WHICH DEALS WITH ANCIENT MONUMENTS
AND A BLUE BOAR
On arriving home, I found awaiting me a letter from Dr. Thorndyke
suggesting--in response to a general invitation that I had given him
some time previously--that he should come down on Saturday to spend
the week-end with me. Of course, I adopted the suggestion with very
great pleasure, not a little flattered at receiving so distinguished a
guest; and now I was somewhat disposed to regret my engagement to
attend Mr. Japp’s demonstration. However, as Thorndyke was not due
until lunch time, I should have an opportunity of modifying my
arrangement, if necessary.
But, as events turned out, I congratulated myself warmly on not having
missed the morning visit to the Cathedral. It was a really remarkable
experience; and not the least interesting part of it to me was the
revelation of the inner personality of my friend, Mr. Japp. That
usually dry and taciturn man of business was transfigured in the
presence of the things that he really loved. He glowed with
enthusiasm; he exhaled the very spirit of mediæval romance; at every
pore he exuded strange and recondite knowledge. Obedient to his
behest, the ancient building told the vivid story of its venerable
past, presented itself in its rude and simple beginnings; exhibited
the transformations that had marked the passing centuries; peopled
itself with the illustrious departed, whose heirs we were and whose
resting-places we looked upon; and became to us a living thing whose
birth and growth we could watch, whose vicissitudes and changing
conditions we could trace until they brought us to its august old age.
Under his guidance we looked down the long vista of the past, from the
time when simple masons scalloped the Norman capitals within, while
illustrious craftsmen fashioned the wonderful west doorway, to that
last upheaval that swept away the modern shoddy and restored to the
old fabric its modest comeliness.
Architectural antiquities, however, are not the especial concern of
this history, though they were not without a certain influence in its
unfolding. Accordingly, I shall not follow our progress--attended by
the indispensable photographic recording angel--through nave and
aisles, form choir to transepts, and from tower to undercroft. At the
close of a delightful morning I betook myself homeward, charged with
new and varied knowledge, and with a cordial invitation to my guest to
join the afternoon’s expedition if he were archæologically inclined.
Apparently he was, for when, shortly after his arrival, I conveyed the
invitation to him he accepted at once.
“I always take the opportunity,” said he, “of getting what is
practically first-hand information. Your friend, Mr. Japp, is
evidently an enthusiast; he has expert technical knowledge, and he has
apparently filled in his detail by personal investigation. A man like
that can tell you more in an hour than guide-books could tell you in a
lifetime. We had better get a large-scale map of the town to enable us
to follow the description, unless you have one.”
“I haven’t,” said I, “but we can get one on the way to the rendezvous.
You got my report, I suppose?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I got it yesterday. That, in fact, was what
determined me to come down. The discovery of that bag upon the shore
dispels to some extent the ambiguity of our data. The finding of the
brooch did not enlighten us much. It might simply have been dropped
and picked up by some casual wayfarer. In fact, that is what the
appearances suggested, for it is manifestly improbable that a person
who had committed a crime would take the risk of pawning the product
of robbery with violence in the very neighbourhood where the crime had
been committed, and after an interval of time which would allow of the
hue and cry having already been raised. Your sergeant is probably
right in assuming that the man with the mole had nothing to do with
the affair. But the finding of this bag is a different matter. It
connects that disappearance with the river and it offers a strong
suggestion of crime.”
“Don’t you think it possible that she might have fallen into the river
accidentally?” I asked.
“It is possible,” he admitted. “But that is where the significance of
the brooch comes in. If she had fallen into the river from some wharf
or pier, there does not seem to be any reason why the brooch should
have become detached and fallen on land--as it apparently did. The
finding of the bag where it had been thrown up by the river, and of
the brooch on shore, suggests a struggle on land previous to the fall
into the water. You don’t happen, I suppose, to know what the bag
contained?”
“I don’t--excepting the packet of tablets that I gave her. When the
bag was found, it was empty; at least, it contained only the
handkerchief, as I mentioned in my report.”
“Yes,” he said reflectively. “By the way, I must compliment you on
those reports. They are excellent, and with regard to this one, there
are two or three rather curious circumstances. First, as to the packet
of tablets. You mention that it had not been unwrapped and that, when
it was found, the paper was quite clean. Therefore it had never been
in the water. Therefore it had been taken out of the bag--by somebody
with moderately clean hands--before the latter was dropped into the
river; and it must have been thrown away on the shore above high-water
mark. Incidentally, since the disappearance occurred--presumably--on
the evening of the 26th of April, and the packet was found on the 7th
of May, it had been lying on the shore for a full ten days. Perhaps
there is nothing very remarkable in that; but the point is that Mrs.
Frood was carrying the bag in her hand and she would almost certainly
have dropped it if there had been any struggle. How, then, did the bag
come to be in the river, and how came some of its contents to be found
on the shore clean and free from any traces of submersion?”
“We can only suppose,” said I, with an inward shudder--for the
discussion of these hideous details made my very flesh creep--“that
the murderer picked up the bag when he had thrown the body into the
river, took out any articles of value, if there were any, and threw
the rest on the shore.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke, a little doubtfully, “that would seem to be
what happened. And in that case, we should have to assume that the
place where the packet was found was, approximately, the place where
the crime was committed. For, as the packet was never immersed, it
could not have been carried to that place by the tide, and one cannot
think of any other agency by which it could have been moved. Its clean
and unopened condition seems to exclude human agency. The question
then naturally arises, Is the place where the packet was found, a
place at, or near, which the tragedy could conceivably have occurred?
What do you say to that?”
I considered for a few moments, recalling the intricate and obscure
approach of the shore and the absence of anything in the nature of a
public highway.
“I can only say,” I replied at length, “that it seems perfectly
inconceivable that Mrs. Frood could have been at that place, or even
near it, unless she went there for some specific purpose--unless, for
instance, she were lured there in some way. It is a place that is, I
should say, unknown to any but the waterside people.”
“We must go there and examine the place carefully,” said he, “for if
it is, as you say, a place to which no one could imaginably have
strayed by chance, that fact has an important evidential bearing.”
“Do you think it quite impossible that the package could have been
carried to that place and dropped there?”
“Not impossible, of course,” he replied, “but I can think of no
reasonably probable way in which it could have happened, supposing the
murderer to have pocketed it, and afterwards to have thrown it away.
That would be a considered and deliberate act; and it is almost
inconceivable that he should not have opened the packet to see what
was inside, and that he should have dropped it on the dry beach when
the river was close at hand. Remember that the bag was found quite
near, and that it had been in the water.”
“And assuming the crime to have been committed at that place, what
would it prove?”
“In the first place,” he replied, “it would pretty definitely exclude
the theory of accidental death. Then it would suggest at least a
certain amount of premeditation, since the victim would have had, as
you say, to be enticed to that unlikely spot. And it would suggest
that the murderer was a person acquainted with the locality.”
“One of the waterside people,” said I. “They are a pretty shady lot,
but I don’t see why any of them should want to murder her.”
“It is not impossible,” said he. “She was said to be shopping in
Chatham, and she might have had a well-filled purse and allowed it to
be seen. But that is mere speculation. The fact is that we have no
data at present. We know practically nothing about Mrs. Frood. We
can’t say if she had any secret enemies, or if there was anyone who
might have profited by her death or have had any motive for making
away with her.”
“We know something about her husband,” said I, “and that he has
disappeared in a rather mysterious fashion; and that his disappearance
coincides with that of his wife.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “those are significant facts. But we mustn’t
lose sight of the legal position. Until the body is recovered, there
is no evidence of death. Until the death is proved, no charge of
murder can be sustained. When the body is found it will probably
furnish some evidence as to how the death occurred, if it is recovered
within a reasonable time. As a matter of fact, it is rather remarkable
that it has not yet been found. The death occurred--presumably--nearly
a fortnight ago. Considering how very much frequented this river is,
it is really rather unaccountable that the body has not come to light.
But I suppose it is time that we started for the rendezvous.”
I looked at my watch and decided that it was, and we accordingly set
forth in the direction of the office, which was the appointed
meeting-place, calling at a stationer’s to provide ourselves each with
a map. We chose the six-inch town plan, which contained the whole
urban area, including the winding reaches of the river, folding them
so as to show at an opening the peninsula on which the city of
Rochester is built.
“A curious loop of the river, this,” said Thorndyke, scanning the map
as we went along. “Rather like that of the Thames at the Isle of Dogs.
You notice that there are quite a number of creeks on the low shore at
both sides. Those will be places to watch. A floating body has rather
a tendency to get carried into shallow creeks and to stay there. But I
have no doubt the longshoremen are keeping an eye on them as a reward
has been offered. Perhaps we might be able to go down and have a look
at the shore when we have finished our perambulation of the town.”
“I don’t see why not,” I replied, though, to tell the truth, I was not
very keen on this particular exploration. To Thorndyke this quest was
just an investigation to be pursued with passionless care and method.
To me it was a tragedy that would colour my whole life. To him,
Angelina was but a missing woman whose disappearance had to be
explained by patient inquiry. To me she was a beloved friend whose
loss would leave me with a life-long sorrow. Of course, he was not
aware of this; he had no suspicion of the shuddering horror that his
calm, impersonal examination of the evidential details produced in me.
Nor did I intend that he should. It was my duty and my privilege to
give him what assistance I could, and keep my emotions to myself.
“You will bear in mind,” said he, as we approached the office, “that
my connexion with the case of Mrs. Frood is not to be referred to. I
am simply a friend staying with you for a day or two.”
“I won’t forget,” said I, “though I don’t quite see why it should
matter.”
“It probably doesn’t matter at all,” he replied. “But one never knows.
Facts which might readily be spoken of before a presumably
disinterested person might be withheld from one who was known to be
collecting evidence for professional purposes. At any rate, I make it
a rule to keep out of sight as far as possible.”
These observations brought us to the office, where we found our three
friends together with a young man, who was apparently acting as deputy
during the absence of the partners, and the photographer. I presented
Thorndyke to my friends, and when the introduction had been made Mr.
Japp picked up his hat, and turned to the deputy.
“You know where to find me, Stevens,” he said, “if I should be really
wanted--really, you understand. But I don’t particularly want to be
found. Shall we start now? I propose to begin at the bridge, follow
the High-street as far as Eastgate House, visit Restoration House,
trace the city wall on the southwest side, and look over the castle.
By that time we shall be ready for tea. After tea we can trace the
north-east part of the wall and the gates that opened through it, and
that will finish our tour of inspection.”
Hereupon the procession started, Mr. Japp and his guest leading,
Thorndyke, Bundy, and I following, and the photographer bringing up
the rear.
“Let me see,” said Bundy, looking up at Thorndyke with a sort of pert
shyness, “weren’t you down here a week or two ago?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “and I think I had the honour of being
inspected by you while I was reading your proclamation respecting a
certain lost key.”
“You had,” said Bundy; “in fact, I may say that you raised false hopes
in my partner and me. We thought you were going to find it.”
“What, for ten shillings!” exclaimed Thorndyke.
“We would have raised the fee if you had made a firm offer,” said
Bundy, removing his eyeglass to polish it with his handkerchief. “It
was a valuable key. Belonged to a gate that encloses part of the city
wall.”
“Indeed!” said Thorndyke. “I don’t wonder you were anxious about it
considering what numbers of dishonest persons there are about. Ha!
Here is the bridge. Let us hear what Mr. Japp has to say about it.”
Mr. Japp’s observations were concise. Having cast a venomous glance at
the unlovely structure, he turned his back on it and remarked acidly:
“That is the new bridge. It is, as you see, composed of iron girders.
It is not an antiquity, and I hope it never will be. Let us forget it
and go on to the Guildhall.” He strode forward doggedly and Bundy
turned to us with a grin.
“Poor old Japp,” said he, “he does hate that bridge. He has an
engraving of the old stone one in his rooms, and I’ve seen him stand
in front of it and groan. And really you can’t wonder. It is an awful
come-down. Just think what the town must have looked like from across
the river when that stone bridge was standing.”
Here we halted opposite the Guildhall, and when we had read the
inscription, admired the magnificent ship weather-cock--said to be a
model of the Rodney--and listened to Japp’s observations on the
architectural features of the building, the photographer was
instructed to operate on its exterior while we entered to explore the
Justice Room and examine the portraits. From the Guildhall we passed
on to the Corn Exchange, the quaint and handsome overhanging clock of
which had evidently captured Mr. Willard’s fancy.
“That clock,” said he, “is a stroke of genius. It gives a character to
the whole street. But what in creation induced your City Fathers to
allow that charming little building to be turned into a picture
theatre?”
Japp shook his head and groaned. “You may well ask that,” said he,
glaring viciously at the inane posters and the doorway, decorated in
the film taste. “If good Sir Cloudesley Shovel, who gave it to the
town, could rise from his grave and look at it, now he’d--bah! The
crying need of this age is some means of protecting historic buildings
from town councils. To these men an ancient building is just
old-fashioned--out-of-date; a thing to be pulled down and replaced by
something smart and up-to-date in the corrugated iron line.” He
snorted fiercely, and as the photographer dismounted his camera, he
turned and led the way up the street. I lingered to help the
photographer with his repacking, and meanwhile Thorndyke and Bundy
walked on together, chatting amicably and suggesting to my fancy an
amiable mastiff accompanied by a particularly well-groomed fox
terrier.
“Do you usually give your patients a week-end holiday?” Bundy was
inquiring as I overtook them.
“I haven’t any patients,” replied Thorndyke. “My medical practice is
conducted mostly in the Law Courts.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bundy. “Do you mean that you live by
resuscitating moribund jurymen and fattening up murderers for
execution, and that sort of thing?”
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “Nothing so harmless. I am what is
known as a Medical Expert. I give opinions on medical questions that
affect legal issues.”
“Then you are really a sort of lawyer?”
“Yes. A medico-legal hybrid; a sort of centaur or merman, with a
doctor’s head and a lawyer’s tail.”
“Well,” said Bundy, “there are some queer professions. I once knew a
chap in the furniture trade who described himself as a
‘worm-eater’--drilled worm-holes in faked antiques, you know.”
“And what,” asked Thorndyke, “might be the analogy that you are
suggesting? You don’t propose to associate me with the diet of worms,
I hope.”
“Certainly not,” said Bundy, “though I suppose your practice is
sometimes connected with exhumations. But I was thinking that you must
know quite a lot about crime.”
“A good deal of my practice is concerned with criminal cases,”
Thorndyke admitted.
“Then you will be rather interested in our local mystery. Has the
doctor told you about it?”
“You mean the mystery of the disappearing lady? But of what interest
should it be to me? I was not acquainted with her.”
“I meant a professional interest. But I suppose you are not taking a
’bus-man’s holiday: don’t want to be bothered with mysteries that
don’t concern you. Still, I should like to hear your expert opinion on
the case.”
“You mistake my functions,” said Thorndyke. “A common witness
testifies to facts known to himself. An expert witness interprets
facts presented to him by others. Present me your facts, and I will
try to give you an interpretation of them.”
“But there are no facts. That is what constitutes the mystery.”
“Then there is nothing to interpret. It is a case for the police, and
not for the scientific expert.”
Here our conversation was interrupted by our arrival at the House of
the Six Poor Travellers, and by a learned disquisition by Japp on the
connotation of the word Proctor--which, it appeared, was sometimes
used in the Middle Ages in the sense of a cadger or swindler. Thence
we proceeded to Eastgate House, where Japp mounted his hobby and
discoursed impressively on the subject of ceilings, taking as his text
a specimen modelled _in situ_, and bearing the date 1590.
“The fellow who put up that ceiling,” said he, “took his time about
it, no doubt. But his work has lasted three hundred and fifty years.
That is the best way to save time. Your modern plasterer will have his
ceiling up in a jiffy; and it will be down in a jiffy, and to do all
over again. And never worth looking at at all.”
Mr. Willard nodded. “It is very true,” said he. “What is striking me
in looking at all this old work is the great economy of time that is
effected by taking pains and using good material, to say nothing of
the beauty of the things created.”
“If he goes on talking like that,” whispered Bundy, “Japp’ll kiss him.
We must get them out of this.”
Mercifully--if such a catastrophe was imminent--the ceiling discourse
brought our inspection here to an end. From Eastgate House we went
back to the Maidstone-road, and when we had inspected Restoration
House, began to trace out the site of the city wall, which Thorndyke
carefully marked on his map, to Japp’s intense gratification. This
perambulation brought us to the castle--which was dealt with rather
summarily, as Mr. Willard had already examined it--and we then
returned to the office for tea, which Bundy prepared and served with
great success in his own sitting-room, while Japp dotted in with red
ink on Thorndyke’s map the entire city wall, including the part which
we had yet to trace; and ridiculously small the ancient city looked
when thus marked out on the modern town.
After tea we retraced our steps to the site of the East Gate, and,
having inspected a large fragment of the wall at the end of an alley,
traced its line across the High-street, and then proceeded down Free
School-lane to the fine angle-bastion at the northern corner of the
lane. Thence we followed the scanty indications as far as the site of
the North Gate, and thereafter through a confused and rather unlovely
neighbourhood until, on the edge of the marshes, we struck into a
narrow lane, enclosed by a dilapidated tarred fence, a short distance
along which we came to a closed gate, which I recognized as the one
through which I had passed with Bundy on the day when we were made
acquainted with the tragic history of Bill the Bargee. As Japp
unlocked the gate and admitted us to the space of waste land, Bundy
remarked to Thorndyke: “That is the gate that the missing key belonged
to. You see there is no harm done so far. The wall is still there.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and not much improved in appearance by your
builders’ attentions. Those patches suggest the first attempts of an
untalented dental student at conservation.”
“They are rather a disfigurement,” said Japp. “But the men had to have
a job found for them, and that is the result. Perhaps they won’t show
so much in the photograph.”
While the photographer was setting up his camera and making the
exposure, Japp explained the relation of this piece of wall to the
North Gate and the Gate that faced the bridge, and marked its position
on Thorndyke’s map.
“And that,” he continued, “concludes our perambulation. The
photographer is chartered by Mr. Willard, but I understand that we are
at liberty to secure copies of the photographs, if we want them. Is
that not so, Mr. Willard?”
“Surely,” was the cordial reply; “only I stipulate that they shall be
a gift from me, and I shall ask a favour in return. If there is a
plate left, I should like to have a commemorative group taken, so that
when I recall this pleasant day, I can also recall the pleasant
society in which I spent it.”
We all acknowledged the kindly compliment with a bow, and as the
photographer announced that he had a spare plate, we grouped ourselves
against a portion of undisfigured wall, removed our hats, and took up
easy and graceful postures on either side of Mr. Willard. When the
exposure had been made, and the photographer proceeded to pack up his
apparatus, Thorndyke tendered his very hearty thanks to Mr. Japp and
his friend for their hospitality.
“It has been a great privilege,” said he, “to be allowed to share in
the products of so much study and research, and I assure you it is far
from being unappreciated. Whenever I revisit Rochester--which I hope
to do before long--I shall think of you gratefully, and of your very
kind and generous friend, Mr. Willard.”
Our two hosts made suitable acknowledgments; and while these
compliments were passing, I turned to Bundy.
“Can we get down to the shore from here?” I asked. “Thorndyke was
saying that he would like to have a look at the river. If it is
accessible from here we might take it on the way home.”
“It isn’t difficult to get at,” replied Bundy. “If he wants to get a
typical view of the river with the below-bridge traffic, by far the
best place is Blue Boar Pier. It isn’t very far, and it is on your way
home--more or less. I’ll show you the way there if you like. Japp is
dining with Willard, so he won’t want me.”
I accepted the offer gladly, and as the exchange of compliments seemed
to be completed and our party was moving towards the gate, I tendered
my thanks for the day’s entertainment and bade my hosts farewell,
explaining that we were going riverwards. Accordingly we parted at the
gate, Japp and Willard turning towards the town, while Thorndyke,
Bundy, and I retraced our steps towards the marshes.
At the bottom of the lane Bundy paused to explain the topography.
“That path,” said he, “leads to Gas House-road and the marshes by the
North Shore. But there isn’t much to see there. If we take this other
track we shall strike Blue Boar-lane, which will take us to the pier.
From there we can get a view of the whole bend of the river right
across to Chatham.”
Thorndyke followed the description closely with the aid of his map,
marking off our present position with a pencil. Then we struck into a
rough cart-track, with the wide stretch of the marshes on our left,
and, following this, we presently came out into the lower part of Blue
Boar-lane and turned our faces towards the river. We had not gone far
when I observed a man approaching whose appearance seemed to be
familiar. Bundy also observed him, for he exclaimed: “Why, that is old
Cobbledick! Out of uniform, too. Very irregular. I shall have to
remonstrate with him. I wonder what he has been up to. Prowling about
the river bank in search of clues, I expect. And he’ll suspect us of
being on the same errand.”
Bundy’s surmise appeared to be correct, for as the sergeant drew
nearer and recognized us, his face took on an expression of shrewd
inquiry. But I noticed with some surprise that his curiosity seemed to
be principally concerned with Thorndyke, at whom he gazed with
something more than common attention. Under the circumstances I should
have passed him with a friendly greeting, but he stopped, and, having
wished me “Good evening,” said: “Could I have a few words with you,
Doctor?” upon which I halted, and Thorndyke and Bundy walked on
slowly. The sergeant looked after them, and, turning his back to them,
drew from his pocket with a mysterious air a small dirty brown bundle,
which he handed to me.
“I wanted you just to have a look at that,” he said.
I opened out the bundle, though I had already tentatively recognized
it. But when it was unrolled it was unmistakable. It was poor
Angelina’s scarf.
“I thought there couldn’t be any doubt about it,” the sergeant said
cheerfully when I had announced the identification. “Your description
was so clear and exact. Well, this gives us a pretty fair kick-off.
You can see that it has been in the water--some time, too. So we know
where to look for the body. The mysterious thing is, though, that
we’ve still got to look for it. It ought to have come up on the shore
days ago. And it hasn’t. There isn’t a longshoreman for miles up and
down that isn’t on the look-out for it. You can see them prowling
along the sea-walls and searching the creeks in their boats. I can’t
think how they can have missed it. The thing is getting serious.”
“Serious?” I repeated.
“Well,” he explained, “there’s no need for me to point out to a
medical gentleman like you that bodies don’t last for ever, especially
in mild weather such as we’ve been having, and in a river where the
shore swarms with rats and shore-crabs. Every day that passes is
making the identification more difficult.”
The horrible suggestions that emerged from his explanation gave me a
sensation of physical sickness. I fidgeted uneasily, but still I
managed to rejoin huskily: “There’s the clothing, you know.”
“So there is,” he agreed; “and very good means of identification in an
ordinary case--accidental drowning, for instance. But this is a
criminal case. I don’t want to have to depend on the clothing.”
“Was the scarf found floating?” I asked, a little anxious to change
the subject to one less gruesome.
“No,” he replied. “It was on the shore by the small creek just below
Blue Boar Pier, under an empty fish-trunk. One of the Customs men from
the watch-house found it. He noticed the trunk lying out on the shore
as he was walking along and went out to see if there was anything in
it. Then, when he found it was empty, he turned it over, and there was
the scarf. He recognized it at once--there’s a list of the articles
stuck up on the watch-house--and kept it to bring to me. But it
happened that I came down here--as I do every day--just after he’d
found it. But I mustn’t keep you here talking, though I’m glad I met
you and got your confirmation about this scarf.”
He smiled benignly and raised his hat, whereupon I wished him “Good
evening” and went on my way with a sigh of relief. He was a pleasant,
genial man, but his matter-of-fact way of looking at this tragedy that
had eaten so deeply into my peace of mind, was to me positively
harrowing. But, of course, he did not understand my position in the
case.
“Well,” said Bundy, when I hurried up, “what’s the news? Old
Cobbledick was looking mighty mysterious. And wasn’t he interested in
us? Why he’s gazing after us still. Has he had a bite? Because if he
hasn’t, I have. Some beastly mosquito.”
“Don’t rub it,” said Thorndyke, as Bundy clapped his hand to his
cheek. “Leave it alone. We’ll put a spot of ammonia or iodine on it
presently.”
“Very well,” replied Bundy, with a grimace expressive of resignation.
“I am in the hands of the Faculty. What sort of fish was it that Isaak
Walton Cobbledick had hooked? Or is it a secret?”
“I don’t think there is any secrecy about it,” said I. “One of the
Customs men has found Mrs. Frood’s scarf,” and I repeated what the
sergeant had told me as to the circumstances.
“It is a gruesome affair,” said Bundy, “this search for these ghastly
relics. Look at those ghouls down on the shore there. I suppose that
is the fish-trunk.”
As he spoke, we came out on the shore to the right of the pier and
halted to survey the rather unlovely prospect. Outside the stunted
sea-wall a level stretch of grey-green grass extended to the spring
high-water mark, beyond which a smooth sheet of mud--now dry and
covered with multitudinous cracks--spread out to the slimy domain of
the ordinary tides. At the edge of the dry mud lay a derelict
fish-trunk around which a group of bare-legged boys had gathered--and
all along the shore, on the faded grass, on the dry mud and wading in
the soft slime, the human water-rats were to be seen, turning over
drift-rubbish, prying under stranded boats or grubbing in the soft
mud. Hard by, on the grass near the sea-wall, an old ship’s long-boat
had been hauled up above tide-marks to a permanent berth and turned
into a habitation by the erection in it of a small house. A short
ladder gave access to it from without and the resident had laid down a
little causeway of flat stones leading to the wall.
“Mr. Noah seems to be at home,” observed Bundy, as we approached the
little amphibious residence to inspect it. He pointed to a thin wisp
of smoke that issued from the iron chimney; and, almost as he spoke,
the door opened and an old man came out into the open stern-sheets of
the boat with a steaming tin pannikin in his hand. His appearance
fitted his residence to a nicety; for whereas the latter appeared to
have been constructed chiefly from driftwood and wreckage, his costume
suggested a collection of assorted marine salvage, with a leaning
towards oil-skin.
“Mr. Noah” cast a malevolent glance at the searchers; then, having
fortified himself with a pull at the pannikin, he turned a filmy blue
eye on us.
“Good evening,” said Thorndyke. “There seems to be a lot of business
doing here,” and he indicated the fish-trunk and the eager searchers.
The old man grunted contemptuously. “Parcel of fules,” said he,
“a-busyin’ theirselves with what don’t concern ’em, and lookin’ in the
wrong place at that.”
“Still,” said Bundy, “they have found something here.”
“Yes,” the old man admitted, “they have. And that’s why they ain’t
goin’ to find anything more.” He refreshed himself with a drink
of--presumably--tea, and continued: “But the things is a-beginning to
come up. It’s about time she come up. But she won’t come up here.”
“Where do you suppose she will come up?” asked Bundy.
The old man regarded him with a cunning leer. “Never you mind where
she’ll come up,” said he. “It ain’t no consarn o’ yourn.”
“But how do you know where she’ll come up?” Bundy persisted.
“I knows,” the old scarecrow replied conclusively, “becos I do. Becos
I gets my livin’ along-shore, and it’s my business for to know.”
Having made this pronouncement, Mr. Noah looked inquiringly into the
pannikin, emptied it at a draught, and, turning abruptly, retired into
the ark, shutting the door after him with a care suited to its evident
physical infirmity.
“I wonder if he really does know,” said Bundy, as we walked away past
the Customs watch-house.
“We can fairly take it that he doesn’t,” said Thorndyke, “seeing that
the matter is beyond human calculation. But I have no doubt that he
knows the places where bodies and other floating objects are most
commonly washed ashore, and we may assume that he is proposing to
devote his probably extensive leisure to the exploration of those
places. It wouldn’t be amiss to put the sergeant in communication with
him.”
“Probably the sergeant knows him,” said I, “but I will mention the
matter the next time I see him.”
At the top of Blue Boar-lane Bundy halted and held out his hand to
Thorndyke. “This is the parting of the ways,” said he.
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” replied Thorndyke. “You’ve got to have your
mosquito-bite treated. Never neglect an insect-bite, especially on the
face.”
“As a matter of fact,” said I, “you have got to come and have dinner
with us. We can’t let you break up the party in this way.”
“It’s very nice of you to ask me,” he began, hesitatingly, a little
shy, as I guessed, of intruding on me and my visitor; but I cut him
short, and, hooking my arm through his, led him off, an obviously
willing captive. And if his presence hindered me from discussing with
Thorndyke the problem that had occasioned his visit, that was of no
consequence, since we should have the following day to ourselves; and
he certainly contributed not a little to the cheerfulness of the
proceedings. Indeed, I seemed to find in his high spirits something a
little pathetic; a suggestion that the company of two live men--one of
them a man of outstanding intellect--was an unusual treat, and that
his life with old Japp and the predatory females might be a trifle
dull. He took to Thorndyke amazingly, treating him with a sort of
respectful cheekiness, like a schoolboy dining with a favourite
head-master; while Thorndyke, fully appreciative of his irresponsible
gaiety, developed a quiet humour and playfulness which rather took me
by surprise. The solemn farce of the diagnosis and treatment of the
mosquito bite was an instance; when Thorndyke, having seated the
patient in the surgery chair and invested him with a large towel,
covered the table with an assortment of preposterous instruments and
bottles of reagents, and proceeded gravely to examine the bite through
a lens until Bundy was as nervous as a cat, and then to apply the
remedy with meticulous precision on the point of a fine sable brush.
It was a pleasant evening, pervaded by a sense of frivolous gaiety
that was felt gratefully by the two elder revellers and was even
viewed indulgently by Mrs. Dunk. As to Bundy, his high spirits flowed
unceasingly--but, I may add, with faultless good manners--and when, at
length, he took his departure, he shook our hands with a warmth which,
again, I found slightly pathetic.
“I _have_ had a jolly evening!” he exclaimed, looking at me with a
queer sort of wistfulness. “It has been a red-letter day”; and with
this he turned abruptly and walked away.
We watched him from the threshold, bustling jauntily along the
pavement; and as I looked at him, there came unbidden to my mind the
recollection of that other figure that I had watched from this same
threshold, walking away in the fading light--walking into the fog that
was to swallow her up and hide her from my sight for ever.
From these gloomy reflections I was recalled by Thorndyke’s voice.
“A nice youngster, that, Strangeways. Gay and sprightly, but not in
the least shallow. I often think that there was a great deal of wisdom
in that observation of Spencer’s, that happy people are the greatest
benefactors to mankind. Your friend, Bundy, has helped me to renew my
youth; and who could have done one a greater service?”