ANGELINA FROOD
Punctually at half-past six I presented myself at the office of
Messrs. Japp and Bundy. The senior partner was seated at a
writing-table covered with legal-looking documents, and, as I entered,
he looked up with a genial, wrinkly smile of recognition, and then
turned to his junior.
“You’ve got Dr. Strangeways’s agreement ready, haven’t you, Bundy?” he
asked.
“Just finished it five minutes ago,” was the reply. “Here you are.”
Bundy swung round on his stool and held out the two copies. “Would you
mind going through it with Dr. Strangeways?” said Japp. “And then you
might go with him to Mrs. Frood’s and witness the signatures. I told
her you were coming.”
Bundy pulled out his watch, and glared at it through his great
spectacles.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I’m afraid I can’t. There’s old Baldwin, you
know. I’ve got to be there at a quarter to seven.”
“So you have,” said Japp, “I had forgotten that. You had better be off
now. I’ll see to Dr. Strangeways, if he isn’t in a hurry for a minute
or two.”
“I’m not in a hurry at all,” said I. “Don’t put yourself out for me.”
“Well, if you really are not,” said Japp, “I’ll just finish what I am
doing, and then I’ll run in with you and get the agreement completed.
You might look through it while you are waiting and see that it is all
in order.”
Bundy handed me the agreement, and, as I sat down to study it, he
removed his spectacles, stuck his eye-glass in his eye, hopped off his
perch, brought forth his hat, gloves, and stick, and, having presented
his teeth for my inspection, took his departure.
I read through the agreement carefully to ascertain that it embodied
the terms agreed on verbally and compared the two copies. Then, while
Mr. Japp continued to turn over the leaves of his documents, I let my
thoughts stray from the trim, orderly office to the house of mystery
in London and the strange events that had befallen there on that rainy
night more than a year ago. Once more I called up before the eyes of
memory the face of my mysterious patient, sweet and gracious in spite
of its deathly pallor. Many a time, in the months that had passed, had
I recalled it: so often that it seemed, in a way, to have become
familiar. In a few minutes I was going to look upon that face
again--for there could be no reasonable doubt that my prospective
landlady was she. I looked forward expectantly, almost with
excitement, to the meeting. Would she recognize me? I wondered. And if
she did not, should I make myself known? This was a difficult
question, and I had come to no decision upon it when I was aroused
from my reverie by a movement on the part of Mr. Japp, whose labours
had apparently come to an end. Folding up the documents and securing
them in little bundles with red tape, he deposited them in a cupboard
with his notes, and from the same receptacle took out his hat.
“Now,” said he, “if you find the agreement in order, we will proceed
to execute it. Are you going to pay the premium now?”
“I have my cheque-book with me,” I replied. “When we have signed the
agreement, I will settle up for everything.”
“Thank you,” said he. “I have prepared a receipt which is,
practically, an assignment of the furniture and effects and of all
rights in the practice.”
He held the door open and I passed out. We descended the steps, and
passing the central door common to the two houses, ascended to that of
the adjoining house, where Mr. Japp executed a flourish on a handsome
brass knocker. In a few moments the door was opened by a woman whom I
could not see very distinctly in the dim hall, especially as she
turned about and retired up the stairs. Mr. Japp advanced to the door
of the front room and rapped with his knuckles, whereupon a high,
clear, feminine voice bade him come in. He accordingly entered, and I
followed.
The first glance disposed of any doubts that I might have had. The
lady who stood up to receive us was unquestionably my late patient,
though she looked taller than I had expected. But it was the
well-remembered face, less changed, indeed, than I could have wished,
for it was still pale, drawn, and weary, as I could see plainly enough
in spite of the rather dim light; for, although it was not yet quite
dark, the curtains were drawn and a lamp lighted on a small table,
beside which was a low easy-chair, on which some needlework had been
thrown down.
Mr. Japp introduced me to my future landlady, who bowed, and having
invited us to be seated, took up her needlework and sat down in the
easy-chair.
“You are not looking quite up to the mark,” Japp observed, regarding
her critically, as he turned over the papers.
“No,” she admitted, “I think I am a little run down.”
“H’m,” said Japp. “Oughtn’t to get run down at your age. Why, you are
only just wound up. However, you’ve got a doctor for a tenant, so you
will be able to take out some of the rent in medical advice. Let me
see, I told you what the terms of the agreement were, but you had
better look through it before you sign.”
He handed her one of the documents, which she took from him, and,
dropping her needlework in her lap, leaned back in her chair to read
it. Meanwhile, I examined her with a good deal of interest and
curiosity, wondering how she had fared and what had happened to her in
the months that had elapsed since I had last seen her. The light was
not very favourable for a minute inspection, for the lamp on the table
was the sole luminary, and that was covered by a red silk shade. But I
was confirmed in my original impression of her. She was more than
ordinarily good-looking, and rather striking in appearance, and I
judged that under happier conditions she might have appeared even more
attractive. As it was, the formally parted dark hair, the strongly
marked, straight eyebrows, the firm mouth, rather compressed and a
little drawn down at the corners, and the pale complexion imparted to
her face a character that was somewhat intense, sombre, and even
troubled. But, for this I could fully account from my knowledge of her
circumstances, and I was conscious of looking on her with a very
sympathetic and friendly eye.
“This is quite satisfactory to me,” she said at length, in the clear,
high-pitched voice to which Bundy had objected, “and if it is equally
so to Dr. Strangeways, I suppose I had better sign.”
She laid the paper on the table, and, taking the fountain-pen that
Japp proffered, signed her name, Angelina Frood, in a bold, legible
hand, and then returned the pen to its owner; who forthwith affixed
his signature as witness and spread out the duplicate for me to sign.
When this also was completed, he handed me the copy signed by Mrs.
Frood and the receipt for the premium, and I drew a cheque for the
amount and delivered it to him.
“Many thanks,” said he, slipping it into a wallet and pocketing it.
“That concludes our business and puts you finally in possession. I
wish you every success in your practice. By the way, I mentioned to
Mrs. Frood that you had seen her husband and that you know how she is
placed; and she agreed with me that it was best that you should
understand the position in case you should meet him again.”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Frood agreed. “There is no use in trying to make a
secret of it. He came down with you from London, Mr. Japp tells me.”
“Not from London,” said I. “He got in at Dartford.”
Here Mr. Japp rose and stole towards the door. “Don’t let me interrupt
you,” said he, “but I must get back to the office and hear what Bundy
has to report. Don’t get up. I can let myself out.”
He made his exit quietly, shutting the door after him, and as soon as
he was gone Mrs. Frood asked:
“Do you mean that he changed into your train at Dartford?”
“No,” I answered. “I think he came to Dartford on foot. He looked
tired and his boots were covered with white dust.”
“You are very observant, Dr. Strangeways,” she said. “I wonder what
made you notice him so particularly?”
“He is rather a noticeable man,” I said, and then, deciding that it
was better to be quite frank, I added: “But the fact is I had seen him
before.”
“Indeed!” said she. “Would you think me very inquisitive if I asked
where you had seen him?”
“Not at all,” I answered. “It was a little more than a year ago, about
twelve o’clock at night, in a house near Regent’s Park, to which I was
taken in a closed car to see a lady.”
As I spoke she dropped her needlework and sat up, gazing at me with a
startled and rather puzzled expression. “But,” she said, “you are not
the doctor who came to see me that night?”
“I am, indeed,” said I.
“Now,” she exclaimed, “isn’t that an extraordinary thing? I had a
feeling that I had seen you somewhere before. I seemed to recognize
your voice. But you don’t look the same. Hadn’t you a beard then?”
“Yes, I am but the shaven and shorn remnant of my former self, but I
am your late medical attendant.”
She looked at me with an odd, reflective, questioning expression, but
without making any further comment. Presently she said:
“You were very kind and sympathetic though you were so quiet. I wonder
what you thought of it all.”
“I hadn’t much to go on beyond the medical facts,” I replied
evasively.
“Oh, you needn’t be so cautious,” said she, “now that the cat is out
of the bag.”
“Well,” I said, “it was pretty obvious that there had been trouble of
some kind. The door had been broken open, there was one man in a state
of hysterics, another man considerably upset and rather angry, and a
woman with the mark on her neck of a cord or band----”
“It was a knitted silk neck-tie, to be accurate. But you put the
matter in a nut-shell very neatly; and I see that you diagnosed what
novelists call ‘the eternal triangle.’ And to a certain extent you
were right; only the triangle was imaginary. If you don’t mind, I will
tell you just what did happen. The gentleman who came for you was a
Mr. Fordyce, the lessee of one or two provincial theatres--I was on
the stage then; but perhaps you guessed that.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Well, Mr. Fordyce had an idea of producing a play at one of his
houses, and was going to give me a leading part. He had been to our
house once or twice to talk the matter over with Nicholas (my husband)
and me, and we were more or less friendly. He was quite a nice, sober
kind of man, and perfectly proper and respectful. On this night he had
been at the theatre where I had an engagement, and, as it was a wet
night, he drove me home in his car, and was coming in to have a few
words with us about our business. He wanted to see a photograph of me
in a particular costume, and when we arrived home I ran upstairs to
fetch it. There I found Nicholas, who had seen our arrival from the
window, and was in a state of furious jealousy. Directly I entered the
room, he locked the door and flew at me like a wild beast. As to what
followed, I think you know as much as I do, for I fainted, and when I
recovered Nicholas was sobbing in a corner, and Mr. Fordyce was
standing by the door, looking as black as thunder.”
“Had your husband been jealous of Mr. Fordyce previously?”
“Not a bit. But on this occasion he was in a very queer state. I think
he had been drinking, and taking some other things that were bad for
him----”
“Such as cocaine,” I suggested.
“Yes. But, dear me! What a very noticing person you are, Dr.
Strangeways! But you are quite right. It was the cocaine that was the
cause of the trouble. He was always a difficult man; emotional,
excitable, eccentric, and not very temperate, but after he had
acquired the drug habit he went to the bad completely. He became
slovenly, and even dirty in his person, frightfully emotional, and
gave up work of all kind, so that but for my tiny income and my small
earnings we should have starved.”
“So you actually supported him?”
“Latterly I did. And I daresay, if I had remained on the stage, we
should have done fairly well, as I was supposed to have some talent,
though I didn’t like the life. But, of course, after this affair, I
didn’t dare to live with him. He wasn’t safe. I should have been
constantly in fear of my life.”
“Had he ever been violent before?”
“Not seriously. He had often threatened horrible things, and I had
looked on his threats as mere vapourings, but this was a different
affair. I must have had a really narrow escape. So the very next day,
I went into lodgings. But that didn’t answer. He wouldn’t agree to the
separation, and was continually dogging me and making a disturbance.
In the end, I had to give up my engagement and go off, leaving no
address.”
“I suppose you went back to your people?”
“No,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t any people. My
mother died when I was quite a child, and I lost my father when I was
about seventeen. He died on the Gold Coast, where he held an
appointment as District Commissioner.”
“Ah,” said I, “I thought you were in some way connected with West
Africa. I noticed the zodiac ring on your finger when you were signing
the agreement. When I was newly qualified I took a trip down the West
Coast as a ship’s surgeon, and bought one of those rings at Cape
Coast.”
“They are quaint little things, aren’t they?” she remarked, slipping
the ring off her finger and handing it to me. “I don’t often wear it,
though. It is rather clumsy, and it doesn’t fit very well; and I don’t
care much for rings.”
I turned the little trinket over in my hand and examined it with
reminiscent interest. It was a roughly wrought band of yellow native
gold, with the conventional signs of the zodiac worked round it in
raised figures. Inside I noticed that the letters A. C. had been
engraved.
“It was given to you before you were married, I presume,” said I, as I
returned it to her.
“Yes,” she replied, “those are the initials of my maiden
name--Angelina Carthew.” She took the ring from me, but instead of
replacing it on her finger, dropped it into a little pouch-like purse
with metal jaws, which she had taken from her pocket.
“Your position is a very disagreeable one,” said I, reverting to the
main topic. “I wonder that you haven’t applied for a judicial
separation. There are ample grounds for making the application.”
“I suppose there are. But it wouldn’t help me really, even if it were
granted. I shouldn’t get rid of him.”
“You could apply to the police if he molested you.”
“No doubt. But that doesn’t sound very restful, does it?”
“I am afraid it doesn’t. But it would be better than being constantly
molested without having any remedy or refuge.”
“Perhaps it would,” she agreed doubtfully, and then, with a faint
smile, she added: “I suppose you are wondering what on earth made me
marry him?”
“Well,” I replied, “it appears to me that his good fortune was more
remarkable than his personal attractions.”
“He wasn’t always like he is now,” said she. “I married him nearly ten
years ago, and he was fairly presentable then. His manners were quite
nice and he had certain accomplishments that rather appealed to a
young girl--I was only eighteen and rather impressionable. He was then
getting a living by writing magazine stories--love stories, they were,
of a highly emotional type--and occasional verses. They were
second-rate stuff, really, but to me he seemed a budding genius. It
was not until after we were married that the disillusionment came, and
then only gradually as his bad habits developed.”
“By the way, what do you suppose he has come down here for? What does
he want? I suppose he wishes you to go back to him?”
“I suppose he does. But, primarily, I expect he wants money. It is a
horrible position,” she added, with sudden passion. “I hate the idea
of hiding away from him when I suspect that the poor wretch has come
down to his last few shillings. After all, he is my husband; and I am
not so deadly poor now.”
“He seemed to have the wherewith to provide a fair supply of tobacco,
to say nothing of the cocaine and a ‘modest quencher’ at the tavern,”
I remarked drily. “At any rate, I hope he won’t succeed in finding out
where you live.”
“I hope not,” said she. “If he does, I shall have to move on, as I
have had to do several times already, and I don’t want to do that. I
have only been here a little over two months, and it has been very
pleasant and peaceful. But you see, Dr. Strangeways, that, if I am to
follow Mr. Japp’s advice, I shall inflict on you a very unpromising
patient. There is no medical treatment for matrimonial troubles.”
“No,” I agreed, rising and taking up my hat, “but the physical effects
may be dealt with. If I am appointed your medical advisor, I shall
send you a tonic, and if I may look in now and again to see how you
are getting on, I may be able to help you over some of your
difficulties.”
“It is very kind of you,” she said, rising and shaking my hand warmly;
and, accepting my suggestion that she had better not come to the
street door, she showed me out into the hall and dismissed me with a
smile and a little bow.
When I reached the bottom of the steps, I stood irresolutely for a few
moments and then, instead of making my way homeward, turned up the
street towards the cathedral and the bridge, walking slowly and
reflecting profoundly on the story I had just heard. It was a pitiful
story; and the quiet, restrained manner of the telling made it the
more impressive. All that was masculine in me rose in revolt against
the useless, inexcusable wrecking of this poor woman’s life. As to the
man, he was, no doubt, to be pitied for being the miserable,
degenerate wretch that he was. But he was doomed beyond any hope of
salvation. Such wretches as he are condemned in the moment of their
birth; they are born to an inheritance of misery and dishonour. But it
is infamous that in their inevitable descent into the abyss--from
which no one can save them--they should have the power to drag down
with them sane and healthy human beings who were destined by nature to
a life of happiness, of usefulness, and honour. I thought of the woman
I had just left--comely, dignified, energetic, probably even talented.
What was her future to be? So far as I could see, the upas shadow of
this drug-sodden wastrel had fallen upon her, never to be lifted until
merciful death should dissolve the ill-omened union.
This last reflection gave my thoughts a new turn. What was this man’s
purpose in pursuing her? Was he bent merely on extorting money or on
sharing her modest income? Or was there some more sinister motive? I
recalled his face; an evil, sly, vindictive face. I considered what I
knew of him; that he had undoubtedly made one attempt to murder this
woman, and that, to my knowledge, he carried about his person the
means of committing murder. For what purpose could he have provided
himself with that formidable weapon? It might be merely as a means of
coercion, or it might be as a means of revenge.
Thus meditating, I had proceeded some distance along the street when I
observed, on the opposite side, an old, three-gabled house which
looked like some kind of institution. A lamp above the doorway threw
its light on a stone tablet on which I could see an inscription of
some length, and, judging this to be an ancient almshouse, I crossed
the road to inspect it more closely. A glance at the tablet told me
that this was the famous rest-house established in the sixteenth
century by worthy Richard Watts, to give a night’s lodging and
entertainment to six poor travellers, with the express proviso that
the said travellers must be neither rogues nor proctors. I had read
through the quaint inscription and was speculating, as many others
have speculated, on the nature of Richard Watts’s grievance against
proctors as a class, when the door opened suddenly and a man rushed
out with such impetuosity that he nearly collided with me. I had moved
out of his way when he halted and addressed me excitedly.
“I say, governor, can you tell me where I can find a doctor?”
“You have found one,” I replied. “I am a doctor. What is the matter?”
“There’s a bloke in here throwing a fit,” he answered, backing into
the doorway and holding the door open for me. I entered, and followed
him down a passage to a largish, barely furnished room, where I found
four men and a woman, who looked like a hospital nurse, standing
around and watching anxiously a man who lay on the floor.
“Here’s a doctor, matron,” said my conductor, as he ushered me in.
“Well, Simmonds,” said the matron, “you haven’t wasted much time.”
“No, mum,” replied Simmonds, “I struck it lucky. Caught him just
outside.”
Meanwhile I had stepped up to the prostrate man, and at the first
glance I recognized him. He was Mrs. Frood’s husband. And, whatever he
might be “throwing,” it was not a fit--in the ordinary medical sense;
that is to say, it was not epilepsy or apoplexy; nor was it a fainting
fit of an orthodox kind. If the patient had been a woman one would
have called it a hysterical seizure, and I could give it no other
name, though I was not unmindful of the paper packet that I had seen
on that former occasion. But the emotional element was obvious. The
man purported to be insensible, and manifestly was not. The tightly
closed eyes, the everted lips--showing a row of blackened teeth--the
clutching movements of the claw-like hands--all were suggestive of at
least half-conscious simulation. I stood for a while, stooping over
him and watching him intently, and as I did so the bystanders watched
me. Then I felt his pulse, and found it, as I had expected, quick,
feeble, and irregular; and finally, producing my stethoscope, listened
to his heart with as little disturbance of his clothing as possible.
“Well, Doctor,” said the matron, “what do you think of him?”
“He is decidedly ill,” I replied. “His heart is rather jumpy, and not
very strong. Too much tobacco, I fancy, and perhaps some other things
that are not very good, and possibly insufficient food.”
“He told me, when he came in,” said the matron, “that he was
practically destitute.”
“Ah,” murmured Simmonds, “I expect he’s been blowing all his money on
Turkish baths,” whereupon the other poor travellers sniggered softly,
and were immediately extinguished by a reproving glance from the
matron.
“Do you know what brought this attack on?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied; “he had a little dispute with Simmonds, here, and
suddenly became violently excited, and then he fell down insensible,
as you see him. It was all about nothing.”
“I jest arsked ’im,” said Simmonds, “if ’e could give me the name of
the cove what done ’is ’air, ’cos I thought I’d like to ’ave mine done
in the same fashionable style. That seemed to give ’im the fair pip.
’E jawed me something chronic, until I got shirty and told ’im if ’e
didn’t shut ’is face I’d give ’im a wipe acrost the snout. Then blow
me if ’e didn’t start to throw a fit.”
While this lucid explanation was proceeding I noticed that the patient
was evidently listening intently, though he continued to twitch his
face, exhibit his unlovely teeth, and wriggle his fingers. He was
apparently waiting for my verdict with some anxiety.
“The question is,” said the matron, “what is to be done with him? Do
you think he is in any danger?”
As she spoke, we drifted towards the door, and when we were in the
passage, out of earshot, I said:
“The best place for that man is the infirmary. There is nothing much
the matter with him but dope. He has been dosing himself with cocaine,
and he has probably got some more of the stuff about him. He is in no
danger now, but if he takes any more he may upset himself badly.”
“It is rather late to send him to the infirmary,” she said, “and I
don’t quite like to do it. Poor fellow, he seems fearfully down on his
luck, and he is quite a superior kind of man. Do you think it would be
safe for him to stay here for the night if he had a little medicine of
some kind?”
“It would be safe enough,” I replied, “if you could get possession of
his coat and waistcoat and lock them up until the morning.”
“Oh, I’ll manage that,” said she; “and about the medicine?”
“Let Simmonds walk up with me--I have taken Dr. Partridge’s
practice--and I will give it to him.”
We re-entered the supper-room and found the conditions somewhat
changed. Whether it was that the word “infirmary” had been wafted to
the patient’s attentive ears, I cannot say; but there were evident
signs of recovery. Our friend was sitting up, glaring wildly about
him, and inquiring where he was; to which questions Simmonds was
furnishing answers of a luridly inaccurate character. When I had taken
another look at the patient, and received a vacant stare of almost
aggressive unrecognition, I took possession of the facetious Simmonds,
and, having promised to look in in the morning, wished the matron
good-night and departed with my escort; who entertained me on the way
home with picturesque, unflattering, and remarkably shrewd comments on
the sufferer.
I had made up a stimulant mixture, and handed it to Simmonds when I
remembered Mrs. Frood and that Simmonds would pass her house on his
way back. For an instant, I thought of asking him to deliver her
medicine for me; and then, with quite a shock, I realized what a
hideous blunder it would have been. Evidently, the poor travellers
gave their names, and if the man, Frood, had given his correctly, the
coincidence of the names would have impressed Simmonds instantly, and
then the murder would have been out, and the fat would have been in
the fire properly. It was a narrow escape, and it made me realize how
insecure was that unfortunate lady’s position with this man lurking in
the town. And, realizing this, I determined to trust the addressed
bottle to nobody, but to leave it at the house myself. Accordingly,
having made up the medicine and wrapped it neatly in paper, I thrust
it into my pocket, and, calling out to Mrs. Dunk that I should be back
to supper in about half an hour, I set forth, and in a few minutes
arrived at the little Georgian doorway and plied the elegant brass
knocker. The door was opened--rather incautiously, I thought--by Mrs.
Frood herself.
“I am my own bottle-boy, you see, Mrs. Frood,” said I, handing her the
medicine. “I thought it safer not to send an addressed packet under
the circumstances.”
“But how good of you!” she exclaimed. “How kind and thoughtful! But
you shouldn’t have troubled about it to-night.”
“It was only a matter of five minutes’ walk,” said I, “and besides,
there was something that I thought you had better know,” and hereupon
I proceeded to give her a brief account of my recent adventures and
the condition of her precious husband. “Is he subject to attacks of
this kind?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “When he is put out about anything in some ways
he is rather like a hysterical woman. But, you see, I was right. He is
penniless. And that--now I come to think of it--makes it rather odd
that he should be here. But won’t you come in for a moment?”
I entered and shut the door. “Why is it odd?” I asked.
“Because he would be getting some money to-morrow. I make him a small
allowance; it is very little, but it is as much as I can possibly
manage; and it is paid monthly, on the fifteenth of the month. But he
has to apply for it personally at the bank or send an accredited
messenger with a receipt; and as to-morrow is the fifteenth, the
question is, why on earth is he down here now? I mean that it is odd
that he should not have waited to collect the allowance before coming
to hunt me up.”
“If he is in communication with your banker,” said I, “he could, I
suppose, get a letter forwarded to you?”
“No,” she replied; “the banker who pays him is the London agent of Mr.
Japp’s banker, and he doesn’t know on whose behalf the payments are
made. I had to make that arrangement, or he would have bombarded me
with letters.”
“Well,” I said, “you had better keep close for a day or two. If his
search for you is unsuccessful, he may get discouraged and raise the
siege. I will let you know what his movements are, so far as I can.”
She thanked me once more with most evident sincerity, and as I made my
way to the door, she let me out with a cordial and friendly shake of
the hand.