“I have an impression,” said Thorndyke, “that the carbons were done by a City photographer. But my man will know. He got them for me.”
Bundy set the two photographs back in their places, still, as it seemed to me, with the air of a man who is trying vainly to remember something. But, at this moment, Mrs. Dunk entered with the soup tureen, and we forthwith took our places at the table.
We had finished our soup, and I was proceeding to effect the dismemberment of an enormous sole, when Bundy, having fortified himself with a sip of Chablis, cast a malignant glance at Thorndyke.
“I have got some bad news for you, Doctor,” said he.
“Which doctor are you addressing?” Thorndyke asked.
“There’s only one now,” replied Bundy. “T’other one has been degraded to the rank of John.”
“That happens to be my rank, too,” observed Thorndyke.
“Oh, but I couldn’t think of taking such a liberty,” Bundy protested, “though it is very gracious and condescending of you to suggest it. No, your rank and title will continue to be that of doctor.”
“And what is your bad news?”
“It is a case of a lost opportunity,” said Bundy. “ ‘Of all the sad words of tongue or pen,’ and so on. It might have been ten shillings. But it never will now. Cobbledick has got your ten bob.”
“Do you mean that Cobbledick has found the missing key?”
“Even so, alackaday! The chance is gone for ever.”
“Where did he find it?” Thorndyke asked.
“Ah!” exclaimed Bundy. “There it is again. The tragedy of it! He wasn’t looking for it at all. He just fell over it in a field where he was searching for relics of Mrs. Frood.”
“Your description,” said Thorndyke, “is deficient in geographical exactitude. Could you bring your ideas of locality to a somewhat sharper focus? There are probably several fields in the neighbourhood of Rochester.”
“So there are,” said Bundy. “Quite a lot. But this particular field lies on the right, or starboard, side of a small thoroughfare called Black Boy-lane.”
“Let me see,” said Thorndyke. “Isn’t that the lane that we went down after leaving our friends on the day of the Great Perambulation?”
“Yes,” replied Bundy, looking at him in astonishment, “but how did you know its name?” (He was, of course, not aware of my report to Thorndyke describing the discoveries and the place.)
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is an irrelevant question. Now when you say ‘the right-hand side’——”
“I mean the right-hand side looking towards the town, of course. As a matter of fact, Cobbledick found the key among the thistles near to the fence, and quite close to the outside of the city wall.”
“How do you suppose it got there?” Thorndyke asked.
“I’ve no idea. Someone must have taken it out of the gate and thrown it over the fence. That is obvious. But who could have done it I can’t imagine. Of course, you suspect Cobbledick, but that is only jealousy.”
The exchange of schoolboy repartee continued without a sensible pause on either side. But yet I seemed to detect in Thorndyke’s manner a certain reflectiveness underlying the levity of his verbal conflict with Bundy; a reflectiveness that seemed to have had its origin in the “news” that the latter had communicated. Of course, I had said nothing, in my report, about the finding of the key. Why should I? Those reports referred exclusively to matters connected with the disappearance of poor Angelina. The loss and the recovery of the key were items of mere local gossip with which Thorndyke could have no concern excepting in connexion with Bundy’s facetious fiction. And yet it had seemed to me that Thorndyke showed quite a serious interest in the announcement. However, he made no further reference to the matter, and the conversation drifted to other topics.
It was almost inevitable that, sooner or later, some reference should be made to the discoveries in the lane. It was Bundy, of course, who introduced the subject; and I was amused by the adroit way in which Thorndyke conveyed the impression of complete ignorance, without making any statement, and the patient manner in which he listened to the account of the adventure, and even elicited amplified details by judicious questions. But he eluded all Bundy’s efforts to extract an opinion on the significance of the discoveries.
“But,” the latter protested, “you said that if I would give you the facts, you would give me the explanation.”
“The explanation is obvious,” said Thorndyke. “If you found these objects in the lane, they must have been dropped there.”
“Well, of course they must,” said Bundy. “That is quite obvious.”
“Exactly,” agreed Thorndyke. “That is what I am pointing out.”
“But why was the body being carried up the lane? And where was it being carried to?”
“Ah,” protested Thorndyke, “but now you are going beyond your facts. You haven’t proved that there was any body there at all.”
“But there must have been, or the things couldn’t have dropped off it.”
“But you haven’t proved that they did drop off it. They may have, or they may not. That is a question of fact; and as I impressed on you on a previous occasion, evidence as to fact is the function of the common witness. The expert witness explains the significance of facts furnished by others. I have explained the facts that you have produced, and now you ask me to explain something that isn’t a fact at all. But that is not my function. I am an expert.”
“I see,” said Bundy; “and now I understand why judges are so down on expert witnesses. It is my belief that they are a parcel of impostors. Wasn’t Captain Bunsby an expert witness? Or was he only an oracle?”
“It is a distinction without a difference,” replied Thorndyke. “Captain Bunsby is the classical instance of oracular safety. It was impossible to dispute the correctness of his pronouncements.”
“Principally,” said I, “because no one could make head or tail of them.”
“But that was the subtlety of the method,” said Thorndyke. “A statement cannot be contested until it is understood. From which it follows that if you would deliver a judgment that cannot be disputed, you must take proper precautions against the risk of being understood.”
Bundy adjusted his eye-glass and fixed on Thorndyke a glare of counterfeit defiance. “I am going to take an early opportunity of seeing you in the witness-box,” said he. “It will be the treat of my life.”
“I must try to give you that treat,” replied Thorndyke. “I am sure you will be highly entertained, but I don’t think you will be able to dispute my evidence.”
“I don’t suppose I shall,” Bundy retorted with a grin, “if it is of the same brand as the sample that I have heard.”
Here the arrival of Mrs. Dunk with the coffee ushered in a truce between the disputants, and when I had filled the cups Thorndyke changed the subject by recalling the incidents of our perambulation with Japp and Mr. Willard; and Bundy, apparently considering that enough chaff had been cut for one evening, entered into a discussion on the conditions of life in mediæval Rochester with a zest and earnestness that came as a refreshing change after so much frivolity. So the evening passed pleasantly away until ten o’clock, when Bundy rose to depart.
“Shall we see him home, Thorndyke?” said I. “We can do with a walk after our pow-wow.”
“Somebody ought to see him home,” said Thorndyke. “He looks comparatively sober now, but wait till he gets out into the air.” (Bundy’s almost ascetic abstemiousness in respect of wine, I should explain, had become a mild joke between us.) “But I think I won’t join the bacchanalian procession. I have a letter to write, and I can get it done and posted by the time you come back.”
As we walked towards the office arm-in-arm—Bundy keeping up the fiction of a slight unsteadiness of gait—my guest once more expressed enjoyment of our little festivals.
“I suppose,” said he, “Dr. Thorndyke is really quite a big bug in his way.”
“Yes,” I replied; “he is in the very front rank; in fact, I should say that he is the greatest living authority on his subject.”
“Yes,” said Bundy, thoughtfully, “one feels that he is a great man, although he is so friendly and so perfectly free from side. I hope I don’t cheek him too much.”
“He doesn’t seem to resent it,” I answered, “and he certainly doesn’t object to your society. He expressly said, when he wrote last, that he hoped to see something of you.”
“That was awfully nice of him,” Bundy said with very evident gratification; and he added, after a pause: “Lord! John, what a windfall it was for me when you came down with that letter from old Turcival. It has made life a different thing for me.”
“I am glad to hear it, Peter,” said I; “but you haven’t got all the benefit. It was a bit of luck for me to strike a live bishop in my new habitat, and a Rumtifoozlish one at that. But here we are at the episcopal palace. Shall I assist your lordship up the steps?”
We carried out the farce to its foolish end, staggering together up the steps, at the top of which I propped him securely against the door and rang the bell, with the comfortable certainty that there was no one in the house to disturb.
“Good night, John, old chap,” he said cordially, as I retired.
“Good night, Peter, my child,” I responded; and so took my way homeward to my other guest.
I arrived at my house in time to meet Thorndyke returning from the adjacent pillar-box, and we went in together.
“Well,” said he, “I suppose we had better turn in, according to what is, I believe, the custom of this household, and turn out betimes in the morning, for a visit, perhaps, to Black Boy-lane.”
“Yes,” I replied, “we may as well turn in now. You are not going to leave these photographs there, are you?”
“They are your photographs,” he replied; “that is, if you care to have them. I brought them down for you.”
I thanked him very warmly for the gift, and gathered up the portraits carefully, replacing them, for the present, in their box. Then we turned out the lights and made our way up to our respective bedrooms.
At breakfast on the following morning Thorndyke opened the subject of our investigation by cross-examining me on the matter of my report, and the more detailed account that Bundy had given.
“What does Sergeant Cobbledick think of the new developments?” he asked, when I had given him all the detail that I could.
“In a way he is encouraged. He is glad to get something more definite to work on. But for the present he seems to be high and dry. He gave me quite a learned exposition of the possibilities of the case, but he had to admit when he had finished that he was still in the dark so far as any final conclusion was concerned. He even suggested that I should put the facts before you—he recognized you when we met him on the road near Blue Boar Pier—and ask if you could make any suggestion.”
“Can you recall the sergeant’s exposition of the case?”
“I think so. It made rather an impression on me at the time,” and here I repeated, as well as I could remember them, the various inferences that Cobbledick had drawn from the presence in the lane of the things that we had found. Thorndyke listened with deep attention, nodding his head approvingly as each point was made.
“A very admirable analysis, Strangeways,” he said when I had finished. “It does the sergeant great credit. So far as it goes, it is an excellent interpretation of the facts that are in his possession. There are, perhaps, one or two points that he has overlooked.”
“If there are,” said I, “it would be a great kindness to draw his attention to them. He is naturally anxious to get on with the case, and he has taken endless trouble over it.”
“I shall be very glad to give him a hint or two,” said Thorndyke. “After breakfast I should like to go over the ground with you, and then we might go along to the station and see if he is in his office.”
I agreed to this program, and as soon as we had finished our breakfast we went forth, making our way by Free School-lane and The Common to the marshes west of Gas House-road. From there we entered Black Boy-lane at the lower end, and slowly followed its windings, Thorndyke looking about him attentively, and occasionally peering over the fences, which his stature enabled him to do without climbing. At the top of the lane, where it opened into a paved thoroughfare, we observed no less a personage than Sergeant Cobbledick, standing on the pavement and looking at the few adjacent houses with an expression of profound speculation. His speculative attitude changed suddenly to one of eager interest when he saw us; and on my presenting him to Thorndyke, he stood stiffly at “attention” and raised his hat with an air that I can only describe as reverent.
“Dr. Strangeways was telling me, just now,” said Thorndyke, “of your very interesting observations on these new developments. He also said that you would like to talk the matter over with me.”
“I should, indeed, sir,” the sergeant said, earnestly; “and if I might suggest it, my office will be very quiet, being Sunday, and I could show you the things that have been found, if you would like to see them.”
“As to the things that have been found,” said Thorndyke, “I am prepared to take them as read. They have been properly identified. But we could certainly talk more conveniently in your office.”
In a few minutes we turned into a narrow street which brought us to the side of the Guildhall, and the sergeant, having shown us into his office and given some instructions to a constable, entered and locked the door.
“Now, Sergeant,” said Thorndyke, “tell us what your difficulty is.”
“I’ve got several difficulties, Sir,” replied Cobbledick. “In the first place, here is a body being carried up the lane. You agree with me, Sir, that it was going up and not down?”
“Yes; your reasons seem quite conclusive.”
“Well, then, Sir, the next question is, was this a dead body, or was the woman drugged or insensible? The fact that she was being taken from the river towards the town suggests that she was alive and being taken to some house where she could be hidden; but, of course, a dead body might be taken to a house to be destroyed by burning or to be dismembered or even buried, say under the cellar. I must say my own feeling is that it was a dead body.”
“The reasons you gave Dr. Strangeways for thinking so seem to be quite sound. Let us proceed on the assumption that it was a dead body.”
“Well, Sir,” said Cobbledick, gloomily, “there you are. That’s all. We have got a body brought up from the river. We can trace it up to near the top of the lane. But there we lose it. It seems to have vanished into smoke. It was being taken up into the town; but where? There’s nothing to show. We come out into the paved streets, and, of course, there isn’t a trace. We seem to have come to the end of our clues; and I am very much afraid that we shan’t get any more.”
“There,” said Thorndyke, “I am inclined to agree with you, Sergeant. You won’t get any more clues for the simple reason that you have got them all.”
“Got them all!” exclaimed Cobbledick, staring in amazement at Thorndyke.
“Yes,” was the calm reply; “at least, that is how it appears to me. Your business now is not to search for more clues but to extract the meaning from the facts that you possess. Come, now, Sergeant,” he continued, “let us take a bird’s-eye view of the case, as it were, reconstructing the investigation in a sort of synopsis. I will read the entries from my note-book.”
“On Saturday, the 26th of April, Mrs. Frood disappeared. On the 1st of May the brooch was found at the pawn-brokers. On the 7th of May the box of tablets and the bag were found on the shore at Chatham, apparently fixing the place of the crime. On the 9th of May the scarf was found at Blue Boar Head. On the 15th of May a shoe was found in the creek between Blue Boar Head and Gas House Point. On the 25th of May the second shoe was found on the gridiron near Gas House Point. On the 20th of June a hat-pin was found on the shore a little west of the last spot; always creeping steadily up the river, you notice.”
“Yes,” said Cobbledick, “I noticed that, and I’m hanged if I can account for it in any way.”
“Never mind,” said Thorndyke. “Just note the fact. Then on the 14th of July four articles were found; near the bottom of the lane a button; near the middle of the lane a hat-pin, and, abreast of it in the field, the hat, itself. Finally, at the top of the lane, in the field, you found the missing key.”
“I don’t see what the key has got to do with it,” said the sergeant. “It don’t seem to me to be in the picture.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Thorndyke. “Just consider a moment, Sergeant. But perhaps you have forgotten the date on which the key disappeared?”
“I don’t know that I ever noticed when it was lost.”
“It wasn’t lost,” said Thorndyke. “It was taken away—probably out of the gate—and afterwards thrown over the fence. But I daresay Dr. Strangeways can give you the date.”
I reflected for a few moments. “Let me see,” said I. “It was a good while ago, and I remember that it was a Saturday, because the men who were filling the holes in the city wall had knocked off at noon for a week-end. Now when was it? I went to the wine merchant’s that day, and—” I paused with a sudden shock of recollection. “Why!” I exclaimed. “It was the Saturday; the day Mrs. Frood disappeared!”
Cobbledick seemed to stiffen in his chair as he suddenly turned a startled look at Thorndyke.
“Yes,” agreed the latter; “the key disappeared during the morning of the 26th of April and Mrs. Frood disappeared on the evening of the same day. That is a coincidence in time. And if you consider what gate it was that this key unlocked; that it gave entrance—and also excluded entrance—to an isolated, enclosed area of waste land in which excavations and fillings-in were actually taking place; I think you will agree that there is matter for investigation.”
As Thorndyke was speaking Cobbledick’s eyes opened wider and wider, and his mouth exhibited a like change.
“Good Lord, Sir!” he exclaimed at length, “you mean to say——”
“No, I don’t,” Thorndyke interrupted with a smile. “I am merely drawing your attention to certain facts which seem to have escaped it. You said that there was no hint of a place to which the body could have been conveyed. I point out a hint which you have overlooked. That is all.”
“It is a pretty broad hint, too,” said Cobbledick, “and I am going to lose no time in acting on it. Do you happen to know, Doctor, who employed the workmen?”
“I gathered that Japp and Bundy had the contract to repair the wall. At any rate, they were supervising the work, and they will be able to tell you where to find the foreman. Probably they have a complete record of the progress of the work. You know Mr. Japp’s address on Boley Hill, I suppose, and Mr. Bundy lives over the office.”
“I’ll call on him at once,” said Cobbledick, “and see if he can give me the particulars, and I’ll get him to lend me the key. I suppose you two gentlemen wouldn’t care to come and have a look at the place with me?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Thorndyke. “But I particularly wish not to appear in connexion with the case, so I will ask you to say nothing to anyone of your having spoken to me about it, and, of course, we go to the place alone.”
“Certainly,” the sergeant agreed emphatically. “We don’t want any outsiders with us. Then if you will wait for me here I will get back as quickly as I can. I hope Mr. Bundy is at home.”
He snatched up his hat and darted out of the office, full of hope and high spirits. Thorndyke’s suggestion had rejuvenated him.
“It seems to me,” I said, when he had gone, “a rather remarkable thing that you should have remembered all the circumstances of the loss of this key.”
“It isn’t really remarkable at all,” he replied. “I heard of it after the woman had disappeared. But as soon as she had disappeared, the loss of this particular key at this particular time became a fact of possible evidential importance. It was a fact that had to be noted and remembered. The connexion of the tragedy with the river seemed to exclude it for a time; but the discoveries in the lane at once revived its importance. The fundamental rule, Strangeways, of all criminal investigation is to note everything, relevant or irrelevant, and forget nothing.”
“It is an excellent rule,” said I, “but it must be a mighty difficult one to carry out”; and for a while we sat, each immersed in his own reflections.
The sergeant returned in an incredibly short space of time, and he burst into the office with a beaming face, flourishing the key. “I found him at home,” said he, “and I’ve got all the necessary particulars, so we can take a preliminary look round.” He held the door open, and when we had passed out, he led the way down the little street at a pace that would have done credit to a sporting lamp-lighter. A very few minutes brought us to the gate, and when he had opened it and locked it behind us, he stood looking round the weed-grown enclosure as if doubtful where to begin.
“Which patch in the wall is the one they were working at when the key disappeared?” Thorndyke asked.
“The last but one to the left,” was the reply.
“Then we had better have a look at that, first,” said Thorndyke. “It was a ready-made excavation.”
We advanced towards the ragged patch in the wall, and as we drew near I looked at it with a tumult of emotions that swamped mere anxiety and expectation. I could see what Thorndyke thought, and that perception amounted almost to conviction. Meanwhile, my colleague and the sergeant stepped close up to the patch and minutely examined the rough and slovenly joints of the stonework.
“There is no trace of its having been opened,” said Thorndyke. “But there wouldn’t be. I think we had better scrape up the earth at the foot of the wall. Something might easily have been dropped and trodden in in the darkness.” He looked towards the shed, in which a couple of empty lime barrels still remained, and, perceiving there a decrepit shovel, he went and fetched it. Returning with it, he proceeded to turn up the surface of the ground at the foot of the wall, depositing each shovelful of earth on a bare spot, and spreading it out carefully. For some time there was no result, but he continued methodically, working from one end of the patch towards the other. Suddenly Cobbledick uttered an exclamation and stooped over a freshly deposited shovelful.
“By the Lord!” he ejaculated, “it is a true bill! You were quite right, sir.” He stood up, holding out between his finger and thumb a small bronze button bearing an embossed Tudor Rose. Thorndyke glanced at me as I took the button from the sergeant and examined it.
“Yes,” I said, “it is unquestionably one of her buttons.”
“Then,” said he, “we have got our answer. The solution of the mystery is contained in that patch of new rubble.”
The sergeant’s delight and gratitude were quite pathetic. Again and again he reiterated his thanks, regardless of Thorndyke’s disclaimers and commendations of the officer’s own skilful and patient investigation.
“All the same,” said Cobbledick, as he locked the gate and pocketed the key, “we haven’t solved the whole problem. We may say that we have found the body; but the problem of the crime and the criminal remains. I suppose, sir, you don’t see any glimmer of light in that direction?”
“A glimmer, perhaps,” replied Thorndyke, “but it may turn out to be but a mirage. Let us see the body. It may have a clearer message for us than we expect.”
Beyond this rather cryptic suggestion he refused to commit himself; nor, when we had parted from the sergeant, could I get anything more definite out of him.
“It is useless to speculate,” he said, by way of closing the subject. “We think that we know what is inside that wall. We may be right, but we may possibly be wrong. A few hours will settle our doubts. If the body is there, it may tell us all that we want to know.”
This last observation left me more puzzled than ever. The condition of the body might, and probably would, reveal the cause of death and the nature of the crime; but it was difficult to see how it could point out the identity of the murderer. However, the subject was closed for the time being, and Thorndyke resolutely refused to reopen it until the fresh data were available.
Shortly after breakfast on the following morning Sergeant Cobbledick made his appearance at my house. I found him in the consulting-room, walking about on tip-toe with his hat balanced in his hands, and evidently in a state of extreme nervous tension.
“I have got everything in train, Doctor,” said he, declining a seat. “I dug up the foreman yesterday evening and he dug up one of his mates to give him a hand, if necessary; and I have the authority to open the wall. So we are all ready to begin. The two men have gone down to the place with their tools, and Mr. Bundy has gone with them to let them in. He didn’t much want to go, but I thought it best that either he or Mr. Japp should be present. It is their wall, so to speak. I suppose you are coming to see the job done.”
“Is there any need for me to be there?” I asked.
Cobbledick looked at me in surprise. He had evidently assumed that I should be eager to see what happened. “Well,” he replied, “you are the principal witness to the identity of the remains. You saw her last, you know. What is your objection, Doctor?”
I was not in a position to answer this question. I could not tell him what this last and most horrible search meant to me; and apart from my personal feelings in regard to poor Angelina, there was no objection at all, but, on the contrary, every reason why I should be present.
“It isn’t a very pleasant affair,” I replied, “seeing that I knew the lady rather well. However, if you think I had better be there, I will come down with you.”
“I certainly think your presence would be a help,” said he. “We don’t know what may turn up, and you know more about her than anybody else.”
Accordingly, I walked down with him, and when he had admitted me with his key—Bundy had presumably used the duplicate—he closed the gate and locked it from within. The actual operations had not yet commenced, but the foreman and his mate were standing by the wall, conversing affably with Bundy, who looked nervous and uncomfortable, evidently relishing his position no more than I did mine.
“This is a gruesome affair, John, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice. “I don’t see why old Cobbledick wanted to drag us into it. It will be an awful moment when they uncover her, if she is really there. I’m frightfully sorry for you, old chap.”
“I should have had to see the body in any case,” said I; “and this is less horrible than the river.”
Here my attention was attracted by the foreman, who had just drawn a long, horizontal chalk line across the patch of new rubble, a little below the middle.
“That’s about the place where we left off that Saturday, so far as I remember,” he said. “We had built up the outer case, and we filled in the hollow with loose bricks and stones, but we didn’t put any mortar to them until Monday morning. Then we mixed up a lot of mortar, quite thin, so that it would run, and poured it on top of the loose stuff.”
“Rum way of building a wall, isn’t it?” observed Cobbledick.
The foreman grinned. “It ain’t what you’d call the highest class of masonry,” he admitted. “But what can you expect to do with a gang of corner-boys who’ve never done a job of real work in their lives?”
“No, that’s true,” said the Sergeant. “But you made a soft job for the grave-diggers, didn’t you? Why they’d only got to pick out the loose stuff and then dump it back on top when they’d put the body in. Then you came along on Monday morning and finished the job for them with one or two bucketsful of liquid mortar. How long would it have taken to pick out that loose stuff?”
“Lord bless yer,” was the answer, “one man who meant business could have picked the whole lot out by hand in an hour; and he could have chucked it back in less. As you say, Sergeant, it was a soft job.”
While they had been talking, the foreman’s familiar demon had been making a tentative attack on the outer casing with a great, chisel-ended steel bar and a mason’s hammer. The foreman now came to his aid with a sledge hammer, the first stroke of which caused the shoddy masonry to crack in all directions like pie-crust. Then the fractured pieces of the outer shell were prised off, revealing the “loose stuff” within. And uncommonly loose it was; so loose that the unjoined bricks and stones, with their adherent gouts of mortar, came away at the lightest touch of the great crow-bar.
As soon as a breach had been made at the top of the patch, the labourer climbed up and began flinging out the separated bricks and stones. Then he attacked a fresh course of the outer shell with a pick, and so exposed a fresh layer of the loose filling.
“There’ll be a fresh job for the unemployed to build this up again,” the sergeant observed with a sardonic smile.
“Ah,” replied the foreman, “there generally is a fresh job when you take on a crowd of casuals. Wonderful provident men are casuals. Don’t they take no thought for the morrow? What O!”
At this moment the labourer stood upright on his perch and laid down his pick. “Well, I’m blowed!” he exclaimed. “This is a rum go, this is.”
“What’s a rum go?” demanded the foreman.
“Why, here’s a whole bed of dry quick-lime,” was the reply.
“Ha!” exclaimed the sergeant, knitting his brows anxiously.
The foreman scrambled up, and after a brief inspection confirmed the man’s statement. “Quick-lime it is, sure enough. Just hand me up that shovel, Sergeant.”
“Be careful,” Cobbledick admonished, as he passed the shovel up. “Don’t forget what there probably is underneath.”
The foreman took the shovel and began very cautiously to scrape away the surface, flinging the scrapings of lime out on to the ground, where they were eagerly scrutinized by the sergeant, while the labourer picked out the larger lumps and cast them down. Thus the work went on for about a quarter of an hour, without any result beyond the accumulation on the ground below of a small heap of lime. At length I noticed the foreman pause and look attentively at the lime that he had just scraped up in his shovel.
“Here’s something that I don’t fancy any of our men put in,” he said, picking the object out and handing it down to the Sergeant. The latter took it from him and held it out for me to see. It was another of Angelina’s coat buttons.
In the course of the next few minutes two more buttons came to light, and almost immediately afterwards I saw the labourer stoop suddenly and stare down at the lime with an expression that made my flesh creep, as he pointed something out to the foreman.
“Ah!” the latter exclaimed. “Here she is! But, my word! There ain’t much left of her. Look at this, Sergeant.”
Very gingerly, and with an air of shuddering distaste, he picked something out of the lime and held it up; and even at that distance I could see that it was a human ulna. Cobbledick took it from him with the same distasteful and almost fearful manner, and held it towards me for inspection. I glanced at it and looked away. “Yes,” I said. “It is a human arm bone.”
On this, Cobbledick beckoned for the labourer to come down, and, taking out his official note-book, wrote something in pencil and tore out the leaf.
“Take this down to the station and give it to Sergeant Brown. He will tell you what else to do.” He gave the paper to the man, and having let him out of the gate, came back and climbed up to the exposed surface of the excavation, where I saw him draw on a pair of gloves and then stoop and begin to pick over the lime.
“This is a horrid business, isn’t it?” said Bundy. “Why the deuce couldn’t Cobbledick carry on by himself? I don’t see that it is our affair. Do you think we need stay?”
“I don’t see why you need. You have finished your part of the business. You have seen the wall opened. I am afraid I must stay a little longer, as Cobbledick may want me to identify some of the other objects that may be found. But I shan’t stay very long. There is really no question of the identity of the body, and there is no doubt now that the body is there. Detailed identification is a matter for the coroner.”
As we were speaking, we walked slowly away from the wall among the mounds of rubbish, now beginning to be hidden under a dense growth of nettles, rag-wort and thistles. It was a desolate, neglected place, sordid of aspect and contrasting unpleasantly in its modern squalor with the dignified decay of the ancient wall. We had reached the further fence and were just turning about, when the sergeant hailed me with a note of excitement in his voice. I hurried across and found him standing up with his eyes fixed on something that lay in the palm of his gloved hand.
“This seems to be the ring that you described to me, Doctor,” said he. “Will you just take a look at it?”
He reached down and I received in my hand the little trinket of deep-toned, yellow gold that I remembered so well. I turned it over in my palm, and as I looked on its mystical signs, its crude, barbaric workmanship and the initials “A. C.” scratched inside, the scene in that dimly-lighted room—years ago, it seemed to me now—rose before me like a vision. I saw the gracious figure in the red glow of the lamp and heard the voice that was never again to sound in my ears, telling the story of the little bauble, and for a few moments, the dreadful present faded into the irredeemable past.
“There isn’t any doubt about it, is there, Doctor?” the sergeant asked anxiously.
“None, whatever,” I replied. “It is unquestionably Mrs. Frood’s ring.”
“That’s a mercy,” said Cobbledick; “because we shall want every atom of identification that we can get. The body isn’t going to help us much. This lime has done its work to a finish. There’s nothing left, so far as I can see, but the skeleton and the bits of metal belonging to the clothing. Would you like to come up and have a look, Doctor? There isn’t much to see yet, but I have uncovered some of the bones.”
“I don’t think I will come up, Sergeant, thank you,” said I. “When you have finished, I shall have to look over what has been found, as I shall have to give evidence at the inquest. And I think I need hardly stay any longer. There is no doubt now about the identity, so far as we are concerned, at any rate.”
“No,” he agreed. “There is no doubt in my mind, so I need not keep you any longer if you want to be off. But, before you go, there is one little matter that I should like to speak to you about.” He climbed down to the ground, and, walking away with me a little distance, continued: “You see, Doctor, some medical man will have to examine the remains, so as to give evidence before the coroner. If it is impossible to identify them as the remains of Mrs. Frood, it will have to be given in evidence that they are the remains of a person who might have been Mrs. Frood; that they are the remains of a woman of about her size and age, I mean. Of course, the choice of the medical witness doesn’t rest with the police, but if you would care to take on the job, our recommendation would have weight with the coroner. You see, you are the most suitable person to make the examination, as you actually knew her.”
I shook my head emphatically. “For that very reason, Sergeant, I couldn’t possibly undertake the duty. Even doctors have feelings, you know. Just imagine how you would feel, yourself, pawing over the bones of a woman who had once been your friend.”
Cobbledick looked disappointed. “Yes,” he admitted, “I suppose there is something in what you say. But I didn’t think doctors troubled about such things very much; and you have got such an eye for detail—and such a memory. However, if you’d rather not, there is an end of the matter.”
He climbed back regretfully to the opening in the wall, and I rejoined Bundy. “I have finished here now,” said I. “That was a ring of hers that Cobbledick had found. Are you staying any longer?”
“Not if you are going away,” he replied. “I am not wanted now, and I can’t stick this charnel-house atmosphere; it is getting on my nerves. Let us clear out.”
We walked towards the entrance with a feeling of relief at escaping from the gruesome place, and had arrived within a few yards of it when there came a loud knocking at the gate, at which Bundy started visibly.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “it’s like Macbeth. Here, take my key and let the beggars in, whoever they are.”
I unlocked the gate and threw it open, when I saw, standing in the lane, two men, bearing on their shoulders a rough, unpainted coffin, and accompanied by the labourer, who carried a large sieve. I stood aside to let them pass in, and when they had entered, Bundy and I walked out, shutting and locking the gate after us. We made our way up the lane in silence, for there was little to say but much to think about; indeed, I would sooner have been alone, but the gruesome atmosphere of the place we had come from seemed to have affected Bundy’s spirits so much that I thought it only kind to ask him to come back to lunch with me; an invitation that he accepted with avidity.
During lunch we discussed the tragic discovery, and Bundy, now that he had escaped from physical contact with the relics of mortality, showed his usual shrewd common sense.
“Well,” he said, “the mystery of poor Angelina Frood is solved at last—at least, so far as it is ever likely to be.”
“I hope not,” I replied, “for the essential point of the mystery is not solved at all. It has only just been completely propounded. We now know beyond a doubt that she was murdered, and that the murder was a deliberate crime, planned in advance. What we want to know—at least, what I want to know, and shall never rest until I do know—is, who committed this diabolical crime?”
“I am afraid you never will know, John,” said he. “There doesn’t seem to be the faintest clue.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded. “You seem to have forgotten Nicholas Frood.”
Bundy shook his head. “You are deluding yourself, John. Nicholas seems, from your account of him, to be quite capable of having murdered his wife. But is there anything to connect him with the crime? If there is, you have never told me of it. And the law demands positive evidence. You can’t charge a man with murder because he seems a likely person and you don’t know of anybody else. What have you got against him in connexion with this present affair?”
“Well, for instance, I know that he was prowling about this town, and that he was trying to find out where she lived.”
“But why not?” demanded Bundy. “She was a runaway wife, and he was her husband.”
“Then I happen to have noticed that he carried a sheath-knife.”
“But do you know that she was killed with a sheath-knife?”
“No, I don’t,” I answered savagely. “But I say again that I shall never rest until the price of her death has been paid. There must be some clue. The murder could not have been committed without a motive, and it must be possible to discover what that motive was. Somebody must have stood to benefit in some way by her death; and I am going to find that person, or those persons, if I give up the rest of my life to the search.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that, John,” he said as he rose to depart. “It sounds as if you were prepared to spend the rest of your life chasing a will-o’-the-wisp. But we are premature. The inquest may bring to light some new evidence that will put the police on the murderer’s track. You must remember that they have been engaged in tracing the body up to now. When the inquest has been held and the facts are known they will be able to begin the search for the murderers. And I wish them and you good luck.”
I was rather glad when he was gone, for his dispassionate estimate of the difficulties of the case only served to confirm my own secret hopelessness. For I could not deny that these wretches seemed to have covered up their tracks completely. In the three months that had passed no whisper of any suspicious circumstance had been heard. From the moment when poor Angelina had faded from my sight into the fog to that of her dreadful reappearance in the old wall, no human eye seemed to have seen her. And now that she had come back, what had she to tell us of the events of that awful night? The very body, on which Thorndyke had relied for evidence, at least, of the manner of the crime, had dwindled to a mere skeleton such as might have been exhumed from some ancient tomb. The cunning of the murderers had outwitted even Thorndyke.
The thought of my friend reminded me that I had to report to him the results of the opening of the wall; results very different from what he had anticipated when he had given the sergeant the too-fruitful hint. I accordingly wrote out a detailed report, so far as my information went; but I held it back until the last post in case anything further should come to my knowledge. And it was just as well that I did; for about eight o’clock, Cobbledick called to give me the latest tidings.
“Well, Doctor,” he said, with a smile of concentrated benevolence, “I have got everything in going order. I have seen the coroner and made out a list of witnesses. You are one of them, of course; in fact, you are the star-witness. You were the last person to see her alive, and you were present at the exhumation. Dr. Baines—he’s rather a scientific gentleman—is to make the post-mortem examination, and tell us the cause of death, if he can. He won’t have much to go on. The lime has eaten up everything—it would, naturally, after three months—but the bones look quite uninjured, so far as I could judge.”
“When does the inquest open?” I asked.
“The day after to-morrow. I’ve got your summons with me, and I may as well give it to you now.”
I looked at the little blue paper and put it in my pocket-book. “Do you think the coroner will get through the case in one day?” I asked.
“No, I am sure he won’t,” replied Cobbledick. “It is an important case, and there will be a lot of witnesses. There will be the evidence as to the building of the wall; then the opening of it and the description of what we found in it; then the identification of the remains—that is you, principally; and then there will be all the other evidence, the pawnbroker, Israel Bangs, Hooper, and the others. And then, of course, there will be the question as to the guilty parties. That is the most important of all.”
“I didn’t know you had any evidence on that subject,” said I.
“I haven’t much,” he replied. “From the time when she disappeared nobody saw her alive or dead, and, of course, nothing has ever been heard of any occurrence that might indicate a crime. All we have to go on—and it is mighty little—is the fact that she was hiding from her husband, and that he was trying to find her. Also that he had made one attempt on her life. That is where your evidence will come in, and that of the matron at the ‘Poor Travellers.’ I’ve had a talk with her.”
“Do you know anything of Frood’s movements about the time of the disappearance?”
“Practically nothing, excepting that he went away from his lodgings the day before. You see, we were not in a position to start tracing possible criminals. We had no real evidence of any crime. We knew that the woman had disappeared, and she appeared to have got into the river. But there was nothing to show how. It looked suspicious, but it wasn’t a case. So long as no body was forthcoming there was no evidence of death, and nobody could have been charged. Even if we had found the body in the river, unless there had been distinct traces of violence, it would have been merely a case of ‘found dead,’ or ‘found drowned.’ But now the affair is on a different footing entirely. The body has been discovered under conditions which furnish prima facie evidence of murder, whatever the cause of death may turn out to have been. There is sure to be a verdict of wilful murder—not that the police are dependent on the coroner’s verdict. So now we can get a move on and look for the murderer.”
“What chance do you think there is of finding him?” I asked.
“Well,” said Cobbledick with a benevolent smile, “we mustn’t be too cock-sure. But, leaving the husband out of the question and taking the broad facts, it doesn’t look so unpromising. This wasn’t a casual crime—fortunately. There’s nothing so hopeless as a casual crime, done for mere petty robbery. But this crime was thought out. The place of burial was selected in advance. The key of the place was obtained, so that the murderer could not only get in but could lock himself—or more probably themselves—in and work secure from chance disturbance. And the time seems to have been selected; a week-end, with two whole nights to do the job in. All this points to very definite premeditation; and that points to a very definite motive. The person who planned this crime had something considerable to gain by Mrs. Frood’s death; it may have been profit or it may have been the satisfaction of revenge.
“Well, that is a pretty good start. When we know what property she had, who comes into it at her death, if any of it is missing, and if so, what has become of it; we can judge concerning the first case. And if we find that she had any enemies besides her husband; anyone whom she had injured or who owed her a grudge; then we can judge of the second case.
“Then there is another set of facts. This murderer couldn’t have been a complete stranger to the place. He knew about the wall and what was going on there. He knew the river and he possessed, or had command of, a boat. He knew the waterside premises and he knew his way—or had someone to show him the way—across the marshes and up Black Boy-lane. One, at least, of the persons concerned in this affair was a local man who knew the place well. So you see, Doctor, we have got something to go on, after all.”
I listened to the sergeant’s exposition with deep interest and no little revival of my drooping hopes. It was a most able summary of the case, and I felt that I should have liked Thorndyke to hear it; in fact, I determined to embody it in the amplification of my report. With the facts thus fully and lucidly collated, it did really seem as though the perpetrator of this foul crime must inevitably fall into our hands. Having refreshed the sergeant with a couple of glasses of port, I shook his hand warmly and wished him the best of success in the investigation that he was conducting with so much ability.
When he had gone I wrote a full account of our interview to add to my previous report, and expressed the hope that Thorndyke would be able to be present at the inquest, when I myself should “be and appear” at the appointed place to give evidence on the day after the morrow.
On the morning of the inquest I started from my house well in advance of time, and in a distinctly uncomfortable frame of mind. Perhaps it was that the formal inquiry brought home to me with extra vividness the certainty that my beloved friend was gone from me for ever, and that she had died in circumstances of tragedy and horror. Not that I had ever had any doubt, but now the realization was more intense. Again, I should have to give evidence. I should have to reconstitute for the information of strangers scenes and events that had for me a certain sacred intimacy. And then, above all, I should have to view—and that not cursorily—the decayed remains of the woman who had been so much to me. That would be naturally expected from a medical man and no one would guess at what it would cost me to bring myself to this last dreadful meeting.
Walking down the High-street thus wrapped in gloomy reflections, it was with mixed feelings that I observed Bundy advancing slowly towards me, having evidently awaited my arrival. In some respects I would sooner have been alone, and yet his kindly, sympathetic companionship was not altogether unwelcome.
“Good morning, John,” said he. “I hope I am not de trop. It is a melancholy errand for you, poor old chap, and I can’t do much to make it less so, but I thought we might walk down together. You know how sorry I am for you, John.”
“Yes, I know and appreciate, and I am always glad to see you, Peter. But why are you going there? Have you had a summons?”
“No, I have no information to give. But I am interested in the case, of course, so I am going to attend as a spectator. So is Japp, though he is really a legitimately interested party. In fact, I am rather surprised they didn’t summon him as a witness.”
“So am I. He really knows more about the poor girl than I do. But, of course, he knows nothing of the circumstances of her death.”
By this time we had arrived at the Guildhall, and here we encountered Sergeant Cobbledick, who was evidently on the look-out for me.
“I am glad you came early, Doctor,” said he. “I want you just to pop round to the mortuary. You know the way. There’s a tray by the side of the coffin with all her belongings on it. I’ll get you to take a careful look at them, so that you can tell the jury that they are really her things. And you had better run your eye over the remains. You might be able to spot something of importance. At any rate, they will expect you to have viewed the body, as you are the principal witness to its identity. I’ve told the constable on duty to let you in. And, of course, you can go in, too, Mr. Bundy, if you want to.”
“I don’t think I do, thank you,” replied Bundy. But he walked round with me to the mortuary, where the constable unlocked the door as he saw us approaching. I mentioned my name to the officer, but he knew me by sight, and now held the door open and followed me in, while Bundy halted at the threshold, and stood, rather pale and awe-stricken, looking in at the long table and its gruesome burden.
The tray of which Cobbledick had spoken was covered with a white table-cloth, and on this the various objects were arranged symmetrically like the exhibits in a museum. At the top was the hat, flanked on either side by a silver-headed hat-pin. The carefully smoothed scarf was spread across horizontally, the six coat-buttons were arranged in a straight vertical line, and the two shoes were placed at the bottom centre. At one side was the hand-bag, and at the other, to balance it, the handkerchief with its neatly-embroidered initials; and on this were placed the Zodiac ring, the wedding ring, the box of tablets, and the brooch. On the lateral spaces the various other objects were arranged with the same meticulous care for symmetrical effect: a neat row of hair pins, a row of hooks and eyes, one or two rows of buttons from the dress and under-garments, the little metal jaws of the purse, two rows of coins, silver and bronze, a pair of glove-fasteners with scorched fragments of leather adhering, a little pearl-handled knife, a number of metal clasps and fastenings and other small metallic objects derived from the various garments, and a few fragments of textiles, scorched as if by fire; a couple of brown shreds, apparently from the stockings, a cindery fragment of the brown coat, and a few charred and brittle tatters of linen.
I looked over the pitiful collection while the constable stood near the door and probably watched me. There was something unspeakably pathetic in the spectacle of these poor fragments of wreckage, thus laid out, and seeming, in the almost grotesque symmetry of their disposal, to make a mute appeal for remembrance and justice. This was all that was left of her; this and what was in the coffin.
So moved was I by the sight of these relics, thus assembled and presented in a sort of tragic synopsis, that it was some time before I could summon the resolution to look upon her very self, or at least upon such vestiges of her as had survived the touch of “decay’s effacing fingers.” But the time was passing, and it had to be. At last I turned to the coffin, and, lifting the unfastened lid, looked in.
It could have been no different from what I had expected; but yet the shock of its appearance seemed to strike me a palpable blow. Someone had arranged the bones in their anatomical order; and there the skeleton lay on the bottom of the coffin, dry, dusty, whitened with the powder of lime, such a relic as might have been brought to light by the spade of some excavator in an ancient barrow or prehistoric tomb. And yet this thing was she—Angelina! That grisly skull had once been clothed by her rich, abundant hair! That grinning range of long white teeth had once sustained the sweet, pensive mouth that I remembered so well. It was incredible. It was horrible. And yet it was true.
For some moments I stood as if petrified, holding up the coffin lid and gazing at the fearful shape in a trance of horror. And then suddenly I felt, as it were, a clutching at my throat and the vision faded into a blur as my eyes filled. Hastily I clapped down the coffin lid and strode towards the door with the tears streaming down my face.
Vaguely I was aware of Bundy taking my arm and pressing it to his side, of his voice as he murmured shakily, “Poor old John!” Passively I allowed him to lead me to a quiet corner above a flight of steps leading down to the river, where I halted to wipe my eyes, faintly surprised to note that he was wiping his eyes too; and that his face was pale and troubled. But if I was surprised, I was grateful, too; and never had my heart inclined more affectionately towards him than in this moment of trial that had been lightened by his unobtrusive sympathy and perfect understanding.
We stayed for a few minutes, looking down on the river and talking of the dead woman and the sad and troubled life from which this hideous crime had snatched her; then, as the appointed time approached, we made our way to the room in which the inquiry was to be held. As we entered, a pleasant-looking, shrewd-faced man, who looked like a barrister and who had been standing by a constable, approached and accosted me.
“Dr. Strangeways? My name is Anstey. I do most of the court work in connexion with Thorndyke’s cases, and I am representing him here to-day. He had hoped to come down, himself, but he had to go into the country on some important business, so I have to come to keep the nest warm—to watch the proceedings and make a summary of the evidence. You mentioned to him that the case would take more than one day.”
“Yes,” I answered, “that is what I understand. Will Dr. Thorndyke be here to-morrow?”
“Yes; he has arranged definitely to attend to-morrow. And I think he expects by then to have some information of importance to communicate.”
“Indeed!” I said eagerly. “Do you happen to know the nature of it?”
Anstey laughed. “My dear Doctor,” said he, “you have met Thorndyke, and you must know by now that he is about as communicative as a Whitstable native. No one ever knows what cards he holds.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “he is extraordinarily secretive. Unnecessarily so, it has seemed to me.”
Anstey shook his head. “He is perfectly right, Doctor. He knows his own peculiar job to a finish. He is, in a way, like some highly-specialized animal, such as the three-toed sloth, for instance; which seems an abnormal sort of beast until you see it doing, with unapproachable perfection, the thing that nature intended it to do. Thorndyke is a case of perfect adaptation to a special environment.”
“Still,” I objected, “I don’t see the use of such extreme secrecy.”
“You would if you followed his cases. A secret move is a move against which the other player—if there is one—can make no provision or defence or counter-move. Thorndyke plays with a wooden face and without speaking. No one knows what his next move will be. But when it comes, he puts down his piece and says ‘check’; and you’ll find it is mate.”
“But,” I still objected, “you are talking of an adversary and of counter-moves. Is there any adversary in this case?”
“Well, isn’t there?” said he. “There has been a crime committed. Someone has committed it; and that someone is not advertising his identity. But you can take it that he has been keeping a watchful eye on his pursuers, ready, if necessary, to give them a lead in the wrong direction. But it is time for us to take our places. I see the jury have come back from viewing the body.”
We took our places at the long table, one side of which was allocated to the jury and the other to witnesses in waiting, the police officers, the press-men, and other persons interested in the case. A few minutes later, the coroner opened the proceedings by giving a very brief statement of the circumstances which had occasioned the inquiry, and then proceeded to call the witnesses.
The first witness was Sergeant Cobbledick, whose evidence took the form of a statement covering the whole history of the case, beginning with Mr. Japp’s notification of the disappearance of Mrs. Frood and ending with the opening of the wall and the discovery of the remains. The latter part of the evidence was given in minute detail and included a complete list of the objects found with the remains.
“Does any juryman wish to ask the witness any questions?” the Coroner inquired when the lengthy statement was concluded. He looked from one to the other, and when nobody answered he called the next witness. This was Dr. Baines, a somewhat dry-looking gentleman, who gave his evidence clearly, concisely, and with due scientific caution.
“You have examined the remains which form the subject of this inquiry?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. I have examined the skeleton which is now lying in the mortuary. It is that of a rather strongly-built woman, five feet seven inches in height, and about thirty years of age.”
“Were you able to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”
“No; there were no signs of any injury nor of disease.”
“Are we to understand,” asked one of the jurymen, “that you consider deceased to have died a natural death?”
“I have no means of forming any opinion on the subject.”
“But if she died from violence, wouldn’t there be some signs of it?”
“That would depend on the nature of the violence.”
“Supposing she had been shot with a revolver?”
“In that case there might be a fracture of one or more bones, but there might be no fracture at all. Of course, there would be a bullet.”
“Did you find a bullet?”
“No. I did not see the bones until they had been brought to the mortuary.”
“There has been no mention of a bullet having been found,” the coroner interposed, “and you heard Sergeant Cobbledick say that the lime had all been sifted through a fine sieve. We must take it that there was no bullet. But,” he continued, addressing the witness, “the conditions that you found would not exclude violence, I presume?”
“Not at all. Only violence that would cause injury to the bones.”
“What kinds of violence would be unaccompanied by injury to the bones?”
“Drowning, hanging, strangling, suffocation, stabbing; and, of course, poisoning usually leaves no traces on the bones.”
“Can you give us no suggestion as to the cause of death?”
“None whatever,” was the firm reply.
“You have heard the description of the missing woman, Mrs. Frood. Do these remains correspond with that description?”
“They are the remains of a woman of similar stature and age to Mrs. Frood, so far as I can judge. I can’t say more than that. The description of Mrs. Frood was only approximate; and the estimate of the stature, and especially the age, of a skeleton can only be approximate.”
This being all that could be got out of the witness, who was concerned only with the skeleton, and naturally refused to budge from that position, the coroner glanced at his list and then called my name. I rose and took my place at the top corner of the table, when I was duly sworn, and gave my name and description.
“You heard Sergeant Cobbledick’s description of the articles which have been found, and which are now lying in the mortuary?” the coroner began.
I replied “Yes,” and he continued: “Have you examined those articles, and, if so, can you tell us anything about them?”
“I have examined the articles in the mortuary, and I recognized them as things I know to have been the property of Mrs. Angelina Frood.”
Here I described the articles in detail, and stated when and where I had seen them in her possession.
“You have inspected the remains of deceased in the mortuary. Can you identify them as the remains of any particular person?”
“No. They are quite unrecognizable.”
“Have you any doubt as to whose remains they are?” asked the juryman who had spoken before.
“That question, Mr. Pilley,” said the coroner, “is not quite in order. The witness has said that he was not able to identify the remains. Inferences as to the identity of deceased, drawn from the evidence, are for the jury. We must not ask witnesses to interpret the evidence. When did you last see Mrs. Frood alive, Doctor?”
“On the 26th of April,” I replied; and here I described that last interview, recalling our conversation almost verbatim. When I came to her expressions of uneasiness and foreboding, the attention of the listeners became more and more intense, and it was evident that they were deeply impressed. Particularly attentive was the foreman of the jury, a keen-faced, alert-looking man, who kept his eyes riveted on me, and, when I had finished this part of my evidence, asked: “So far as you know, Doctor, had Mrs. Frood any enemies? Was there anyone whom she had reason to be afraid of?”
This was a rather awkward question. It is one thing to entertain a suspicion privately, but quite another thing to give public expression to it. Besides, I was giving sworn evidence as to facts actually within my knowledge.
“I can’t say, positively,” I replied after some hesitation, “that I know of any enemy or anyone whom she had reason to fear.”
The coroner saw the difficulty, and interposed with a discreet question.
“What do you know of her domestic affairs, of her relations with her husband, for instance?”
This put the matter on the basis of fact, and I was able to state what I knew of her unhappy married life in Rochester and previously in London; and further questions elicited my personal observations as to the character and personality of her husband. My meeting with him at Dartford Station, the incidents in the Poor Travellers’ rest-house, the meeting with him on the bridge; all were given in full detail and devoured eagerly by the jury. And from their questions and their demeanour it became clear to me that they were in full cry after Nicholas Frood.
The conclusion of my evidence brought us to the luncheon hour. I had, of course, to take Mr. Anstey back to lunch with me, and a certain wistfulness in Bundy’s face made me feel that I ought to ask him, too. I accordingly presented them to one another and issued the invitation.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Bundy,” Anstey said heartily. “I have heard of you from my friend Thorndyke, who regards you with respectful admiration.”
“Does he?” said Bundy, blushing with pleasure, but looking somewhat surprised. “I can’t imagine why. But are you an expert, too?”
“Bless you, no,” laughed Anstey. “I am a mere lawyer, and, on this occasion, what is known technically as a devil—technically, you understand. I am watching this case for Thorndyke.”
“But I didn’t know that Dr. Thorndyke was interested in the case,” said Bundy, in evident perplexity.
“He is interested in everything of a criminal and horrid nature,” replied Anstey. “He never lets a really juicy crime mystery pass without getting all the details, if possible. You see, they are his stock in trade.”
“But he never would discuss this case—not seriously,” objected Bundy.
“Probably not,” said Anstey. “Perhaps there wasn’t much to discuss. But wait till the case is finished. Then he will tell you all about it.”
“I see,” said Bundy. “He is one of those prophets who predict after the event.”
“And the proper time, too,” retorted Anstey. “It is no use being premature.”
The conversation proceeded on this plane of playful repartee until we arrived at my house, where Mrs. Dunk, having bestowed a wooden glance of curiosity at Anstey and a glare of defiance at Bundy, handed me a telegram addressed to R. Anstey, K.C., care of Dr. Strangeways. I passed it to Anstey, who opened it and glanced through it.
“What shall I say in answer?” he asked, placing it in my hand.
I read the message and was not a little puzzled by it. “Ask Strangeways come back with you to-night. Very urgent. Reply time and place.”
“What do you suppose he wants me for?” I asked.
“I never suppose in regard to Thorndyke,” he replied. “But if he says it is urgent, it is urgent. Can you come up with me?”
“Yes, if it is necessary.”
“It is. Then I’ll say yes. And you had better arrange to stay the night—there is a spare bedroom at his chambers—and come down with him in the morning. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” I replied; “and you can say that we shall be at Charing Cross by seven-fifteen.”
I could see that this transaction was as surprising to Bundy as it was to me. But, of course, he asked no questions, nor could I have answered them if he had. Moreover, there was not much time for discussion as we had to be back in the court room by two o’clock, and what talk there was consisted mainly of humorous comments by Anstey on the witnesses and the jury.
Having sent off the telegram on our way down, we took our places once more, and the proceedings were resumed punctually by the calling of the foreman of the repairing gang; who deposed to the date on which the particular patch of rubble was commenced and finished and its condition when the men knocked off work on Saturday, the 26th of April. He also mentioned the loss of the key, but could give no particulars. The cross-examination elicited the facts that he had communicated to Cobbledick and me as to the state of the loose filling.
“How many men,” the coroner asked, “would it have taken to bury the body in the way in which it was buried; and how long?”
“One man could have done it easily in one night, if he could have got the body there. The stuff in the wall was all loose, and it was small stuff, easy to handle. No building had to be done. It was just a matter of shovelling the lime in and then chucking the loose stuff in on top. And the lime was handy to get at in the shed, and one of the barrels was open.”
“Can you say certainly when the body was buried?”
“It must have been buried on the night of the 26th of April or on the 27th, because on Monday morning, the 28th, we ran the mortar in, and by that evening we had got the patch finished.”