JETSAM
That portion of Chatham High-street which lies adjacent to the River
Medway presents a feature that is characteristic of old riverside
towns in the multitude of communications between the street and the
shore. Some of these are undisguised entrances to wharves, some are
courts or small thoroughfares lined with houses and leading to
landing-stages, while others are mere passages or flights of steps,
opening obscurely and inconspicuously on the street by narrow
apertures, unnoticed by the ordinary wayfarer and suggesting the
burrows of some kind of human water-rat.
In the days that followed the sergeant’s visit to me I made the
acquaintance of all of them. Now I would wander down the cobbled
cartway that led to a wharf, there to cast a searching eye over the
muddy fore-shore or scan the turbid water at high tide as it eddied
between the barges and around the piles. Or I would dive into the
mouths of the burrows, creeping down slimy steps and pursuing the
tortuous passages through a world of uncleanness until I came out upon
the shore, where the fresh smell of seaweed mingled with odours
indescribable. I began to be an object of curiosity--and perhaps of
some suspicion--to the denizens of the little, ruinous, timber houses
that lined these alleys, and of frank interest to the children who
played around the rubbish heaps or dabbled in the grey mud. But never
did my roving eye light upon that which it sought with such dreadful
expectation.
One afternoon, about a week after the sergeant’s visit, when I was
returning home from one of these explorations, I observed a man on my
doorstep as I approached the house. His appearance instantly aroused
my attention, for he was dressed in the amphibious style adopted by
waterside dwellers, and he held something in his hand at which he
looked from time to time. Before I reached the door it had opened and
admitted him, and when I arrived I found him in the hall nervously
explaining his business to Mrs. Dunk.
“Here _is_ the doctor,” said the latter; “you’d better tell him about
it.”
The man turned to me and held out an amazingly dirty fist. “I’ve got
something here, sir,” said he, “what belongs to you, I think.” Here he
unclosed his hand and exhibited a little cardboard box bearing one of
Dr. Partridge’s labels. It was smeared with mud and grime, but I
recognized it instantly; indeed, when I took it with trembling fingers
from his palm and looked at it closely, the name, “Mrs. Frood,” was
still decipherable under the smears of dirt.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“I picked it up on the strand,” he replied, “about halfway betwixt the
Sun Pier and the end of Ship Alley, and just below spring tide
high-water mark. Is it any good?”
“Yes,” I answered; “it is very important. I will get you to walk along
with me to the police station.”
“What for?” he demanded suspiciously. “I don’t want no police
stations. If it’s any good, give us what you think it’s worth, and
have done with it.”
I gave him half-a-crown to allay his suspicions, and then said: “You
had better come with me to the station. I expect the police will want
you to show them exactly where you found this box and help them to
search the place; and I will see that you are paid for your trouble.”
“But look ’ere, mister,” he objected; “what’s the police got to do
with this ’ere box?”
I explained the position to him briefly, and then, suddenly, his face
lit up. “I know,” he said excitedly. “I seen the bills stuck up on the
dead-’ouse door. And d’you mean to say as this ’ere box was ’ers? ’Cos
if it was it’s worth more’n ’arf-a-crown.”
“Perhaps it is,” said I. “We will hear what the sergeant thinks,” and
with this I opened the door and went out, and my new acquaintance now
followed with the greatest alacrity, taking the opportunity, as we
walked along, to remind me of my promise and to offer tentative
suggestions as to the scale of remuneration for his services.
Our progress along the High-street was not unnoticed. Doubtless, we
appeared a somewhat ill-assorted pair, for I observed a good many
persons turn to look at us curiously, and when we passed the office,
on the opposite side of the road, I saw Bundy’s face rise above the
curtain with an expression of undissembled curiosity.
On arriving at the station, I inquired for Sergeant Cobbledick, and
was fortunate enough to find him in his office. As I entered with my
companion, he bestowed on the latter a quick glance of professional
interest and then greeted me with a genial smile. It was hardly
necessary for me to state my business, for the single quick glance of
his experienced eye at my companion had furnished the diagnosis. I had
only to produce the box and indicate the finder.
“This looks like a lead,” said he, reaching his helmet down from a
peg. “What’s your name, sonny, and where do you live?”
Sonny affirmed, with apparent reluctance, that his name was Samuel
Hooper and that his abode was situated in Foul Anchor Alley; and when
these facts had been committed to writing by the sergeant, the latter
put on his helmet and invited the said Hooper to “come along,”
evidently assuming that I was to form one of the party.
As we approached the office this time I saw Bundy from afar off; and
by the time we were abreast of the house he was joined by Japp, who
must have stood upon tip-toe to bring his eyes above the curtain. Both
men watched us with intense interest, and we had barely passed the
house when Bundy’s head suddenly disappeared, and a few moments later
its owner emerged from the doorway and hurriedly crossed the road.
“What is in the wind, Doctor?” he asked, as he came up with us. “Japp
is in a rare twitter. Have they found the body?”
“No,” I answered; “only the little box that was in her hand-bag. We
are going to have a look at the place where it was found.”
“To see if the bag is there, too?” said he. “It probably is, unless it
has been picked up already. I think I’ll come along with you, if you
don’t object. Then I can give Japp all the news.”
I did not object, nor did the sergeant--verbally; but his expression
conveyed to me that he would willingly have dispensed with Mr. Bundy’s
society. However, he was a suave and tactful man, and he made the best
of the unwelcome addition to the party, even going so far as to offer
the box for Bundy’s inspection.
“It is pretty dirty,” the latter observed, holding it delicately in
his fingers. “Wasn’t it wrapped in paper when you gave it to her,
Doctor?”
“It was wrapped up in paper when I found it,” said Hooper, “but I took
off the paper to see what was inside, and, yer see, my ’ands wasn’t
very clean, a-grubbin’ about in the mud.” In conclusive confirmation
of this statement, he exhibited them to us, and then gave them a
perfunctory wipe on his trousers.
“What struck me,” said Bundy, “was that it doesn’t seem to have been
in the water.”
“It hadn’t,” said Hooper. “The outside paper was quite clean when I
picked it up.”
“It looks,” observed the sergeant, “as if they had turned out the bag
and thrown away what they didn’t want; and then they probably threw
away the bag, too. It is ten chances to one that it has been picked
up, but if it hasn’t it will probably be somewhere along the
high-water mark. How are the tides, Hooper?”
“Just past the bottom of the nips,” was the reply; and a few moments
later our guide added: “It’s down here,” and plunged into what looked
like an open doorway. We followed, one at a time, cautiously
descending a flight of very filthy stone steps and stooping to avoid
knocking our heads against the overhanging story of an ancient timber
house. At the bottom we proceeded, still in single file, along a
narrow, crooked passage between grimy walls and ruinous tarred fences
until, after many twistings and turnings, we came to a flight of rough
wooden steps, thickly coated with yellow mud and slimy sea-grass,
which led down to the shore.
“Now,” said the sergeant, turning up the bottoms of his trousers,
“show us exactly where you picked the box up.”
“It was just oppersight that there schooner,” said our guide, taking
his way along the muddy streak between the two lines of jetsam that
corresponded to the springtide and neap-tide high-water marks;
“betwixt her and the wharf.”
We followed him, picking our way daintily, and, having inspected the
spot that he indicated, squeezed in between the schooner’s bilge and
the piles and raked over the rubbish that the tide had deposited on
the shore.
“Was you looking for anything in partickler?” Hooper asked.
“We are looking for a small leather handbag,” replied the sergeant,
“or anything else we can find.”
“A ’and-bag wouldn’t ’ave been ’ere long,” Hooper remarked. “Somebody
would ’ave twigged it pretty quick, unless it got hidden under
something big.” He straightened himself up and gave a searching look
up and down the shore; and then suddenly he started off with an air of
definite purpose. Glancing in the direction towards which he was
shaping his course, I observed, in the corner of a stage that jutted
out from the quay, a heap of miscellaneous rubbish surmounted by the
mortal remains of a large hamper. It looked a likely spot and we all
followed, though not at his pace, being somewhat more fastidious as to
where we stepped. Consequently he arrived considerably before us, and
having flung away the hamper, began eagerly to grub among the
underlying raffle. Just as we had come within a dozen yards of him,
anxiously making the perilous passage over a stretch of peculiarly
slimy mud, he stood up with a howl of triumph, and we all stopped to
look at him. His arm was raised above his head, and from his hand hung
by its handle a little morocco bag.
“There’s no need to ask you to identify it, Doctor,” said the
sergeant, as he despoiled the water-rat of his prize. “It fits your
description to a T.”
Nevertheless, he handed it to me, drawing my attention to the initials
“A. F.” stamped on the leather. I turned it over gloomily, noting that
it showed signs of having been in the water--though not, apparently,
for any considerable time--and that none of its contents remained
excepting a handkerchief tucked into an inner pocket, and returned it
to him without remark.
“Now, look here, Hooper,” said he, “I want you to stay down here and
keep an eye on this shore until I send some of our men up, and then
you can stay and help them, if you like. And remember that anything
that you find--no matter what it is--you keep and hand over to me or
my men; and you will be paid the full value and a reward for finding
it as well. Do you understand that?”
“I do,” replied Hooper. “That’s a fair orfer, and you can depend on me
to do the square thing. I’ll stay down here until your men come.”
Thereupon we left him, pursuing our way along the shore and keeping an
attentive eye on all the rubbish and litter that we passed, until we
came to a set of rough wooden steps by the Ship Pier.
“I had no authority to offer to pay that chap,” said the sergeant, as
we walked up Ship Alley, “but the superintendent has put me on to work
at this case, and I’m not going to lose any chances for the sake of a
few shillings. It is well to keep in with these waterside people.”
“Have you published a list of things that are likely to turn up?”
Bundy asked.
“We’ve posted up a description of the missing woman with full details
of her dress and belongings,” replied the sergeant. “But perhaps a
list of the things that might be washed up would be useful. People are
such fools. Yes, it’s a good idea. I’ll have a list printed of
everything that might get loose and be picked up, and stick it up on
the wharves and waterside premises. Then there will be nothing left to
their imagination.”
At the top of Ship Alley he halted, and having thanked me warmly for
my prompt and timely information, turned towards Chatham Town, leaving
me and Bundy to retrace our steps westward.
“That was a bit of luck,” the latter remarked, “finding that bag; and
he hardly deserved it. He ought to have had that piece of shore under
observation from the first. But he was wise to make an acceptable
offer to that body-snatcher, Hooper. I expect he lives on the shore,
watching for derelict corpses and any unconsidered trifles that the
river may throw up. I see there is a reward of two pounds for the
body.”
“You have seen the bills, then?”
“Yes. We have got one to stick up in the office window. Rather
gruesome, isn’t it?”
“Horrible,” I said; and for a while we walked on in silence. Presently
Bundy exclaimed: “By Jove! I had nearly forgotten. I have a message
for you. It is from Japp. He is taking a distinguished American
archæologist for a personally conducted tour round the town to show
him the antiquities, and he thought you might like to join the party.”
“That is very good of him,” said I. “It sounds as if it should be
rather interesting.”
“It will be,” said Bundy. “Japp is an enthusiast in regard to
architecture and ancient buildings, and he is quite an authority on
the antiquities of this town. You’d better come. The American--his
name is Willard--is going to charter a photographer to come round with
us and take records of all the objects of interest, and we shall be
able to get copies of any photographs that we want. What do you say?”
“When does the demonstration take place?”
“The day after to-morrow. We shall do the Cathedral in the morning and
the castle and the town in the afternoon. Shall I tell Japp you will
join the merry throng?”
“Yes, please; and convey my very warm thanks for the invitation.”
“I will,” said he, halting as we arrived at the office, “unless you
would like to come in and convey the joyful tidings yourself.”
“No,” he replied, “I won’t come in now. I will get home and change my
boots.”
“Yes, by Jingo!” Bundy agreed, with a rueful glance at his own
delicate shoes. “Mudlarking calls for a special outfit. And I clean my
own shoes; but I’d rather do that than face Mrs. Dunk.”
With this he retired up the steps, and I turned homeward, deciding to
profit by his last remark and forestall unfavourable comment by
shedding my boots on the doormat.