THE MYSTERY OF
ANGELINA FROOD
BY
R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
Author of “The Singing Bone,” “The Blue Scarab,”
“The Red Thumb Mark,” etc.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1925
[COPYRIGHT]
Copyright, 1925,
By DR. R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
CONTENTS
I. The Doper’s Wife
II. Re-enter “Mr. Johnson”
III. Angelina Frood
IV. Deals with Charity and Archæology
V. John Thorndyke
VI. The Shadows Deepen
VII. Mrs. Gillow Sounds the Alarm
VIII. Sergeant Cobbledick Takes a Hand
IX. Jetsam
X. Which Deals with Ancient Monuments and a Blue Boar
XI. The Man with the Mole
XII. The Prints of a Vanished Hand
XIII. The Discovery in Black Boy-Lane
XIV. Sergeant Cobbledick is Enlightened
XV. The End of the Trail
XVI. The Inquiry and a Surprise
XVII. Thorndyke Puts Down His Piece
XVIII. The Uncontrite Penitent
XIX. Explanations
THE MYSTERY OF
ANGELINA FROOD
CHAPTER I.
THE DOPER’S WIFE
It takes a good deal to surprise a really seasoned medical
practitioner, and still more to arouse in him an abiding curiosity.
But at the time when I took charge of Dr. Pumphrey’s practice in
Osnaburgh-street, Regent’s Park, I was far from being a seasoned
practitioner, having, in fact, been qualified little more than a year,
in which short period I had not yet developed the professional
immunity from either of the above mental states. Hence the singular
experience which I am about to relate not only made a deep impression
on me at the time, but remained with me for long after as a matter of
curious speculation.
It was close upon midnight, indeed an adjacent church clock had
already struck the third quarter, when I laid aside my book and yawned
profoundly, without prejudice to the author who had kept me so long
from my bed. Then I rose and stretched myself, and was in the act of
knocking the long-extinct ashes out of my pipe when the bell rang. As
the servants had gone to bed, I went out to the door, congratulating
myself on having stayed up beyond my usual bedtime, but wishing the
visitor at the devil all the same. The opening of the door gave me a
view of a wet street with a drizzle of rain falling, a large closed
car by the kerb, and a tallish man on the doorstep, apparently about
to renew his attack on the bell.
“Dr. Pumphrey?” he asked; and by that token I gathered that he was a
stranger.
“No,” I answered; “he is out of town, but I am looking after his
practice.”
“Very well,” he said, somewhat brusquely. “I want you to come and see
a lady who has been suddenly taken ill. She has had a rather severe
shock.”
“Do you mean a mental or a physical shock?” I asked.
“Well, I should say mental,” he replied, but so inconclusively that I
pressed him for more definite particulars.
“Has she sustained any injuries?” I inquired.
“No,” he answered, but still indecisively. “No; that is, so far as I
know. I think not.”
“No wound, for instance?”
“No,” he replied, promptly and very definitely; from which I was
disposed to suspect that there was an injury of some other kind. But
it was of no use guessing. I hurried back into the surgery, and,
having snatched up the emergency bag and my stethoscope, rejoined my
visitor, who forthwith hustled me into the car. The door slammed, and
the vehicle moved off with the silent, easy motion of a powerful
engine.
We started towards Marylebone-road and swept round into Albany-street,
but after that I lost my bearings: for the fine rain had settled on
the windows so that it was difficult to see through them, and I was
not very familiar with the neighbourhood. It seemed quite a short
journey, but a big car is very deceptive as to distance. At any rate,
it occupied but a few minutes, and during that time my companion and I
exchanged hardly a word. As the car slowed down I asked:
“What is this lady’s name?”
“Her name,” he replied, in a somewhat hesitating manner, “is--she is a
Mrs. Johnson.”
The manner of the reply suggested a not very intimate acquaintance,
which seemed odd under the circumstances, and I reflected on it
rapidly as I got out of the car and followed my conductor. We seemed
to be in a quiet bystreet of the better class, but it was very dark,
and I had but a glimpse as I stepped from the car to the gate of the
house. Of the latter, all that I was able to note was that it appeared
to be of a decent, rather old-fashioned type, standing behind a small
front garden, that the windows were fitted with jalousie shutters, and
that the number on the door was 43.
As we ascended the steps the door opened, and a woman was dimly
discernible behind it. A lighted candle was on the hall table, and
this my conductor picked up, requesting me to follow him up the
stairs. When we arrived at the first floor landing, he halted and
indicated a door which was slightly ajar.
“That is the room,” said he; and with that he turned and retired down
the stairs.
I stood for a few moments on the dark landing, deeply impressed by the
oddity of the whole affair, and sensible of a growing suspicion, which
was not lessened when, by the thin line of light from within the room,
I observed on the door-jamb one or two bruises as if the door had been
forced from without. However, this was none of my business, and thus
reflecting, I was about to knock at the door when four fingers
appeared round the edge of it and drew it further open, and a man’s
head became visible in the opening.
The fingers and the head were alike such as instantly to rivet the
attention of a doctor. The former were of the kind known as “clubbed
fingers,” fingers with bulbous ends, of which the nails curved over
like nut-shells. The head, in form like a great William pear,
presented a long, coffin-shaped face with high cheek-bones, deep-set
eyes with narrow, slanting eye-slits, and a lofty, square forehead
surmounted by a most singular mop of mouse-coloured hair which stood
straight up like the fur of a mole.
“I am the doctor,” said I, having taken in these particulars in an
instantaneous glance, and having further noted that the man’s eyes
were reddened and wet. He made no reply, but drew the door open and
retired, whereupon I entered the room, closing the door behind me, and
thereby becoming aware that there was something amiss with the latch.
The room was a bed-room, and on the bed lay a woman, fully clothed,
and apparently in evening dress, though the upper part of her person
was concealed by a cloak which was drawn up to her chin. She was a
young woman--about twenty-eight, I judged--comely, and, in fact,
rather handsome, but deadly pale. She was not, however, unconscious,
for she looked at me listlessly, though with a certain attention. In
some slight embarrassment, I approached the bed, and, as the man had
subsided into a chair in a corner of the room, I addressed myself to
the patient.
“Good evening, Mrs. Johnson. I am sorry to see you looking so ill.
What is the matter? I understand that you have had some kind of
shock.”
As I addressed her, I seemed to detect a faint expression of surprise,
but she replied at once, in a weak voice that was little more than a
whisper: “Yes. I have had rather an upset. That is all. They need not
really have troubled you.”
“Well, you don’t look very flourishing,” said I, taking the wrist that
was uncovered by her mantle, “and your hand is as cold as a fish.”
I felt her pulse, checking it by my watch, and meanwhile looking her
over critically. And not her alone. For on the wall opposite me was a
mirror in which, by a little judicious adjustment of position, I was
able to observe the other occupant of the room while keeping my back
towards him; and what I observed was that he was sitting with his
elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands.
“Might one inquire,” I asked, as I put away my watch, “what kind of
shock it is that you are suffering from?”
The faintest trace of a smile stole across her pale face as she
answered: “That isn’t really a medical question, Doctor, is it?”
“Perhaps it isn’t,” I replied, though, of course, it was. But I
thought it best to waive the question, as there seemed to be some
reservation; and, noting this latter fact, I again considered her
attentively. Whatever her condition was, and whatever it might be due
to, I had to form my opinion unassisted, for I could see that no
information would be furnished; and the question that I had to settle
was whether her state was purely mental, or whether it was complicated
by any kind of physical injury. The waxen pallor of her face made me
uneasy, and I found it difficult to interpret the expression of the
set features. Some strong emotion had left its traces; but whether
that emotion was grief, horror, or fear, or whether the expression
denoted bodily pain, I could not determine. She had closed her eyes,
and her face was like a death mask, save that it lacked the serenity
of a dead face.
“Are you in any pain?” I asked, with my fingers still on the thready
pulse. But she merely shook her head wearily, without opening her
eyes.
It was very unsatisfactory. Her appearance was consistent with all
kinds of unpleasant possibilities, as was also the strange atmosphere
of secrecy about the whole affair. Nor was the attitude of that
ill-favoured man whom I could see in the glass, still sitting hunched
up with his face buried in his hands, at all reassuring. And gradually
my attention began to focus itself upon the cloak which covered the
woman’s body and was drawn around her neck up to her chin. Did that
cloak conceal anything? It seemed incredible, seeing that they had
sent for a doctor. But the behaviour of everybody concerned was
incredibly irrational. I produced my stethoscope, which was fitted
with a diaphragm that enabled one to hear through the clothing, and,
drawing the cloak partly aside, applied the chest-piece over the
heart. On this the patient opened her eyes and made a movement of her
hand towards the upper part of the cloak. I listened carefully to her
heart--which was organically sound, though a good deal disordered in
action--and moved the stethoscope once or twice, drawing aside the
cloak by degrees. Finally, with a somewhat quick movement, I turned it
back completely.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “what on earth have you been doing to your neck?”
“That mark?” she said in a half-whisper. “It is nothing. It was made
by a gold collar that I wore yesterday. It was rather tight.”
“I see,” said I--truthfully enough; for the explanation of her
condition was now pretty clear up to a certain point. Of course, I did
not believe her. I did not suppose that she expected me to. But it was
evidently useless to dispute her statement or make any comment. The
mark upon her neck was a livid bruise made by some cord or band that
had been drawn tight with considerable force; and it was not more than
an hour old. How or by whom the injury had been inflicted was not, in
a medical sense, my concern. But I was by no means clear that I had
not some responsibilities in the case other than the professional
ones.
At this moment the man in the corner uttered a deep groan and
exclaimed in low, intense tones, “My God! My God!” Then, to my extreme
embarrassment, he began to sob audibly.
It was excessively uncomfortable. I looked from the woman--into whose
ghastly face an expression of something like disgust and contempt had
stolen--to the huddled figure in the glass. And as I looked, the man
plunged one hand into his pocket and dragged out a handkerchief,
bringing with it a little paper packet that fell to the floor.
Something in the appearance of that packet, and especially in the
hasty grab to recover it and the quick, furtive glance towards me that
accompanied the action, made a new and sinister suggestion--a
suggestion that the man’s emotional, almost hysterical state
supported, and that lent a certain unpleasant congruity to the
otherwise inexplicable circumstances. That packet, I had little doubt,
contained cocaine. The question was how did that fact--if it were a
fact--bear on my patient’s condition.
I inspected her afresh, and felt her pulse again. In the man’s case
the appearances were distinctive enough. His nerves were in rags, and
even across the room I could see that the hand that held the
handkerchief shook as if with a palsy. But in the woman’s condition
there was no positive suggestion of drugs; and something in her
face--a strong, resolute face despite its expression of suffering--and
her quiet, composed manner when she spoke, seemed to exclude the idea.
However, there was no use in speculating. I had got all the
information I was likely to get, and all that remained for me to do
was to administer such treatment as my imperfect understanding of the
case indicated. Accordingly I opened my emergency bag, and, taking out
a couple of little bottles and a measure-glass, went over to the
washstand and mixed a draught in the tumbler, diluting it from the
water-bottle.
In crossing the room, I passed the fire-place, where, on and above the
mantelpiece, I observed a number of signed photographs, apparently of
actors and actresses, including two of my patient, both of which were
in character costume and unsigned. From which it seemed probable that
my patient was an actress; a probability that was strengthened by the
hour at which I had been summoned and by certain other appearances in
the room with which Dr. Pumphrey’s largely theatrical practice had
made me familiar. But, as my patient would have remarked, this was not
a medical question.
“Now, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, when I had prepared the draught--and as I
spoke she opened her eyes and looked at me with a slightly puzzled
expression--“I want you to drink this.”
She allowed me to sit her up enough to enable her to swallow the
draught; and as her head was raised, I took the opportunity to glance
at the back of her neck, where I thought I could distinctly trace the
crossing of the cord or band that had been drawn round it. She sank
back with a sigh, but remained with her eyes open, looking at me as I
repacked my bag.
“I shall send you some medicine,” I said, “which you must take
regularly. It is unnecessary for me to say,” I added, addressing the
man, “that Mrs. Johnson must be kept very quiet, and in no way
agitated.”
He bowed, but made no reply; and I then took my leave.
“Good night, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, shaking her cold hand gently. “I
hope you will be very much better in an hour or two. I think you will
if you keep quite quiet and take your medicine.”
She thanked me in a few softly spoken words and with a very sweet
smile, of which the sad wistfulness went to my heart. I was loath to
leave her, in her weak and helpless state, to the care of her
unprepossessing companion, encompassed by I knew not what perils. But
I was only a passing stranger, and could do no more than my
professional office.
As I approached the door--with an inquisitive eye on its disordered
lock and loosened striking-box--the man rose, and made as if to let me
out. I wished him good-night, and he returned the salutation in a
pleasant voice, and with a distinctly refined accent, quite out of
character with his uncouth appearance. Feeling my way down the dark
staircase, I presently encountered my first acquaintance, who came to
the foot of the stairs with the candle.
“Well,” he said, in his brusque way, “how is she?”
“She is very weak and shaken,” I replied. “I want to send her some
medicine. Shall I take the address, or are you driving me back?”
“I will take you back in the car,” said he, “and you can give me the
medicine.”
The car was waiting at the gate, and we went out together. As I turned
to close the gate after me, I cast a quick glance at the house and its
surroundings, searching for some distinctive feature in case
recognition of the place should be necessary later. But it was a dark
night, though the rain had now ceased, and I could see no more than
that the adjoining house seemed to have a sort of corner turret,
crowned with a small cupola, and surmounted by a weather-vane.
During the short journey home not a word was spoken, and when the car
drew up at Dr. Pumphrey’s door and I let myself in with the key, my
companion silently followed me in. I prepared the medicine at once,
and handed it to him with a few brief instructions. He took it from
me, and then asked what my fee was.
“Do I understand that I am not required to continue the attendance?” I
asked.
“They will send for you, I suppose, if they want you,” he replied.
“But I had better pay your fee for this visit as I came for you.”
I named the fee, and, when he had paid it, I said: “You understand
that she will require very careful and tender treatment while she is
so weak?”
“I do,” he answered; “but I am not a member of the household. Did you
make it clear to Mr. ---- her husband?”
I noted the significant hesitation, and replied:
“I told him, but as to making it clear to him, I can’t say. His mental
condition was none of the most lucid. I hope she has someone more
responsible to look after her.”
“She has,” he replied; and then he asked: “You don’t think she is in
any danger, I hope?”
“In a medical sense,” I answered, “I think not. In other respects you
know better than I do.”
He gave me a quick look, and nodded slightly. Then, with a curt
“good-night,” he turned and went out to the car.
When he was gone, I made a brief record of the visit in the day-book,
and entered the fee in the cash column. In the case of the experienced
Dr. Pumphrey, this would have been the end of the transaction. But,
new as I was to medical practice, I was unable to take this
matter-of-fact view of its incidents. My mind still surged with
surprise, curiosity, and a deep concern for my fair patient. Filling
my pipe, I sat down before the gas fire to think over the mystery to
which I had suddenly become a party.
What was it that had happened in that house? Obviously, something
scandalous and sinister. The secrecy alone made that manifest. Not
only had the whereabouts of the house been withheld from me, but a
false name had been given. I realized that when my late visitor
stumbled over the name and substituted “her husband.” He had forgotten
what name it was that he had given on the spur of the moment. I
understood, too, the look of surprise that my patient had given when I
addressed her by that false name. Clearly, something had happened
which had to be hushed up if possible.
What was it? The elements of the problem, and the material for solving
it, were the mark on the woman’s neck, the condition of the door, and
a packet which I felt morally certain contained cocaine. I considered
these three factors separately and together.
The mark on the neck was quite recent. Its character was unmistakable.
A cord or band had been drawn tight and with considerable violence,
either by the woman herself, or by some other person: that is to say,
it was a case either of attempted suicide or attempted murder. To
which of these alternatives did the circumstances point?
There was the door. It had been broken in, and had therefore been
locked on the inside. That was consistent with suicide, but not
inconsistent with murder. Then, by whom had it been broken in? By a
murderer to get at his victim? Or by a rescuer? And if the latter, was
it to avert suicide or murder?
Again, there was the drug--assumed, but almost certain. What was the
bearing of that? Could these three persons be a party of “dopers,” and
the tragedy the outcome of an orgy of drug-taking? I rejected this
possibility at once. It was not consistent with the patient’s
condition nor with her appearance or manner; and the man who had
fetched me and brought me back was a robust, sane-looking man who
seemed quite beyond suspicion.
I next considered the persons. There were three of them: two men and a
woman. Of the men, one was a virile, fairly good-looking man of
perhaps forty; the other--the husband--was conspicuously
unprepossessing, physically degenerate and mentally, as I judged, a
hysterical poltroon. Here there seemed to be the making of trouble,
especially when one considered the personal attractiveness of the
woman.
I recalled her appearance very vividly. A handsome woman, not,
perhaps, actually beautiful--though she might have been that if the
roses of youth and health had bloomed in those cheeks that I had seen
blanched with that ghastly pallor. But apart from mere comeliness,
there was a suggestion of a pleasing, gracious personality. I don’t
know how it had been conveyed to me, excepting by the smile with which
she had thanked me and bidden me farewell: a smile that had imparted a
singular sweetness to her face. But I had received that impression,
and also that she was a woman of decided character and intelligence.
Her appearance was rather striking. She had a great mass of dark hair,
parted in the middle, and drawn down over the temples, nearly covering
the ears; darkish grey eyes, and unusually strong, black, level
eyebrows, that almost met above the straight, shapely nose. Perhaps it
was those eyebrows that gave the strength and intensity to her
expression, aided by the compressed lips--though this was probably a
passing condition due to her mental state.
My cogitations were prolonged well into the small hours, but they led
to nothing but an open verdict. At length I rose with a slight shiver,
and, dismissing the topic from my mind, crept up to bed.
But both the persons and the incident refused to accept their
dismissal. For many days afterwards I was haunted by two faces; the
one, ugly, coffin-shaped, surmounted by a shock of soft, furry,
mouse-coloured hair; the other, sweet, appealing, mutely eloquent of
tragedy and sorrow. Of course, I received no further summons; and the
whereabouts of the house of mystery remained a secret until almost the
end of my stay in Osnaburgh-street. Indeed, it was on the very day
before Dr. Pumphrey’s return that I made the discovery.
I had been making a visit to a patient who lived near Regent’s Park,
and on my way back had taken what I assumed to be a short cut. This
led me into a quiet, old fashioned residential street, of which the
houses stood back behind small front gardens. As I walked along the
street I seemed to be aware of a faint sense of familiarity which
caused me to observe the houses with more than usual attention.
Presently I observed a little way ahead on the opposite side a house
with a corner turret topped by a cupola, which bore above it a
weather-vane. I crossed the road as I approached it, and looked
eagerly at the next house. Its identity was unmistakable. My attention
was immediately attracted by the jalousies with which the windows were
fitted, and on looking at the front door I observed that the number
was forty-three.
This, then, was the house of mystery, perhaps of crime. But whatever
that tragedy had been, its actors were there no longer. The windows
were curtainless and blank; an air of Spring-cleaning and preparation
pervaded the premises, and a bill on a little notice-board announced a
furnished house to let, and invited inquiries. For a moment, I was
tempted to accept that invitation. But I was restrained by a feeling
that it would be in a way a breach of confidence. The names of those
persons had been purposely withheld from me, doubtless for excellent
reasons, and professional ethics seemed to forbid any unauthorized
pryings into their private affairs. Wherefore, with a valedictory
glance at the first-floor window, which I assumed to be that of the
room that I had entered, I went on my way, telling myself that, now,
the incident was really closed, and that I had looked my last on the
persons who had enacted their parts in it.
In which, however, I was mistaken. The curtain was down on the first
act, but the play was not over. Only the succeeding acts were yet in
the unfathomed future. “Coming events cast their shadows before them”;
but who can interpret those shadows, until the shapes which cast them
loom up, plain and palpable, to mock at their own unheeded
premonitions?