THE SHADOWS DEEPEN
The coming events, whose premonitory shadows had been falling upon
me unnoted since I came to Rochester, were daily drawing nearer.
Perhaps it may have been that the deepening shadows began dimly to
make themselves felt; that some indistinct sense of instability and
insecurity had begun to steal into my consciousness. It may have been
so. But, nevertheless, looking back, I can see that when the
catastrophe burst upon me it found me all unsuspicious and unprepared.
Nearly a fortnight had passed since my meeting with my two friends in
the Cathedral, and I was looking forward with some eagerness to their
impending visit. During that fortnight little seemed to have happened,
though the trivial daily occurrences were beginning to acquire a
cumulative significance not entirely unperceived by me. My promise to
Mrs. Frood had been carried out very thoroughly: for at least every
alternate evening had found me seated by the little table with the
red-shaded lamp, making the best pretence I could of being there in a
professional capacity.
It was unquestionably indiscreet. The instant liking that I had taken
to this woman should have warned me that here was one of those
unaccountable “affinities” that are charged with such immense
potentialities of blessing or disaster. The first impression should
have made it clear to me that I could not safely spend much time in
her society. But unfortunately the very circumstance that should have
warned me to keep away was the magnet that drew me to her side.
However, there was one consoling fact: if the indiscretion was mine,
so by me alone were the consequences supported. Our relations were of
the most unexceptionable kind; indeed, she was not the sort of woman
with whom any man would have taken a liberty. As to my feelings
towards her, I could not pretend to deceive myself, but similarly, I
had no delusions as to her feelings towards me. She welcomed my visits
with that frank simplicity that is delightful to a friend and hopeless
to a lover. It was plain to me that the bare possibility of anything
beyond straightforward, honest friendship never entered her head. But
this very innocence and purity, while at once a rebuke and a
reassurance, but riveted my fetters the more firmly.
Such as our friendship was (and disregarding the secret reservation on
my side), it grew apace; indeed, it sprang into existence at our first
meeting. There was between us that ease and absence of reserve that
distinguishes the intercourse of those who like and understand one
another. I never had any fear of unwittingly giving offence. In our
long talks and discussions, we had no need of choosing our words or
phrases or of making allowances for possible prejudices. We could say
plainly what we meant with the perfect assurance that it would be
neither misunderstood nor resented. In short, if my feelings towards
her could only have been kept at the same level as hers towards me,
our friendship would have been perfect.
In the course of these long and pleasant gossiping visits, I observed
my patient somewhat closely, and, quite apart from the personal
affinity, I became more and more favourably impressed. She was a
clever woman, quick and alert in mind, and evidently well informed.
She seemed to be kindly, and was certainly amiable and even-tempered,
though not in the least weak or deficient in character. Probably, in
happier circumstances, she would have been more gay and vivacious,
for, though she was habitually rather grave and even sombre, there
were occasional flashes of wit that suggested a naturally lively
temperament.
As to her appearance--to repeat in more detail what I have already
said--she was a rather large woman, very erect and somewhat stately in
bearing; distinctly good-looking (though of this I was not, perhaps, a
very good judge). Her features were regular, but not in any way
striking. Her expression was, as I have said, a little sombre and
severe, the mouth firmly set and slightly depressed at the corners,
the eyebrows black, straight, and unusually well-marked and nearly
meeting above the nose. She had an abundance of black, or nearly
black, hair, parted low on the forehead and drawn back loosely,
covering the ears and temples, and she wore a largish coil nearly on
the top of the head; a formal, matronly style that accentuated the
gravity of her expression.
Such was Angelina Frood as I looked on her in those
never-to-be-forgotten evenings; as she rises before the eyes of memory
as I write, and as she will remain in my recollection so long as I
live.
In this fortnight one really arresting incident had occurred. It was
just a week after my meeting with Dr. Thorndyke, when, returning from
a walk along the London Road as far as Gad’s Hill, I stopped on
Rochester Bridge to watch a barge which had just passed under, and was
rehoisting her lowered mast. As I was leaning on the parapet, a man
brushed past me, and I turned my head idly to look at him. Then, in an
instant, I started up; for though the man’s back was towards me, there
was something unmistakably familiar in the gaunt figure, the seedy
clothes, the great cloth cap, the shock of mouse-coloured hair, and
the thick oaken stick that he swung in his hand. But I was not going
to leave myself in any doubt on the subject. Cautiously I began to
retrace my steps, keeping him in view but avoiding overtaking him,
until he reached the western end of the bridge, when he halted and
looked back. Then any possible doubt was set at rest. The man was
Nicholas Frood. I don’t know whether he saw me; he made no sign of
recognition; and when he turned and walked on, I continued to follow,
determined to make sure of his destination.
As I had hoped and expected, he took the road to the right, leading to
the river bank and the station. Still following him, I noted that he
walked at a fairly brisk pace and seemed to have recovered completely
from his debility--if that debility had not been entirely counterfeit.
Opposite the pier he turned into the station approach, and when from
the corner I had watched him enter the station, I gave up the pursuit,
assuming that he was returning to London.
But how long had he been in Rochester? What had he been doing, and
what success had he had in his search? These were the questions that I
asked myself as I walked back over the bridge. Probably he had come
down for the day; and since he was returning, it was reasonable to
infer that he had had no luck. As I entered the town and glanced up at
the great clock that hangs out across the street from the Corn
Exchange, like a sort of horological warming-pan, I saw that it was
close upon eight. It was a good deal after my usual time for calling
on Mrs. Frood, but the circumstances were exceptional and I felt that
it was necessary to ascertain whether anything untoward had occurred.
I was still debating what I should do when, as I came opposite the
house, I saw Mrs. Gillow coming out of the door. Immediately I crossed
the road and accosted her.
“Have you seen Mrs. Frood this evening, Mrs. Gillow?” I asked, after
passing the usual compliments.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I left her only a few minutes ago working
at one of the drawings that she does for Mr. Japp. She seems better
this evening--brighter and more cheerful. I think your visits have
done her good, sir. It is a lonely life for a young woman--having no
one to talk to all through the long evenings. I’m always glad to hear
your knock, and so, I think, is she.”
“I’m pleased to hear you say so, Mrs. Gillow,” said I. “However, as it
is rather late, and she has something to occupy her, I don’t think I
will call this evening.”
With this I took my leave and went on my way in better spirits.
Evidently all was well so far. Nevertheless, the reappearance of this
man was an uncomfortable incident. It was clear that he had not given
up the pursuit, and, seeing that Rochester was only some thirty miles
from London, it would be quite easy for him to make periodical
descents on the place to continue the search. There was no denying
that Mrs. Frood’s position was extremely insecure, and I could think
of no plan for making it less so, excepting that of leaving Rochester,
for a time at least, a solution which ought to have commended itself
to me, but did not.
Perhaps it was this fact that decided me not to say anything about the
incident. The obvious thing was to have told her and put her on her
guard. But I persuaded myself that it would only make her anxious to
no purpose; that she could not prevent him from coming nor could she
take any further measures for concealment. And then there was the
possibility that he might never come again.
So far as I know, he never did. During the rest of the week I
perambulated the town hour after hour, looking into the shops,
scanning the faces of the wayfarers in the streets and even visiting
the stations at the times when the London trains were due; but never a
glimpse did I catch of that ill-omened figure.
And all the time, the shadows were deepening, and that which cast them
was drawing nearer.
It was nearly a week after my meeting with Nicholas Frood that an
event befell at which I looked askance at the time and which was, as
it turned out, the opening scene of a new act. It was on the Saturday.
I am able to fix the date by an incident, trivial enough in itself,
but important by reason of its forming thus a definite point of
departure. My visitors were due on the following Monday, and it had
occurred to me that I had better lay in a little stock of wine; and as
Mr. Japp was an old resident who knew everybody in the town, I decided
to consult him as to the choice of a wine merchant.
It was a little past mid-day when I arrived at the office, and as I
entered I observed that some kind of conference was in progress. A
man, whom I recognized as the foreman of the gang who were working on
the old wall, was standing sheepishly with his knuckles resting on the
table; Bundy had swung round on his stool and was glaring owlishly
through his great spectacles, while Mr. Japp was sitting bolt upright,
his forehead in a state of extreme corrugation and his eyes fixed
severely on the foreman.
“I suppose,” said Bundy, “you left it in the gate?”
“I expect Evans did,” replied the foreman. “You see, I had to call in
at the office, so I gave the key to Evans and told him to go on with
the other men and let them in. When I got there the gate was open and
the men were at work, and I forgot all about the key until it was time
to come away and lock up. Then I asked Evans for it, and he said he’d
left it in the gate. But when I went to look for it it wasn’t there.
Someone must have took it out.”
“Doesn’t seem very likely,” said Bundy. “However, I suppose it will
turn up. It had one of our wooden labels tied to it. Shall I give him
the duplicate to lock up the place?”
“You must, I suppose,” said Japp; “but it must be brought straight
back and given to me. You understand, Smith? Bring it back at once,
and deliver it to me or to Mr. Bundy. And look here, Smith. I shall
offer ten shillings reward for that key; and if it is brought back and
I have to pay the reward you will have to make it up among you. You
understand that?”
Smith indicated grumpily that he understood; and when Bundy had handed
him the duplicate key, he took his departure in dudgeon.
When he had gone I stated my business, and Bundy pricked up his ears.
“Wine, hey?” said he, removing his spectacles and assuming his
eyeglass. “Tucker will be the man for him, won’t he, Japp? Very
superior wine merchant is Tucker. Old and crusted; round and soft;
rare and curious. I’d better pop round with him and introduce him,
hadn’t I? You’ll want to taste a few samples, I presume, Doctor?”
“I’m not giving a wholesale order,” said I, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“A dozen or so of claret and one or two bottles of port is all I
want.”
“Still,” said Bundy, “you want to know what the stuff’s like. Not
going to buy a pig in a poke. You’ll have to taste it, of course. I’ll
help you. Two heads are better than one. Come on. You said Tucker,
didn’t you, Japp?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Japp, wrinkling his face up into an
appreciative smile, “I didn’t say anything. But Tucker will do; only
he won’t let you taste anything until you have bought it.”
“Won’t he!” said Bundy. “We shall see. Come along, Doctor.”
He dragged me out of the office and down the steps, and we set forth
towards the bridge; but we had not walked more than a couple of
hundred yards when he suddenly shot up a narrow alley and beckoned to
me mysteriously. I followed him up the alley, and as he halted I
asked:
“What have you come here for?”
“I want you,” he replied impressively, “to take a look at this wall.”
I scrutinized the wall with minute attention but failed to discover
any noteworthy peculiarities in it.
“Well,” I said, at length, “I don’t see anything unusual about this
wall.”
“Neither do I,” he replied, looking furtively down the alley.
“Then, what the deuce--” I began.
“It’s all right,” said he. “She’s gone. That damsel in the pink hat. I
just popped up here to let her pass. The fact is,” he explained, as he
emerged cautiously into the High Street, glancing up and down like an
Indian on the war-path, “these women are the plague of my life; always
trying to hook me for teas or bazaars or garden fêtes or some sort of
confounded foolishness; and that pink-hatted lady is a regular
sleuth-hound.”
We walked quickly along the narrow pavement, Bundy looking about him
warily, until we reached the wine-merchant’s premises, into which my
companion dived like a harlequin and forthwith proceeded to introduce
me and my requirements. Mr. Tucker was a small, elderly man; old and
crusted and as dry as his own Amontillado; but he was not proof
against Bundy’s blandishments. Before I had had time to utter a
protest, I found myself in a dark cavern at the rear of the shop,
watching Mr. Tucker fill a couple of glasses from a mouldy-looking
cask.
“Ha!” said Bundy, sipping the wine with a judicial air. “H’m. Yes. Not
so bad. Slightly corked, perhaps.”
“Corked!” exclaimed Tucker, staring at Bundy in amazement. “How can it
be corked when it is just out of the cask?”
“Well, bunged, then,” Bundy corrected.
“I never heard of wine being bunged,” said Tucker. “There’s no such
thing.”
“Isn’t there? Well, then, it can’t be. Must be my fancy. What do you
think of it, Doctor?”
“It seems quite a sound claret,” said I, inwardly wishing my volatile
friend at the devil, for I felt compelled, by way of soothing the wine
merchant’s wounded feelings, to order twice the quantity that I had
intended. We had just completed the transaction, and were crossing the
outer shop when the doorway became occluded by two female figures, and
Bundy uttered a half-suppressed groan. I drew aside to make way for
the newcomers--two ladies whom polite persons would have described as
middle-aged, on the assumption that they contemplated a somewhat
extreme degree of longevity--and I was aware that Bundy was
endeavouring to take cover behind me. But it was of no use. One of
them espied him instantly and announced her discovery with a little
squeak of ecstasy.
“Why, it’s Mr. Bundy. I do declare! Now, where _have_ you been all
this long time? It’s ages and ages and ages since you came to see us,
isn’t it, Martha? Let me see, now, when was it?” She fixed a
reflective eye on her companion, while Bundy smiled a sickly smile and
glanced wistfully at the open door.
“I know,” she exclaimed, triumphantly. “It was when we had the
feeble-minded children to tea, and Mr. Blote showed them the gold fish
trick--at least he tried to, but the glass bowl stuck in the bag under
his coat-tails and wouldn’t come out; and when he tried to pull it out
it broke----”
“I think you are mistaken, Marian,” the other lady interrupted. “It
wasn’t the feeble-minded tea. It was after that, when we helped the
Jewbury-Browns to get up that rumble sale----”
“Jumble sale, you mean, dear,” her companion corrected.
“I mean rummage sale,” the lady called Martha insisted, severely. “If
you will try to recall the circumstances, you will remember that the
jumble sale took place after----”
“Not after,” the other lady corrected. “It was before--several days
before, I should say, speaking from a somewhat imperfect memory. If
you will try to recollect, Martha, dear----”
“I recollect quite distinctly,” the lady called Martha interposed, a
little haughtily. “There was the feeble-minded tea--that was on a
Tuesday--or was it a Thursday--no, it was a Tuesday, or at
least--well, at any rate, it was some days before the jum--rum----”
“Not at all,” the other lady dissented emphatically.
At this point, catching the eye of the lady called Marian, I crept by
slow degrees out on the threshold and turned an expectant eye on
Bundy. The rather broad hint took immediate effect, for the lady said
to her companion: “I am afraid, Martha, dear, you are detaining Mr.
Bundy and his friend. _Good_-bye, Mr. Bundy. Shall we see you next
Friday evening? We are giving a little entertainment to the
barge-boys. We are inviting them to come and bring their mouth-organs
and get up a little informal concert. _Do_ come if you can. We shall
be _so_ delighted. _Good_-bye.”
Bundy shook hands effusively with the two ladies and darted out after
me, seizing my arm and hurrying me along the pavement.
“Bit of luck for me, Doctor, having you with me. If I had been alone
and unprotected I shouldn’t have escaped for half-an-hour; and I
should have been definitely booked for the barge-boys’ pandemonium.
Hallo! What’s Japp up to? Oh, I see. He’s sticking up the notice about
that key. I ought to have done that. Japp writes a shocking fist. I
must see if it is possible to make it out.”
As we approached the office I glanced at the sheet of paper which Mr.
Japp had just affixed to the window, and was able to read the rather
crabbed heading, “Ten Shillings Reward.” The rest of the inscription
being of no interest to me, I wished Bundy adieu and went on my way,
leaving him engaged in a critical inspection of the notice. Happening
to look back a few moments later, I saw him still gazing earnestly at
the paper, all unconscious of a lady in a pink hat who was tripping
lightly across the road and bearing down on him with an alluring
smile.
Threading my way among the foot-passengers who filled the narrow
pavements, I let my thoughts ramble idly from subject to subject; from
the expected visit of my two friends on the following Monday to the
alarming character of the local feminine population. But always they
tended to come back to my patient, Mrs. Frood. I had seen her on the
preceding night and had been very ill-satisfied with her appearance.
She had been paler than usual--more heavy-eyed and weary-looking; and
she had impressed me as being decidedly low-spirited. It seemed as
though the continual uncertainty and unrest, the abiding threat of
some intolerable action on the part of her worthless husband, were
becoming more than she could endure; and unwillingly I was beginning
to recognize that it was my duty, both as her doctor and as her
friend, to advise her to move, at least for a time, to some locality
where she would be free from the constant fear of molestation.
The question was: when should I broach the subject? And that involved
the further question: when should I make my next visit? Inclination
suggested the present evening, but discretion hinted that I ought to
allow a decent interval between my calls; and thus oscillating between
the two, I found myself in a state of indecision which lasted for the
rest of the day. Eventually discretion conquered, and I decided to
postpone the visit and the proposal until the following evening.
The decision was reached about the time I should have been setting
forth to make the visit, and no sooner had that time definitely passed
than I began to regret my resolution and to be possessed by a
causeless anxiety. Restlessly I wandered from room to room; taking up
books, opening them and putting them down again, and generally
displaying the typical symptoms of an acute attack of fidgets until
Mrs. Dunk proceeded with a determined air to lay the supper, and drew
my attention to it with an emphasis which it was impossible to
disregard.
I had just drawn the cork of a bottle of Mr. Tucker’s claret when the
door-bell rang, an event without precedent in my experience. Silently
I replaced the newly-extracted cork and listened. Apparently it was a
patient, for I heard the street door close and footsteps proceed to
the consulting-room. A minute later Mrs. Dunk opened the dining-room
door and announced:
“Mrs. Frood to see you, sir.”
With a slight thrill of anxiety at this unexpected visit, I strode
out, and, crossing the hall, entered the somewhat dingy and
ill-lighted consulting-room. Mrs. Frood was seated in the patients’
chair, but she rose as I entered and held out her hand; and as I
grasped it, I noticed how tall she looked in her outdoor clothes. But
I also noticed that she was looking even more pale and haggard than
when I had seen her last.
“There is nothing the matter, I hope?” said I.
“No,” she answered; “nothing much more than usual; but I have come to
present a petition.”
I looked at her inquiringly, and she continued:
“I have been sleeping very badly, as you know. Last night I had
practically no sleep at all, and very little the night before; and I
feel that I really can’t face the prospect of another sleepless night.
Would you think it very immoral if I were to ask you for something
that would give me a few hours’ rest?”
“Certainly not,” I answered, though with no great enthusiasm, for I am
disposed to take hypnotics somewhat seriously. “You can’t go on
without sleep. I will give you one or two tablets to take before you
go to bed. They will secure you a decent night’s rest, and then I hope
you will feel a little brighter.”
“I hope so,” she said, with a weary sigh.
I looked at her critically. She was, as I have said, pale and haggard;
but there seemed to be something more; a certain wildness in her eyes
and a suggestion of fear.
“You are not looking yourself at all to-night,” I said. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The same old thing, I suppose. But I do
feel rather miserable. I seem to have come to the end of my endurance.
I look into the future and it all seems dark. I am afraid of it. In
fact, I seem to have--you’ll think me very silly, I know--but I have
a sort of presentiment of evil. Of course, it’s all nonsense. But that
is what I feel.”
“Is there any reason for this presentiment?” I asked uneasily; for my
thoughts flew at once to that ill-omened figure that I had seen on the
bridge. “Has anything happened to occasion these forebodings?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” she replied. But she spoke without
looking at me--an unusual thing for her to do--and I found in her
answer something ambiguous and rather evasive. Could it be that she
had seen her husband on that day when I had followed him? Or had he
been in the town again--this very day, perhaps? Or was there something
yet more significant, something even more menacing? That this deep
depression of spirits, these forebodings, were not without some
exciting cause I felt the strongest suspicion. But whatever the cause
might be, she was evidently unwilling to speak about it.
While I was speculating thus, I found myself looking her over with a
minute attention of which I was not conscious at the time; noting
little trivial details of her appearance and belongings with an odd
exactness of observation. My eyes travelled over the little hand-bag,
stamped with her initials, that rested on her lap; her dainty,
high-heeled shoes with their little oval buckles of darkened bronze;
the small brooch at her throat with the large opal in the middle and
the surrounding circle of little pearls, and even noted that one of
the pearls was missing and that the vacant place corresponded to the
figure three on a clock-dial. And then they would come back to her
face; to the set mouth and the downcast eyes with their expression of
gloomy reverie.
I was profoundly uneasy and was on the point of opening the subject of
her leaving the town. Then I decided that I would see her on the
morrow and would go into the matter then. Accordingly I went into the
surgery and put a few tablets of sulphonal into a little box, and
having stuck one of Dr. Partridge’s labels on it, wrote the directions
and then wrapped it up and sealed it.
“There,” I said, giving it to her, “take a couple of those tablets and
go to bed early, and let me find you looking a little more cheerful
to-morrow.”
She took the packet and dropped it into her bag. “It is very good of
you,” she said warmly. “I know you don’t like doing it, and that makes
it the more kind. But I will do as you tell me. I have just to go in
to Chatham, but when I get back I will go to bed quite early.”
I walked with her to the door, and when I had opened it she stopped
and held out her hand. “Good night,” she said, “and thank you so very
much. I expect you will find me a great deal better to-morrow.” She
pressed my hand slightly, made me a little bow, smiled, and, turning
away, passed out; and I now noticed that the haze which had hung over
the town all the afternoon had thickened into a definite fog. I
stepped out on to the threshold and watched her as she walked quickly
down the street, following the erect, dignified figure wistfully with
my eyes as it grew more and more shadowy and unsubstantial until it
faded into the fog and vanished. Then I went in to my solitary supper,
with an unwonted sense of loneliness; and throughout the long evening
I turned over again and again our unsatisfying talk and wondered
afresh whether that presentiment of evil was but the product of
insomnia and mental fatigue, or whether behind it was some sinister
reality.