THE INQUIRY AND A SURPRISE
On the morning of the inquest I started from my house well in
advance of time, and in a distinctly uncomfortable frame of mind.
Perhaps it was that the formal inquiry brought home to me with extra
vividness the certainty that my beloved friend was gone from me for
ever, and that she had died in circumstances of tragedy and horror.
Not that I had ever had any doubt, but now the realization was more
intense. Again, I should have to give evidence. I should have to
reconstitute for the information of strangers scenes and events that
had for me a certain sacred intimacy. And then, above all, I should
have to view--and that not cursorily--the decayed remains of the woman
who had been so much to me. That would be naturally expected from a
medical man and no one would guess at what it would cost me to bring
myself to this last dreadful meeting.
Walking down the High-street thus wrapped in gloomy reflections, it
was with mixed feelings that I observed Bundy advancing slowly towards
me, having evidently awaited my arrival. In some respects I would
sooner have been alone, and yet his kindly, sympathetic companionship
was not altogether unwelcome.
“Good morning, John,” said he. “I hope I am not _de trop_. It is a
melancholy errand for you, poor old chap, and I can’t do much to make
it less so, but I thought we might walk down together. You know how
sorry I am for you, John.”
“Yes, I know and appreciate, and I am always glad to see you, Peter.
But why are you going there? Have you had a summons?”
“No, I have no information to give. But I am interested in the case,
of course, so I am going to attend as a spectator. So is Japp, though
he is really a legitimately interested party. In fact, I am rather
surprised they didn’t summon him as a witness.”
“So am I. He really knows more about the poor girl than I do. But, of
course, he knows nothing of the circumstances of her death.”
By this time we had arrived at the Guildhall, and here we encountered
Sergeant Cobbledick, who was evidently on the look-out for me.
“I am glad you came early, Doctor,” said he. “I want you just to pop
round to the mortuary. You know the way. There’s a tray by the side of
the coffin with all her belongings on it. I’ll get you to take a
careful look at them, so that you can tell the jury that they are
really her things. And you had better run your eye over the remains.
You might be able to spot something of importance. At any rate, they
will expect you to have viewed the body, as you are the principal
witness to its identity. I’ve told the constable on duty to let you
in. And, of course, you can go in, too, Mr. Bundy, if you want to.”
“I don’t think I do, thank you,” replied Bundy. But he walked round
with me to the mortuary, where the constable unlocked the door as he
saw us approaching. I mentioned my name to the officer, but he knew me
by sight, and now held the door open and followed me in, while Bundy
halted at the threshold, and stood, rather pale and awe-stricken,
looking in at the long table and its gruesome burden.
The tray of which Cobbledick had spoken was covered with a white
table-cloth, and on this the various objects were arranged
symmetrically like the exhibits in a museum. At the top was the hat,
flanked on either side by a silver-headed hat-pin. The carefully
smoothed scarf was spread across horizontally, the six coat-buttons
were arranged in a straight vertical line, and the two shoes were
placed at the bottom centre. At one side was the hand-bag, and at the
other, to balance it, the handkerchief with its neatly-embroidered
initials; and on this were placed the Zodiac ring, the wedding ring,
the box of tablets, and the brooch. On the lateral spaces the various
other objects were arranged with the same meticulous care for
symmetrical effect: a neat row of hair pins, a row of hooks and eyes,
one or two rows of buttons from the dress and under-garments, the
little metal jaws of the purse, two rows of coins, silver and bronze,
a pair of glove-fasteners with scorched fragments of leather adhering,
a little pearl-handled knife, a number of metal clasps and fastenings
and other small metallic objects derived from the various garments,
and a few fragments of textiles, scorched as if by fire; a couple of
brown shreds, apparently from the stockings, a cindery fragment of the
brown coat, and a few charred and brittle tatters of linen.
I looked over the pitiful collection while the constable stood near
the door and probably watched me. There was something unspeakably
pathetic in the spectacle of these poor fragments of wreckage, thus
laid out, and seeming, in the almost grotesque symmetry of their
disposal, to make a mute appeal for remembrance and justice. This was
all that was left of her; this and what was in the coffin.
So moved was I by the sight of these relics, thus assembled and
presented in a sort of tragic synopsis, that it was some time before I
could summon the resolution to look upon her very self, or at least
upon such vestiges of her as had survived the touch of “decay’s
effacing fingers.” But the time was passing, and it had to be. At last
I turned to the coffin, and, lifting the unfastened lid, looked in.
It could have been no different from what I had expected; but yet the
shock of its appearance seemed to strike me a palpable blow. Someone
had arranged the bones in their anatomical order; and there the
skeleton lay on the bottom of the coffin, dry, dusty, whitened with
the powder of lime, such a relic as might have been brought to light
by the spade of some excavator in an ancient barrow or prehistoric
tomb. And yet this thing was she--Angelina! That grisly skull had once
been clothed by her rich, abundant hair! That grinning range of long
white teeth had once sustained the sweet, pensive mouth that I
remembered so well. It was incredible. It was horrible. And yet it was
true.
For some moments I stood as if petrified, holding up the coffin lid
and gazing at the fearful shape in a trance of horror. And then
suddenly I felt, as it were, a clutching at my throat and the vision
faded into a blur as my eyes filled. Hastily I clapped down the coffin
lid and strode towards the door with the tears streaming down my face.
Vaguely I was aware of Bundy taking my arm and pressing it to his
side, of his voice as he murmured shakily, “Poor old John!” Passively
I allowed him to lead me to a quiet corner above a flight of steps
leading down to the river, where I halted to wipe my eyes, faintly
surprised to note that he was wiping his eyes too; and that his face
was pale and troubled. But if I was surprised, I was grateful, too;
and never had my heart inclined more affectionately towards him than
in this moment of trial that had been lightened by his unobtrusive
sympathy and perfect understanding.
We stayed for a few minutes, looking down on the river and talking of
the dead woman and the sad and troubled life from which this hideous
crime had snatched her; then, as the appointed time approached, we
made our way to the room in which the inquiry was to be held. As we
entered, a pleasant-looking, shrewd-faced man, who looked like a
barrister and who had been standing by a constable, approached and
accosted me.
“Dr. Strangeways? My name is Anstey. I do most of the court work in
connexion with Thorndyke’s cases, and I am representing him here
to-day. He had hoped to come down, himself, but he had to go into the
country on some important business, so I have to come to keep the nest
warm--to watch the proceedings and make a summary of the evidence. You
mentioned to him that the case would take more than one day.”
“Yes,” I answered, “that is what I understand. Will Dr. Thorndyke be
here to-morrow?”
“Yes; he has arranged definitely to attend to-morrow. And I think he
expects by then to have some information of importance to
communicate.”
“Indeed!” I said eagerly. “Do you happen to know the nature of it?”
Anstey laughed. “My dear Doctor,” said he, “you have met Thorndyke,
and you must know by now that he is about as communicative as a
Whitstable native. No one ever knows what cards he holds.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “he is extraordinarily secretive. Unnecessarily so,
it has seemed to me.”
Anstey shook his head. “He is perfectly right, Doctor. He knows his
own peculiar job to a finish. He is, in a way, like some
highly-specialized animal, such as the three-toed sloth, for instance;
which seems an abnormal sort of beast until you see it doing, with
unapproachable perfection, the thing that nature intended it to do.
Thorndyke is a case of perfect adaptation to a special environment.”
“Still,” I objected, “I don’t see the use of such extreme secrecy.”
“You would if you followed his cases. A secret move is a move against
which the other player--if there is one--can make no provision or
defence or counter-move. Thorndyke plays with a wooden face and
without speaking. No one knows what his next move will be. But when it
comes, he puts down his piece and says ‘check’; and you’ll find it is
mate.”
“But,” I still objected, “you are talking of an adversary and of
counter-moves. Is there any adversary in this case?”
“Well, isn’t there?” said he. “There has been a crime committed.
Someone has committed it; and that someone is not advertising his
identity. But you can take it that he has been keeping a watchful eye
on his pursuers, ready, if necessary, to give them a lead in the wrong
direction. But it is time for us to take our places. I see the jury
have come back from viewing the body.”
We took our places at the long table, one side of which was allocated
to the jury and the other to witnesses in waiting, the police
officers, the press-men, and other persons interested in the case. A
few minutes later, the coroner opened the proceedings by giving a very
brief statement of the circumstances which had occasioned the inquiry,
and then proceeded to call the witnesses.
The first witness was Sergeant Cobbledick, whose evidence took the
form of a statement covering the whole history of the case, beginning
with Mr. Japp’s notification of the disappearance of Mrs. Frood and
ending with the opening of the wall and the discovery of the remains.
The latter part of the evidence was given in minute detail and
included a complete list of the objects found with the remains.
“Does any juryman wish to ask the witness any questions?” the Coroner
inquired when the lengthy statement was concluded. He looked from one
to the other, and when nobody answered he called the next witness.
This was Dr. Baines, a somewhat dry-looking gentleman, who gave his
evidence clearly, concisely, and with due scientific caution.
“You have examined the remains which form the subject of this
inquiry?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. I have examined the skeleton which is now lying in the mortuary.
It is that of a rather strongly-built woman, five feet seven inches in
height, and about thirty years of age.”
“Were you able to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”
“No; there were no signs of any injury nor of disease.”
“Are we to understand,” asked one of the jurymen, “that you consider
deceased to have died a natural death?”
“I have no means of forming any opinion on the subject.”
“But if she died from violence, wouldn’t there be some signs of it?”
“That would depend on the nature of the violence.”
“Supposing she had been shot with a revolver?”
“In that case there might be a fracture of one or more bones, but
there might be no fracture at all. Of course, there would be a
bullet.”
“Did you find a bullet?”
“No. I did not see the bones until they had been brought to the
mortuary.”
“There has been no mention of a bullet having been found,” the coroner
interposed, “and you heard Sergeant Cobbledick say that the lime had
all been sifted through a fine sieve. We must take it that there was
no bullet. But,” he continued, addressing the witness, “the conditions
that you found would not exclude violence, I presume?”
“Not at all. Only violence that would cause injury to the bones.”
“What kinds of violence would be unaccompanied by injury to the
bones?”
“Drowning, hanging, strangling, suffocation, stabbing; and, of course,
poisoning usually leaves no traces on the bones.”
“Can you give us no suggestion as to the cause of death?”
“None whatever,” was the firm reply.
“You have heard the description of the missing woman, Mrs. Frood. Do
these remains correspond with that description?”
“They are the remains of a woman of similar stature and age to Mrs.
Frood, so far as I can judge. I can’t say more than that. The
description of Mrs. Frood was only approximate; and the estimate of
the stature, and especially the age, of a skeleton can only be
approximate.”
This being all that could be got out of the witness, who was concerned
only with the skeleton, and naturally refused to budge from that
position, the coroner glanced at his list and then called my name. I
rose and took my place at the top corner of the table, when I was duly
sworn, and gave my name and description.
“You heard Sergeant Cobbledick’s description of the articles which
have been found, and which are now lying in the mortuary?” the coroner
began.
I replied “Yes,” and he continued: “Have you examined those articles,
and, if so, can you tell us anything about them?”
“I have examined the articles in the mortuary, and I recognized them
as things I know to have been the property of Mrs. Angelina Frood.”
Here I described the articles in detail, and stated when and where I
had seen them in her possession.
“You have inspected the remains of deceased in the mortuary. Can you
identify them as the remains of any particular person?”
“No. They are quite unrecognizable.”
“Have you any doubt as to whose remains they are?” asked the juryman
who had spoken before.
“That question, Mr. Pilley,” said the coroner, “is not quite in order.
The witness has said that he was not able to identify the remains.
Inferences as to the identity of deceased, drawn from the evidence,
are for the jury. We must not ask witnesses to interpret the evidence.
When did you last see Mrs. Frood alive, Doctor?”
“On the 26th of April,” I replied; and here I described that last
interview, recalling our conversation almost verbatim. When I came to
her expressions of uneasiness and foreboding, the attention of the
listeners became more and more intense, and it was evident that they
were deeply impressed. Particularly attentive was the foreman of the
jury, a keen-faced, alert-looking man, who kept his eyes riveted on
me, and, when I had finished this part of my evidence, asked: “So far
as you know, Doctor, had Mrs. Frood any enemies? Was there anyone whom
she had reason to be afraid of?”
This was a rather awkward question. It is one thing to entertain a
suspicion privately, but quite another thing to give public expression
to it. Besides, I was giving sworn evidence as to facts actually
within my knowledge.
“I can’t say, positively,” I replied after some hesitation, “that I
know of any enemy or anyone whom she had reason to fear.”
The coroner saw the difficulty, and interposed with a discreet
question.
“What do you know of her domestic affairs, of her relations with her
husband, for instance?”
This put the matter on the basis of fact, and I was able to state what
I knew of her unhappy married life in Rochester and previously in
London; and further questions elicited my personal observations as to
the character and personality of her husband. My meeting with him at
Dartford Station, the incidents in the Poor Travellers’ rest-house,
the meeting with him on the bridge; all were given in full detail and
devoured eagerly by the jury. And from their questions and their
demeanour it became clear to me that they were in full cry after
Nicholas Frood.
The conclusion of my evidence brought us to the luncheon hour. I had,
of course, to take Mr. Anstey back to lunch with me, and a certain
wistfulness in Bundy’s face made me feel that I ought to ask him, too.
I accordingly presented them to one another and issued the invitation.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Bundy,” Anstey said heartily. “I have
heard of you from my friend Thorndyke, who regards you with respectful
admiration.”
“Does he?” said Bundy, blushing with pleasure, but looking somewhat
surprised. “I can’t imagine why. But are you an expert, too?”
“Bless you, no,” laughed Anstey. “I am a mere lawyer, and, on this
occasion, what is known technically as a devil--technically, you
understand. I am watching this case for Thorndyke.”
“But I didn’t know that Dr. Thorndyke was interested in the case,”
said Bundy, in evident perplexity.
“He is interested in everything of a criminal and horrid nature,”
replied Anstey. “He never lets a really juicy crime mystery pass
without getting all the details, if possible. You see, they are his
stock in trade.”
“But he never would discuss this case--not seriously,” objected Bundy.
“Probably not,” said Anstey. “Perhaps there wasn’t much to discuss.
But wait till the case is finished. Then he will tell you all about
it.”
“I see,” said Bundy. “He is one of those prophets who predict after
the event.”
“And the proper time, too,” retorted Anstey. “It is no use being
premature.”
The conversation proceeded on this plane of playful repartee until we
arrived at my house, where Mrs. Dunk, having bestowed a wooden glance
of curiosity at Anstey and a glare of defiance at Bundy, handed me a
telegram addressed to R. Anstey, K.C., care of Dr. Strangeways. I
passed it to Anstey, who opened it and glanced through it.
“What shall I say in answer?” he asked, placing it in my hand.
I read the message and was not a little puzzled by it. “Ask
Strangeways come back with you to-night. Very urgent. Reply time and
place.”
“What do you suppose he wants me for?” I asked.
“I never suppose in regard to Thorndyke,” he replied. “But if he says
it is urgent, it is urgent. Can you come up with me?”
“Yes, if it is necessary.”
“It is. Then I’ll say yes. And you had better arrange to stay the
night--there is a spare bedroom at his chambers--and come down with
him in the morning. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” I replied; “and you can say that we shall be at Charing Cross
by seven-fifteen.”
I could see that this transaction was as surprising to Bundy as it was
to me. But, of course, he asked no questions, nor could I have
answered them if he had. Moreover, there was not much time for
discussion as we had to be back in the court room by two o’clock, and
what talk there was consisted mainly of humorous comments by Anstey on
the witnesses and the jury.
Having sent off the telegram on our way down, we took our places once
more, and the proceedings were resumed punctually by the calling of
the foreman of the repairing gang; who deposed to the date on which
the particular patch of rubble was commenced and finished and its
condition when the men knocked off work on Saturday, the 26th of
April. He also mentioned the loss of the key, but could give no
particulars. The cross-examination elicited the facts that he had
communicated to Cobbledick and me as to the state of the loose
filling.
“How many men,” the coroner asked, “would it have taken to bury the
body in the way in which it was buried; and how long?”
“One man could have done it easily in one night, if he could have got
the body there. The stuff in the wall was all loose, and it was small
stuff, easy to handle. No building had to be done. It was just a
matter of shovelling the lime in and then chucking the loose stuff in
on top. And the lime was handy to get at in the shed, and one of the
barrels was open.”
“Can you say certainly when the body was buried?”
“It must have been buried on the night of the 26th of April or on the
27th, because on Monday morning, the 28th, we ran the mortar in, and
by that evening we had got the patch finished.”
The next witness was the labourer, Thomas Evans, who had lost the key.
His account of the affair was as follows:
“On the morning of Saturday, the 26th of April, the foreman gave me
the key, because he had to go to the office. I took the key and opened
the gate, and I left the key in the lock for him to take when he came.
Then I forgot all about it, and I suppose he did, too, because he
didn’t say anything about it until we had knocked off work and were
going out. Then he asks me where the key was, and I said it was in the
gate. Then he went and looked but it wasn’t there. So we searched
about a bit in the grounds and out in the lane; but we couldn’t see
nothing of it nowhere.”
“When you let yourself in, did you leave the gate open or shut it?”
“I shut the gate, but, of course, it was unlocked. The key was
outside.”
“So that anyone passing up the lane could have taken it out without
your noticing?”
“Yes. We was working the other side of the grounds, so we shouldn’t
have heard anything if anybody had took it.”
That completed the evidence as to the key, and when Evans was
dismissed the matron of the Poor Travellers was called. As she took
her place, a general straightening of backs and air of expectancy on
the part of the jury suggested that her evidence was looked forward to
with more than common interest. And so it turned out to be. Her
admirably clear and vivid presentment of the man, Nicholas Frood; his
quarrelsome, emotional temperament, his shabby condition, his abnormal
appearance, the evidences of his addiction to drink and drugs, his
apparently destitute state, and, above all, the formidable
sheath-knife that he wore under his coat; were listened to with
breathless attention, and followed by a fusilade of eager, and often
highly improper, questions. But the coroner was a wise and tactful
man, and he unobtrusively intervened to prevent any irregularities;
as, for instance, “It is not permissible,” he observed, blandly, “to
ask a witness if a certain individual seemed to be a likely person to
commit a crime. And a coroner’s court is not a criminal court. It is
not our function to establish any person’s guilt, but to ascertain how
deceased met with her death. If the evidence shows that she was
murdered, we shall say so in our verdict. If the evidence points
clearly to a particular person as the murderer, we shall name that
person in the verdict. But we are not primarily investigating a crime;
we are investigating a death. The criminal investigation is for the
police.”
This reminder cooled the ardour of the criminal investigators
somewhat, but there were signs of a fresh outbreak when Mrs. Gillow
gave her evidence, for that lady having a somewhat more lively
imagination than the matron, tended to lure enterprising jurymen on to
fresh indiscretions. She certainly enjoyed herself amazingly, and
occupied a most unnecessary amount of time before she at length
retired, dejected but triumphant, to the manifest relief of the
coroner.
This brought the day’s proceedings to a close. There were a few more
witnesses on the list, and the coroner hoped to take their evidence
and complete the inquiry on the following day. As soon as the court
rose, Anstey and I with Bundy proceeded to a tea-shop hard by and,
having refreshed ourselves with a light tea, set forth to catch our
train at Strood Station. Thither Bundy accompanied us at my
invitation, but though I suspected that he was bursting with curiosity
as to the object of my mysterious journey, he made no reference to it,
nor did I or Anstey.
At the barrier at Charing Cross we found Thorndyke awaiting us, and
Anstey, having delivered me into his custody and seen us into a
taxi-cab that had already been chartered, wished us success and took
his leave. Then the driver, who apparently had his instructions,
started and moved out of the station.
“I don’t know,” said I, “whether I may now ask what I am wanted for.”
“I should rather not go into particulars,” he replied. “I want your
opinion on something that I am going to show you, and I especially
want it to be an impromptu opinion. Previous consideration might
create a bias which would detract from the conclusiveness of your
decision. However, you have only a few minutes to wait.”
In those few minutes I could not refrain from cudgelling my brains,
even at the risk of creating a bias, and was still doing so--quite
unproductively--when the cab approached the hospital of St. Barnabas
and gave me a hint. But it swept past the main entrance, and, turning
up a side street, slowed down and stopped opposite the entrance of the
medical school. Here we got out, and, leaving the cab waiting, entered
the hall, where Thorndyke inquired for a person of the name of Farrow.
In a minute or two this individual made his appearance in the form of
a somewhat frowsy, elderly man, whom, from the multitude of warts on
his hands, I inferred to be the post-mortem porter or dissecting-room
attendant. He appeared to be a taciturn man, and he, too, evidently
had his instructions, for he merely looked at us and then walked away
slowly, leaving us to follow. Thus silently he conducted us down a
long corridor, across a quadrangle beyond which rose the conical roof
of a theatre, along a curved passage which followed the wall of the
circular building and down a flight of stone steps which let into a
dim, cement-floored basement, lighted by sparse electric bulbs and
pervaded by a faint, distinctive odour that memory associated with the
science of anatomy. From the main basement room Farrow turned into a
short passage, where he stopped at a door, and, having unlocked it,
threw it open and switched on the light, when we entered and I looked
around. It was a large, cellar-like room, lighted by a single powerful
electric bulb fitted with a basin-like metal reflector and attached to
a long, movable arm. The activities usually carried on in it were
evident from the great tins of red lead on the shelves, from a large
brass syringe fitted with a stop-cock and smeared with red paint, and
from a range of oblong slate tanks or coffers furnished with massive
wooden lids.
Still without uttering a word, the taciturn Farrow swung the powerful
lamp over one of the coffers, and then drew off the lid. I stepped
forward and looked in. The coffer was occupied by the body of a man,
evidently--from the shaven head and the traces of red paint--prepared
as an anatomical “subject.” I looked at it curiously, thinking how
unhuman, how artificial it seemed; how like to a somewhat dingy
waxwork figure. But as I looked I was dimly conscious of some sense of
familiarity stealing into my mind. Some chord of memory seemed to be
touched. I stooped and looked more closely; and then, suddenly, I
started up.
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “It is Nicholas Frood!”
“Are you sure?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, quite,” I answered. “It was the shaved head that put me off: the
absence of that mop of hair. I have no doubt at all. Still--let us
have a look at the hands.”
Farrow lifted up the hands one after the other; and then, if there
could have been any doubt, it was set at rest. The mahogany-coloured
stain was still visible; but much more conclusive were the bulbous
finger-tips and the mis-shapen, nutshell-like nails. There could be no
possible doubt.
“This is certainly the man I saw at Rochester,” said I. “I am fully
prepared to swear to that. But oughtn’t he to have been identified by
somebody who knew him better?”
“The body has been identified this afternoon by his late landlady,”
replied Thorndyke, “but I wanted your confirmation, and I wanted you
as a witness at the inquest. The identification is important in
relation to the inquiry and the possible verdict.”
“Yes, by Jove!” I agreed, with a vivid recollection of the questions
put to Mrs. Gillow. “This will come as a thunder-bolt to the jury. But
how, in the name of Fortune, did he come here?”
“I’ll tell you about that presently,” replied Thorndyke. He tendered a
fee to the exhibitor, and when the latter had replaced the lid of the
coffer, he conducted us back to our starting-point, and saw us into
the waiting cab.
“5a, King’s Bench Walk,” Thorndyke instructed the driver, and as the
cab started, he began his explanation.
“This has been a long and weary search, with a stroke of unexpected
good luck at the end. We have had to go through endless records of
hospitals, police-courts, poor-houses, infirmaries, and inquests. It
was the records of an inquest that put us at last on the track; an
inquest on an unknown man, supposed to be a tramp. Roughly, the
history of the affair is this:
“Frood seems to have started for Brighton on the 25th of April, but
for some unexplained reason, he broke his journey and got out at
Horwell. What happened to him there is not clear. He may have
over-dosed himself with cocaine; but at any rate, he was found dead in
a meadow, close to a hedge, on the morning of the 26th. He was
therefore dead before his wife disappeared. The body was taken to the
mortuary and there carefully examined. But there was not the faintest
clue to his identity. His pockets were searched, but there was not a
vestige of property of any kind about him, not even the knife of which
you have spoken. The probability is that he had been robbed by some
tramp of everything that he had about him, either while he was
insensible or after he was dead. In any case he appeared to be
completely destitute, and this fact, together with his decidedly dirty
and neglected condition, led naturally to the conclusion that he was a
tramp. An inquest was held, but of course, no expensive and
troublesome measures were taken to trace his identity. Examinations
showed that he had not died from the effects of violence, so it was
assumed that he had died from exposure, and a verdict to that effect
was returned. He was about to be given a pauper’s funeral when
Providence intervened on our behalf. It happened that the Demonstrator
of Anatomy at St. Barnabas resides at Horwell; and it happened that
the presence of an unclaimed body in the mortuary came to his
knowledge. Thereupon he applied to the authorities, on behalf of his
school, for the use of it as an anatomical subject. His application
was granted and the body was conveyed to St. Barnabas, where it was at
once embalmed and prepared and then put aside for use during the next
winter session.”
“Was that quite in order--legally, I mean?”
“That is not for us to ask,” he replied. “It was not in any way
contrary to public policy, and it has been our salvation in respect of
our particular inquiry.”
“I suppose it has,” I said, not, however, quite seeing it in that
light. “Of course, it disposes of the question of his guilt.”
“It does a good deal more than that as matters have turned out,” said
he. “However, here we are in the precincts of the Temple. Let us
dismiss Nicholas Frood from our minds for the time being, and turn our
attention to the more attractive subject of dinner.”
The cab stopped opposite a tall house with a fine carved-brick
portico, and, when Thorndyke had paid the driver, we ascended the
steps and made our way up a couple of flights of oaken stairs to the
first floor. Here, at the door of my friend’s chambers, we encountered
a small, clerical-looking gentleman with an extremely wrinkly, smiling
face, who reminded me somewhat of Mr. Japp.
“This is Mr. Polton, Strangeways,” said Thorndyke, presenting him to
me, “who relieves me of all the physical labour of laboratory work. He
is a specialist in everything, including cookery, and if my nose does
not mislead me--ha! Does it, Polton?”
“That depends, sir, on which way you follow it,” replied Polton, with
a smile of labyrinthine wrinkliness. “But you will want to wash, and
Dr. Strangeways’s room is ready for him.”
On this hint, Thorndyke conducted me to an upper floor, and to a
pleasant bedroom with an outlook on plane trees and ancient, red-tiled
roofs, where I washed and brushed up, and from whence I presently
descended to the sitting-room, whither Thorndyke’s nose had already
led him--and to good purpose, too.
“Mr. Polton has missed his vocation,” I remarked, as I attacked his
productions with appreciative gusto. “He ought to have been the
manager of a West End club or a high-class restaurant.”
Thorndyke regarded me severely. “I am shocked at you, Strangeways,” he
said. “Do you suggest that a man who can make anything from an
astronomical clock to a microscope objective, who is an expert in
every branch of photographic technique, a fair analytical chemist, a
microscopist, and general handicraftsman, should be degraded to the
office of a mere superintendent cook? It is a dreadful thought!”
“I didn’t understand that he was a man of so many talents and
accomplishments,” I said apologetically.
“He is a most remarkable man,” said Thorndyke, “and I take it as a
great condescension that he is willing to prepare my meals. It is his
own choice--an expression of personal devotion. He doesn’t like me to
take my food at restaurants or clubs. And, of course, he does it well
because he is incapable of doing anything otherwise than well. You
must come up and see the laboratories and workshop after dinner.”
We went up when we had finished our meal and discovered Polton in the
act of cutting transverse sections of hairs and mounting them to add
to the great collection of microscopic objects that Thorndyke had
accumulated. He left this occupation to show me the great standing
camera for copying, enlarging, reducing and microphotography, to
demonstrate the capabilities of a fine back-geared lathe and to
exhibit the elaborate outfit for analysis and assay work.
“I had no idea,” said I, as we returned to the sitting-room, “that
medico-legal practice involved the use of all these complicated
appliances.”
“The truth is,” Thorndyke replied, “that Medical Jurisprudence is not
a single subject, concerned with one order of knowledge. It represents
the application of every kind of knowledge to the solution of an
infinite variety of legal problems. And that reminds me that I haven’t
yet looked through Anstey’s abstract of the evidence at the inquest,
which I saw that he had left for me. Shall we go through it now? It
won’t take us very long. Then we can have a stroll round the Temple or
on the Embankment before we turn in.”
“You are coming down to Rochester to-morrow?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “The facts concerning Nicholas Frood will have to
be communicated to the coroner; and it is possible that some other
points may arise.”
“Now that Frood is definitely out of the picture,” said I, “do you see
any possibility of solving the mystery of this crime? I mean as to the
identity of the guilty parties?”
He reflected awhile. “I am inclined to think,” he replied, at length,
“that I may be able to offer a suggestion. But, of course, I have not
yet seen the remains.”
“There isn’t much to be gleaned from them, I am afraid,” said I.
“Perhaps not,” he answered. “But we shall be able to judge better when
we have read the evidence of the medical witness.”
“He wasn’t able to offer any opinion as to the cause of death,” I
said.
“Then,” he replied, “we may take it that there are no obvious signs.
However, it is useless to speculate. We must suspend our judgment
until to-morrow”; and with this he opened Anstey’s summary, and read
through it rapidly, asking me a question now and again to amplify some
point. When he had finished the abstract--which appeared to be very
brief and condensed--he put it in his pocket and suggested that we
should start for our proposed walk; and, though I made one or two
attempts to reopen the subject of the inquiry, he was not to be drawn
into any further statements. Apparently there was some point that he
hoped to clear up by personal observation, and meanwhile he held his
judgment in suspense.