The mystery of Angelina Frood
a record of the measurements of the person to be identified. We have
no record of the measurements of Mrs. Frood.”
“True,” he agreed. “But you may remember that Dr. George Bertillon was
accustomed to apply his system, not only to suspected persons who had
been arrested, but also to stray garments, hat, gloves, shoes, and so
forth, that came into the possession of the police. But it is clear
that, if such garments can be compared with a table of recorded
measurements, they can be used as standards of comparison to determine
the identity of a dead body. Of course, the measurements would have to
be taken, both of the garments and of the body, by someone having an
expert knowledge of anthropometrical methods.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But it seems a sound method. I must mention it
to Cobbledick. He has the undoubted shoes, and I have no doubt that he
could get a supply of worn garments from Mrs. Gillow.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke. “And, speaking of Mrs. Gillow reminds me of
another point that I have been intending to inquire into. You
mentioned to me that Mrs. Gillow told you, at the time of the
disappearance, that she had been expecting a tragedy of some kind. She
must have had some grounds for that expectation.”
“She said it was nothing but a vague, general impression.”
“Still, there must have been something that gave her that impression.
Don’t you think it would be well to question her a little more
closely?”
“Perhaps it might,” said I, not very enthusiastically. “We are close
to the house now. We can call in and see her, if you like.”
“I think we ought to leave no stone unturned,” said he; and a minute
or two later, when we arrived opposite the office, he remarked,
looking across attentively at the two houses: “I don’t see our friend
Bundy’s face at the window.”
“No,” I replied, “he is playing tennis somewhere up at the Vines. But
here is Mrs. Gillow, herself, all dressed up and evidently going out
visiting.”
The landlady had appeared at the door just as we were crossing the
road. Perceiving that we were bearing down on her, she paused, holding
the door ajar. I ran up the steps, and having wished her “good
afternoon” asked if she had time to answer one or two questions.
“Certainly,” she replied, “though I mustn’t stay long because I have
promised to go to tea with my sister at Frinsbury. I usually go there
on a Saturday. Perhaps we had better go into poor Mrs. Frood’s room.”
She opened the door of the sitting-room, and we all went in and sat
down.
“I have been talking over this mysterious affair, Mrs. Gillow,” said
I, “with my friend, Dr. Thorndyke, who is a lawyer, and he suggested
that you might be able to throw some light on it. You remember that
you had had some forebodings of some sort of trouble or disaster.”
“I had,” she replied, dismally, “but that was only because she always
seemed so worried and depressed, poor dear. And, of course, I knew
about that good-for-nothing husband of hers. That was all. Sergeant
Cobbledick asked me the same question, but I had nothing to tell him.”
“Did the sergeant examine the rooms?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, he looked over the place, and he opened her little davenport--it
isn’t locked--and read through one or two letters that he found there,
but he didn’t take them away. All he took with him was a few torn-up
letters that he found in the waste-paper basket.”
“If those other letters are still in the davenport,” said Thorndyke,
“I think it would be well for us to look through them carefully, if
you don’t mind, Mrs. Gillow.”
“I don’t see that there could be any harm in it,” she replied. “I’ve
never touched anything in her rooms, myself, since she went away. I
thought it better not to. I haven’t even washed up her tea-things.
There they are, just as she left them, poor lamb. But if you are going
to look through those letters, I will ask you to excuse me, or I shall
keep my sister waiting for tea.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Gillow,” said I. “Don’t let us detain you. And, by
the way,” I added, as I walked with her to the door, “it would be as
well not to say anything to anybody about my having come here with my
friend.”
“Very well, sir,” she replied. “I think you are right. The least said,
the soonest mended”; and with this profound generalization she went
out and I shut the street door after her.
When I returned to the sitting-room I found Thorndyke engaged in a
minute examination of the tea-things, and in particular of the spoon.
I proceeded at once to the davenport, and, finding it unlocked, lifted
the desk-lid and peered into the interior. It contained a supply of
papers and envelopes, neatly stacked, and one or two letters, which I
took out. They all appeared to be from the same person--the Miss
Cumbers, of whom I had heard, and a rapid glance at the contents
showed that they were of no use as a source of information. I passed
them to Thorndyke--who had laid down the spoon and was now looking
inquisitively about the room--who scanned them rapidly and returned
them to me.
“There is nothing in them,” said he. “Possibly the contents of the
waste-paper basket were more illuminating. But I suspect not, as the
sergeant appears to be as much in the dark as we are. Shall we have a
look at the bedroom before we go?”
I saw no particular reason for doing so, but, assuming that he knew
best, I made no objection. Going out into the hall, we entered the
deserted bed-room, the door of which was locked, though the key had
not been removed. At the threshold Thorndyke paused and stood for
nearly half a minute looking about the room in the same queer,
inquisitive way that I had noticed in the other room, as if he were
trying to fix a mental picture of it. Meanwhile, full of the Bertillon
system, I had walked across to the wardrobe to see what garments were
available for measurement. I had my hand on the knob of the door when
my glance fell on two objects on the dressing-table; an empty tumbler
and a small water-bottle, half-full. There was nothing very remarkable
about these objects, taken by themselves, but, even from where I
stood, I could see that both bore a number of finger-marks which stood
out conspicuously on the plain glass.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “Here is the very thing that you were speaking
of. Do you see what it is?”
Apparently he had, for he had already taken his gloves out of his
pocket and was putting them on.
“Don’t touch them, Strangeways,” said he, as I was approaching to
inspect them more closely. “If these are Mrs. Frood’s finger-prints
they may be invaluable. We mustn’t confuse them by adding our own.”
“Whose else could they be?” I asked.
“They might be Sergeant Cobbledick’s,” he replied. “The sergeant has
been in here.” He drew a chair up to the table, and, taking a lens
from his pocket, began systematically to examine the markings.
“They are a remarkably fine set,” he remarked, “and a complete
set--the whole ten digits. Whoever made them held the bottle in the
right hand and the tumbler in the left. And I don’t think they are the
sergeant’s. They are too small and too clear and delicate.”
“No,” I agreed, “and the probabilities are against their being his.
There is no reason why he should have wanted to take a drink of water
during the few minutes that he spent here. It would have been
different if it had been a beer bottle. But it would have been quite
natural for Mrs. Frood to drink a glass of water while she was
dressing or before she started out.”
“Yes,” said he. “Those are the obvious probabilities. But we must turn
them into certainties if we can. Probabilities are not good data to
work from. But the question is now, what are we to do? I have a small
camera with me, but it would not be very convenient to take the
photographs here, and it would occupy a good deal of time. On the
other hand, these things would be difficult to pack without smearing
the finger-prints. We want a couple of small boxes.”
“Perhaps,” said I, “we may find something that will do if we take a
look round.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “we must explore the place. Meanwhile, I think I
will develop up these prints for our immediate information, as we have
to try to find some others to verify them.”
He went back to the sitting-room, where he had put down the two cases
that he always brought with him: a small suit-case that contained his
toilet necessaries and a similar-sized case covered with green canvas
which had been rather a mystery to me. I had never seen it open, and
had occasionally speculated on the nature of its contents. My
curiosity was now to be satisfied, for, when he returned with it in
his hand he explained: “This is what I call my research-case. It
contains the materials and appliances for nearly every kind of
medico-legal investigation, and I hardly ever travel without it.”
He placed it on a chair and opened it, when I saw that it formed a
complete portable laboratory, containing, among other things a
diminutive microscope, a little folding camera, and an insufflator, or
powder-spray. The latter he now took from its compartment, and,
lifting the tumbler with his gloved hand, stood it on a corner of the
mantelpiece and blew over it with the insufflator a cloud of
impalpably fine white powder, which settled evenly on the surface of
the glass. He then tapped the tumbler gently once or twice with a lead
pencil, when most of the powder coating either jarred off or crept
down the surface. Finally, he blew at it lightly, which removed the
rest of the powder, leaving the finger-prints standing out on the
clear glass as if they had been painted on with Chinese white.
While he was operating in the same manner on the water-bottle--having
first emptied it into the ewer--I examined the tumbler with the aid of
his lens. The markings were amazingly clear and distinct. Through the
lens I could see, not only the whole of the curious, complicated
ridge-pattern, but even the rows of little round spots that marked the
orifices of the sweat glands. For the first time, I realized what a
perfect means of identification these remarkable imprints furnished.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, when he had finished with the bottle, “the two
questions are, where shall we look for confirmatory finger-prints, and
where are we to get the boxes that we want for packing these things?
You said that Mrs. Frood had a kitchen.”
“Yes. But won’t you try the furniture here; the wardrobe door, for
instance. The dark, polished mahogany ought to give good prints.”
“An excellent suggestion, Strangeways,” said he. “We might even find
the sergeant’s finger-prints, as he has probably had the wardrobe
open.”
He sprayed the three doors of the wardrobe, and when he had tapped
them and blown away the surplus powder, there appeared near the edge
of each a number of finger-marks, mostly rather indistinct, and none
of them nearly so clear as those on the glass.
“This is very satisfactory,” said Thorndyke. “They are poor prints,
but you can see quite plainly that there are two pairs of hands, one
pair much larger than the other; and the prints of the larger hands
are evidently not the same pattern as those on the glass, whereas
those of the smaller ones are quite recognizable as the same, in spite
of their indistinctness. As the large ones are almost certainly
Cobbledick’s, the small ones are pretty certainly Mrs. Frood’s. But we
mustn’t take anything for granted. Let us go down to the kitchen. We
shall have a better chance there.”
The door of the basement staircase was still unlocked, as Mrs. Gillow
had described it. I threw it open, and we descended together, I
carrying the insufflator and he bearing the tumbler and bottle in his
gloved hands. When he had put the two articles down on the kitchen
table, he proceeded to powder first the kitchen door and then the