The mystery of Angelina Frood
phrases or of making allowances for possible prejudices. We could say
plainly what we meant with the perfect assurance that it would be
neither misunderstood nor resented. In short, if my feelings towards
her could only have been kept at the same level as hers towards me,
our friendship would have been perfect.
In the course of these long and pleasant gossiping visits, I observed
my patient somewhat closely, and, quite apart from the personal
affinity, I became more and more favourably impressed. She was a
clever woman, quick and alert in mind, and evidently well informed.
She seemed to be kindly, and was certainly amiable and even-tempered,
though not in the least weak or deficient in character. Probably, in
happier circumstances, she would have been more gay and vivacious,
for, though she was habitually rather grave and even sombre, there
were occasional flashes of wit that suggested a naturally lively
temperament.
As to her appearance--to repeat in more detail what I have already
said--she was a rather large woman, very erect and somewhat stately in
bearing; distinctly good-looking (though of this I was not, perhaps, a
very good judge). Her features were regular, but not in any way
striking. Her expression was, as I have said, a little sombre and
severe, the mouth firmly set and slightly depressed at the corners,
the eyebrows black, straight, and unusually well-marked and nearly
meeting above the nose. She had an abundance of black, or nearly
black, hair, parted low on the forehead and drawn back loosely,
covering the ears and temples, and she wore a largish coil nearly on
the top of the head; a formal, matronly style that accentuated the
gravity of her expression.
Such was Angelina Frood as I looked on her in those
never-to-be-forgotten evenings; as she rises before the eyes of memory
as I write, and as she will remain in my recollection so long as I
live.
In this fortnight one really arresting incident had occurred. It was
just a week after my meeting with Dr. Thorndyke, when, returning from
a walk along the London Road as far as Gad’s Hill, I stopped on
Rochester Bridge to watch a barge which had just passed under, and was
rehoisting her lowered mast. As I was leaning on the parapet, a man
brushed past me, and I turned my head idly to look at him. Then, in an
instant, I started up; for though the man’s back was towards me, there
was something unmistakably familiar in the gaunt figure, the seedy
clothes, the great cloth cap, the shock of mouse-coloured hair, and
the thick oaken stick that he swung in his hand. But I was not going
to leave myself in any doubt on the subject. Cautiously I began to
retrace my steps, keeping him in view but avoiding overtaking him,
until he reached the western end of the bridge, when he halted and
looked back. Then any possible doubt was set at rest. The man was
Nicholas Frood. I don’t know whether he saw me; he made no sign of
recognition; and when he turned and walked on, I continued to follow,
determined to make sure of his destination.
As I had hoped and expected, he took the road to the right, leading to
the river bank and the station. Still following him, I noted that he
walked at a fairly brisk pace and seemed to have recovered completely
from his debility--if that debility had not been entirely counterfeit.
Opposite the pier he turned into the station approach, and when from
the corner I had watched him enter the station, I gave up the pursuit,
assuming that he was returning to London.
But how long had he been in Rochester? What had he been doing, and
what success had he had in his search? These were the questions that I
asked myself as I walked back over the bridge. Probably he had come
down for the day; and since he was returning, it was reasonable to
infer that he had had no luck. As I entered the town and glanced up at
the great clock that hangs out across the street from the Corn
Exchange, like a sort of horological warming-pan, I saw that it was
close upon eight. It was a good deal after my usual time for calling
on Mrs. Frood, but the circumstances were exceptional and I felt that
it was necessary to ascertain whether anything untoward had occurred.
I was still debating what I should do when, as I came opposite the
house, I saw Mrs. Gillow coming out of the door. Immediately I crossed
the road and accosted her.
“Have you seen Mrs. Frood this evening, Mrs. Gillow?” I asked, after
passing the usual compliments.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I left her only a few minutes ago working
at one of the drawings that she does for Mr. Japp. She seems better
this evening--brighter and more cheerful. I think your visits have
done her good, sir. It is a lonely life for a young woman--having no
one to talk to all through the long evenings. I’m always glad to hear
your knock, and so, I think, is she.”
“I’m pleased to hear you say so, Mrs. Gillow,” said I. “However, as it
is rather late, and she has something to occupy her, I don’t think I
will call this evening.”
With this I took my leave and went on my way in better spirits.
Evidently all was well so far. Nevertheless, the reappearance of this
man was an uncomfortable incident. It was clear that he had not given
up the pursuit, and, seeing that Rochester was only some thirty miles
from London, it would be quite easy for him to make periodical
descents on the place to continue the search. There was no denying
that Mrs. Frood’s position was extremely insecure, and I could think
of no plan for making it less so, excepting that of leaving Rochester,
for a time at least, a solution which ought to have commended itself
to me, but did not.
Perhaps it was this fact that decided me not to say anything about the
incident. The obvious thing was to have told her and put her on her
guard. But I persuaded myself that it would only make her anxious to
no purpose; that she could not prevent him from coming nor could she
take any further measures for concealment. And then there was the
possibility that he might never come again.
So far as I know, he never did. During the rest of the week I
perambulated the town hour after hour, looking into the shops,
scanning the faces of the wayfarers in the streets and even visiting
the stations at the times when the London trains were due; but never a
glimpse did I catch of that ill-omened figure.
And all the time, the shadows were deepening, and that which cast them
was drawing nearer.
It was nearly a week after my meeting with Nicholas Frood that an
event befell at which I looked askance at the time and which was, as
it turned out, the opening scene of a new act. It was on the Saturday.
I am able to fix the date by an incident, trivial enough in itself,
but important by reason of its forming thus a definite point of
departure. My visitors were due on the following Monday, and it had
occurred to me that I had better lay in a little stock of wine; and as
Mr. Japp was an old resident who knew everybody in the town, I decided
to consult him as to the choice of a wine merchant.
It was a little past mid-day when I arrived at the office, and as I
entered I observed that some kind of conference was in progress. A
man, whom I recognized as the foreman of the gang who were working on
the old wall, was standing sheepishly with his knuckles resting on the
table; Bundy had swung round on his stool and was glaring owlishly
through his great spectacles, while Mr. Japp was sitting bolt upright,
his forehead in a state of extreme corrugation and his eyes fixed
severely on the foreman.
“I suppose,” said Bundy, “you left it in the gate?”
“I expect Evans did,” replied the foreman. “You see, I had to call in
at the office, so I gave the key to Evans and told him to go on with
the other men and let them in. When I got there the gate was open and
the men were at work, and I forgot all about the key until it was time
to come away and lock up. Then I asked Evans for it, and he said he’d
left it in the gate. But when I went to look for it it wasn’t there.
Someone must have took it out.”
“Doesn’t seem very likely,” said Bundy. “However, I suppose it will
turn up. It had one of our wooden labels tied to it. Shall I give him
the duplicate to lock up the place?”
“You must, I suppose,” said Japp; “but it must be brought straight
back and given to me. You understand, Smith? Bring it back at once,
and deliver it to me or to Mr. Bundy. And look here, Smith. I shall
offer ten shillings reward for that key; and if it is brought back and
I have to pay the reward you will have to make it up among you. You
understand that?”
Smith indicated grumpily that he understood; and when Bundy had handed
him the duplicate key, he took his departure in dudgeon.
When he had gone I stated my business, and Bundy pricked up his ears.
“Wine, hey?” said he, removing his spectacles and assuming his
eyeglass. “Tucker will be the man for him, won’t he, Japp? Very
superior wine merchant is Tucker. Old and crusted; round and soft;
rare and curious. I’d better pop round with him and introduce him,
hadn’t I? You’ll want to taste a few samples, I presume, Doctor?”
“I’m not giving a wholesale order,” said I, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“A dozen or so of claret and one or two bottles of port is all I
want.”
“Still,” said Bundy, “you want to know what the stuff’s like. Not
going to buy a pig in a poke. You’ll have to taste it, of course. I’ll
help you. Two heads are better than one. Come on. You said Tucker,
didn’t you, Japp?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Japp, wrinkling his face up into an
appreciative smile, “I didn’t say anything. But Tucker will do; only
he won’t let you taste anything until you have bought it.”
“Won’t he!” said Bundy. “We shall see. Come along, Doctor.”
He dragged me out of the office and down the steps, and we set forth
towards the bridge; but we had not walked more than a couple of
hundred yards when he suddenly shot up a narrow alley and beckoned to
me mysteriously. I followed him up the alley, and as he halted I
asked:
“What have you come here for?”
“I want you,” he replied impressively, “to take a look at this wall.”
I scrutinized the wall with minute attention but failed to discover
any noteworthy peculiarities in it.
“Well,” I said, at length, “I don’t see anything unusual about this
wall.”
“Neither do I,” he replied, looking furtively down the alley.
“Then, what the deuce--” I began.
“It’s all right,” said he. “She’s gone. That damsel in the pink hat. I
just popped up here to let her pass. The fact is,” he explained, as he
emerged cautiously into the High Street, glancing up and down like an
Indian on the war-path, “these women are the plague of my life; always
trying to hook me for teas or bazaars or garden fêtes or some sort of
confounded foolishness; and that pink-hatted lady is a regular
sleuth-hound.”
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