MRS. GILLOW SOUNDS THE ALARM
Nine o’clock on the following morning found me still seated at the
breakfast table, with the debris of the meal before me and the Sunday
paper propped up against the coffee-pot. It was a pleasant, sunny
morning at the end of April. The birds were twittering joyously in the
trees at the back of the house, a premature bluebottle perambulated
the window-pane, after an unsuccessful attempt to crawl under the
dish-cover, and somewhere in the town an optimistic bell-ringer was
endeavouring to lure unwary loiterers out of the sunshine into the
shadow of the sanctuary.
It was all very agreeable and soothing. The birds were delightful in
the exuberance of their spirits; even the bluebottle was a harbinger
of summer; and the solo of the bell-ringer, softened by distance,
impinged gently on the appreciative ear, awakening a grateful sense of
immunity. The sunshine and the placid sounds were favourable to
reflection, which the Sunday paper was powerless to disturb. As my eye
roamed inattentively down the inconsequent column of printers’ errors,
my mind flitted, beelike, from topic to topic; from my vague
professional prospects to the visitors whom I was expecting on the
morrow and from them to the rather disturbing incident of the previous
evening. But here my thoughts had a tendency to stick; and I was just
considering whether the proprieties admitted of my making a morning
call on Mrs. Frood, with a view to clearing up the obscurity, when the
street-door bell rang. The unusual sound at such an unlikely time
caused me to sit up and listen with just a tinge of uneasy expectancy.
A few moments later Mrs. Dunk opened the door, and having stated
concisely and impassively, “Mrs. Gillow,” retired, leaving the door
ajar. I started up in something approaching alarm, and hurried across
to the consulting-room, where I found Mrs. Gillow standing by the
chair with anxiety writ large on her melancholy face.
“There’s nothing amiss, I hope, Mrs. Gillow?” said I.
“I am sorry to say there is, sir,” she replied. “I hope you’ll excuse
me for disturbing you on a Sunday morning, but I thought, as you were
her doctor, and a friend, too, and I may say----”
“But what has happened?” I interrupted impatiently.
“Why, sir, the fact is that she went out last night and she hasn’t
come back.”
“You are quite sure she hasn’t come back?”
“Perfectly. I saw her just before she went out, and she said she was
coming to see you, to get something to make her sleep, and then she
was just going into Chatham, and that she would be back soon, so that
she could go to bed early. I sat up quite late listening for her, and
before I went to bed I went down and knocked at both her doors, and as
I didn’t get any answer, I looked into both rooms. But she wasn’t in
either, and her little supper was untouched on the table in the
sitting-room. I couldn’t sleep a wink all night for worrying about
her, and the first thing this morning I went down, and, when I found
the door unbolted and unchained, I went into her rooms again. But
there was no sign of her. Her supper was still there, untouched, and
her bed had not been slept in.”
“Did you look downstairs?” I asked.
“Yes. She usually kept the door of the basement stairs locked, I
think, but it was unlocked this morning, so I went down and searched
all over the basement; but she wasn’t there.”
“It is very extraordinary, Mrs. Gillow,” I said, “and rather alarming.
I certainly understood that she was going home as soon as she had been
to Chatham. By the way, do you know what she was going to Chatham
for?”
“I don’t, sir. She might have been going there to do some shopping,
but it was rather late, though it was Saturday night.”
“You don’t know, I suppose, whether she took any things with
her--though she couldn’t have taken much, as she had only a little
handbag with her when she came here.”
“She hasn’t taken any of her toilet things,” said Mrs. Gillow,
“because I looked over her dressing-table, and all her brushes and
things were there; and, as you say, she couldn’t have taken much in
that little bag. What do you think we had better do, sir?”
“I think,” said I, “that, in the first place, I will go and see Mr.
Japp. He is a relative and knows more about her than we do, and, of
course, it will be for him to take any measures that may seem
necessary. At any rate, I will see him and hear what he says.”
“Don’t you think we ought to let the police know?” she asked.
“Well, Mrs. Gillow,” I said, “we mustn’t be too hasty. Mrs. Frood had
reasons for avoiding publicity. Perhaps we had better not busy
ourselves too much until we are quite certain that she has gone. She
may possibly return in the course of the day.”
“I am sure I hope so,” she replied despondently. “But I am very much
afraid she won’t. I have a presentiment that something dreadful has
happened to her.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. “Have you any reason for thinking so?”
“I have no actual reason,” she answered, “but I have always thought
that there was something behind her fear of meeting her husband.”
Having no desire to discuss speculative opinions, I made no direct
reply to this. Apparently Mrs. Gillow had no more to tell, and as I
was anxious to see Mr. Japp and hear if he could throw any light on
the mystery, I adjourned the discussion on which she would have
embarked and piloted her persuasively towards the door. “I shall see
you again later, Mrs. Gillow,” I said, “and will let you know if I
hear anything. Meanwhile, I think you had better not speak of the
matter to anybody.”
As soon as she was gone I made rapid preparations to go forth on my
errand, and a couple of minutes later was speeding down the street at
a pace dictated rather by the agitation of my mind than by any urgency
of purpose. Although, by an effort of will, I had preserved a quiet,
matter-of-fact demeanour while I was talking to Mrs. Gillow, her
alarming news had fallen on me like a thunder-bolt; and even now, as I
strode forward swiftly, my thoughts seemed numbed by the suddenness of
the catastrophe. That something terrible had happened I had little
more doubt than had Mrs. Gillow, and a good deal more reason for my
fears; for that last interview with the missing woman, looked back
upon by the light of her unaccountable disappearance, now appeared
full of dreadful suggestions. I had thought that she looked
frightened, and she admitted to a presentiment of evil. Of whom or of
what was she afraid?
And what did she mean by a presentiment? Reasonable people do not have
gratuitous presentiments; and I recalled her evasive reply when I
asked if she had any reasons for her foreboding of evil. Now, there
was little doubt that she had; that the shadow of some impending
danger had fallen on her and that she knew it.
As I approached the premises of Japp and Bundy, I was assailed by a
sudden doubt as to whether Mr. Japp lived there; and this doubt
increased when I had executed two loud knocks at the door without
eliciting any response. I was just raising my hand to make a third
attack when I became aware of Bundy’s head rising above the curtain of
the office window; and even in my agitation I could not but notice its
extremely dishevelled state. His hair--usually “smarmed” back neatly
from the forehead and brushed over the crown of his head--now hung
down untidily over his face like a bunch of rat’s tails, and the
unusualness of his appearance was increased by the fact that he wore
neither spectacles nor the indispensable eyeglass. The apparition,
however, was visible but for a moment, for even as I glanced at him he
made a sign to me to wait and forthwith vanished.
There followed an interval of about a minute, at the end of which the
door opened and I entered, discovering Bundy behind it in a
dressing-gown and pyjamas, but with his hair neatly brushed and his
eye-glass duly adjusted.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Doc.,” said he. “Fact is, your knock woke
me. The early bird catches the worm in his pyjamas.”
“I apologize for disturbing your slumbers,” said I, “but I wanted to
see Japp. Isn’t he in?”
“Japp doesn’t live here,” said Bundy, motioning to me to follow him
upstairs. “He used to, but the house began to fill up with the
business stuff and we had to make a drawing office and a store-room,
so he moved off to a house on Boley Hill, and now I live here like
Robinson Crusoe.”
“Do you mean that you do your own cooking and housework?”
“Lord, no,” he replied. “I get most of my meals at Japp’s place.
Prepare my own breakfast sometimes--I’m going to now: and I make tea
for us both. Got a little gas-stove in the kitchen. And a charlady
comes in every day to wash up and do my rooms. If you are not in a
hurry, I’ll walk round with you to Japp’s house.”
“I am in rather a hurry,” said I; “at least--well, I don’t know why I
should be; but I am rather upset. The fact is, a very alarming thing
has happened. I have just heard of it from Mrs. Gillow. It seems that
Mrs. Frood went out last evening and has not come back.”
Bundy whistled. “She’s done a bolt,” said he. “I wonder why. Do you
think she can have run up against hubby in the town?”
“I don’t believe for a moment that she has gone away voluntarily,”
said I. “She came to see me last night to get a sedative because she
couldn’t sleep, and she said that she was going home as soon as she
had been to Chatham, and that she was going to take her medicine and
go to bed early.”
“That might have been a blind,” suggested Bundy; “or she might have
run up against her husband in Chatham.”
I shook my head impatiently. “That is all nonsense, Bundy. A woman
doesn’t walk off into space in that fashion. Something has happened to
her, I feel sure. I only hope it isn’t something horrible; one doesn’t
dare to think of the possibilities that the circumstances suggest.”
“No,” said Bundy, “and it’s better not to. Great mistake to let your
imagination run away with you. Don’t you worry, Doc. She’ll probably
turn up all right, or send Japp a line to say where she has gone to.”
“Devil take it, Bundy!” I exclaimed irritably, “you are talking as if
she were just a cat that had strayed away. If you don’t care a hang
what becomes of her, I do. I am extremely alarmed about her. How soon
will you be ready?”
“I’ll run and get on my things at once,” he replied, with a sudden
change of manner. “You must excuse me, old chap. I didn’t realize that
you were so upset. I’ll be with you in a few minutes and then we will
start. Japp will be able to give me some breakfast.”
He bustled off--to the next room, as I gathered from the sound--and
left me to work off my impatience by gazing out of the window and
pacing restlessly up and down the barely-furnished sitting-room. But,
impatient as I was, the rapidity with which he made his toilet
surprised me, for in less than ten minutes he reappeared, spick and
span, complete with hat, gloves, and stick, and announced that he was
ready.
“I am not usually such a sluggard,” he said, as we walked quickly
along the street, “but yesterday evening I got a novel. I ought not to
read novels. When I do, I am apt to make a single mouthful of it; and
that is what I did last night. I started the book at nine and finished
it at two this morning; and the result is that I am as sleepy as an
owl even now.”
In illustration of this statement he gave a prodigious yawn and then
turned up the steep little thoroughfare, where he presently halted at
the door of a small, old-fashioned house and rang the bell. The door
was opened by a middle-aged servant, from whom he learned that Mr.
Japp was at home, and to whom Bundy communicated his needs in the
matter of breakfast. We found Mr. Japp seated by the dining-room
window, studying a newspaper with the aid of a large pipe, and Bundy
proceeded to introduce me and the occasion of my visit in a few crisp
sentences.
Mr. Japp’s reception of the news was very different from his
partner’s. Starting up from his chair and taking his pipe from his
mouth, he gazed at me for some seconds in silent dismay.
“I suppose,” he said at length, “there is no mistake. It is really
certain that she did not come back last night?”
“I am afraid there is no doubt of the fact,” I replied, and I gave him
the details with which Mrs. Gillow had furnished me.
“Dear! dear!” he exclaimed. “I don’t like the look of this at all.
What the deuce can have happened to her?”
Here Bundy repeated the suggestion that he had made to me, but Japp
shook his head. “She wouldn’t have gone off without letting me or the
doctor know. Why should she? We are friends, and she knew she could
trust us. Besides, the thing isn’t possible. A middle-class woman
can’t set out like a tramp without any luggage or common necessaries.
There’s only one possibility,” he added after a pause. “She might have
seen Nicholas prowling about and gone straight to the station and
taken a train to London. One of her woman friends would have been able
to put her up for the night.”
“Or,” suggested Bundy, “she might even have gone up to town with Nick
himself if he met her and threatened to make a scene.”
“Yes,” said Japp doubtfully, “that is, I suppose, possible. But it
isn’t in the least likely. For that matter, nothing is likely. It is a
most mysterious affair, and very disturbing, very disturbing, indeed.”
“The question is,” said I, “what is to be done? Do you think we ought
to communicate with the police?”
“Well, no,” he replied; “not immediately. If we don’t hear anything,
say to-morrow, I suppose we shall have to. But we had better not be
precipitate. If we go to the police, we shall have to tell them
everything. Let us give her time to communicate, in case she has had
to make a sudden retirement--a clear forty-eight hours, as it is a
week-end. But we had better make some cautious inquiries meanwhile. I
suggest that we walk up to the hospital. They know me pretty well
there, and I could just informally ascertain whether any accidents had
been admitted, without giving any detailed reasons for the inquiry.
Are you coming with us, Bundy?”
“Yes,” replied Bundy, who, having been provided with a light
breakfast, was despatching it with lightning speed; “I shall be ready
by the time you have got your boots on.”
A few minutes later we set forth together, and made our way straight
to the hospital. Bundy and I waited outside while Japp went in to make
his inquiries; and, as we walked up and down, my imagination busied
itself in picturing the hideous possibilities suggested by a somewhat
extensive experience of the casualty department of a general hospital.
Presently Japp emerged, shaking his head.
“She is not there,” said he. “There were no casualties of any kind
admitted last night or since.”
“Is there no other hospital?” I asked.
“None but the military hospital,” he replied. “All the casualties from
the district would be brought here. So we seem to be at the end of our
resources, short of inquiring at the police-station; and even if that
were advisable, it would be useless, for if--anything had
happened--anything, I mean, that we hope has not happened--Mrs. Gillow
would have heard. She will be sure to have had something about her by
which she could have been identified.”
“She had,” said I. “The little box that I gave her had her name and my
address on it.”
“Then,” said Japp. “I don’t see that we can do anything more. We can
only wait until to-morrow evening or Tuesday morning, and if we don’t
get any news of her by then, notify the police.”
Unwillingly I had to admit that this was so; and when I had walked
back with the partners to Mr. Japp’s house, I left them and proceeded
to report to Mrs. Gillow and to ascertain whether, in the meantime,
she had received any tidings of her missing tenant.
It was with more of fear than hope that I plied the familiar knocker,
but the eager, expectant face that greeted me when the door opened,
while it relieved the one, banished the other. She had heard nothing,
and when I had communicated my own unsatisfactory report she groaned
and shook her head.
“You are quite sure,” I said, after an interval of silence, “that she
did not return from Chatham?”
“I don’t see how she could have done,” was the reply. “You see, it was
like this: I was going to see my sister at Frindsbury, and as I came
down to the hall, Mrs. Frood opened her door and spoke to me. She had
her hat on then, and she told me she was coming to you, and then going
on to Chatham, but that she would be back pretty soon, and was going
to bed early. I went out, leaving her at her room door, and took the
tram to Frindsbury, and I got back home about a quarter to ten. Her
sitting-room door was open, and I could see that she hadn’t gone to
bed, because her lamp was alight and her supper tray was on the table
and hadn’t been touched. I knocked at her bedroom door, but there was
no answer, so I went upstairs and sat up listening for her, and before
I went to bed I went down again, as I told you.”
“What time was it when you went out?” I asked.
“About a quarter past eight. I told her I was going to Frindsbury, and
that I should be home before ten, and I asked her not to bolt the door
if she came in before me.”
“Then,” said I, “she must have gone out directly after you, because it
was only a little after half-past eight when she called on me; and
presumably she went straight on to Chatham. If we only knew what she
was going there for we might be able to trace her. Did she know
anybody at Chatham?”
“So far as I know,” replied Mrs. Gillow, “she didn’t know anybody here
but you and Mr. Japp. I can’t imagine what she could have been going
to Chatham for.”
After a little further talk, I took my leave and walked homeward in a
very wretched frame of mind. Tormented as I was with a gnawing
anxiety, inaction was intolerable. Yet there was nothing to be done;
nothing but to wait in the feeble hope that the morning might bring
some message of relief, and with a heavy foreboding that the tidings,
when they came, would be evil tidings. But I found it impossible to
wait passively at home. At intervals during the day I went forth to
wander up and down the streets; and some impulse which I hardly dared
to recognize directed my steps again and again to the wharves and
foreshore that lie by the bend of the river between Rochester and
Chatham.
On the following morning I betook myself as early as I decently could
to the office of Japp and Bundy. No letter had arrived by the early
post, nor, when I repeated my visit later, was there any news, either
by post or telegram, or from Mrs. Gillow. I paid a furtive visit to
the police-station and glanced nervously over the bills on the
notice-board, and I made another perambulation of the waterside
districts, which occupied me until it was time for me to repair to the
station to meet the train by which my friends were expected to arrive,
and did, in fact, arrive.
As we walked from the station to my house Jervis looked at me
critically from time to time. After one of these inspections he
remarked:
“I don’t know whether it is my fancy, Strangeways, but it seems to me
that the cares of medical practice are affecting your spirits. You
look worried.”
“I am worried,” I replied. “There has been a very disturbing
development of that case that I was telling you about.”
“The doper, you mean?”
“His wife. She has disappeared. She went out on Saturday night and has
not been seen since.”
“That sounds rather ominous,” said Jervis. “I presume the
circumstances--if you know them--could be communicated without any
breach of confidence.”
“They will have to be made fully public if she doesn’t turn up by this
evening,” I replied, “and I am only too glad of the chance to talk the
matter over with you,” and forthwith I proceeded to give a
circumstantial account of the events connected with the disappearance,
not omitting any detail that seemed to have the slightest bearing. And
I now felt justified in relating my experience when I was acting for
Dr. Pumphrey. The narrative was interrupted by our arrival at my
house, but when we had taken our places at the table it was continued
and listened to with intense interest by my two friends.
“Well,” said Jervis, when I had finished, “it has an ugly look,
especially when one considers it in connexion with that affair in
London. But there is something to be said for your friend Bundy’s
suggestion. Don’t you think so, Thorndyke?”
“Something, perhaps,” Thorndyke agreed, “but not much; and if no
letter arrives to-night or to-morrow morning, I should say it is
excluded. This lady seems to have had complete confidence in
Strangeways and in Mr. Japp. She could depend on their secrecy if she
had to move suddenly to a fresh locality; and she seems to have been a
responsible person who would not unnecessarily expose them to anxiety
about her safety. Moreover, she would know that, if she kept them in
the dark, they must unavoidably put the police on her track, which
would be the last thing that she would wish.”
“Can you make any suggestion as to what has probably happened?” I
asked.
“It is not of much use to speculate,” replied Thorndyke. “If we
exclude a voluntary disappearance, an accident or sudden illness, as
we apparently can, there seems to remain only the possibility of
crime. But to the theory of crime--of murder, to put it bluntly--there
is a manifest objection. So far as the circumstances are known to us,
a murder, if it had occurred, would have been an impromptu murder,
committed in a more or less public place. But the first indication of
a murder of that kind is usually the discovery of the body. Here,
however, thirty-six hours have elapsed, and no body has come to light.
On the other hand, we have to bear in mind that there is a large,
tidal river skirting the town. Into that river the missing lady might
have fallen accidentally, or have been thrown, dead or alive. But it
is not very profitable to speculate. We can neither form any opinion
nor take any action until we have some further facts.”
I must confess that, as I listened to Thorndyke thus calmly comparing
the horrible possibilities, I experienced a dreadful sinking of the
heart, but yet I realized that this passionless consideration of the
essential evidence was more to the point, and promised more result
than any amount of unskilful groping under the urge of emotion and
personal feeling. And, realizing this, I formed the bold resolution of
enlisting Thorndyke’s aid in a regular, professional capacity, and
began to cast about for the means of introducing the rather delicate
subject. But while I was reflecting, the opportunity was gone, at
least for the present. Lunch had virtually come to an end, for Mrs.
Dunk had silently and with iron visage just placed the port and the
coffee on the table and retired, when Jervis, who had observed her
with evident interest, inquired: “Does that old Sphinx do the cooking,
Strangeways?”
“She does everything,” I answered. “I have suggested that she should
get some help, but she just growled and ignored the suggestion.”
“Well,” said Jervis, “she doesn’t give you much excuse for growling.
She has turned out a lunch that would have done credit to Delmonico’s.
Are you coming to the inquest with us? We shall have to be starting in
a few minutes.”
“I may as well,” said I. “Then I can bring you back to tea. And I want
to make a proposal, which we can discuss as we go along. It is with
regard to the case of Mrs. Frood.”
As my two friends looked at me inquiringly but made no remark, I
poured out the coffee and continued: “You see, Mrs. Frood was my
patient, and, in a way, my friend; in fact, with the exception of
Japp, I was the only friend she had in the place. Consequently I take
it as my duty to ascertain what has happened to her, and, if she has
come to any harm, to see that the wrongdoers are brought to account.
Of course, I am not competent to investigate the case myself, but I am
in the position to bear any costs that the investigation would
entail.”
“Lucky man,” said Jervis. “And what is the proposal?”
“I was wondering,” I replied, a little nervously, “whether I could
prevail on you to undertake the case.”
Jervis glanced at his senior, and the latter replied: “It is just a
little premature to speak of a ‘case.’ The missing lady may return or
communicate with her friends. If she does not, the inquiry will fall
into the hands of the police; and there is no reason to suppose that
they will not be fully competent to deal with it. They have more means
and facilities than we have. But if the inquiry should become
necessary, and the police should be unsuccessful, Jervis and I would
be prepared to render you any assistance that we could.”
“On professional terms,” I stipulated.
Thorndyke smiled. “The financial aspects of the case,” said he, “can
be considered when they arise. Now, I think, it is time for us to
start.”
As we walked down to the building where the inquest was to be held, we
pursued the topic, and Thorndyke pointed out my position in the case.
“You notice, Strangeways,” said he, “that you are the principal
witness. You are the last person who saw Mrs. Frood before her
disappearance, you heard her state her intended movements, you knew
her circumstances, you saw and examined her husband, and you alone can
give an exact description of her as she was at the time when she
disappeared. I would suggest that, during the inquest, which will not
interest you, you might usefully try to reconstitute that last
interview and make full notes in writing of all that occurred with a
very careful and detailed description of the person, clothing, and
belongings of the missing lady. The police will want this information,
and so shall I, if I am to give any consideration to the case.”
On this suggestion I proceeded to act as soon as we had taken our
places at the foot of the long table occupied by the coroner and the
jury, detaching myself as well as I could from the matter of the
inquest; and by the time that the deliberations were at an end and the
verdict agreed upon, I had drafted out a complete set of notes and
made two copies, one for the police and one for Thorndyke.
As soon as we were outside the court I presented the latter copy,
which Thorndyke read through.
“This is admirable, Strangeways,” said he, as he placed it in his
note-case. “I must compliment you upon your powers of observation. The
description of the missing lady is remarkably clear and exhaustive.
And now I would suggest that you call in at Mr. Japp’s office on our
way back, and ascertain whether any letter has been received. If there
has been no communication we shall have to regard the appearances as
suspicious, and calling for investigation.”
Secretly gratified at the interest which Thorndyke seemed to be
developing in the mystery, I conducted my friends up the High-street
until we reached the office, which I entered, leaving my colleagues
outside. Mr. Japp looked up from a letter which he was writing, and
Bundy, who had been peeping over the curtain, revolved on his stool
and faced me.
“Any news?” I asked.
Japp shook his head gloomily. “Not a sign,” said he. “I shall wait
until the first post is in to-morrow morning, and then, if there are
no tidings of her, I shall go across to the police station. Perhaps
you had better come with me, as you are able to give the particulars
that they will want.”
“Very well,” I said, “I will look in at half-past nine”; and with this
I was turning away when Bundy inquired: “Are those two toffs outside
friends of yours?” and, on my replying in the affirmative, he
continued: “They seem to be taking a deuce of an interest in Japp’s
proclamation. You might tell them that if they happen to have found
that key, the money is quite safe. I will see that Japp pays up.”
I promised to deliver the message, and, as Bundy craned up to make a
further inspection of my colleagues, I departed to join the latter.
“There is no news up to the present,” I said, “but Japp proposes to
wait until to-morrow morning for a last chance before applying to the
police.”
“Was that Japp who was inspecting us through that preposterous pair of
barnacles?” Jervis asked.
“No,” I answered. “That was Bundy. He suspects you of having found
that key and of holding on to it until you are sure of the reward.”
“What key is it?” asked Jervis. “The key of the strong-room? They seem
to be in a rare twitter about it.”
“No; it is just a gate-key belonging to a piece of waste land where
they are doing some repairs to the old city wall. And, by the way,
thereby hangs a tale; a horrible and tragic tale of a convivial
bargee, which ought to have a special interest for a pair of medical
jurists”--and here I related to them the gruesome story that was told
to Bundy and me by the old mortar-mixer.
They both chuckled appreciatively at the dénouement, and Jervis
remarked:
“It would seem that the late Bill was a rather inflammable gentleman.
The yarn recalls the tragic end of Mr. Krook in ‘Bleak House,’ only
that Krook went one better than Bill, for he managed to combust
himself in an hour or two without any lime at all.”
The story and the comment brought us to my house, which we had no
sooner entered than Mrs. Dunk, who seemed to have been lying in wait
for us, made her appearance with the tea; and while we were disposing
of this refreshment Thorndyke reverted to the case of my missing
patient.
“As I am to keep an eye on this case,” said he, “I shall want to be
kept in touch with it. Of course, the actual investigation--if there
has to be one--will need to be conducted on the spot, which is not
possible to me. What I suggest is that you write out a detailed
account of everything that is known to you in connexion with it. Don’t
select your facts. Put down everything in any way connected with the
case and say all you know about the person concerned--Mrs. Frood
herself and everybody who was acquainted with her. Send this statement
to me and keep a copy. Then, if any new fact becomes known, let me
have it and make a note of it for your own information. You are on the
spot and I shall look to you for the data; and if I want any of them
amplified or confirmed I shall communicate with you.
“There is one other matter. Do not confide to anyone that you have
consulted me or that I am interested in the case; neither to Mr. Japp,
to the police, nor to anybody else whatsoever; and I advise you to
keep your own interest in the mystery to yourself as far as possible.”
“What is the need of this secrecy?” I asked, in some surprise.
“The point is,” replied Thorndyke, “that when you are investigating a
crime you are playing against the criminal. But if the criminal is
unknown to you you are playing against an unseen adversary. If you are
visible to him he can watch your moves and reply to them. Obviously
your policy is to keep out of sight and make your moves unseen. And
remember that as long as you do not know who the criminal is you don’t
know who he is not. Anyone may be the criminal, or may be his
unconscious agent or coadjutor. If you make confidences they may be
innocently passed on to the guilty parties. So keep your own counsel
rigorously. If there has been a crime, that crime has local connexions
and probably a local origin. The solution of the mystery will probably
be discovered here. And if you intend to take a hand in the solution
let it be a lone hand; and keep me informed of everything that you do
or observe; and for my part, I will give you all the help I can.”
By the time we had finished our tea and our discussion the hour of my
friends’ departure was drawing nigh. I walked with them to the
station, and when I bade them farewell I received a warm invitation to
visit them at their chambers in the Temple; an invitation of which I
determined to avail myself on the first favourable opportunity.