The mystery of Angelina Frood
glance at the first-floor window, which I assumed to be that of the
room that I had entered, I went on my way, telling myself that, now,
the incident was really closed, and that I had looked my last on the
persons who had enacted their parts in it.
In which, however, I was mistaken. The curtain was down on the first
act, but the play was not over. Only the succeeding acts were yet in
the unfathomed future. “Coming events cast their shadows before them”;
but who can interpret those shadows, until the shapes which cast them
loom up, plain and palpable, to mock at their own unheeded
premonitions?
CHAPTER II.
RE-ENTER “MR. JOHNSON”
It was a good many months before the curtain rose on the second act
of the drama of which this narrative is the record. Rather more than a
year had passed, and in that time certain changes had taken place in
my condition, of which I need refer only to the one that, indirectly,
operated as the cause of my becoming once more a party to the drama
aforesaid. I had come into a small property, just barely sufficient to
render me independent, and to enable me to live in idleness, if
idleness had been my hobby. As it was not, I betook myself to
Adam-street, Adelphi, to confer with my trusty medical agent, Mr.
Turcival, and from that conference was born my connexion with the
strange events which will be hereafter related.
Mr. Turcival had several practices to sell, but only one that he
thought quite suitable. “It is a death vacancy,” said he, “at
Rochester. A very small practice, and you won’t get much out of it, as
the late incumbent was an old man and you are a young man--and you
look ten years younger since you shaved off that fine beard and
moustache. But it is going for a song, and you can afford to wait; and
you couldn’t have a more pleasant place to wait in than Rochester.
Better go down and have a look at it. I’ll write to the local agents,
Japp and Bundy, and they will show you the house and effects. What do
you say?”
I said “yes”; and so favourably was I impressed that the very next day
found me in a first-class compartment en route for Rochester, with a
substantial portmanteau in the guard’s van.
At Dartford it became necessary to change, and as I sauntered on the
platform, waiting for the Rochester train, my attention was attracted
to a man who sat, somewhat wearily and dejectedly, on a bench, rolling
a cigarette. I was impressed by the swift dexterity with which he
handled the paper and tobacco, a dexterity that was explained by the
colour of his fingers, which were stained to the hue of mahogany. But
my attention was quickly diverted from the colour of the fingers to
their shape. They were clubbed fingers. At the moment when I observed
the fact I was looking over his shoulder from behind, and could not
see his face. But I could see that he had a large, pear-shaped head,
surmounted by an enormous cap, from beneath which a mass of
mouse-coloured hair stuck out like untidy thatch.
I suppose I must have halted unconsciously, for he suddenly looked
round, casting at me a curious, quick, furtive, suspicious glance. He
evidently did not recognize me--naturally, since my appearance was so
much changed; but I recognized him instantly. He was “Mr. ----, her
husband.” And his appearance was not improved since I had last seen
him. Inspecting him from the front, I observed that he was sordidly
shabby and none too clean, and that his large, rough boots were white
with dust as if from a long tramp on the chalky Kentish roads.
When the train came in, I watched him saunter to a compartment a few
doors from my own, rolling a fresh cigarette as he went: and at each
station when we stopped, I looked out of the window to see where he
got out. But he made no appearance until the train slowed down at
Rochester when I alighted quickly and strolled towards his
compartment. It had evidently been well filled, for a number of
passengers emerged before he appeared, contesting the narrow doorway
with a stout workman. As he squeezed past, the skirt of his coat
caught and was drawn back, revealing a sheath-knife of the kind known
to seamen as “Green River,” attached to a narrow leather belt. I did
not like the look of that knife. No landsman has any legitimate use
for such a weapon. And the fact that this man habitually carried about
him the means of inflicting lethal injuries--for it had no other
purpose--threw a fresh light, if any were needed, on the sinister
events of that memorable night in the quiet house near Regent’s Park.
As I had to look after my luggage, I lost sight of him; and when
having deposited my portmanteau in the cloak room, I walked out across
the station approach and looked up and down the street, he was nowhere
to be seen. Dimly wondering what this man might be doing in Rochester,
and whether his handsome wife were here, too--assuming her to be still
in existence--I turned and began to saunter slowly westward. I had
walked but two or three hundred yards when the door of a tavern which
I was approaching opened, and a man emerged, licking his lips with
uncommon satisfaction, and rolling a cigarette. It was my late
fellow-traveller. He stood by the tavern door, looking about him, and
glancing at the people on the footway. Just as I was passing him, he
approached me and spoke.
“I wonder,” said he, “if you happen to know a Mrs. Frood who lives
somewhere about here.”
“I am afraid I don’t,” I replied, thankful to be able to tell the
truth--for I should have denied knowledge of her in any case. “I am a
stranger to the town at present.”
He thanked me and turned away, and I walked on, but no longer at a
saunter, wondering who Mrs. Frood might be and keeping an eye on the
numbers of the houses on the opposite side of the street.
A few minutes’ walk brought into view the number I was seeking,
painted in the tympanum of a handsome Georgian portico appertaining to
one of a pair of pleasant old redbrick houses. I halted to inspect
these architectural twins before crossing the road. Old houses always
interest me, and these two were particularly engaging, as their owners
apparently realized, for they were in the pink of condition, and the
harmony of the quiet green woodwork and the sober red brick was no
chance effect. Moreover they were painted alike to carry out the
intention of the architect, who had evidently designed them to form a
single composition; to which end he had very effectively placed,
between the twin porticoes, a central door which gave access to a
passage common to the two houses and leading, no doubt, to the back
premises.
Having noted these particulars, I crossed the road and approached the
twin which bore beside its doorway a brass plate, inscribed “Japp and
Bundy, Architects and Surveyors.” In the adjoining bay window, in
front of a green curtain, was a list of houses to let; and as I paused
for a moment to glance at this, a face decorated with a pair of
colossal tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, rose slowly above the
curtain, and then, catching my eye, popped down again with some
suddenness.
I ascended the short flight of steps to the open street door, and
entering the hall, opened the office door and walked in. The owner of
the spectacles was perched on a high stool at a higher desk with his
back to me, writing in a large book. The other occupant of the office
was a small, spare, elderly man, with a pleasant wrinkly face and a
cockatoo-like crest of white hair, who confronted me across a large
table on which a plan was spread out. He looked up interrogatively as
I entered, and I proceeded at once to announce myself.
“I am Dr. Strangeways,” said I, drawing a bundle of papers from my
pocket. “Mr. Turcival--the medical agent, you know--thought I had
better come down and settle things up on the spot. So here I am.”
“Precisely,” said my new acquaintance, motioning me to a chair--it was
a shield-back Heppelwhite, I noticed--“I agree with Mr. Turcival. It
is all quite plain sailing. The position is this: Old Dr. Partridge
died about three weeks ago, and the executor of his will, who lives in
Northumberland, has instructed us to realize his estate. We have
valued the furniture, fittings, and effects, have added a small amount
to cover the drugs and instruments and the goodwill of the practice,
and this is the premium. It is practically just the value of the
effects.”
“And the lease of the house?”
“Expired some years ago and we allowed Dr. Partridge to remain as a
yearly tenant, which he preferred. You could do the same or you could
have a lease, if you wished.”
“Is the house your property?” I asked.
“No; but we manage it for the owner, a Mrs. Frood.”
“Oh, it belongs to Mrs. Frood, does it?”
He looked up at me quickly, and I noticed that the gentleman at the
desk had stopped writing. “Do you know Mrs. Frood?” he asked.
“No; but it happens that a man who came down by my train asked me a
few minutes ago if I could give him her address. Fortunately I
couldn’t.”
“Why fortunately?”
The question brought me up short. My prejudice against the man was due
to my knowledge of his antecedents, which I was not prepared to
disclose. I therefore replied evasively:
“Well, I wasn’t very favourably impressed by his appearance. He was a
shabby-looking customer. I suspected that he was a cadger of some
kind.”
“Indeed! Now, what sort of a person was he? Could you describe him?”
“He was a youngish man--from thirty-five to forty, I should
say--apparently well educated but very seedy and not particularly
clean. A queer-looking man, with a big, pear-shaped head and a mop of
hair like the fur of a Persian cat. His fingers are clubbed at the
ends, and stained with tobacco to the knuckles. Do you know him?”
“I rather suspect I do. What do you say, Bundy?”
Mr. Bundy grunted. “Hubby, I ween,” said he.
“You don’t mean Mrs. Frood’s husband?” I exclaimed.
“I do. And it is, as you said, very fortunate that you were not able
to give him her address, as she is unable to live with him and is at
present unwilling to let him know her whereabouts. It is an
unfortunate affair. However, to return to your business; you had
better go up and have a look at the house and see what you think of
it. You might just walk up with Dr. Strangeways, Bundy.”
Mr. Bundy swung round on his stool, and, taking off his spectacles,
stuck in his right eye a gold-rimmed monocle, through which he
inspected me critically. Then he hopped off the stool, and, lifting
the lid of the desk, took out a velour hat and a pair of chamois
gloves, the former of which he adjusted carefully on his head before a
small mirror, and, having taken down a labelled key from a key-board
and provided himself with a smart, silver-mounted cane, announced that
he was ready.
As I walked along the picturesque old street at Mr. Bundy’s side, I
reverted to my late fellow passenger and my prospective landlady.
“I gather,” said I, “that Mrs. Frood’s matrimonial affairs are
somewhat involved.”
“So do I,” said Bundy. “Seems to have made a regular mucker of it. I
don’t know much about her, myself, but Japp knows the whole story.
He’s some sort of relative of hers; uncle or second cousin or
something of the kind. But Japp is a bit like the sailor’s parrot; he
doesn’t let on unnecessarily.”
“What sort of a woman is Mrs. Frood?” I asked.
“Oh, quite a tidy sort of body. I’ve only seen her once or twice;
haven’t been here long myself: tallish woman; lot of black hair; thick
eye-brows; rather squeaky voice. Not exactly my idea of a beauty, but
Frood seems quite keen on her.”
“By the way, how comes it that he doesn’t know her address? She’s a
Rochester woman, isn’t she?”
“No. I don’t know where she comes from. London, I think. This property