The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  We walked quickly along the narrow pavement, Bundy looking about him warily, until we reached the wine-merchant’s premises, into which my companion dived like a harlequin and forthwith proceeded to introduce me and my requirements. Mr. Tucker was a small, elderly man; old and crusted and as dry as his own Amontillado; but he was not proof against Bundy’s blandishments. Before I had had time to utter a protest, I found myself in a dark cavern at the rear of the shop, watching Mr. Tucker fill a couple of glasses from a mouldy-looking cask.

  “Ha!” said Bundy, sipping the wine with a judicial air. “H’m. Yes. Not so bad. Slightly corked, perhaps.”

  “Corked!” exclaimed Tucker, staring at Bundy in amazement. “How can it be corked when it is just out of the cask?”

  “Well, bunged, then,” Bundy corrected.

  “I never heard of wine being bunged,” said Tucker. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Isn’t there? Well, then, it can’t be. Must be my fancy. What do you think of it, Doctor?”

  “It seems quite a sound claret,” said I, inwardly wishing my volatile friend at the devil, for I felt compelled, by way of soothing the wine merchant’s wounded feelings, to order twice the quantity that I had intended. We had just completed the transaction, and were crossing the outer shop when the doorway became occluded by two female figures, and Bundy uttered a half-suppressed groan. I drew aside to make way for the newcomers—two ladies whom polite persons would have described as middle-aged, on the assumption that they contemplated a somewhat extreme degree of longevity—and I was aware that Bundy was endeavouring to take cover behind me. But it was of no use. One of them espied him instantly and announced her discovery with a little squeak of ecstasy.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Bundy. I do declare! Now, where have you been all this long time? It’s ages and ages and ages since you came to see us, isn’t it, Martha? Let me see, now, when was it?” She fixed a reflective eye on her companion, while Bundy smiled a sickly smile and glanced wistfully at the open door.

  “I know,” she exclaimed, triumphantly. “It was when we had the feeble-minded children to tea, and Mr. Blote showed them the gold fish trick—at least he tried to, but the glass bowl stuck in the bag under his coat-tails and wouldn’t come out; and when he tried to pull it out it broke—”

  “I think you are mistaken, Marian,” the other lady interrupted. “It wasn’t the feeble-minded tea. It was after that, when we helped the Jewbury-Browns to get up that rumble sale—”

  “Jumble sale, you mean, dear,” her companion corrected.

  “I mean rummage sale,” the lady called Martha insisted, severely. “If you will try to recall the circumstances, you will remember that the jumble sale took place after—”

  “Not after,” the other lady corrected. “It was before—several days before, I should say, speaking from a somewhat imperfect memory. If you will try to recollect, Martha, dear—”

  “I recollect quite distinctly,” the lady called Martha interposed, a little haughtily. “There was the feeble-minded tea—that was on a Tuesday—or was it a Thursday—no, it was a Tuesday, or at least—well, at any rate, it was some days before the jum—rum—”

  “Not at all,” the other lady dissented emphatically. At this point, catching the eye of the lady called Marian, I crept by slow degrees out on the threshold and turned an expectant eye on Bundy. The rather broad hint took immediate effect, for the lady said to her companion: “I am afraid, Martha, dear, you are detaining Mr. Bundy and his friend. Good-bye, Mr. Bundy. Shall we see you next Friday evening? We are giving a little entertainment to the barge-boys. We are inviting them to come and bring their mouth-organs and get up a little informal concert. Do come if you can. We shall be so delighted. Good-bye.”

  Bundy shook hands effusively with the two ladies and darted out after me, seizing my arm and hurrying me along the pavement.

  “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 doorbell 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 some
what 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 or fear.

  “You are not looking yourself at all tonight,” 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 handbag, 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 tomorrow.”

  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 tomorrow.” 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 bellringer, 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 thunderbolt; 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.