Bundy looked down anxiously at his shoes, and, having given them an additional wipe, he moved away from the dangerous neighbourhood of the lime and we went together to examine the ancient wall.
“That was rather a tall yarn of the old man’s,” remarked Bundy. “Is it a fact that lime is as corrosive as he made out?”
“I don’t really know very much about it,” I replied. “There is a general belief that it will consume almost anything but metal. How true that is I can’t say, but I remember that at the Crippen trial one of the medical experts—I think it was Pepper—said that if the body had been buried in quicklime it would have been entirely consumed—excepting the bones, of course. But it is difficult to believe that a body could disappear completely in three weeks, or thereabouts, as our friend said. How fine this old wall looks with those clumps of valerian and wallflowers growing on it! I suppose it encircled the town completely at one time?”
“Yes,” he replied, “and it is a pity there isn’t more of it left, or at least one or two of the gateways. A city gate is such a magnificent adornment. Think of the gates of Canterbury and Rye, and especially at Sandwich, where you actually enter the town through the barbican; and think of what Rochester must have been before all the gates were pulled down. But you must hear Japp on the subject. He’s a regular architectural Jeremiah. By the way, what did you think of Mrs. Frood? You saw her last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was rather taken with her. She is very nice and friendly and unaffected, and good-looking, too. I thought her distinctly handsome.”
“She isn’t bad-looking,” Bundy admitted. “But I can’t stand her voice. It gets on my nerves. I hate a squeaky voice.”
“I shouldn’t call it squeaky,” said I. “It is a high voice, and rather sing-song; and it isn’t, somehow, quite in keeping with her appearance and manner.”
“No,” said Bundy, “that’s what it is. She’s too big for a voice like that.”
I laughed at the quaint expression. “People’s voices,” said I, “are not like steamers’ whistles, graduated in pitch according to their tonnage. Besides, Mrs. Frood is not such a very big woman.”
“She is a good size,” said he. “I should call her rather tall. At any rate, she is taller than I am. But I suppose you will say that she might be that without competing with the late Mrs. Bates.”
“Comparisons between the heights of men and women,” I said cautiously, “are rather misleading,” and here I changed the subject, though I judged that Bundy was not sensitive in regard to his stature, for while he was cleaning the lime from his shoes I had noticed that he wore unusually low heels. Nor need he have been, for though on a small scale, he was quite an important-looking person.
“Don’t you think,” he asked, after a pause, “that it is rather queer that the man Frood should have gone off so soon. He only came down yesterday, and he can’t have made much of a search for Madame.”
“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 tiptoe 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 int
elligence. 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 practise. 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 today. There is a very comfortable teashop close to the Jasperian gatehouse. 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 timetable, 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 possible that Frood had come to Rochester with the perfectly peaceable intention of inducing his wife to return to him. But this was far from certain, and I shuddered to think of what might follow a refusal on her part. I did not like that knife. I have a sane man’s dislike of lethal weapons of all kinds; but especially do I dislike them in the hands of those whose self-control is liable to break down suddenly.
It was true that this man had not succeeded in finding his wife, and even seemed to have given up the search. But I felt pretty certain that he had not. Somehow, he had discovered that she was in the town, and from the same source he might get further information; and, in any case, I felt no doubt that he would renew the pursuit, and that, in the end, he would find her. And then—but at this point I found myself opposite the house and observed Mrs. Gillow standing on the doorstep, fumbling in her pocket for the latch-key. She had just extracted it, and was in the act of inserting it into the latch when I crossed the road and made my presence known. She greeted me with a wan smile as I ascended the steps, and, having by this time got the door open, admitted me to the hall.
“I gave Mrs. Frood your message at lunch-time, sir,” said she, in a depressed tone, “and I believe she has come in.” Here, having closed the street door, she rapped softly with her knuckles at that of the front room, whereupon the voice to which Bundy objected so much called out: “Come in, Mrs. Gillow.”
The latter threw the door open. “It is the doctor, Madam,” said she; and on this announcement, I walked in.
“I didn’t hear you knock,” said Mrs. Frood, rising, and holding out her hand.
“I didn’t knock,” I replied. “I sneaked in under cover of Mrs. Gillow.”
“That was very secret and cautious of you,” said she.
“You make me feel like a sort of feminine Prince Charlie, lying perdu in the robbers’ cavern; whereas, I have actually been taking my walks abroad and
brazenly looking in the shop windows. But I have kept a sharp lookout, all the same.”
“There really wasn’t any need,” said I. “The siege is raised.
“You don’t mean that my husband has gone?” she exclaimed.
“I do, indeed,” I answered; and I gave her a brief account of the events of the morning, suppressing my unofficial part in the transaction.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that the matron paid his fare out of her own pocket?”
“I am sure she didn’t,” I answered hastily. “She touched some local altruist for the amount; it was only a few shillings, you know.”
“Still,” she said, “I feel that I ought to refund those few shillings. They were really expended for my benefit.”
“Well, you can’t,” I said with some emphasis. “You couldn’t do it without disclosing your identity, and then you would have some philanthropist trying to effect a reconciliation. Your cue is to keep yourself to yourself for the present.”
“For the present!” she echoed. “It seems to me that I have got to be a fugitive for the rest of my natural life. It is a horrible position, to have to live in a state of perpetual concealment, like a criminal, and never dare to make an acquaintance.”
“Don’t you know anyone in Rochester?” I asked.
“Not a soul,” she replied, “excepting Mr. Japp, who is a relative by marriage—he was my aunt’s brother-in-law—his partner, and Mrs. Gillow and you. And you all know my position.”
“Does Mrs. Gillow know the state of affairs?” I asked in some surprise.
“Yes,” she answered, “I thought it best to tell her, in confidence, so that she should understand that I want to live a quiet life.”
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