The mystery of Angelina Frood
remarkable than his personal attractions.”
“He wasn’t always like he is now,” said she. “I married him nearly ten
years ago, and he was fairly presentable then. His manners were quite
nice and he had certain accomplishments that rather appealed to a
young girl--I was only eighteen and rather impressionable. He was then
getting a living by writing magazine stories--love stories, they were,
of a highly emotional type--and occasional verses. They were
second-rate stuff, really, but to me he seemed a budding genius. It
was not until after we were married that the disillusionment came, and
then only gradually as his bad habits developed.”
“By the way, what do you suppose he has come down here for? What does
he want? I suppose he wishes you to go back to him?”
“I suppose he does. But, primarily, I expect he wants money. It is a
horrible position,” she added, with sudden passion. “I hate the idea
of hiding away from him when I suspect that the poor wretch has come
down to his last few shillings. After all, he is my husband; and I am
not so deadly poor now.”
“He seemed to have the wherewith to provide a fair supply of tobacco,
to say nothing of the cocaine and a ‘modest quencher’ at the tavern,”
I remarked drily. “At any rate, I hope he won’t succeed in finding out
where you live.”
“I hope not,” said she. “If he does, I shall have to move on, as I
have had to do several times already, and I don’t want to do that. I
have only been here a little over two months, and it has been very
pleasant and peaceful. But you see, Dr. Strangeways, that, if I am to
follow Mr. Japp’s advice, I shall inflict on you a very unpromising
patient. There is no medical treatment for matrimonial troubles.”
“No,” I agreed, rising and taking up my hat, “but the physical effects
may be dealt with. If I am appointed your medical advisor, I shall
send you a tonic, and if I may look in now and again to see how you
are getting on, I may be able to help you over some of your
difficulties.”
“It is very kind of you,” she said, rising and shaking my hand warmly;
and, accepting my suggestion that she had better not come to the
street door, she showed me out into the hall and dismissed me with a
smile and a little bow.
When I reached the bottom of the steps, I stood irresolutely for a few
moments and then, instead of making my way homeward, turned up the
street towards the cathedral and the bridge, walking slowly and
reflecting profoundly on the story I had just heard. It was a pitiful
story; and the quiet, restrained manner of the telling made it the
more impressive. All that was masculine in me rose in revolt against
the useless, inexcusable wrecking of this poor woman’s life. As to the
man, he was, no doubt, to be pitied for being the miserable,
degenerate wretch that he was. But he was doomed beyond any hope of
salvation. Such wretches as he are condemned in the moment of their
birth; they are born to an inheritance of misery and dishonour. But it
is infamous that in their inevitable descent into the abyss--from
which no one can save them--they should have the power to drag down
with them sane and healthy human beings who were destined by nature to
a life of happiness, of usefulness, and honour. I thought of the woman
I had just left--comely, dignified, energetic, probably even talented.
What was her future to be? So far as I could see, the upas shadow of
this drug-sodden wastrel had fallen upon her, never to be lifted until
merciful death should dissolve the ill-omened union.
This last reflection gave my thoughts a new turn. What was this man’s
purpose in pursuing her? Was he bent merely on extorting money or on
sharing her modest income? Or was there some more sinister motive? I
recalled his face; an evil, sly, vindictive face. I considered what I
knew of him; that he had undoubtedly made one attempt to murder this
woman, and that, to my knowledge, he carried about his person the
means of committing murder. For what purpose could he have provided
himself with that formidable weapon? It might be merely as a means of
coercion, or it might be as a means of revenge.
Thus meditating, I had proceeded some distance along the street when I
observed, on the opposite side, an old, three-gabled house which
looked like some kind of institution. A lamp above the doorway threw
its light on a stone tablet on which I could see an inscription of
some length, and, judging this to be an ancient almshouse, I crossed
the road to inspect it more closely. A glance at the tablet told me
that this was the famous rest-house established in the sixteenth
century by worthy Richard Watts, to give a night’s lodging and
entertainment to six poor travellers, with the express proviso that
the said travellers must be neither rogues nor proctors. I had read
through the quaint inscription and was speculating, as many others
have speculated, on the nature of Richard Watts’s grievance against
proctors as a class, when the door opened suddenly and a man rushed
out with such impetuosity that he nearly collided with me. I had moved
out of his way when he halted and addressed me excitedly.
“I say, governor, can you tell me where I can find a doctor?”
“You have found one,” I replied. “I am a doctor. What is the matter?”
“There’s a bloke in here throwing a fit,” he answered, backing into
the doorway and holding the door open for me. I entered, and followed
him down a passage to a largish, barely furnished room, where I found
four men and a woman, who looked like a hospital nurse, standing
around and watching anxiously a man who lay on the floor.
“Here’s a doctor, matron,” said my conductor, as he ushered me in.
“Well, Simmonds,” said the matron, “you haven’t wasted much time.”
“No, mum,” replied Simmonds, “I struck it lucky. Caught him just
outside.”
Meanwhile I had stepped up to the prostrate man, and at the first
glance I recognized him. He was Mrs. Frood’s husband. And, whatever he
might be “throwing,” it was not a fit--in the ordinary medical sense;
that is to say, it was not epilepsy or apoplexy; nor was it a fainting
fit of an orthodox kind. If the patient had been a woman one would
have called it a hysterical seizure, and I could give it no other
name, though I was not unmindful of the paper packet that I had seen
on that former occasion. But the emotional element was obvious. The
man purported to be insensible, and manifestly was not. The tightly
closed eyes, the everted lips--showing a row of blackened teeth--the
clutching movements of the claw-like hands--all were suggestive of at
least half-conscious simulation. I stood for a while, stooping over
him and watching him intently, and as I did so the bystanders watched
me. Then I felt his pulse, and found it, as I had expected, quick,
feeble, and irregular; and finally, producing my stethoscope, listened
to his heart with as little disturbance of his clothing as possible.
“Well, Doctor,” said the matron, “what do you think of him?”
“He is decidedly ill,” I replied. “His heart is rather jumpy, and not
very strong. Too much tobacco, I fancy, and perhaps some other things
that are not very good, and possibly insufficient food.”
“He told me, when he came in,” said the matron, “that he was
practically destitute.”
“Ah,” murmured Simmonds, “I expect he’s been blowing all his money on
Turkish baths,” whereupon the other poor travellers sniggered softly,
and were immediately extinguished by a reproving glance from the
matron.
“Do you know what brought this attack on?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied; “he had a little dispute with Simmonds, here, and
suddenly became violently excited, and then he fell down insensible,
as you see him. It was all about nothing.”
“I jest arsked ’im,” said Simmonds, “if ’e could give me the name of
the cove what done ’is ’air, ’cos I thought I’d like to ’ave mine done
in the same fashionable style. That seemed to give ’im the fair pip.
’E jawed me something chronic, until I got shirty and told ’im if ’e
didn’t shut ’is face I’d give ’im a wipe acrost the snout. Then blow
me if ’e didn’t start to throw a fit.”
While this lucid explanation was proceeding I noticed that the patient
was evidently listening intently, though he continued to twitch his
face, exhibit his unlovely teeth, and wriggle his fingers. He was
apparently waiting for my verdict with some anxiety.
“The question is,” said the matron, “what is to be done with him? Do
you think he is in any danger?”
As she spoke, we drifted towards the door, and when we were in the
passage, out of earshot, I said:
“The best place for that man is the infirmary. There is nothing much
the matter with him but dope. He has been dosing himself with cocaine,
and he has probably got some more of the stuff about him. He is in no
danger now, but if he takes any more he may upset himself badly.”
“It is rather late to send him to the infirmary,” she said, “and I
don’t quite like to do it. Poor fellow, he seems fearfully down on his
luck, and he is quite a superior kind of man. Do you think it would be
safe for him to stay here for the night if he had a little medicine of
some kind?”
“It would be safe enough,” I replied, “if you could get possession of
his coat and waistcoat and lock them up until the morning.”
“Oh, I’ll manage that,” said she; “and about the medicine?”
“Let Simmonds walk up with me--I have taken Dr. Partridge’s
practice--and I will give it to him.”
We re-entered the supper-room and found the conditions somewhat
changed. Whether it was that the word “infirmary” had been wafted to
the patient’s attentive ears, I cannot say; but there were evident
signs of recovery. Our friend was sitting up, glaring wildly about
him, and inquiring where he was; to which questions Simmonds was
furnishing answers of a luridly inaccurate character. When I had taken
another look at the patient, and received a vacant stare of almost
aggressive unrecognition, I took possession of the facetious Simmonds,
and, having promised to look in in the morning, wished the matron
good-night and departed with my escort; who entertained me on the way
home with picturesque, unflattering, and remarkably shrewd comments on
the sufferer.
I had made up a stimulant mixture, and handed it to Simmonds when I
remembered Mrs. Frood and that Simmonds would pass her house on his
way back. For an instant, I thought of asking him to deliver her
medicine for me; and then, with quite a shock, I realized what a
hideous blunder it would have been. Evidently, the poor travellers
gave their names, and if the man, Frood, had given his correctly, the
coincidence of the names would have impressed Simmonds instantly, and
then the murder would have been out, and the fat would have been in
the fire properly. It was a narrow escape, and it made me realize how
insecure was that unfortunate lady’s position with this man lurking in
the town. And, realizing this, I determined to trust the addressed
bottle to nobody, but to leave it at the house myself. Accordingly,
having made up the medicine and wrapped it neatly in paper, I thrust
it into my pocket, and, calling out to Mrs. Dunk that I should be back
to supper in about half an hour, I set forth, and in a few minutes
arrived at the little Georgian doorway and plied the elegant brass
knocker. The door was opened--rather incautiously, I thought--by Mrs.
Frood herself.
“I am my own bottle-boy, you see, Mrs. Frood,” said I, handing her the
medicine. “I thought it safer not to send an addressed packet under
the circumstances.”
“But how good of you!” she exclaimed. “How kind and thoughtful! But
you shouldn’t have troubled about it to-night.”
“It was only a matter of five minutes’ walk,” said I, “and besides,
there was something that I thought you had better know,” and hereupon