“You will bear in mind,” said he, as we approached the office, “that my connexion with the case of Mrs. Frood is not to be referred to. I am simply a friend staying with you for a day or two.”
“I won’t forget,” said I, “though I don’t quite see why it should matter.”
“It probably doesn’t matter at all,” he replied. “But one never knows. Facts which might readily be spoken of before a presumably disinterested person might be withheld from one who was known to be collecting evidence for professional purposes. At any rate, I make it a rule to keep out of sight as far as possible.”
These observations brought us to the office, where we found our three friends together with a young man, who was apparently acting as deputy during the absence of the partners, and the photographer. I presented Thorndyke to my friends, and when the introduction had been made Mr. Japp picked up his hat, and turned to the deputy.
“You know where to find me, Stevens,” he said, “if I should be really wanted—really, you understand. But I don’t particularly want to be found. Shall we start now? I propose to begin at the bridge, follow the Highstreet as far as Eastgate House, visit Restoration House, trace the city wall on the southwest side, and look over the castle. By that time we shall be ready for tea. After tea we can trace the north-east part of the wall and the gates that opened through it, and that will finish our tour of inspection.”
Hereupon the procession started, Mr. Japp and his guest leading, Thorndyke, Bundy, and I following, and the photographer bringing up the rear.
“Let me see,” said Bundy, looking up at Thorndyke with a sort of pert shyness, “weren’t you down here a week or two ago?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “and I think I had the honour of being inspected by you while I was reading your proclamation respecting a certain lost key.”
“You had,” said Bundy; “in fact, I may say that you raised false hopes in my partner and me. We thought you were going to find it.”
“What, for ten shillings!” exclaimed Thorndyke.
“We would have raised the fee if you had made a firm offer,” said Bundy, removing his monocle to polish it with his handkerchief. “It was a valuable key. Belonged to a gate that encloses part of the city wall.”
“Indeed!” said Thorndyke. “I don’t wonder you were anxious about it considering what numbers of dishonest persons there are about. Ha! Here is the bridge. Let us hear what Mr. Japp has to say about it.”
Mr. Japp’s observations were concise. Having cast a venomous glance at the unlovely structure, he turned his back on it and remarked acidly: “That is the new bridge. It is, as you see, composed of iron girders. It is not an antiquity, and I hope it never will be. Let us forget it and go on to the Guildhall.” He strode forward doggedly and Bundy turned to us with a grin.
“Poor old Japp,” said he, “he does hate that bridge. He has an engraving of the old stone one in his rooms, and I’ve seen him stand in front of it and groan. And really you can’t wonder. It is an awful come-down. Just think what the town must have looked like from across the river when that stone bridge was standing.”
Here we halted opposite the Guildhall, and when we had read the inscription, admired the magnificent ship weathercock—said to be a model of the Rodney—and listened to Japp’s observations on the architectural features of the building, the photographer was instructed to operate on its exterior while we entered to explore the Justice Room and examine the portraits. From the Guildhall we passed on to the Corn Exchange, the quaint and handsome overhanging clock of which had evidently captured Mr. Willard’s fancy.
“That clock,” said he, “is a stroke of genius. It gives a character to the whole street. But what in creation induced your City Fathers to allow that charming little building to be turned into a picture theatre?”
Japp shook his head and groaned. “You may well ask that,” said he, glaring viciously at the inane posters and the doorway, decorated in the film taste. “If good Sir Cloudesley Shovel, who gave it to the town, could rise from his grave and look at it, now he’d—bah! The crying need of this age is some means of protecting historic buildings from town councils. To these men an ancient building is just old-fashioned—out-of-date; a thing to be pulled down and replaced by something smart and up-to-date in the corrugated iron line.” He snorted fiercely, and as the photographer dismounted his camera, he turned and led the way up the street. I lingered to help the photographer with his repacking, and meanwhile Thorndyke and Bundy walked on together, chatting amicably and suggesting to my fancy an amiable mastiff accompanied by a particularly well-groomed fox terrier.
“Do you usually give your patients a weekend holiday?” Bundy was inquiring as I overtook them.
“I haven’t any patients,” replied Thorndyke. “My medical practice is conducted mostly in the Law Courts.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bundy. “Do you mean that you live by resuscitating moribund jurymen and fattening up murderers for execution, and that sort of thing?”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “Nothing so harmless. I am what is known as a Medical Expert. I give opinions on medical questions that affect legal issues.”
“Then you are really a sort of lawyer?”
“Yes. A medico-legal hybrid; a sort of centaur or merman, with a doctor’s head and a lawyer’s tail.”
“Well,” said Bundy, “there are some queer professions; I once knew a chap in the furniture trade who described himself as a ‘worm-eater’—drilled worm-holes in faked antiques, you know.”
“And what,” asked Thorndyke, “might be the analogy that you are suggesting? You don’t propose to associate me with the diet of worms, I hope.”
“Certainly not,” said Bundy, “though I suppose your practice is sometimes connected with exhumations. But I was thinking that you must know quite a lot about crime.”
“A good deal of my practice is concerned with criminal cases,” Thorndyke admitted.
“Then you will be rather interested in our local mystery. Has the doctor told you about it?”
“You mean the mystery of the disappearing lady? But of what interest should it be to me? I was not acquainted with her.”
“I meant a professional interest. But I suppose you are not taking a ’bus-man’s holiday’: don’t want to be bothered with mysteries that don’t concern you. Still, I should like to hear your expert opinion on the case.”
“You mistake my functions,” said Thorndyke. “A common witness testifies to facts known to himself. An expert witness interprets facts presented to him by others. Present me your facts, and I will try to give you an interpretation of them.”
“But there are no facts. That is what constitutes the mystery.”
“Then there is nothing to interpret. It is a case for the police, and not for the scientific expert.”
Here our conversation was interrupted by our arrival at the House of the Six Poor Travellers, and by a learned disquisition by Japp on the connotation of the word Proctor—which, it appeared, was sometimes used in the Middle Ages in the sense of a cadger or swindler. Thence we proceeded to Eastgate House, where Japp mounted his hobby and discoursed impressively on the subject of ceilings, taking as his text a specimen modelled in situ, and bearing the date 1590.
“The fellow who put up that ceiling,” said he, “took his time about it, no doubt. But his work has lasted three hundred and fifty years. That is the best way to save time. Your modern plasterer will have his ceiling up in a jiffy; and it will be down in a jiffy, and to do all over again. And never worth looking at at all.”
Mr. Willard nodded. “It is very true,” said he. “What is striking me in looking at all this old work is the great economy of time that is effected by taking pains and using good material, to say nothing of the beauty of the things created.”
“If he goes on talking like that,” whispered Bundy, “Japp’ll kiss him. We must get them out of this.”
Mercifully—if such a catastrophe was imminent
—the ceiling discourse brought our inspection here to an end. From Eastgate House we went back to the Maidstone-road, and when we had inspected Restoration House, began to trace out the site of the city wall, which Thorndyke carefully marked on his map, to Japp’s intense gratification. This perambulation brought us to the castle—which was dealt with rather summarily, as Mr. Willard had already examined it—and we then returned to the office for tea, which Bundy prepared and served with great success in his own sitting-room, while Japp dotted in with red ink on Thorndyke’s map the entire city wall, including the part which we had yet to trace; and ridiculously small the ancient city looked when thus marked out on the modern town.
After tea we retraced our steps to the site of the East Gate, and, having inspected a large fragment of the wall at the end of an alley, traced its line across the Highstreet, and then proceeded down Free School-lane to the fine angle-bastion at the northern corner of the lane. Thence we followed the scanty indications as far as the site of the North Gate, and thereafter through a confused and rather unlovely neighbourhood until, on the edge of the marshes, we struck into a narrow lane, enclosed by a dilapidated tarred fence, a short distance along which we came to a closed gate, which I recognized as the one through which I had passed with Bundy on the day when we were made acquainted with the tragic history of Bill the Bargee. As Japp unlocked the gate and admitted us to the space of waste land, Bundy remarked to Thorndyke: “That is the gate that the missing key belonged to. You see there is no harm done so far. The wall is still there.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and not much improved in appearance by your builders’ attentions. Those patches suggest the first attempts of an untalented dental student at conservation.”
“They are rather a disfigurement,” said Japp. “But the men had to have a job found for them, and that is the result. Perhaps they won’t show so much in the photograph.”
While the photographer was setting up his camera and making the exposure, Japp explained the relation of this piece of wall to the North Gate and the Gate that faced the bridge, and marked its position on Thorndyke’s map.
“And that,” he continued, “concludes our perambulation. The photographer is chartered by Mr. Willard, but I understand that we are at liberty to secure copies of the photographs, if we want them. Is that not so, Mr. Willard?”
“Surely,” was the cordial reply; “only I stipulate that they shall be a gift from me, and I shall ask a favour in return. If there is a plate left, I should like to have a commemorative group taken, so that when I recall this pleasant day, I can also recall the pleasant society in which I spent it.”
We all acknowledged the kindly compliment with a bow, and as the photographer announced that he had a spare plate, we grouped ourselves against a portion of undisfigured wall, removed our hats, and took up easy and graceful postures on either side of Mr. Willard. When the exposure had been made, and the photographer proceeded to pack up his apparatus, Thorndyke tendered his very hearty thanks to Mr. Japp and his friend for their hospitality.
“It has been a great privilege,” said he, “to be allowed to share in the products of so much study and research, and I assure you it is far from being unappreciated. Whenever I revisit Rochester—which I hope to do before long—I shall think of you gratefully, and of your very kind and generous friend, Mr. Willard.”
Our two hosts made suitable acknowledgments; and while these compliments were passing, I turned to Bundy.
“Can we get down to the shore from here?” I asked. “Thorndyke was saying that he would like to have a look at the river. If it is accessible from here we might take it on the way home.”
“It isn’t difficult to get at,” replied Bundy. “If he wants to get a typical view of the river with the below-bridge traffic, by far the best place is Blue Boar Pier. It isn’t very far, and it is on your way home—more or less. I’ll show you the way there if you like. Japp is dining with Willard, so he won’t want me.”
I accepted the offer gladly, and as the exchange of compliments seemed to be completed and our party was moving towards the gate, I tendered my thanks for the day’s entertainment and bade my hosts farewell, explaining that we were going riverwards. Accordingly we parted at the gate, Japp and Willard turning towards the town, while Thorndyke, Bundy, and I retraced our steps towards the marshes.
At the bottom of the lane Bundy paused to explain the topography. “That path,” said he, “leads to Gas House road and the marshes by the North Shore. But there isn’t much to see there. If we take this other track we shall strike Blue Boar-lane, which will take us to the pier. From there we can get a view of the whole bend of the river right across to Chatham.”
Thorndyke followed the description closely with the aid of his map, marking off our present position with a pencil. Then we struck into a rough cart-track, with the wide stretch of the marshes on our left, and, following this, we presently came out into the lower part of Blue Boar-lane and turned our faces towards the river. We had not gone far when I observed a man approaching whose appearance seemed to be familiar. Bundy also observed him, for he exclaimed: “Why, that is old Cobbledick! Out of uniform, too. Very irregular. I shall have to remonstrate with him. I wonder what he has been up to. Prowling about the river bank in search of clues, I expect. And he’ll suspect us of being on the same errand.”
Bundy’s surmise appeared to be correct, for as the sergeant drew nearer and recognized us, his face took on an expression of shrewd inquiry. But I noticed with some surprise that his curiosity seemed to be principally concerned with Thorndyke, at whom he gazed with something more than common attention. Under the circumstances I should have passed him with a friendly greeting, but he stopped, and, having wished me “Good evening,” said: “Could I have a few words with you, Doctor?” upon which I halted, and Thorndyke and Bundy walked on slowly. The sergeant looked after them, and, turning his back to them, drew from his pocket with a mysterious air a small dirty brown bundle, which he handed to me.
“I wanted you just to have a look at that,” he said.
I opened out the bundle, though I had already tentatively recognized it. But when it was unrolled it was unmistakable. It was poor Angelina’s scarf.
“I thought there couldn’t be any doubt about it,” the sergeant said cheerfully when I had announced the identification. “Your description was so clear and exact. Well, this gives us a pretty fair kick-off. You can see that it has been in the water—some time, too. So we know where to look for the body. The mysterious thing is, though, that we’ve still got to look for it. It ought to have come up on the shore days ago. And it hasn’t. There isn’t a longshoreman for miles up and down that isn’t on the lookout for it. You can see them prowling along the seawalls and searching the creeks in their boats. I can’t think how they can have missed it. The thing is getting serious.”
“Serious?” I repeated.
“Well,” he explained, “there’s no need for me to point out to a medical gentleman like you that bodies don’t last for ever, especially in mild weather such as we’ve been having, and in a river where the shore swarms with rats and shore-crabs. Every day that passes is making the identification more difficult.”
The horrible suggestions that emerged from his explanation gave me a sensation of physical sickness. I fidgeted uneasily, but still I managed to rejoin huskily: “There’s the clothing, you know.”
“So there is,” he agreed; “and very good means of identification in an ordinary case—accidental drowning, for instance. But this is a criminal case. I don’t want to have to depend on the clothing.”
“Was the scarf found floating?” I asked, a little anxious to change the subject to one less gruesome.
“No,” he replied. “It was on the shore by the small creek just below Blue Boar Pier, under an empty fish-trunk. One of the Customs men from the watch-house found it. He noticed the trunk lying out on the shore as he was walking along and went out to see if there was anything in it. Then, when he found
it was empty, he turned it over, and there was the scarf. He recognized it at once—there’s a list of the articles stuck up on the watch-house—and kept it to bring to me. But it happened that I came down here—as I do every day—just after he’d found it. But I mustn’t keep you here talking, though I’m glad I met you and got your confirmation about this scarf.”
He smiled benignly and raised his hat, whereupon I wished him “Good evening” and went on my way with a sigh of relief. He was a pleasant, genial man, but his matter-of-fact way of looking at this tragedy that had eaten so deeply into my peace of mind, was to me positively harrowing. But, of course, he did not understand my position in the case.
“Well,” said Bundy, when I hurried up, “what’s the news? Old Cobbledick was looking mighty mysterious. And wasn’t he interested in us? Why he’s gazing after us still. Has he had a bite? Because if he hasn’t, I have. Some beastly mosquito.”
“Don’t rub it,” said Thorndyke, as Bundy clapped his hand to his cheek. “Leave it alone. We’ll put a spot of ammonia or iodine on it presently.”
“Very well,” replied Bundy, with a grimace expressive of resignation. “I am in the hands of the Faculty. What sort of fish was it that Isaak Walton Cobbledick had hooked? Or is it a secret?”
“I don’t think there is any secrecy about it,” said I. “One of the Customs men has found Mrs. Frood’s scarf,” and I repeated what the sergeant had told me as to the circumstances.
“It is a gruesome affair,” said Bundy, “this search for these ghastly relics. Look at those ghouls down on the shore there. I suppose that is the fish-trunk.”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 59