The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  As he spoke, we came out on the shore to the right of the pier and halted to survey the rather unlovely prospect. Outside the stunted sea-wall a level stretch of grey-green grass extended to the spring high-water mark, beyond which a smooth sheet of mud—now dry and covered with multitudinous cracks—spread out to the slimy domain of the ordinary tides. At the edge of the dry mud lay a derelict fish-trunk around which a group of bare-legged boys had gathered—and all along the shore, on the faded grass, on the dry mud and wading in the soft slime, the human water-rats were to be seen, turning over drift-rubbish, prying under stranded boats or grubbing in the soft mud. Hard by, on the grass near the sea-wall, an old ship’s long-boat had been hauled up above tide-marks to a permanent berth and turned into a habitation by the erection in it of a small house. A short ladder gave access to it from without and the resident had laid down a little causeway of flat stones leading to the wall.

  “Mr. Noah seems to be at home,” observed Bundy, as we approached the little amphibious residence to inspect it. He pointed to a thin wisp of smoke that issued from the iron chimney; and, almost as he spoke, the door opened and an old man came out into the open stern-sheets of the boat with a steaming tin pannikin in his hand. His appearance fitted his residence to a nicety; for whereas the latter appeared to have been constructed chiefly from driftwood and wreckage, his costume suggested a collection of assorted marine salvage, with a leaning towards oil-skin.

  “Mr. Noah” cast a malevolent glance at the searchers; then, having fortified himself with a pull at the pannikin, he turned a filmy blue eye on us.

  “Good evening,” said Thorndyke. “There seems to be a lot of business-doing here,” and he indicated the fish-trunk and the eager searchers.

  The old man grunted contemptuously. “Parcel of fules,” said he, “a-busyin’ theirselves with what don’t concern ’em, and lookin’ in the wrong place at that.”

  “Still,” said Bundy, “they have found something here.”

  “Yes,” the old man admitted, “they have. And that’s why they ain’t goin’ to find anything more.” He refreshed himself with a drink of—presumably—tea, and continued: “But the things is a-beginning to come up. It’s about time she come up. But she won’t come up here.”

  “Where do you suppose she will come up?” asked Bundy.

  The old man regarded him with a cunning leer. “Never you mind where she’ll come up,” said he. “It ain’t no consarn o’ yourn.”

  “But how do you know where she’ll come up?” Bundy persisted.

  “I knows,” the old scarecrow replied conclusively, “becos I do. Becos I gets my livin’ along-shore, and it’s my business for to know.”

  Having made this pronouncement, Mr. Noah looked inquiringly into the pannikin, emptied it at a draught, and, turning abruptly, retired into the ark, shutting the door after him with a care suited to its evident physical infirmity.

  “I wonder if he really does know,” said Bundy, as we walked away past the Customs watch-house.

  “We can fairly take it that he doesn’t,” said Thorndyke, “seeing that the matter is beyond human calculation. But I have no doubt that he knows the places where bodies and other floating objects are most commonly washed ashore, and we may assume that he is proposing to devote his probably extensive leisure to the exploration of those places. It wouldn’t be amiss to put the sergeant in communication with him.”

  “Probably the sergeant knows him,” said I, “but I will mention the matter the next time I see him.”

  At the top of Blue Boar-lane Bundy halted and held out his hand to Thorndyke. “This is the parting of the ways,” said he.

  “Oh, no, it isn’t,” replied Thorndyke. “You’ve got to have your mosquito-bite treated. Never neglect an insect-bite, especially on the face.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said I, “you have got to come and have dinner with us. We can’t let you break up the party in this way.”

  “It’s very nice of you to ask me,” he began, hesitatingly, a little shy, as I guessed, of intruding on me and my visitor; but I cut him short, and, hooking my arm through his, led him off, an obviously willing captive. And if his presence hindered me from discussing with Thorndyke the problem that had occasioned his visit, that was of no consequence, since we should have the following day to ourselves; and he certainly contributed not a little to the cheerfulness of the proceedings. Indeed, I seemed to find in his high spirits something a little pathetic; a suggestion that the company or two live men—one of them a man of outstanding intellect—was an unusual treat, and that his life with old Japp and the predatory females might be a trifle dull. He took to Thorndyke amazingly, treating him with a sort of respectful cheekiness, like a schoolboy dining with a favourite head-master; while Thorndyke, fully appreciative of his irresponsible gaiety, developed a quiet humour and playfulness which rather took me by surprise. The solemn farce of the diagnosis and treatment of the mosquito bite was an instance; when Thorndyke, having seated the patient in the surgery chair and invested him with a large towel, covered the table with an assortment of preposterous instruments and bottles of reagents, and proceeded gravely to examine the bite through a lens until Bundy was as nervous as a cat, and then to apply the remedy with meticulous precision on the point of a fine sable brush.

  It was a pleasant evening, pervaded by a sense of frivolous gaiety that was felt gratefully by the two elder revellers and was even viewed indulgently by Mrs. Dunk. As to Bundy, his high spirits flowed unceasingly—but, I may add, with faultless good manners—and when, at length, he took his departure, he shook our hands with a warmth which, again, I found slightly pathetic.

  “I have had a jolly evening!” he exclaimed, looking at me with a queer sort of wistfulness. “It has been a red-letter day,” and with this he turned abruptly and walked away.

  We watched him from the threshold, bustling jauntily along the pavement; and as I looked at him, there came unbidden to my mind the recollection of that other figure that I had watched from this same threshold, walking away in the fading light—walking into the fog that was to swallow her up and hide her from my sight for ever.

  From these gloomy reflections I was recalled by Thorndyke’s voice.

  “A nice youngster, that, Strangeways. Gay and sprightly, but not in the least shallow. I often think that there was a great deal of wisdom in that observation of Spencer’s, that happy people are the greatest benefactors to mankind. Your friend, Bundy, has helped me to renew my youth; and who could have done one a greater service?”

  THE MYSTERY OF ANGELINA FROOD (1924) [Part 2]

  CHAPTER XI

  The Man with the Mole

  When I had seen my guest off by the last train on Saturday night, I walked homeward slowly, cogitating on the results of his visit. It seemed to me that they were very insignificant. In the morning we had explored the piece of shore on which the bag and the box of tablets had been found, making our way to it by the narrow and intricate alleys which seemed to be the only approach; and we had reached the same conclusion. It was an impossible place.

  “If we assume,” said Thorndyke, “as we must, on the apparent probabilities, that the tragedy occurred here, we must assume that there are some significant circumstances that are unknown to us. Mrs. Frood could not have strayed here by chance. We can think of no business that could have brought her here; and since she was neither a child nor a fool, she could not have been enticed into such an obviously sinister locality without some plausible pretext. There is evidently something more than meets the eye.”

  “Something, you mean, connected with her past life and the people she knew?”

  “Exactly. I am having careful inquiries made on the subject in likely quarters, including the various theatrical photographers. They form quite a promising’ source of information, as they are not only able to give addresses but they can furnish us with photographs of members of the companies who would have been colleagues, and, at least, acquaintances.”

 
“If you come across any photographs of Mrs. Frood,” I said, “I should like to see them.”

  “You shall,” he replied. “I shall certainly collect all I can get, on the chance that they may help us with the identification of the body; which may possibly present some difficulty.”

  Here I was reminded of Cobbledick’s observations, and, distasteful as they were, I repeated them to Thorndyke.

  “The sergeant is quite right,” said he. “This is apparently a criminal case, involving a charge of wilful murder. To sustain that charge, the prosecution will have to produce incontestable evidence as to the identity of the deceased. Clothing alone would not be sufficient to secure a conviction. The body would have to be identified. And the sergeant’s anxiety is quite justified. Have you had any experiences of bodies recovered from the water?”

  “Yes,” I replied; “and I don’t like to think of them.” I shuddered as I spoke, for his question had recalled to my memory the incidents or a professional visit to Poplar Mortuary. There rose before my eyes the picture of a long black, box with a small glass window in the lid, and of a thing that appeared at that window; a huge, bloated, green and purple thing, with groups or radiating wrinkles, and in the middle a button-like object that looked like the tip of a nose. It was a frightful picture; and yet I knew that when the river that we stood by should give up its dead—

  I put the thought away with a shiver and asked faintly: “About the man Frood. Don’t you think that his disappearance throws some light on the mystery?”

  “It doesn’t throw much light,” replied Thorndyke, “because nothing is known about it. Obviously the coincidence in time of the disappearance, added to the known character of the man and his relations with his wife, make him an object of deep suspicion. His whereabouts will have to be traced and his time accounted for. But I have ascertained that the police know nothing about him, and my own inquiries have come to nothing, so far. He seems to have disappeared without leaving a trace. But I shall persevere. Your object—and mine—is to clear up the mystery, and if a crime has been committed, to bring the criminal to justice.”

  So that was how the matter stood; and it did not appear to me that much progress had been made towards the elucidation of the mystery. As to the perpetrator or that crime, he remained a totally unknown quantity, unless the deed could be fixed on the missing man, Frood. And so matters remained for some days. Then an event occurred which seemed to promise some illumination of the darkness; a promise that it failed to fulfil.

  It was about a week after Thorndyke’s visit. I had gone out after lunch to post off to him the set of photographs which had been delivered to me by the photographer with my own set. I went into the post-office to register the package, and here I found Bundy in the act of sending off a parcel. When we had transacted our business we strolled out together, and he asked: “What are you going to do now, Doctor?”

  “I was going to walk down to Blue Boar Pier,” said I, “to see if anything further has been discovered.”

  “Should I be in the way if I walked there with you?” he asked. “I’ve got nothing to do at the moment. But perhaps you would rather go alone. You’ve had a good deal of my society lately.”

  “Not more than I wanted, Bundy,” I answered. “You are my only chum here, and you are not unappreciated, I can assure you.”

  “It’s nice of you to say that,” he rejoined, with some emotion. “I’ve sometimes felt that I was rather thrusting my friendship on you.”

  “Then don’t ever feel it again,” said I. “It has been a bit of luck for me to find a man here whom I could like and chum in with.”

  He murmured a few words of thanks, and we walked on for a while without speaking. Presently, as we turned into the lane by the Blue Boar Inn, he said, a little hesitatingly. “Don’t you think, Doc, that it is rather a mistake to let your mind run so much on this dreadful affair? It seems to be always in your thoughts. And it isn’t good for you to think so much about it. I’ve noticed you quite a lot, and you haven’t been the same since—since it happened. You have looked worried and depressed.”

  “I haven’t felt the same,” said I. “It has been a great grief to me.”

  “But,” he urged, “don’t you think you should try to forget it? After all, she was little more than an acquaintance.”

  “She was a great deal more than that, Bundy,” said I. “While she was alive, I would not admit even to myself that my feeling towards her was anything more than ordinary friendship. But it was; and now that she is gone, there can be no harm in recognizing the fact, or even in confessing it to you, as we are friends.”

  “Do you mean, Doc,” he said in a low voice, “that you were in love with her?”

  “That is what it comes to, I suppose,” I answered. “She was the only woman I had ever really cared for.”

  “And did she know it?” he asked.

  “Of course she didn’t,” I replied indignantly. “She was a lady and a woman of honour. Of course she never dreamed that I cared for her, or she would never have let me visit her.”

  For a few moments he walked at my side in silence. Then he slipped his arm through mine, and pressing it gently with his hand, said softly and very earnestly: “I’m awfully sorry, Doc. It is frightfully hard luck for you, though it couldn’t have been much better even if—but it’s no use talking of that. I am sorry, old chap. But still, you know, you ought to try to put it away. She wouldn’t have wished you to make yourself unhappy about her.”

  “I know,” said I. “But I feel that the office belongs to me, who cared most for her, to see that the mystery of her death is cleared up and that whoever wronged her is brought to justice.”

  He made no reply to this but walked at my side with his arm linked in mine, meditating with an air of unwonted gravity.

  When we reached the head of the pier the place was deserted excepting for one man; a sea-faring person, apparently, who was standing with his back to us, studying intently the bills that were stuck on the wall of the lookout. As we were passing, my eye caught the word “Wanted” on a new bill, and pausing to read it over the man’s shoulder, I found that it was a description of the unknown man—“with a mole on the left side of his nose”—who had pawned the opal brooch. Bundy read it, too, and as we walked away he remarked: “They are rather late in putting out those bills. I should think that gentleman will have left the locality long ago, unless he was a local person,” an opinion with which I was disposed to agree.

  After a glance round the shore and at “the Ark”—which was closed but of which the chimney emitted a cheerful smoke suggestive of culinary activities on the part of “Mr. Noah “—we sauntered up past the head of the creek, along the rough path by the foundry, and out upon the upper shore.

  “Well, I’m hanged!” exclaimed Bundy, glancing back at the watch-house, “that chap is still reading that bill. He must be a mighty slow reader, or he must find it more thrilling than I did. Perhaps he knows somebody with a mole on his nose.”

  I looked back at the motionless figure; and at that moment another figure appeared and advanced, as we had done, to look over the reader’s shoulder.

  “Why, that looks like old Cobbledick—come to admire his own literary productions. There’s vanity for you. Hallo! What’s up now?”

  As Bundy spoke, the reader had turned to move away and had come face to face with the sergeant. For a moment both men had stood stock still; then there was a sudden, confused movement on both sides, with the final result that the sergeant fell, or was knocked, down and that the stranger raced off, apparently in our direction. He disappeared at once, being hidden from us by the foundry buildings, and we advanced towards the end of the fenced lane by which we had come, to intercept him, waiting by the edge of a trench or dry ditch.

  “Here he comes,” said Bundy, a trifle nervously, as rapid footfalls became audible in the narrow, crooked lane. Suddenly the man appeared, running furiously, and as he caught sight of us, he whipped out a large knife, and
, flourishing it with a menacing air, charged straight at us. I watched an opportunity to trip him up; but as he approached Bundy pulled me back with such energy that he and I staggered on the brink of the ditch, capsized, and rolled together to the bottom. By the time we had managed to scramble up, the man had disappeared into the wilderness of sheds, scrap-heaps, derelict boilers, and stray railway-waggons that filled the area of land between the foundry and the coal-wharves and jetties.

  “Come on, Bundy,” said I, as my companion stood tenderly rubbing various projecting portions of his person; “we mustn’t lose sight of him.”

  But Bundy showed no enthusiasm; and at this moment a rapid crescendo of heavy footfalls was followed by the emergence of the sergeant, purple-faced and panting, from the end of the lane.

  “Which way did he go?” gasped Cobbledick.

  I indicated the wilderness, briefly explaining how the fugitive had escaped us, whereupon the sergeant started forward at a lumbering trot and we followed. But it was an unfavourable hunting-ground, for the bulky litter—the heaps of coal-dust, the wagons, the cranes, the piles of condemned machinery, mingled with clumps of bushes—gave the fugitive every opportunity to disappear. And, in fact, he had disappeared without leaving a trace. Presently we came out on a wharf beside which a schooner was berthed; a trim-looking little craft with a white underbody and black top-sides, bearing a single big yard on her fore-mast and the name Anna on her counter. She was all ready for sea and was apparently waiting for high water, for her deck was all clear and a man on it was engaged in placidly coiling a rope on the battened hatch while another watched him from the door of the deckhouse. On this peaceful scene the sergeant burst suddenly and hailing the rope-coiler demanded:

  “Have you seen a man run past here?”

  The mariner dropped the rope, and looking up drowsily, repeated: “Have I seen a mahn?”

  “Yes, a sea-faring man with a mole on his nose.”