The mystery of Angelina Frood
walked homeward slowly, cogitating on the results of his visit. It
seemed to me that they were very insignificant. In the morning we had
explored the piece of shore on which the bag and the box of tablets
had been found, making our way to it by the narrow and intricate
alleys which seemed to be the only approach; and we had reached the
same conclusion. It was an impossible place.
“If we assume,” said Thorndyke, “as we must, on the apparent
probabilities, that the tragedy occurred here, we must assume that
there are some significant circumstances that are unknown to us. Mrs.
Frood could not have strayed here by chance. We can think of no
business that could have brought her here; and since she was neither a
child nor a fool, she could not have been enticed into such an
obviously sinister locality without some plausible pretext. There is
evidently something more than meets the eye.”
“Something, you mean, connected with her past life and the people she
knew?”
“Exactly. I am having careful inquiries made on the subject in likely
quarters, including the various theatrical photographers. They form
quite a promising source of information, as they are not only able to
give addresses but they can furnish us with photographs of members of
the companies who would have been colleagues, and, at least,
acquaintances.”
“If you come across any photographs of Mrs. Frood,” I said, “I should
like to see them.”
“You shall,” he replied. “I shall certainly collect all I can get, on
the chance that they may help us with the identification of the body;
which may possibly present some difficulty.”
Here I was reminded of Cobbledick’s observations, and, distasteful as
they were, I repeated them to Thorndyke.
“The sergeant is quite right,” said he. “This is apparently a criminal
case, involving a charge of wilful murder. To sustain that charge, the
prosecution will have to produce incontestable evidence as to the
identity of the deceased. Clothing alone would not be sufficient to
secure a conviction. The body would have to be identified. And the
sergeant’s anxiety is quite justified. Have you had any experiences of
bodies recovered from the water?”
“Yes,” I replied; “and I don’t like to think of them.” I shuddered as
I spoke, for his question had recalled to my memory the incidents of a
professional visit to Poplar Mortuary. There rose before my eyes the
picture of a long black box with a small glass window in the lid, and
of a thing that appeared at that window; a huge, bloated, green and
purple thing, with groups of radiating wrinkles, and in the middle a
button-like object that looked like the tip of a nose. It was a
frightful picture; and yet I knew that when the river that we stood by
should give up its dead----
I put the thought away with a shiver and asked faintly: “About the man
Frood. Don’t you think that his disappearance throws some light on the
mystery?”
“It doesn’t throw much light,” replied Thorndyke, “because nothing is
known about it. Obviously the coincidence in time of the
disappearance, added to the known character of the man and his
relations with his wife, make him an object of deep suspicion. His
whereabouts will have to be traced and his time accounted for. But I
have ascertained that the police know nothing about him, and my own
inquiries have come to nothing, so far. He seems to have disappeared
without leaving a trace. But I shall persevere. Your object--and
mine--is to clear up the mystery, and if a crime has been committed,
to bring the criminal to justice.”
So that was how the matter stood; and it did not appear to me that
much progress had been made towards the elucidation of the mystery. As
to the perpetrator of that crime, he remained a totally unknown
quantity, unless the deed could be fixed on the missing man, Frood.
And so matters remained for some days. Then an event occurred which
seemed to promise some illumination of the darkness; a promise that it
failed to fulfil.
It was about a week after Thorndyke’s visit. I had gone out after
lunch to post off to him the set of photographs which had been
delivered to me by the photographer with my own set. I went into the
post-office to register the package, and here I found Bundy in the act
of sending off a parcel. When we had transacted our business we
strolled out together, and he asked:
“What are you going to do now, Doctor?”
“I was going to walk down to Blue Boar Pier,” said I, “to see if
anything further has been discovered.”
“Should I be in the way if I walked there with you?” he asked. “I’ve
got nothing to do at the moment. But perhaps you would rather go
alone. You’ve had a good deal of my society lately.”
“Not more than I wanted, Bundy,” I answered. “You are my only chum
here, and you are not unappreciated, I can assure you.”
“It’s nice of you to say that,” he rejoined, with some emotion. “I’ve
sometimes felt that I was rather thrusting my friendship on you.”
“Then don’t ever feel it again,” said I. “It has been a bit of luck
for me to find a man here whom I could like and chum in with.”
He murmured a few words of thanks, and we walked on for a while
without speaking. Presently, as we turned into the lane by the Blue
Boar Inn, he said, a little hesitatingly:
“Don’t you think, Doc, that it is rather a mistake to let your mind
run so much on this dreadful affair? It seems to be always in your
thoughts. And it isn’t good for you to think so much about it. I’ve
noticed you quite a lot, and you haven’t been the same since--since it
happened. You have looked worried and depressed.”
“I haven’t felt the same,” said I. “It has been a great grief to me.”
“But,” he urged, “don’t you think you should try to forget it? After
all, she was little more than an acquaintance.”
“She was a great deal more than that, Bundy,” said I. “While she was
alive, I would not admit even to myself that my feeling towards her
was anything more than ordinary friendship. But it was; and now that
she is gone, there can be no harm in recognizing the fact, or even in
confessing it to you, as we are friends.”
“Do you mean, Doc,” he said in a low voice, “that you were in love
with her?”
“That is what it comes to, I suppose,” I answered. “She was the only
woman I had ever really cared for.”
“And did she know it?” he asked.
“Of course she didn’t,” I replied indignantly. “She was a lady and a
woman of honour. Of course she never dreamed that I cared for her, or
she would never have let me visit her.”
For a few moments he walked at my side in silence. Then he slipped his
arm through mine, and pressing it gently with his hand, said softly
and very earnestly: “I’m awfully sorry, Doc. It is frightfully hard
luck for you, though it couldn’t have been much better even if--but
it’s no use talking of that. I _am_ sorry, old chap. But still, you
know, you ought to try to put it away. _She_ wouldn’t have wished you
to make yourself unhappy about her.”
“I know,” said I. “But I feel that the office belongs to me, who cared
most for her, to see that the mystery of her death is cleared up and
that whoever wronged her is brought to justice.”
He made no reply to this but walked at my side with his arm linked in
mine, meditating with an air of unwonted gravity.
When we reached the head of the pier the place was deserted excepting
for one man; a sea-faring person, apparently, who was standing with
his back to us, studying intently the bills that were stuck on the
wall of the look-out. As we were passing, my eye caught the word
“Wanted” on a new bill, and pausing to read it over the man’s
shoulder, I found that it was a description of the unknown man--“with
a mole on the left side of his nose”--who had pawned the opal brooch.
Bundy read it, too, and as we walked away he remarked: “They are
rather late in putting out those bills. I should think that gentleman
will have left the locality long ago, unless he was a local person”;
an opinion with which I was disposed to agree.
After a glance round the shore and at “the Ark”--which was closed but
of which the chimney emitted a cheerful smoke suggestive of culinary
activities on the part of “Mr. Noah”--we sauntered up past the head of
the creek, along the rough path by the foundry, and out upon the upper
shore.
“Well, I’m hanged!” exclaimed Bundy, glancing back at the watch-house,
“that chap is still reading that bill. He must be a mighty slow
reader, or he must find it more thrilling than I did. Perhaps he knows
somebody with a mole on his nose.”
I looked back at the motionless figure; and at that moment another
figure appeared and advanced, as we had done, to look over the
reader’s shoulder.
“Why, that looks like old Cobbledick--come to admire his own literary
productions. There’s vanity for you. Hallo! What’s up now?”
As Bundy spoke, the reader had turned to move away and had come face
to face with the sergeant. For a moment both men had stood stock
still; then there was a sudden, confused movement on both sides, with
the final result that the sergeant fell, or was knocked, down and that
the stranger raced off, apparently in our direction. He disappeared at
once, being hidden from us by the foundry buildings, and we advanced
towards the end of the fenced lane by which we had come, to intercept
him, waiting by the edge of a trench or dry ditch.
“Here he comes,” said Bundy, a trifle nervously, as rapid footfalls
became audible in the narrow, crooked lane. Suddenly the man appeared,
running furiously, and as he caught sight of us, he whipped out a
large knife, and, flourishing it with a menacing air, charged straight
at us. I watched an opportunity to trip him up; but as he approached
Bundy pulled me back with such energy that he and I staggered on the
brink of the ditch, capsized, and rolled together to the bottom. By
the time we had managed to scramble up, the man had disappeared into
the wilderness of sheds, scrap-heaps, derelict boilers, and stray
railway-waggons that filled the area of land between the foundry and
the coal-wharves and jetties.
“Come on, Bundy,” said I, as my companion stood tenderly rubbing
various projecting portions of his person; “we mustn’t lose sight of
him.”
But Bundy showed no enthusiasm; and at this moment a rapid crescendo
of heavy foot-falls was followed by the emergence of the sergeant,
purple-faced and panting, from the end of the lane.
“Which way did he go?” gasped Cobbledick.
I indicated the wilderness, briefly explaining how the fugitive had
escaped us, whereupon the sergeant started forward at a lumbering trot
and we followed. But it was an unfavourable hunting-ground, for the
bulky litter--the heaps of coal-dust, the wagons, the cranes, the
piles of condemned machinery, mingled with clumps of bushes--gave the
fugitive every opportunity to disappear. And, in fact, he had
disappeared without leaving a trace. Presently we came out on a wharf
beside which a schooner was berthed; a trim-looking little craft with
a white under-body and black top-sides, bearing a single big yard on
her fore-mast and the name Anna on her counter. She was all ready for
sea and was apparently waiting for high water, for her deck was all
clear and a man on it was engaged in placidly coiling a rope on the
battened hatch while another watched him from the door of the
deck-house. On this peaceful scene the sergeant burst suddenly and
hailing the rope-coiler demanded:
“Have you seen a man run past here?”
The mariner dropped the rope, and looking up drowsily, repeated:
“Have I seen a mahn?”
“Yes, a sea-faring man with a mole on his nose.”
The mariner brightened up perceptibly. “Please?” said he.
“A sailor-man with a mole on his nose.”
“Ach!” exclaimed the mariner. “Vos it tied on?”