The mystery of Angelina Frood 16 – Freeman · Library Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The mystery of Angelina Frood 16The Inquiry and a Surprise
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The mystery of Angelina Frood 16
The Inquiry and a Surprise
FreemanEnglish
On the morning of the inquest I started from my house well in advance of time, and in a distinctly uncomfortable frame of mind. Perhaps it was that the formal inquiry brought home to me with extra vividness the certainty that my beloved friend was gone from me for ever, and that she had died in circumstances of tragedy and horror. Not that I had ever had any doubt, but now the realization was more intense. Again, I should have to give evidence. I should have to reconstitute for the information of strangers scenes and events that had for me a certain sacred intimacy. And then, above all, I should have to view--and that not cursorily--the decayed remains of the woman who had been so much to me. That would be naturally expected from a medical man and no one would guess at what it would cost me to bring myself to this last dreadful meeting.
Walking down the High-street thus wrapped in gloomy reflections, it was with mixed feelings that I observed Bundy advancing slowly towards me, having evidently awaited my arrival. In some respects I would sooner have been alone, and yet his kindly, sympathetic companionship was not altogether unwelcome.
“Good morning, John,” said he. “I hope I am not de trop. It is a melancholy errand for you, poor old chap, and I can’t do much to make it less so, but I thought we might walk down together. You know how sorry I am for you, John.”
“Yes, I know and appreciate, and I am always glad to see you, Peter. But why are you going there? Have you had a summons?”
“No, I have no information to give. But I am interested in the case, of course, so I am going to attend as a spectator. So is Japp, though he is really a legitimately interested party. In fact, I am rather surprised they didn’t summon him as a witness.”
“So am I. He really knows more about the poor girl than I do. But, of course, he knows nothing of the circumstances of her death.”
By this time we had arrived at the Guildhall, and here we encountered Sergeant Cobbledick, who was evidently on the look-out for me.
“I am glad you came early, Doctor,” said he. “I want you just to pop round to the mortuary. You know the way. There’s a tray by the side of the coffin with all her belongings on it. I’ll get you to take a careful look at them, so that you can tell the jury that they are really her things. And you had better run your eye over the remains. You might be able to spot something of importance. At any rate, they will expect you to have viewed the body, as you are the principal witness to its identity. I’ve told the constable on duty to let you in. And, of course, you can go in, too, Mr. Bundy, if you want to.”
“I don’t think I do, thank you,” replied Bundy. But he walked round with me to the mortuary, where the constable unlocked the door as he saw us approaching. I mentioned my name to the officer, but he knew me by sight, and now held the door open and followed me in, while Bundy halted at the threshold, and stood, rather pale and awe-stricken, looking in at the long table and its gruesome burden.
The tray of which Cobbledick had spoken was covered with a white table-cloth, and on this the various objects were arranged symmetrically like the exhibits in a museum. At the top was the hat, flanked on either side by a silver-headed hat-pin. The carefully smoothed scarf was spread across horizontally, the six coat-buttons were arranged in a straight vertical line, and the two shoes were placed at the bottom centre. At one side was the hand-bag, and at the other, to balance it, the handkerchief with its neatly-embroidered initials; and on this were placed the Zodiac ring, the wedding ring, the box of tablets, and the brooch. On the lateral spaces the various other objects were arranged with the same meticulous care for symmetrical effect: a neat row of hair pins, a row of hooks and eyes, one or two rows of buttons from the dress and under-garments, the little metal jaws of the purse, two rows of coins, silver and bronze, a pair of glove-fasteners with scorched fragments of leather adhering, a little pearl-handled knife, a number of metal clasps and fastenings and other small metallic objects derived from the various garments, and a few fragments of textiles, scorched as if by fire; a couple of brown shreds, apparently from the stockings, a cindery fragment of the brown coat, and a few charred and brittle tatters of linen.
I looked over the pitiful collection while the constable stood near the door and probably watched me. There was something unspeakably pathetic in the spectacle of these poor fragments of wreckage, thus laid out, and seeming, in the almost grotesque symmetry of their disposal, to make a mute appeal for remembrance and justice. This was all that was left of her; this and what was in the coffin.
So moved was I by the sight of these relics, thus assembled and presented in a sort of tragic synopsis, that it was some time before I could summon the resolution to look upon her very self, or at least upon such vestiges of her as had survived the touch of “decay’s effacing fingers.” But the time was passing, and it had to be. At last I turned to the coffin, and, lifting the unfastened lid, looked in.
It could have been no different from what I had expected; but yet the shock of its appearance seemed to strike me a palpable blow. Someone had arranged the bones in their anatomical order; and there the skeleton lay on the bottom of the coffin, dry, dusty, whitened with the powder of lime, such a relic as might have been brought to light by the spade of some excavator in an ancient barrow or prehistoric tomb. And yet this thing was she--Angelina! That grisly skull had once been clothed by her rich, abundant hair! That grinning range of long white teeth had once sustained the sweet, pensive mouth that I remembered so well. It was incredible. It was horrible. And yet it was true.
For some moments I stood as if petrified, holding up the coffin lid and gazing at the fearful shape in a trance of horror. And then suddenly I felt, as it were, a clutching at my throat and the vision faded into a blur as my eyes filled. Hastily I clapped down the coffin lid and strode towards the door with the tears streaming down my face.
Vaguely I was aware of Bundy taking my arm and pressing it to his side, of his voice as he murmured shakily, “Poor old John!” Passively I allowed him to lead me to a quiet corner above a flight of steps leading down to the river, where I halted to wipe my eyes, faintly surprised to note that he was wiping his eyes too; and that his face was pale and troubled. But if I was surprised, I was grateful, too; and never had my heart inclined more affectionately towards him than in this moment of trial that had been lightened by his unobtrusive sympathy and perfect understanding.
We stayed for a few minutes, looking down on the river and talking of the dead woman and the sad and troubled life from which this hideous crime had snatched her; then, as the appointed time approached, we made our way to the room in which the inquiry was to be held. As we entered, a pleasant-looking, shrewd-faced man, who looked like a barrister and who had been standing by a constable, approached and accosted me.
“Dr. Strangeways? My name is Anstey. I do most of the court work in connexion with Thorndyke’s cases, and I am representing him here to-day. He had hoped to come down, himself, but he had to go into the country on some important business, so I have to come to keep the nest warm--to watch the proceedings and make a summary of the evidence. You mentioned to him that the case would take more than one day.”
“Yes,” I answered, “that is what I understand. Will Dr. Thorndyke be here to-morrow?”
“Yes; he has arranged definitely to attend to-morrow. And I think he expects by then to have some information of importance to communicate.”
“Indeed!” I said eagerly. “Do you happen to know the nature of it?”
Anstey laughed. “My dear Doctor,” said he, “you have met Thorndyke, and you must know by now that he is about as communicative as a Whitstable native. No one ever knows what cards he holds.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “he is extraordinarily secretive. Unnecessarily so, it has seemed to me.”
Anstey shook his head. “He is perfectly right, Doctor. He knows his own peculiar job to a finish. He is, in a way, like some highly-specialized animal, such as the three-toed sloth, for instance; which seems an abnormal sort of beast until you see it doing, with unapproachable perfection, the thing that nature intended it to do. Thorndyke is a case of perfect adaptation to a special environment.”
“Still,” I objected, “I don’t see the use of such extreme secrecy.”
“You would if you followed his cases. A secret move is a move against which the other player--if there is one--can make no provision or defence or counter-move. Thorndyke plays with a wooden face and without speaking. No one knows what his next move will be. But when it comes, he puts down his piece and says ‘check’; and you’ll find it is mate.”
“But,” I still objected, “you are talking of an adversary and of counter-moves. Is there any adversary in this case?”
“Well, isn’t there?” said he. “There has been a crime committed. Someone has committed it; and that someone is not advertising his identity. But you can take it that he has been keeping a watchful eye on his pursuers, ready, if necessary, to give them a lead in the wrong direction. But it is time for us to take our places. I see the jury have come back from viewing the body.”
We took our places at the long table, one side of which was allocated to the jury and the other to witnesses in waiting, the police officers, the press-men, and other persons interested in the case. A few minutes later, the coroner opened the proceedings by giving a very brief statement of the circumstances which had occasioned the inquiry, and then proceeded to call the witnesses.
The first witness was Sergeant Cobbledick, whose evidence took the form of a statement covering the whole history of the case, beginning with Mr. Japp’s notification of the disappearance of Mrs. Frood and ending with the opening of the wall and the discovery of the remains. The latter part of the evidence was given in minute detail and included a complete list of the objects found with the remains.
“Does any juryman wish to ask the witness any questions?” the Coroner inquired when the lengthy statement was concluded. He looked from one to the other, and when nobody answered he called the next witness. This was Dr. Baines, a somewhat dry-looking gentleman, who gave his evidence clearly, concisely, and with due scientific caution.
“You have examined the remains which form the subject of this inquiry?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. I have examined the skeleton which is now lying in the mortuary. It is that of a rather strongly-built woman, five feet seven inches in height, and about thirty years of age.”
“Were you able to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”
“No; there were no signs of any injury nor of disease.”
“Are we to understand,” asked one of the jurymen, “that you consider deceased to have died a natural death?”
“I have no means of forming any opinion on the subject.”
“But if she died from violence, wouldn’t there be some signs of it?”
“That would depend on the nature of the violence.”
“Supposing she had been shot with a revolver?”
“In that case there might be a fracture of one or more bones, but there might be no fracture at all. Of course, there would be a bullet.”
“Did you find a bullet?”
“No. I did not see the bones until they had been brought to the mortuary.”
“There has been no mention of a bullet having been found,” the coroner interposed, “and you heard Sergeant Cobbledick say that the lime had all been sifted through a fine sieve. We must take it that there was no bullet. But,” he continued, addressing the witness, “the conditions that you found would not exclude violence, I presume?”
“Not at all. Only violence that would cause injury to the bones.”
“What kinds of violence would be unaccompanied by injury to the bones?”
“Drowning, hanging, strangling, suffocation, stabbing; and, of course, poisoning usually leaves no traces on the bones.”
“Can you give us no suggestion as to the cause of death?”
“None whatever,” was the firm reply.
“You have heard the description of the missing woman, Mrs. Frood. Do these remains correspond with that description?”
“They are the remains of a woman of similar stature and age to Mrs. Frood, so far as I can judge. I can’t say more than that. The description of Mrs. Frood was only approximate; and the estimate of the stature, and especially the age, of a skeleton can only be approximate.”
This being all that could be got out of the witness, who was concerned only with the skeleton, and naturally refused to budge from that position, the coroner glanced at his list and then called my name. I rose and took my place at the top corner of the table, when I was duly sworn, and gave my name and description.
“You heard Sergeant Cobbledick’s description of the articles which have been found, and which are now lying in the mortuary?” the coroner began.
I replied “Yes,” and he continued: “Have you examined those articles, and, if so, can you tell us anything about them?”
“I have examined the articles in the mortuary, and I recognized them as things I know to have been the property of Mrs. Angelina Frood.”
Here I described the articles in detail, and stated when and where I had seen them in her possession.
“You have inspected the remains of deceased in the mortuary. Can you identify them as the remains of any particular person?”
“No. They are quite unrecognizable.”
“Have you any doubt as to whose remains they are?” asked the juryman who had spoken before.
“That question, Mr. Pilley,” said the coroner, “is not quite in order. The witness has said that he was not able to identify the remains. Inferences as to the identity of deceased, drawn from the evidence, are for the jury. We must not ask witnesses to interpret the evidence. When did you last see Mrs. Frood alive, Doctor?”
“On the 26th of April,” I replied; and here I described that last interview, recalling our conversation almost verbatim. When I came to her expressions of uneasiness and foreboding, the attention of the listeners became more and more intense, and it was evident that they were deeply impressed. Particularly attentive was the foreman of the jury, a keen-faced, alert-looking man, who kept his eyes riveted on me, and, when I had finished this part of my evidence, asked: “So far as you know, Doctor, had Mrs. Frood any enemies? Was there anyone whom she had reason to be afraid of?”
This was a rather awkward question. It is one thing to entertain a suspicion privately, but quite another thing to give public expression to it. Besides, I was giving sworn evidence as to facts actually within my knowledge.
“I can’t say, positively,” I replied after some hesitation, “that I know of any enemy or anyone whom she had reason to fear.”
The coroner saw the difficulty, and interposed with a discreet question.
“What do you know of her domestic affairs, of her relations with her husband, for instance?”
This put the matter on the basis of fact, and I was able to state what I knew of her unhappy married life in Rochester and previously in London; and further questions elicited my personal observations as to the character and personality of her husband. My meeting with him at Dartford Station, the incidents in the Poor Travellers’ rest-house, the meeting with him on the bridge; all were given in full detail and devoured eagerly by the jury. And from their questions and their demeanour it became clear to me that they were in full cry after Nicholas Frood.
The conclusion of my evidence brought us to the luncheon hour. I had, of course, to take Mr. Anstey back to lunch with me, and a certain wistfulness in Bundy’s face made me feel that I ought to ask him, too. I accordingly presented them to one another and issued the invitation.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Bundy,” Anstey said heartily. “I have heard of you from my friend Thorndyke, who regards you with respectful admiration.”
“Does he?” said Bundy, blushing with pleasure, but looking somewhat surprised. “I can’t imagine why. But are you an expert, too?”
“Bless you, no,” laughed Anstey. “I am a mere lawyer, and, on this occasion, what is known technically as a devil--technically, you understand. I am watching this case for Thorndyke.”
“But I didn’t know that Dr. Thorndyke was interested in the case,” said Bundy, in evident perplexity.
“He is interested in everything of a criminal and horrid nature,” replied Anstey. “He never lets a really juicy crime mystery pass without getting all the details, if possible. You see, they are his stock in trade.”
“But he never would discuss this case--not seriously,” objected Bundy.
“Probably not,” said Anstey. “Perhaps there wasn’t much to discuss. But wait till the case is finished. Then he will tell you all about it.”
“I see,” said Bundy. “He is one of those prophets who predict after the event.”
“And the proper time, too,” retorted Anstey. “It is no use being premature.”
The conversation proceeded on this plane of playful repartee until we arrived at my house, where Mrs. Dunk, having bestowed a wooden glance of curiosity at Anstey and a glare of defiance at Bundy, handed me a telegram addressed to R. Anstey, K.C., care of Dr. Strangeways. I passed it to Anstey, who opened it and glanced through it.
“What shall I say in answer?” he asked, placing it in my hand.
I read the message and was not a little puzzled by it. “Ask Strangeways come back with you to-night. Very urgent. Reply time and place.”
“What do you suppose he wants me for?” I asked.
“I never suppose in regard to Thorndyke,” he replied. “But if he says it is urgent, it is urgent. Can you come up with me?”
“Yes, if it is necessary.”
“It is. Then I’ll say yes. And you had better arrange to stay the night--there is a spare bedroom at his chambers--and come down with him in the morning. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” I replied; “and you can say that we shall be at Charing Cross by seven-fifteen.”
I could see that this transaction was as surprising to Bundy as it was to me. But, of course, he asked no questions, nor could I have answered them if he had. Moreover, there was not much time for discussion as we had to be back in the court room by two o’clock, and what talk there was consisted mainly of humorous comments by Anstey on the witnesses and the jury.
Having sent off the telegram on our way down, we took our places once more, and the proceedings were resumed punctually by the calling of the foreman of the repairing gang; who deposed to the date on which the particular patch of rubble was commenced and finished and its condition when the men knocked off work on Saturday, the 26th of April. He also mentioned the loss of the key, but could give no particulars. The cross-examination elicited the facts that he had communicated to Cobbledick and me as to the state of the loose filling.
“How many men,” the coroner asked, “would it have taken to bury the body in the way in which it was buried; and how long?”
“One man could have done it easily in one night, if he could have got the body there. The stuff in the wall was all loose, and it was small stuff, easy to handle. No building had to be done. It was just a matter of shovelling the lime in and then chucking the loose stuff in on top. And the lime was handy to get at in the shed, and one of the barrels was open.”
“Can you say certainly when the body was buried?”
“It must have been buried on the night of the 26th of April or on the 27th, because on Monday morning, the 28th, we ran the mortar in, and by that evening we had got the patch finished.”
The next witness was the labourer, Thomas Evans, who had lost the key. His account of the affair was as follows:
“On the morning of Saturday, the 26th of April, the foreman gave me the key, because he had to go to the office. I took the key and opened the gate, and I left the key in the lock for him to take when he came. Then I forgot all about it, and I suppose he did, too, because he didn’t say anything about it until we had knocked off work and were going out. Then he asks me where the key was, and I said it was in the gate. Then he went and looked but it wasn’t there. So we searched about a bit in the grounds and out in the lane; but we couldn’t see nothing of it nowhere.”
“When you let yourself in, did you leave the gate open or shut it?”
“I shut the gate, but, of course, it was unlocked. The key was outside.”
“So that anyone passing up the lane could have taken it out without your noticing?”
“Yes. We was working the other side of the grounds, so we shouldn’t have heard anything if anybody had took it.”
That completed the evidence as to the key, and when Evans was dismissed the matron of the Poor Travellers was called. As she took her place, a general straightening of backs and air of expectancy on the part of the jury suggested that her evidence was looked forward to with more than common interest. And so it turned out to be. Her admirably clear and vivid presentment of the man, Nicholas Frood; his quarrelsome, emotional temperament, his shabby condition, his abnormal appearance, the evidences of his addiction to drink and drugs, his apparently destitute state, and, above all, the formidable sheath-knife that he wore under his coat; were listened to with breathless attention, and followed by a fusilade of eager, and often highly improper, questions. But the coroner was a wise and tactful man, and he unobtrusively intervened to prevent any irregularities; as, for instance, “It is not permissible,” he observed, blandly, “to ask a witness if a certain individual seemed to be a likely person to commit a crime. And a coroner’s court is not a criminal court. It is not our function to establish any person’s guilt, but to ascertain how deceased met with her death. If the evidence shows that she was murdered, we shall say so in our verdict. If the evidence points clearly to a particular person as the murderer, we shall name that person in the verdict. But we are not primarily investigating a crime; we are investigating a death. The criminal investigation is for the police.”
This reminder cooled the ardour of the criminal investigators somewhat, but there were signs of a fresh outbreak when Mrs. Gillow gave her evidence, for that lady having a somewhat more lively imagination than the matron, tended to lure enterprising jurymen on to fresh indiscretions. She certainly enjoyed herself amazingly, and occupied a most unnecessary amount of time before she at length retired, dejected but triumphant, to the manifest relief of the coroner.
This brought the day’s proceedings to a close. There were a few more witnesses on the list, and the coroner hoped to take their evidence and complete the inquiry on the following day. As soon as the court rose, Anstey and I with Bundy proceeded to a tea-shop hard by and, having refreshed ourselves with a light tea, set forth to catch our train at Strood Station. Thither Bundy accompanied us at my invitation, but though I suspected that he was bursting with curiosity as to the object of my mysterious journey, he made no reference to it, nor did I or Anstey.
At the barrier at Charing Cross we found Thorndyke awaiting us, and Anstey, having delivered me into his custody and seen us into a taxi-cab that had already been chartered, wished us success and took his leave. Then the driver, who apparently had his instructions, started and moved out of the station.
“I don’t know,” said I, “whether I may now ask what I am wanted for.”
“I should rather not go into particulars,” he replied. “I want your opinion on something that I am going to show you, and I especially want it to be an impromptu opinion. Previous consideration might create a bias which would detract from the conclusiveness of your decision. However, you have only a few minutes to wait.”
In those few minutes I could not refrain from cudgelling my brains, even at the risk of creating a bias, and was still doing so--quite unproductively--when the cab approached the hospital of St. Barnabas and gave me a hint. But it swept past the main entrance, and, turning up a side street, slowed down and stopped opposite the entrance of the medical school. Here we got out, and, leaving the cab waiting, entered the hall, where Thorndyke inquired for a person of the name of Farrow. In a minute or two this individual made his appearance in the form of a somewhat frowsy, elderly man, whom, from the multitude of warts on his hands, I inferred to be the post-mortem porter or dissecting-room attendant. He appeared to be a taciturn man, and he, too, evidently had his instructions, for he merely looked at us and then walked away slowly, leaving us to follow. Thus silently he conducted us down a long corridor, across a quadrangle beyond which rose the conical roof of a theatre, along a curved passage which followed the wall of the circular building and down a flight of stone steps which let into a dim, cement-floored basement, lighted by sparse electric bulbs and pervaded by a faint, distinctive odour that memory associated with the science of anatomy. From the main basement room Farrow turned into a short passage, where he stopped at a door, and, having unlocked it, threw it open and switched on the light, when we entered and I looked around. It was a large, cellar-like room, lighted by a single powerful electric bulb fitted with a basin-like metal reflector and attached to a long, movable arm. The activities usually carried on in it were evident from the great tins of red lead on the shelves, from a large brass syringe fitted with a stop-cock and smeared with red paint, and from a range of oblong slate tanks or coffers furnished with massive wooden lids.
Still without uttering a word, the taciturn Farrow swung the powerful lamp over one of the coffers, and then drew off the lid. I stepped forward and looked in. The coffer was occupied by the body of a man, evidently--from the shaven head and the traces of red paint--prepared as an anatomical “subject.” I looked at it curiously, thinking how unhuman, how artificial it seemed; how like to a somewhat dingy waxwork figure. But as I looked I was dimly conscious of some sense of familiarity stealing into my mind. Some chord of memory seemed to be touched. I stooped and looked more closely; and then, suddenly, I started up.
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “It is Nicholas Frood!”
“Are you sure?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, quite,” I answered. “It was the shaved head that put me off: the absence of that mop of hair. I have no doubt at all. Still--let us have a look at the hands.”
Farrow lifted up the hands one after the other; and then, if there could have been any doubt, it was set at rest. The mahogany-coloured stain was still visible; but much more conclusive were the bulbous finger-tips and the mis-shapen, nutshell-like nails. There could be no possible doubt.
“This is certainly the man I saw at Rochester,” said I. “I am fully prepared to swear to that. But oughtn’t he to have been identified by somebody who knew him better?”
“The body has been identified this afternoon by his late landlady,” replied Thorndyke, “but I wanted your confirmation, and I wanted you as a witness at the inquest. The identification is important in relation to the inquiry and the possible verdict.”
“Yes, by Jove!” I agreed, with a vivid recollection of the questions put to Mrs. Gillow. “This will come as a thunder-bolt to the jury. But how, in the name of Fortune, did he come here?”
“I’ll tell you about that presently,” replied Thorndyke. He tendered a fee to the exhibitor, and when the latter had replaced the lid of the coffer, he conducted us back to our starting-point, and saw us into the waiting cab.
“5a, King’s Bench Walk,” Thorndyke instructed the driver, and as the cab started, he began his explanation.
“This has been a long and weary search, with a stroke of unexpected good luck at the end. We have had to go through endless records of hospitals, police-courts, poor-houses, infirmaries, and inquests. It was the records of an inquest that put us at last on the track; an inquest on an unknown man, supposed to be a tramp. Roughly, the history of the affair is this:
“Frood seems to have started for Brighton on the 25th of April, but for some unexplained reason, he broke his journey and got out at Horwell. What happened to him there is not clear. He may have over-dosed himself with cocaine; but at any rate, he was found dead in a meadow, close to a hedge, on the morning of the 26th. He was therefore dead before his wife disappeared. The body was taken to the mortuary and there carefully examined. But there was not the faintest clue to his identity. His pockets were searched, but there was not a vestige of property of any kind about him, not even the knife of which you have spoken. The probability is that he had been robbed by some tramp of everything that he had about him, either while he was insensible or after he was dead. In any case he appeared to be completely destitute, and this fact, together with his decidedly dirty and neglected condition, led naturally to the conclusion that he was a tramp. An inquest was held, but of course, no expensive and troublesome measures were taken to trace his identity. Examinations showed that he had not died from the effects of violence, so it was assumed that he had died from exposure, and a verdict to that effect was returned. He was about to be given a pauper’s funeral when Providence intervened on our behalf. It happened that the Demonstrator of Anatomy at St. Barnabas resides at Horwell; and it happened that the presence of an unclaimed body in the mortuary came to his knowledge. Thereupon he applied to the authorities, on behalf of his school, for the use of it as an anatomical subject. His application was granted and the body was conveyed to St. Barnabas, where it was at once embalmed and prepared and then put aside for use during the next winter session.”
“Was that quite in order--legally, I mean?”
“That is not for us to ask,” he replied. “It was not in any way contrary to public policy, and it has been our salvation in respect of our particular inquiry.”
“I suppose it has,” I said, not, however, quite seeing it in that light. “Of course, it disposes of the question of his guilt.”
“It does a good deal more than that as matters have turned out,” said he. “However, here we are in the precincts of the Temple. Let us dismiss Nicholas Frood from our minds for the time being, and turn our attention to the more attractive subject of dinner.”
The cab stopped opposite a tall house with a fine carved-brick portico, and, when Thorndyke had paid the driver, we ascended the steps and made our way up a couple of flights of oaken stairs to the first floor. Here, at the door of my friend’s chambers, we encountered a small, clerical-looking gentleman with an extremely wrinkly, smiling face, who reminded me somewhat of Mr. Japp.
“This is Mr. Polton, Strangeways,” said Thorndyke, presenting him to me, “who relieves me of all the physical labour of laboratory work. He is a specialist in everything, including cookery, and if my nose does not mislead me--ha! Does it, Polton?”
“That depends, sir, on which way you follow it,” replied Polton, with a smile of labyrinthine wrinkliness. “But you will want to wash, and Dr. Strangeways’s room is ready for him.”
On this hint, Thorndyke conducted me to an upper floor, and to a pleasant bedroom with an outlook on plane trees and ancient, red-tiled roofs, where I washed and brushed up, and from whence I presently descended to the sitting-room, whither Thorndyke’s nose had already led him--and to good purpose, too.
“Mr. Polton has missed his vocation,” I remarked, as I attacked his productions with appreciative gusto. “He ought to have been the manager of a West End club or a high-class restaurant.”
Thorndyke regarded me severely. “I am shocked at you, Strangeways,” he said. “Do you suggest that a man who can make anything from an astronomical clock to a microscope objective, who is an expert in every branch of photographic technique, a fair analytical chemist, a microscopist, and general handicraftsman, should be degraded to the office of a mere superintendent cook? It is a dreadful thought!”
“I didn’t understand that he was a man of so many talents and accomplishments,” I said apologetically.
“He is a most remarkable man,” said Thorndyke, “and I take it as a great condescension that he is willing to prepare my meals. It is his own choice--an expression of personal devotion. He doesn’t like me to take my food at restaurants or clubs. And, of course, he does it well because he is incapable of doing anything otherwise than well. You must come up and see the laboratories and workshop after dinner.”
We went up when we had finished our meal and discovered Polton in the act of cutting transverse sections of hairs and mounting them to add to the great collection of microscopic objects that Thorndyke had accumulated. He left this occupation to show me the great standing camera for copying, enlarging, reducing and microphotography, to demonstrate the capabilities of a fine back-geared lathe and to exhibit the elaborate outfit for analysis and assay work.
“I had no idea,” said I, as we returned to the sitting-room, “that medico-legal practice involved the use of all these complicated appliances.”
“The truth is,” Thorndyke replied, “that Medical Jurisprudence is not a single subject, concerned with one order of knowledge. It represents the application of every kind of knowledge to the solution of an infinite variety of legal problems. And that reminds me that I haven’t yet looked through Anstey’s abstract of the evidence at the inquest, which I saw that he had left for me. Shall we go through it now? It won’t take us very long. Then we can have a stroll round the Temple or on the Embankment before we turn in.”
“You are coming down to Rochester to-morrow?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “The facts concerning Nicholas Frood will have to be communicated to the coroner; and it is possible that some other points may arise.”
“Now that Frood is definitely out of the picture,” said I, “do you see any possibility of solving the mystery of this crime? I mean as to the identity of the guilty parties?”
He reflected awhile. “I am inclined to think,” he replied, at length, “that I may be able to offer a suggestion. But, of course, I have not yet seen the remains.”
“There isn’t much to be gleaned from them, I am afraid,” said I.
“Perhaps not,” he answered. “But we shall be able to judge better when we have read the evidence of the medical witness.”
“He wasn’t able to offer any opinion as to the cause of death,” I said.
“Then,” he replied, “we may take it that there are no obvious signs. However, it is useless to speculate. We must suspend our judgment until to-morrow”; and with this he opened Anstey’s summary, and read through it rapidly, asking me a question now and again to amplify some point. When he had finished the abstract--which appeared to be very brief and condensed--he put it in his pocket and suggested that we should start for our proposed walk; and, though I made one or two attempts to reopen the subject of the inquiry, he was not to be drawn into any further statements. Apparently there was some point that he hoped to clear up by personal observation, and meanwhile he held his judgment in suspense.
