-jacket—a shortish fellow, rather sunburnt, with a small, stubby, dark moustache and dark hair, and a mole or wart on the left side of his nose, near the tip. She asked him where he had got the brooch, and he said it had belonged to his old woman. I should say he probably picked it up.”
“Why do you think so?” I asked.
“Well, if he had—er—got it in any other way, he would hardly have popped it in Chatham forty-eight hours after the—after it was lost, with the chance that the pawnbrokers had already been notified—he pawned it on Monday night.”
“Then,” said I, “if he picked it up, he isn’t of much importance; and in any case you don’t know who he is.”
“Oh, but he is of a good deal of importance,” said the sergeant. “I’ve no doubt he picked it up, but that is only a guess. He may have got it the other way. But at any rate, he had it in his possession and he will have to give an account of how he obtained it. The importance of it is this: taken with the disappearance, the finding of this brooch raises a strong suspicion that a crime has been committed, and if we could find out where it was picked up, we should have a clue to the place where the affair took place. I want that man very badly, and I’m going to have a good try to get him.”
“I don’t quite see how,” said I. “You haven’t much to go on.”
“I’ve got his nose to go on,” replied the sergeant.
“But there must be plenty of other men with moles on their noses.”
“That’s their look-out,” he retorted. “If I come across a man who answers the description, I shall hang on to him until Mrs. Pawnbroker has had a look at him. Of course, if she says he’s not the man, he’ll be released.”
“But she won’t,” said I. “If he has a mole on his nose, she will be perfectly certain that he is the man.”
The sergeant smiled benignly. “There’s something in that,” he admitted. “Ladies are a bit cock-sure when it comes to identification. But you can generally check ’em by other evidence. And if this chap picked the brooch up, he would be pretty certain to tell us all about it when he heard where it came from. Still, we haven’t got him yet.”
For a while we sat without speaking, each pursuing his own thoughts. To me, this dreadful discovery, though it did but materialize the vague fears that had been surging through my mind, had fallen like a thunderbolt. For, behind those fears, I now realized that there had lurked a hope that the mystery might presently be resolved by the return of the lost one. Now that hope had suddenly become extinct. I knew that she had gone out of my life for ever. She was dead. This poor little waif that had drifted back into our hands brought the unmistakable message of her death, with horrible suggestions of hideous and sordid tragedy. I shuddered at the thought; and in that moment, from the grief and horror that possessed my soul, there was born a passion of hatred for the wretch who had done this thing and a craving for revenge.
“There’s another queer thing that has come to light,” the sergeant resumed at length. “There may be nothing in it, but it’s a little queer. About the husband, Nicholas Frood.”
“What about him?” I asked, eagerly.
“Why, he seems to have disappeared, too. Of course, you understand, Doctor, that what I’m telling you is confidential. We are not talking about this affair outside, and we aren’t telling the Press much, at present.”
“Naturally,” said I. “You can trust me to keep my own counsel, and yours, too.”
“I’m sure I can. Well, about this man, Frood. It seems that last Friday he went away from his lodgings for a couple of days; but he hasn’t come back, and nobody knows what has become of him. He was supposed to be going to Brighton, where he has some relatives from whom he gets a little assistance occasionally, but they have seen or heard nothing of him. Quaint, isn’t it? You said you saw him here on the Monday.”
“Yes, and I haven’t seen him since, though I have kept a look-out for him. But he may have been here, all the same. It looks decidedly suspicious.”
“It is queer,” the sergeant agreed, “but we’ve no evidence that he has been in this neighbourhood.”
“Have you made any other inquiries?” I asked.
“We looked up that lady, Miss Cumbers, but we got nothing out of her. She had had a letter from Mrs. Frood on the 24th—yesterday week—quite an ordinary letter, giving no hint of any intention to go away from Rochester. So there you are. The mystery seems to be concerned entirely with this neighbourhood, and I expect we shall have to solve it on the spot.”
This last observation impressed me strongly. The sergeant’s view of the case was the same as Thorndyke’s, and expressed in almost the same words.
“Have you any theory as to what has actually happened?” I asked.
The sergeant smiled in his benignant fashion. “It isn’t much use inventing theories,” said he. “We’ve got to get the facts before we can do anything. Still, looking at the case as we find it, there are two or three things that hit us in the face. There is a strong suspicion of murder, there is no trace of the body, and there is a big tidal river close at hand. On Saturday night it was high water at half-past eleven, so there wouldn’t have been much of the shore uncovered at, say, half-past nine, and there would have been plenty of water at any of the piers or causeways.”
“Then you think it probable that she was murdered and her body flung into the river?”
“It is the likeliest thing, so far as we can judge. There is the river, and there is no sign of the body on shore. But, as I say, it is no use guessing. We’ve got people watching the river from Allington Lock to Sheerness, and that’s all we can do in that line. The body is pretty certain to turn up, sooner or later. Of course, until it does, there is no real criminal case; and even when we’ve got the body, we may not be much nearer getting the murderer. Excepting the man Frood, there is no one who seems to have had any motive for making away with her; and if it was just a casual robbery with murder it is unlikely that we shall ever spot the man at all.”
Having given expression to this rather pessimistic view, the sergeant rose, and, picking up his helmet, took his departure, after promising to let me know of any further developments.
As soon as he was gone, I wrote down the substance of what he had said, and then embodied it in a report for Thorndyke. While I was thus occupied, the afternoon post was delivered, and included a packet from the London photographer, to whom I had written, enclosing two copies of the photograph of Angelina that Mr. Japp had handed to the sergeant. Of these, I enclosed one copy in my communication to Thorndyke, on the bare chance that it might be of some assistance to him, and, having closed up the large envelope and stamped it, I went forth to drop it into the post-box.
CHAPTER IX.
JETSAM
That portion of Chatham High-street which lies adjacent to the River Medway presents a feature that is characteristic of old riverside towns in the multitude of communications between the street and the shore. Some of these are undisguised entrances to wharves, some are courts or small thoroughfares lined with houses and leading to landing-stages, while others are mere passages or flights of steps, opening obscurely and inconspicuously on the street by narrow apertures, unnoticed by the ordinary wayfarer and suggesting the burrows of some kind of human water-rat.
In the days that followed the sergeant’s visit to me I made the acquaintance of all of them. Now I would wander down the cobbled cartway that led to a wharf, there to cast a searching eye over the muddy fore-shore or scan the turbid water at high tide as it eddied between the barges and around the piles. Or I would dive into the mouths of the burrows, creeping down slimy steps and pursuing the tortuous passages through a world of uncleanness until I came out upon the shore, where the fresh smell of seaweed mingled with odours indescribable. I began to be an object of curiosity—and perhaps of some suspicion—to the denizens of the little, ruinous, timber houses that lined these alleys, and of frank interest to the children who played around the rubbish heaps or dabbled in the grey mud. But never did my roving eye light upon that which it sought with such dreadful expectation.
One afternoon, about a week after the sergeant’s visit, when I was returning home from one of these explorations, I observed a man on my doorstep as I approached the house. His appearance instantly aroused my attention, for he was dressed in the amphibious style adopted by waterside dwellers, and he held something in his hand at which he looked from time to time. Before I reached the door it had opened and admitted him, and when I arrived I found him in the hall nervously explaining his business to Mrs. Dunk.
“Here is the doctor,” said the latter; “you’d better tell him about it.”
The man turned to me and held out an amazingly dirty fist. “I’ve got something here, sir,” said he, “what belongs to you, I think.” Here he unclosed his hand and exhibited a little cardboard box bearing one of Dr. Partridge’s labels. It was smeared with mud and grime, but I recognized it instantly; indeed, when I took it with trembling fingers from his palm and looked at it closely, the name, “Mrs. Frood,” was still decipherable under the smears of dirt.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“I picked it up on the strand,” he replied, “about halfway betwixt the Sun Pier and the end of Ship Alley, and just below spring tide high-water mark. Is it any good?”
“Yes,” I answered; “it is very important. I will get you to walk along with me to the police station.”
“What for?” he demanded suspiciously. “I don’t want no police stations. If it’s any good, give us what you think it’s worth, and have done with it.”
I gave him half-a-crown to allay his suspicions, and then said: “You had better come with me to the station. I expect the police will want you to show them exactly where you found this box and help them to search the place; and I will see that you are paid for your trouble.”
“But look ’ere, mister,” he objected; “what’s the police got to do with this ’ere box?”
I explained the position to him briefly, and then, suddenly, his face lit up. “I know,” he said excitedly. “I seen the bills stuck up on the dead-’ouse door. And d’you mean to say as this ’ere box was ’ers? ’Cos if it was it’s worth more’n ’arf-a-crown.”
“Perhaps it is,” said I. “We will hear what the sergeant thinks,” and with this I opened the door and went out, and my new acquaintance now followed with the greatest alacrity, taking the opportunity, as we walked along, to remind me of my promise and to offer tentative suggestions as to the scale of remuneration for his services.
Our progress along the High-street was not unnoticed. Doubtless, we appeared a somewhat ill-assorted pair, for I observed a good many persons turn to look at us curiously, and when we passed the office, on the opposite side of the road, I saw Bundy’s face rise above the curtain with an expression of undissembled curiosity.
On arriving at the station, I inquired for Sergeant Cobbledick, and was fortunate enough to find him in his office. As I entered with my companion, he bestowed on the latter a quick glance of professional interest and then greeted me with a genial smile. It was hardly necessary for me to state my business, for the single quick glance of his experienced eye at my companion had furnished the diagnosis. I had only to produce the box and indicate the finder.
“This looks like a lead,” said he, reaching his helmet down from a peg. “What’s your name, sonny, and where do you live?”
Sonny affirmed, with apparent reluctance, that his name was Samuel Hooper and that his abode was situated in Foul Anchor Alley; and when these facts had been committed to writing by the sergeant, the latter put on his helmet and invited the said Hooper to “come along,” evidently assuming that I was to form one of the party.
As we approached the office this time I saw Bundy from afar off; and by the time we were abreast of the house he was joined by Japp, who must have stood upon tip-toe to bring his eyes above the curtain. Both men watched us with intense interest, and we had barely passed the house when Bundy’s head suddenly disappeared, and a few moments later its owner emerged from the doorway and hurriedly crossed the road.