“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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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 denouement, 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 ease,” 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.
“1’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 suede gloves with fasteners—no buttons—brown silk stockings, and brown suede 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 handbag 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 cart 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 notebook 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.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 56
