The mystery of Angelina Frood
“The queer thing is that he should have come down on that particular
day,” I replied. “It seems that he draws a monthly allowance on the
fifteenth. That was what made him so anxious to get back; but it is
odd that he didn’t put off his visit here until he had collected the
money.”
“If he had run his wife to earth, he could have collected it from
her,” said Bundy. “I wonder how he found out that she was here.”
“He evidently hadn’t very exact information,” I said, “nor did he seem
quite certain that she really was here. And his failure to get any
news of her appears to have discouraged him considerably. It is just
possible that he has gone back to get more precise information if he
can, when he has drawn his allowance.”
“That is very likely,” Bundy agreed; “and it is probable that we
haven’t seen the last of him yet.”
“I have a strong suspicion that we haven’t,” said I. “If he is sure
she is here, and can get enough money together to come and spend a
week here, he will be pretty certain to discover her whereabouts. It
is a dreadful position for her. She ought to get a judicial
separation.”
“I doubt if she could,” said he. “You may be sure he would contest
that application pretty strongly, and what case would she have in
support of it? He is an unclean blighter; he doesn’t work; he smokes
and drinks too much, and you say he takes drugs. But he doesn’t seem
to be violent or dangerous or threatening, or to be on questionable
terms with other women--at least, I have never heard anything to that
effect. Have you?”
“No,” I answered-- I had said nothing to him or Japp about the London
incident. “He seems to have married the only woman in the world who
would look at him.”
Bundy grinned. “An unkind cut, that, Doctor,” said he; “but I believe
you’re right. And here we are, back at the official premises. Are you
coming in?”
I declined the invitation, and as he skipped up the steps I turned my
face homewards.
CHAPTER V.
JOHN THORNDYKE
The sexual preferences or affinities of men and women have always
impressed me as very mysterious and inexplicable. I am referring to
the selective choice of individuals, not to the general attraction of
the sexes for one another. Why should a particular pair of human
beings single one another out from the mass of their fellows as
preferable to all others? Why to one particular man does one
particular woman and no other become the exciting cause of the emotion
of love? It is not a matter of mere physical beauty or mental
excellence, for if it were men and women would be simply classifiable
into the attractive and the non-attractive; whereas we find in
practice that a woman who may be to the majority of men an object of
indifference, is to some one man an object of passionate love; and
vice-versa. Nor is love necessarily accompanied by any delusions as to
the worth of its object, for it will persist in spite of the clear
recognition of personal defects and in conscious conflict with
judgment and reason.
The above reflections, with others equally profound, occupied my mind
as I sat on a rather uncomfortable little rush-seated chair in the
nave of Rochester Cathedral; whither I had proceeded in obedience to
orders from Mrs. Dunk, to attend the choral afternoon service; and
they were occasioned by the sudden recognition--not without
surprise--of the very deep impression that had been made on me by my
patient, Mrs. Frood. For the intensity of that impression I could not
satisfactorily account. It is true that her circumstances were
interesting and provocative of sympathy. But that was no reason for
the haunting of my thoughts by her, of which I was conscious. She was
not a really beautiful woman, though I thought her more than commonly
good-looking; and she had evidently made no particular impression on
Bundy. Yet, though I had seen her but three times, including my first
meeting with her a year ago, I had to recognize that she had hardly
been out of my thoughts since, and I was aware of looking forward with
ridiculous expectancy to my proposed visit to her this evening.
Thus, speculations on the meaning of this preoccupation mingled
themselves with other speculations, as, for instance, on the abrupt
changes of intention suggested by half of an Early English arch
clapped up against a Norman pier; and as my thoughts rambled on,
undisturbed by a pleasant voice, intoning with soothing
unintelligibility somewhere beyond the stone screen, I watched with
languid curiosity the strangers who entered and stole on tip-toe to
the nearest vacant chair. Presently, however, as the intoning voice
gave place to the deep, pervading hum of the organ, a visitor entered
who instantly attracted my attention.
He was obviously a personage--a real personage; not one of those who
have achieved greatness by the free use of their elbows, or have had
it thrust upon them by influential friends. This was an unmistakable
thoroughbred. He was a tall man, very erect and dignified in carriage,
and in spite of his iron-grey hair, evidently strong, active, and
athletic. But it was his face that specially riveted my attention: not
merely by reason that it was a handsome, symmetrical face, inclining
to the Greek type, with level brows, a fine, straight nose, and a
shapely mouth, but rather on account of its suggestion of commanding
strength and intelligence. It was a strangely calm--even
immobile--face; but yet it conveyed a feeling of attentiveness and
concentration, and especially of power.
I watched the stranger curiously as he stepped quietly to a seat not
far from me, noting how he seemed to stand out from the ordinary men
who surrounded him, and wondering who he was. But I was not left to
wonder very long. A few moments later another visitor arrived, but not
a stranger this time; for in this newcomer I recognized an old
acquaintance, a Dr. Jervis, whom I had known when I was a student and
when he had taken temporary charge of my uncle’s practice. Since then,
as I had learned, he had qualified as a barrister and specialized in
legal medicine as the coadjutor of the famous medical jurist, Dr. John
Thorndyke.
For a few moments Jervis stood near the entrance looking about the
nave, as if in search of someone. Then, suddenly, his eye lighted on
the distinguished stranger, and he walked straight over to him and sat
down by his side; from which, and from the smile of recognition with
which he was greeted, I inferred that the stranger was none other than
Dr. Thorndyke himself.
Jervis had apparently not seen, or at least not recognized me, but, as
I observed that there was a vacant chair by his side, I determined to
renew our acquaintance and secure, if possible, a presentation to his
eminent colleague. Accordingly, I crossed the nave, and, taking the
vacant chair, introduced myself, and was greeted with a cordial
hand-shake.
The circumstances did not admit of conversation, but presently, when
the anthem appeared to be drawing to a close, Jervis glanced at his
watch and whispered to me: “I want to hear all your news, Strangeways,
and to introduce you to Thorndyke; and we must get some tea before we
go to the station. Shall we clear out now?”
As I assented he whispered to Thorndyke, and we all rose and filed
silently towards the door, our exit covered by the concluding strains
of the anthem. As soon as we were outside Jervis presented me to his
colleague, and suggested an immediate adjournment to some place of
refreshment. I proposed that they should come and have tea with me,
but Jervis replied: “I’m afraid we haven’t time to-day. There is a
very comfortable teashop close to the Jasperian gate-house. You had
better come there and then perhaps you can walk to the station with
us.”
We adopted this plan, and when we had established ourselves on a
settle by the window of the ancient, low-ceiled room and given our
orders to a young lady in a becoming brown costume, Jervis proceeded
to interrogate.
“And what might you be doing in Rochester, Strangeways?”
“Nominally,” I replied, “I am engaged in medical practice. Actually, I
am a gentleman at large. I have taken a death vacancy here, and I
arrived yesterday morning.”
“Any patients?” he inquired.
“Two at present,” I answered. “One I brought down with me and returned
empty this morning. The other is his wife.”
“Ha,” said Jervis, “a concise statement, but obscure. It seems to
require amplification.”
I accordingly proceeded to amplify, describing in detail my journey
from town and my subsequent dealings with my fellow-traveller. The
circumstances of Mrs. Frood, being matters of professional confidence,
I was at first disposed to suppress; but then, reflecting that my two
friends were in a position to give expert opinions and advice, I put
them in possession of all the facts that were known to me, excepting
the Regent’s Park incident, which I felt hardly at liberty to
disclose.
“Well,” said Jervis, when I had finished, “if the rest of your
practice develops on similar lines, we shall have to set up a branch
establishment in your neighbourhood. There are all sorts of
possibilities in this case. Don’t you think so, Thorndyke?”
“I should hardly say ‘all sorts,’” was the reply. “The possibilities
seem to me to be principally of one sort; extremely disagreeable for
the poor lady. She has the alternatives of allowing herself to be
associated with this man--which seems to be impossible--or of spending
the remainder of her life in a perpetual effort to escape from him;
which is an appalling prospect for a young woman.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “it is bad enough. But there seems to me worse
possibilities with a fellow of this kind; a drinking, drug-swallowing,
hysterical degenerate. You never know what a man of that type will
do.”
“You always hope that he will commit suicide,” said Thorndyke; “and to
do him justice, he does, fairly often show that much perception of his
proper place in nature. But, as you say, the actions of a mentally and
morally abnormal man are incalculable. He may kill himself or he may
kill somebody else, or he may join with other abnormals to commit
incomprehensible and apparently motiveless political crimes. But we
will hope that Mr. Frood will limit his activities to sponging on his
wife.”
The conversation now turned from my affairs to those of my friends,
and I ventured to inquire what had brought them to Rochester.
“We came down,” said Jervis, “to watch an inquest for one of our
insurance clients. But after all it has had to be adjourned for a
fortnight. So we may have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
“We won’t leave it to chance,” said I. “Let us settle that you come to
lunch with me, if that will be convenient. You can fix your own time.”
My two friends consulted, and, having referred to their time-table,
accepted the invitation for one o’clock on that day fortnight; and
when I had “booked the appointment,” we finished our tea and sallied
forth, making our way over the bridge to Strood Station, at the main
entrance to which I wished them adieu.
As I turned away from the station and sauntered slowly along the shore
before recrossing the bridge, I recalled the conversation of my two
colleagues with a certain vague discomfort. To both of them, it was
evident, the relations of my fair patient and her husband presented
sinister possibilities, although I had not informed them of the actual
murderous attack; and though the more cautious reticent Thorndyke had
seemed to minimize them, his remarks had expressed what was already in
my own mind, accentuated by what I knew. These nervy, abnormal men are
never safe to deal with. Their unstable emotions may be upset in a
moment and then no one can tell what will happen. It was quite