The mystery of Angelina Frood
“Let me see,” said Thorndyke. “Isn’t that the lane that we went down
after leaving our friends on the day of the Great Perambulation?”
“Yes,” replied Bundy, looking at him in astonishment, “but how did you
know its name?” (He was, of course, not aware of my report to
Thorndyke describing the discoveries and the place.)
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is an irrelevant question. Now when you say
‘the right-hand side’----”
“I mean the right-hand side looking towards the town, of course. As a
matter of fact, Cobbledick found the key among the thistles near to
the fence, and quite close to the outside of the city wall.”
“How do you suppose it got there?” Thorndyke asked.
“I’ve no idea. Someone must have taken it out of the gate and thrown
it over the fence. That is obvious. But who could have done it I can’t
imagine. Of course, you suspect Cobbledick, but that is only
jealousy.”
The exchange of schoolboy repartee continued without a sensible pause
on either side. But yet I seemed to detect in Thorndyke’s manner a
certain reflectiveness underlying the levity of his verbal conflict
with Bundy; a reflectiveness that seemed to have had its origin in the
“news” that the latter had communicated. Of course, I had said
nothing, in my report, about the finding of the key. Why should I?
Those reports referred exclusively to matters connected with the
disappearance of poor Angelina. The loss and the recovery of the key
were items of mere local gossip with which Thorndyke could have no
concern excepting in connexion with Bundy’s facetious fiction. And yet
it had seemed to me that Thorndyke showed quite a serious interest in
the announcement. However, he made no further reference to the matter,
and the conversation drifted to other topics.
It was almost inevitable that, sooner or later, some reference should
be made to the discoveries in the lane. It was Bundy, of course, who
introduced the subject; and I was amused by the adroit way in which
Thorndyke conveyed the impression of complete ignorance, without
making any statement, and the patient manner in which he listened to
the account of the adventure, and even elicited amplified details by
judicious questions. But he eluded all Bundy’s efforts to extract an
opinion on the significance of the discoveries.
“But,” the latter protested, “you said that if I would give you the
facts, you would give me the explanation.”
“The explanation is obvious,” said Thorndyke. “If you found these
objects in the lane, they must have been dropped there.”
“Well, of course they must,” said Bundy. “That is quite obvious.”
“Exactly,” agreed Thorndyke. “That is what I am pointing out.”
“But why was the body being carried up the lane? And where was it
being carried to?”
“Ah,” protested Thorndyke, “but now you are going beyond your facts.
You haven’t proved that there was any body there at all.”
“But there must have been, or the things couldn’t have dropped off
it.”
“But you haven’t proved that they did drop off it. They may have, or
they may not. That is a question of fact; and as I impressed on you on
a previous occasion, evidence as to fact is the function of the common
witness. The expert witness explains the significance of facts
furnished by others. I have explained the facts that you have
produced, and now you ask me to explain something that isn’t a fact at
all. But that is not my function. I am an expert.”
“I see,” said Bundy; “and now I understand why judges are so down on
expert witnesses. It is my belief that they are a parcel of impostors.
Wasn’t Captain Bunsby an expert witness? Or was he only an oracle?”
“It is a distinction without a difference,” replied Thorndyke.
“Captain Bunsby is the classical instance of oracular safety. It was
impossible to dispute the correctness of his pronouncements.”
“Principally,” said I, “because no one could make head or tail of
them.”
“But that was the subtlety of the method,” said Thorndyke. “A
statement cannot be contested until it is understood. From which it
follows that if you would deliver a judgment that cannot be disputed,
you must take proper precautions against the risk of being
understood.”
Bundy adjusted his eye-glass and fixed on Thorndyke a glare of
counterfeit defiance. “I am going to take an early opportunity of
seeing you in the witness-box,” said he. “It will be the treat of my
life.”
“I must try to give you that treat,” replied Thorndyke. “I am sure you
will be highly entertained, but I don’t think you will be able to
dispute my evidence.”
“I don’t suppose I shall,” Bundy retorted with a grin, “if it is of
the same brand as the sample that I have heard.”
Here the arrival of Mrs. Dunk with the coffee ushered in a truce
between the disputants, and when I had filled the cups Thorndyke
changed the subject by recalling the incidents of our perambulation
with Japp and Mr. Willard; and Bundy, apparently considering that
enough chaff had been cut for one evening, entered into a discussion
on the conditions of life in mediæval Rochester with a zest and
earnestness that came as a refreshing change after so much frivolity.
So the evening passed pleasantly away until ten o’clock, when Bundy
rose to depart.
“Shall we see him home, Thorndyke?” said I. “We can do with a walk
after our pow-wow.”
“Somebody ought to see him home,” said Thorndyke. “He looks
comparatively sober now, but wait till he gets out into the air.”
(Bundy’s almost ascetic abstemiousness in respect of wine, I should
explain, had become a mild joke between us.) “But I think I won’t join
the bacchanalian procession. I have a letter to write, and I can get
it done and posted by the time you come back.”
As we walked towards the office arm-in-arm--Bundy keeping up the
fiction of a slight unsteadiness of gait--my guest once more expressed
enjoyment of our little festivals.
“I suppose,” said he, “Dr. Thorndyke is really quite a big bug in his
way.”
“Yes,” I replied; “he is in the very front rank; in fact, I should say
that he is the greatest living authority on his subject.”
“Yes,” said Bundy, thoughtfully, “one feels that he is a great man,
although he is so friendly and so perfectly free from side. I hope I
don’t cheek him too much.”
“He doesn’t seem to resent it,” I answered, “and he certainly doesn’t
object to your society. He expressly said, when he wrote last, that he
hoped to see something of you.”
“That was awfully nice of him,” Bundy said with very evident
gratification; and he added, after a pause: “Lord! John, what a
windfall it was for me when you came down with that letter from old
Turcival. It has made life a different thing for me.”
“I am glad to hear it, Peter,” said I; “but you haven’t got all the
benefit. It was a bit of luck for me to strike a live bishop in my new
habitat, and a Rumtifoozlish one at that. But here we are at the
episcopal palace. Shall I assist your lordship up the steps?”
We carried out the farce to its foolish end, staggering together up
the steps, at the top of which I propped him securely against the door
and rang the bell, with the comfortable certainty that there was no
one in the house to disturb.
“Good night, John, old chap,” he said cordially, as I retired.
“Good night, Peter, my child,” I responded; and so took my way
homeward to my other guest.
I arrived at my house in time to meet Thorndyke returning from the
adjacent pillar-box, and we went in together.
“Well,” said he, “I suppose we had better turn in, according to what
is, I believe, the custom of this household, and turn out betimes in
the morning, for a visit, perhaps, to Black Boy-lane.”
“Yes,” I replied, “we may as well turn in now. You are not going to
leave these photographs there, are you?”
“They are your photographs,” he replied; “that is, if you care to have
them. I brought them down for you.”
I thanked him very warmly for the gift, and gathered up the portraits
carefully, replacing them, for the present, in their box. Then we
turned out the lights and made our way up to our respective bedrooms.
At breakfast on the following morning Thorndyke opened the subject of
our investigation by cross-examining me on the matter of my report,
and the more detailed account that Bundy had given.
“What does Sergeant Cobbledick think of the new developments?” he
asked, when I had given him all the detail that I could.
“In a way he is encouraged. He is glad to get something more definite
to work on. But for the present he seems to be high and dry. He gave
me quite a learned exposition of the possibilities of the case, but he
had to admit when he had finished that he was still in the dark so far
as any final conclusion was concerned. He even suggested that I should
put the facts before you--he recognized you when we met him on the
road near Blue Boar Pier--and ask if you could make any suggestion.”
“Can you recall the sergeant’s exposition of the case?”
“I think so. It made rather an impression on me at the time,” and here
I repeated, as well as I could remember them, the various inferences
that Cobbledick had drawn from the presence in the lane of the things
that we had found. Thorndyke listened with deep attention, nodding his
head approvingly as each point was made.
“A very admirable analysis, Strangeways,” he said when I had finished.
“It does the sergeant great credit. So far as it goes, it is an
excellent interpretation of the facts that are in his possession.
There are, perhaps, one or two points that he has overlooked.”
“If there are,” said I, “it would be a great kindness to draw his
attention to them. He is naturally anxious to get on with the case,
and he has taken endless trouble over it.”
“I shall be very glad to give him a hint or two,” said Thorndyke.
“After breakfast I should like to go over the ground with you, and
then we might go along to the station and see if he is in his office.”
I agreed to this program, and as soon as we had finished our breakfast
we went forth, making our way by Free School-lane and The Common to
the marshes west of Gas House-road. From there we entered Black
Boy-lane at the lower end, and slowly followed its windings, Thorndyke
looking about him attentively, and occasionally peering over the
fences, which his stature enabled him to do without climbing. At the
top of the lane, where it opened into a paved thoroughfare, we
observed no less a personage than Sergeant Cobbledick, standing on the
pavement and looking at the few adjacent houses with an expression of
profound speculation. His speculative attitude changed suddenly to one
of eager interest when he saw us; and on my presenting him to
Thorndyke, he stood stiffly at “attention” and raised his hat with an
air that I can only describe as reverent.
“Dr. Strangeways was telling me, just now,” said Thorndyke, “of your
very interesting observations on these new developments. He also said
that you would like to talk the matter over with me.”
“I should, indeed, sir,” the sergeant said, earnestly; “and if I might
suggest it, my office will be very quiet, being Sunday, and I could
show you the things that have been found, if you would like to see
them.”
“As to the things that have been found,” said Thorndyke, “I am
prepared to take them as read. They have been properly identified. But
we could certainly talk more conveniently in your office.”
In a few minutes we turned into a narrow street which brought us to
the side of the Guildhall, and the sergeant, having shown us into his
office and given some instructions to a constable, entered and locked
the door.
“Now, Sergeant,” said Thorndyke, “tell us what your difficulty is.”
“I’ve got several difficulties, Sir,” replied Cobbledick. “In the
first place, here is a body being carried up the lane. You agree with