The mystery of Angelina Frood
suggestion that the man’s emotional, almost hysterical state
supported, and that lent a certain unpleasant congruity to the
otherwise inexplicable circumstances. That packet, I had little doubt,
contained cocaine. The question was how did that fact--if it were a
fact--bear on my patient’s condition.
I inspected her afresh, and felt her pulse again. In the man’s case
the appearances were distinctive enough. His nerves were in rags, and
even across the room I could see that the hand that held the
handkerchief shook as if with a palsy. But in the woman’s condition
there was no positive suggestion of drugs; and something in her
face--a strong, resolute face despite its expression of suffering--and
her quiet, composed manner when she spoke, seemed to exclude the idea.
However, there was no use in speculating. I had got all the
information I was likely to get, and all that remained for me to do
was to administer such treatment as my imperfect understanding of the
case indicated. Accordingly I opened my emergency bag, and, taking out
a couple of little bottles and a measure-glass, went over to the
washstand and mixed a draught in the tumbler, diluting it from the
water-bottle.
In crossing the room, I passed the fire-place, where, on and above the
mantelpiece, I observed a number of signed photographs, apparently of
actors and actresses, including two of my patient, both of which were
in character costume and unsigned. From which it seemed probable that
my patient was an actress; a probability that was strengthened by the
hour at which I had been summoned and by certain other appearances in
the room with which Dr. Pumphrey’s largely theatrical practice had
made me familiar. But, as my patient would have remarked, this was not
a medical question.
“Now, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, when I had prepared the draught--and as I
spoke she opened her eyes and looked at me with a slightly puzzled
expression--“I want you to drink this.”
She allowed me to sit her up enough to enable her to swallow the
draught; and as her head was raised, I took the opportunity to glance
at the back of her neck, where I thought I could distinctly trace the
crossing of the cord or band that had been drawn round it. She sank
back with a sigh, but remained with her eyes open, looking at me as I
repacked my bag.
“I shall send you some medicine,” I said, “which you must take
regularly. It is unnecessary for me to say,” I added, addressing the
man, “that Mrs. Johnson must be kept very quiet, and in no way
agitated.”
He bowed, but made no reply; and I then took my leave.
“Good night, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, shaking her cold hand gently. “I
hope you will be very much better in an hour or two. I think you will
if you keep quite quiet and take your medicine.”
She thanked me in a few softly spoken words and with a very sweet
smile, of which the sad wistfulness went to my heart. I was loath to
leave her, in her weak and helpless state, to the care of her
unprepossessing companion, encompassed by I knew not what perils. But
I was only a passing stranger, and could do no more than my
professional office.
As I approached the door--with an inquisitive eye on its disordered
lock and loosened striking-box--the man rose, and made as if to let me
out. I wished him good-night, and he returned the salutation in a
pleasant voice, and with a distinctly refined accent, quite out of
character with his uncouth appearance. Feeling my way down the dark
staircase, I presently encountered my first acquaintance, who came to
the foot of the stairs with the candle.
“Well,” he said, in his brusque way, “how is she?”
“She is very weak and shaken,” I replied. “I want to send her some
medicine. Shall I take the address, or are you driving me back?”
“I will take you back in the car,” said he, “and you can give me the
medicine.”
The car was waiting at the gate, and we went out together. As I turned
to close the gate after me, I cast a quick glance at the house and its
surroundings, searching for some distinctive feature in case
recognition of the place should be necessary later. But it was a dark
night, though the rain had now ceased, and I could see no more than
that the adjoining house seemed to have a sort of corner turret,
crowned with a small cupola, and surmounted by a weather-vane.
During the short journey home not a word was spoken, and when the car
drew up at Dr. Pumphrey’s door and I let myself in with the key, my
companion silently followed me in. I prepared the medicine at once,
and handed it to him with a few brief instructions. He took it from
me, and then asked what my fee was.
“Do I understand that I am not required to continue the attendance?” I
asked.
“They will send for you, I suppose, if they want you,” he replied.
“But I had better pay your fee for this visit as I came for you.”
I named the fee, and, when he had paid it, I said: “You understand
that she will require very careful and tender treatment while she is
so weak?”
“I do,” he answered; “but I am not a member of the household. Did you
make it clear to Mr. ---- her husband?”
I noted the significant hesitation, and replied:
“I told him, but as to making it clear to him, I can’t say. His mental
condition was none of the most lucid. I hope she has someone more
responsible to look after her.”
“She has,” he replied; and then he asked: “You don’t think she is in
any danger, I hope?”
“In a medical sense,” I answered, “I think not. In other respects you
know better than I do.”
He gave me a quick look, and nodded slightly. Then, with a curt
“good-night,” he turned and went out to the car.
When he was gone, I made a brief record of the visit in the day-book,
and entered the fee in the cash column. In the case of the experienced
Dr. Pumphrey, this would have been the end of the transaction. But,
new as I was to medical practice, I was unable to take this
matter-of-fact view of its incidents. My mind still surged with
surprise, curiosity, and a deep concern for my fair patient. Filling
my pipe, I sat down before the gas fire to think over the mystery to
which I had suddenly become a party.
What was it that had happened in that house? Obviously, something
scandalous and sinister. The secrecy alone made that manifest. Not
only had the whereabouts of the house been withheld from me, but a
false name had been given. I realized that when my late visitor
stumbled over the name and substituted “her husband.” He had forgotten
what name it was that he had given on the spur of the moment. I
understood, too, the look of surprise that my patient had given when I
addressed her by that false name. Clearly, something had happened
which had to be hushed up if possible.
What was it? The elements of the problem, and the material for solving
it, were the mark on the woman’s neck, the condition of the door, and
a packet which I felt morally certain contained cocaine. I considered
these three factors separately and together.
The mark on the neck was quite recent. Its character was unmistakable.
A cord or band had been drawn tight and with considerable violence,
either by the woman herself, or by some other person: that is to say,
it was a case either of attempted suicide or attempted murder. To
which of these alternatives did the circumstances point?
There was the door. It had been broken in, and had therefore been
locked on the inside. That was consistent with suicide, but not
inconsistent with murder. Then, by whom had it been broken in? By a
murderer to get at his victim? Or by a rescuer? And if the latter, was
it to avert suicide or murder?
Again, there was the drug--assumed, but almost certain. What was the
bearing of that? Could these three persons be a party of “dopers,” and
the tragedy the outcome of an orgy of drug-taking? I rejected this
possibility at once. It was not consistent with the patient’s
condition nor with her appearance or manner; and the man who had
fetched me and brought me back was a robust, sane-looking man who
seemed quite beyond suspicion.
I next considered the persons. There were three of them: two men and a
woman. Of the men, one was a virile, fairly good-looking man of
perhaps forty; the other--the husband--was conspicuously
unprepossessing, physically degenerate and mentally, as I judged, a
hysterical poltroon. Here there seemed to be the making of trouble,
especially when one considered the personal attractiveness of the
woman.
I recalled her appearance very vividly. A handsome woman, not,
perhaps, actually beautiful--though she might have been that if the
roses of youth and health had bloomed in those cheeks that I had seen
blanched with that ghastly pallor. But apart from mere comeliness,
there was a suggestion of a pleasing, gracious personality. I don’t
know how it had been conveyed to me, excepting by the smile with which
she had thanked me and bidden me farewell: a smile that had imparted a
singular sweetness to her face. But I had received that impression,
and also that she was a woman of decided character and intelligence.
Her appearance was rather striking. She had a great mass of dark hair,
parted in the middle, and drawn down over the temples, nearly covering
the ears; darkish grey eyes, and unusually strong, black, level
eyebrows, that almost met above the straight, shapely nose. Perhaps it
was those eyebrows that gave the strength and intensity to her
expression, aided by the compressed lips--though this was probably a
passing condition due to her mental state.
My cogitations were prolonged well into the small hours, but they led
to nothing but an open verdict. At length I rose with a slight shiver,
and, dismissing the topic from my mind, crept up to bed.
But both the persons and the incident refused to accept their
dismissal. For many days afterwards I was haunted by two faces; the
one, ugly, coffin-shaped, surmounted by a shock of soft, furry,
mouse-coloured hair; the other, sweet, appealing, mutely eloquent of
tragedy and sorrow. Of course, I received no further summons; and the
whereabouts of the house of mystery remained a secret until almost the
end of my stay in Osnaburgh-street. Indeed, it was on the very day
before Dr. Pumphrey’s return that I made the discovery.
I had been making a visit to a patient who lived near Regent’s Park,
and on my way back had taken what I assumed to be a short cut. This
led me into a quiet, old fashioned residential street, of which the
houses stood back behind small front gardens. As I walked along the
street I seemed to be aware of a faint sense of familiarity which
caused me to observe the houses with more than usual attention.
Presently I observed a little way ahead on the opposite side a house
with a corner turret topped by a cupola, which bore above it a
weather-vane. I crossed the road as I approached it, and looked
eagerly at the next house. Its identity was unmistakable. My attention
was immediately attracted by the jalousies with which the windows were
fitted, and on looking at the front door I observed that the number
was forty-three.
This, then, was the house of mystery, perhaps of crime. But whatever
that tragedy had been, its actors were there no longer. The windows
were curtainless and blank; an air of Spring-cleaning and preparation
pervaded the premises, and a bill on a little notice-board announced a
furnished house to let, and invited inquiries. For a moment, I was
tempted to accept that invitation. But I was restrained by a feeling
that it would be in a way a breach of confidence. The names of those
persons had been purposely withheld from me, doubtless for excellent
reasons, and professional ethics seemed to forbid any unauthorized
pryings into their private affairs. Wherefore, with a valedictory