The mystery of Angelina Frood
Hereupon the procession started, Mr. Japp and his guest leading,
Thorndyke, Bundy, and I following, and the photographer bringing up
the rear.
“Let me see,” said Bundy, looking up at Thorndyke with a sort of pert
shyness, “weren’t you down here a week or two ago?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “and I think I had the honour of being
inspected by you while I was reading your proclamation respecting a
certain lost key.”
“You had,” said Bundy; “in fact, I may say that you raised false hopes
in my partner and me. We thought you were going to find it.”
“What, for ten shillings!” exclaimed Thorndyke.
“We would have raised the fee if you had made a firm offer,” said
Bundy, removing his eyeglass to polish it with his handkerchief. “It
was a valuable key. Belonged to a gate that encloses part of the city
wall.”
“Indeed!” said Thorndyke. “I don’t wonder you were anxious about it
considering what numbers of dishonest persons there are about. Ha!
Here is the bridge. Let us hear what Mr. Japp has to say about it.”
Mr. Japp’s observations were concise. Having cast a venomous glance at
the unlovely structure, he turned his back on it and remarked acidly:
“That is the new bridge. It is, as you see, composed of iron girders.
It is not an antiquity, and I hope it never will be. Let us forget it
and go on to the Guildhall.” He strode forward doggedly and Bundy
turned to us with a grin.
“Poor old Japp,” said he, “he does hate that bridge. He has an
engraving of the old stone one in his rooms, and I’ve seen him stand
in front of it and groan. And really you can’t wonder. It is an awful
come-down. Just think what the town must have looked like from across
the river when that stone bridge was standing.”
Here we halted opposite the Guildhall, and when we had read the
inscription, admired the magnificent ship weather-cock--said to be a
model of the Rodney--and listened to Japp’s observations on the
architectural features of the building, the photographer was
instructed to operate on its exterior while we entered to explore the
Justice Room and examine the portraits. From the Guildhall we passed
on to the Corn Exchange, the quaint and handsome overhanging clock of
which had evidently captured Mr. Willard’s fancy.
“That clock,” said he, “is a stroke of genius. It gives a character to
the whole street. But what in creation induced your City Fathers to
allow that charming little building to be turned into a picture
theatre?”
Japp shook his head and groaned. “You may well ask that,” said he,
glaring viciously at the inane posters and the doorway, decorated in
the film taste. “If good Sir Cloudesley Shovel, who gave it to the
town, could rise from his grave and look at it, now he’d--bah! The
crying need of this age is some means of protecting historic buildings
from town councils. To these men an ancient building is just
old-fashioned--out-of-date; a thing to be pulled down and replaced by
something smart and up-to-date in the corrugated iron line.” He
snorted fiercely, and as the photographer dismounted his camera, he
turned and led the way up the street. I lingered to help the
photographer with his repacking, and meanwhile Thorndyke and Bundy
walked on together, chatting amicably and suggesting to my fancy an
amiable mastiff accompanied by a particularly well-groomed fox
terrier.
“Do you usually give your patients a week-end holiday?” Bundy was
inquiring as I overtook them.
“I haven’t any patients,” replied Thorndyke. “My medical practice is
conducted mostly in the Law Courts.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bundy. “Do you mean that you live by
resuscitating moribund jurymen and fattening up murderers for
execution, and that sort of thing?”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “Nothing so harmless. I am what is
known as a Medical Expert. I give opinions on medical questions that
affect legal issues.”
“Then you are really a sort of lawyer?”
“Yes. A medico-legal hybrid; a sort of centaur or merman, with a
doctor’s head and a lawyer’s tail.”
“Well,” said Bundy, “there are some queer professions. I once knew a
chap in the furniture trade who described himself as a
‘worm-eater’--drilled worm-holes in faked antiques, you know.”
“And what,” asked Thorndyke, “might be the analogy that you are
suggesting? You don’t propose to associate me with the diet of worms,
I hope.”
“Certainly not,” said Bundy, “though I suppose your practice is
sometimes connected with exhumations. But I was thinking that you must
know quite a lot about crime.”
“A good deal of my practice is concerned with criminal cases,”
Thorndyke admitted.
“Then you will be rather interested in our local mystery. Has the
doctor told you about it?”
“You mean the mystery of the disappearing lady? But of what interest
should it be to me? I was not acquainted with her.”
“I meant a professional interest. But I suppose you are not taking a
’bus-man’s holiday: don’t want to be bothered with mysteries that
don’t concern you. Still, I should like to hear your expert opinion on
the case.”
“You mistake my functions,” said Thorndyke. “A common witness
testifies to facts known to himself. An expert witness interprets
facts presented to him by others. Present me your facts, and I will
try to give you an interpretation of them.”
“But there are no facts. That is what constitutes the mystery.”
“Then there is nothing to interpret. It is a case for the police, and
not for the scientific expert.”
Here our conversation was interrupted by our arrival at the House of
the Six Poor Travellers, and by a learned disquisition by Japp on the
connotation of the word Proctor--which, it appeared, was sometimes
used in the Middle Ages in the sense of a cadger or swindler. Thence
we proceeded to Eastgate House, where Japp mounted his hobby and
discoursed impressively on the subject of ceilings, taking as his text
a specimen modelled _in situ_, and bearing the date 1590.
“The fellow who put up that ceiling,” said he, “took his time about
it, no doubt. But his work has lasted three hundred and fifty years.
That is the best way to save time. Your modern plasterer will have his
ceiling up in a jiffy; and it will be down in a jiffy, and to do all
over again. And never worth looking at at all.”
Mr. Willard nodded. “It is very true,” said he. “What is striking me
in looking at all this old work is the great economy of time that is
effected by taking pains and using good material, to say nothing of
the beauty of the things created.”
“If he goes on talking like that,” whispered Bundy, “Japp’ll kiss him.
We must get them out of this.”
Mercifully--if such a catastrophe was imminent--the ceiling discourse
brought our inspection here to an end. From Eastgate House we went
back to the Maidstone-road, and when we had inspected Restoration
House, began to trace out the site of the city wall, which Thorndyke
carefully marked on his map, to Japp’s intense gratification. This
perambulation brought us to the castle--which was dealt with rather
summarily, as Mr. Willard had already examined it--and we then
returned to the office for tea, which Bundy prepared and served with
great success in his own sitting-room, while Japp dotted in with red
ink on Thorndyke’s map the entire city wall, including the part which
we had yet to trace; and ridiculously small the ancient city looked
when thus marked out on the modern town.
After tea we retraced our steps to the site of the East Gate, and,
having inspected a large fragment of the wall at the end of an alley,
traced its line across the High-street, and then proceeded down Free
School-lane to the fine angle-bastion at the northern corner of the
lane. Thence we followed the scanty indications as far as the site of
the North Gate, and thereafter through a confused and rather unlovely
neighbourhood until, on the edge of the marshes, we struck into a
narrow lane, enclosed by a dilapidated tarred fence, a short distance
along which we came to a closed gate, which I recognized as the one
through which I had passed with Bundy on the day when we were made
acquainted with the tragic history of Bill the Bargee. As Japp
unlocked the gate and admitted us to the space of waste land, Bundy
remarked to Thorndyke: “That is the gate that the missing key belonged
to. You see there is no harm done so far. The wall is still there.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and not much improved in appearance by your
builders’ attentions. Those patches suggest the first attempts of an
untalented dental student at conservation.”
“They are rather a disfigurement,” said Japp. “But the men had to have
a job found for them, and that is the result. Perhaps they won’t show
so much in the photograph.”
While the photographer was setting up his camera and making the
exposure, Japp explained the relation of this piece of wall to the
North Gate and the Gate that faced the bridge, and marked its position
on Thorndyke’s map.
“And that,” he continued, “concludes our perambulation. The
photographer is chartered by Mr. Willard, but I understand that we are
at liberty to secure copies of the photographs, if we want them. Is
that not so, Mr. Willard?”
“Surely,” was the cordial reply; “only I stipulate that they shall be
a gift from me, and I shall ask a favour in return. If there is a
plate left, I should like to have a commemorative group taken, so that
when I recall this pleasant day, I can also recall the pleasant
society in which I spent it.”
We all acknowledged the kindly compliment with a bow, and as the
photographer announced that he had a spare plate, we grouped ourselves
against a portion of undisfigured wall, removed our hats, and took up
easy and graceful postures on either side of Mr. Willard. When the
exposure had been made, and the photographer proceeded to pack up his
apparatus, Thorndyke tendered his very hearty thanks to Mr. Japp and
his friend for their hospitality.
“It has been a great privilege,” said he, “to be allowed to share in
the products of so much study and research, and I assure you it is far
from being unappreciated. Whenever I revisit Rochester--which I hope
to do before long--I shall think of you gratefully, and of your very
kind and generous friend, Mr. Willard.”
Our two hosts made suitable acknowledgments; and while these
compliments were passing, I turned to Bundy.
“Can we get down to the shore from here?” I asked. “Thorndyke was
saying that he would like to have a look at the river. If it is
accessible from here we might take it on the way home.”
“It isn’t difficult to get at,” replied Bundy. “If he wants to get a
typical view of the river with the below-bridge traffic, by far the
best place is Blue Boar Pier. It isn’t very far, and it is on your way
home--more or less. I’ll show you the way there if you like. Japp is
dining with Willard, so he won’t want me.”
I accepted the offer gladly, and as the exchange of compliments seemed
to be completed and our party was moving towards the gate, I tendered
my thanks for the day’s entertainment and bade my hosts farewell,
explaining that we were going riverwards. Accordingly we parted at the
gate, Japp and Willard turning towards the town, while Thorndyke,
Bundy, and I retraced our steps towards the marshes.
At the bottom of the lane Bundy paused to explain the topography.
“That path,” said he, “leads to Gas House-road and the marshes by the
North Shore. But there isn’t much to see there. If we take this other
track we shall strike Blue Boar-lane, which will take us to the pier.
From there we can get a view of the whole bend of the river right
across to Chatham.”
Thorndyke followed the description closely with the aid of his map,
marking off our present position with a pencil. Then we struck into a
rough cart-track, with the wide stretch of the marshes on our left,