The mystery of Angelina Frood 13 – Freeman · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The mystery of Angelina Frood 13The Discovery in Black Boy-Lane
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The mystery of Angelina Frood 13
The Discovery in Black Boy-Lane
FreemanEnglish
On a fine, sunny afternoon, about ten days after our raid on Angelina’s rooms (it was Tuesday, the 14th of July, to be exact), I was sitting in my dining-room, from which the traces of lunch had just been removed, idly glancing over the paper, and considering the advisability of taking a walk, when I heard the door-bell ring. There was a short interval; then the door was opened, and the sounds of strife and wrangling that followed this phenomenon informed me that the visitor was Mr. Bundy, between whom and Mrs. Dunk there existed a state of chronic warfare. Presently the dining-room door opened--in time for me to catch a concluding growl of defiance from Mrs. Dunk--and that lady announced gruffly: “Mr. Bundy.”
My visitor tripped in smilingly, “all teeth and eyeglass,” as his inveterate enemy had once expressed it, holding a Panama hat, which had temporarily superseded the velour.
“Well, John,” said he, “coming out to play?” He had lately taken to calling me John; in fact, a very close and pleasant intimacy had sprung up between us. It dated from the occasion when I had confided to him my unfortunate passion for poor Angelina. That confidence he had evidently taken as a great compliment, and the matter of it had struck a sympathetic chord in his kindly nature. From that moment there had been a sensible change in his manner towards me. Beneath his habitual flippancy there was an undertone of gentleness and sympathy, and even of affection. Nor had I been unresponsive. Like Thorndyke, I found in his sunny temperament, his invariable cheerfulness and high spirits, a communicable quality that took effect on my own state of mind. And then I had early recognized that, in spite of his apparent giddiness, Bundy was a man of excellent intelligence and considerable strength of character. So the friendship had ripened naturally enough.
I rose from my chair and, dropping the paper, stretched myself.
“You are an idle young dog,” said I. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“Nothing doing at the office except some specifications. Japp is doing them. Come out and have a roll round.”
“Well, Jimmy,” said I. “Your name is Jimmy, isn’t it?”
“No, it is not,” he replied with dignity. “I am called Peter--like the Bishop of Rumtifoo, and, by a curious coincidence, for the very same reason.”
“Let me see,” said I, falling instantly into the trap, “what was that reason?”
“Why, you see,” he replied impressively, “the Bishop was called Peter because that was his name.”
“Look here, young fellow my lad,” said I, “you’ll get yourself into trouble if you come up here pulling your elder’s legs.”
“It was only a gentle tweak, old chap,” said he. “Besides, you aren’t so blooming senile, after all. You are only cutting your first crop of whiskers. Are you coming out? I saw old Cobbledick just now, turning down Blue Boar Lane and looking as miserable as a wet cat.”
“What was he looking miserable about?”
“The slump in relics, I expect. He is making no headway with his investigation. I fancy he had reckoned on getting an inspectorship out of this case, whereas, if he doesn’t reach some sort of conclusion, he is likely to get his rapples knucked, as old Miss Barman would say. I suspect he was on his way to the Ark to confer with Mr. Noah. What do you say to a stroll in the direction of Mount Ararat?”
It was a cunning suggestion on the part of Bundy, for it drew me instantly. Repulsive as old Israel’s activities were to me, the presence of those finger-prints, securely locked up in my bureau, had created in me a fresh anxiety to see the first state of the investigation completed so that the search for the murderer could be commenced in earnest. Not that my presence would help the sergeant, but that I was eager to hear the tidings of any new discovery.
Bundy’s inference had been quite correct. We arrived at the head of the Blue Boar pier just in time to see the sergeant slowly descending the ladder, watched gloomily by Israel Bangs. As the former reached terra firma he turned round and then observed us.
“Any news, Sergeant?” I asked, as he approached across the grass.
He shook his head discontentedly. “No,” he replied, “not a sign; not a vestige. It’s a most mysterious affair. The things seemed to be coming up quite regularly until that hatpin was found. Then everything came to an end. Not a trace of anything for nigh upon a month. And what, in the name of Fortune, can have become of the body? That’s what I can’t make out. If this goes on much longer, there won’t be any body: and then we shall be done. The case will have to be dropped.”
He took off his hat (he was in plain clothes as usual) and wiped his forehead, looking blankly first at me and then at Bundy. The latter also took off his hat and whisked out his handkerchief, bringing with it a little telescope which fell to the ground and was immediately picked up by the sergeant. “Neat little glass, this,” he remarked, dusting it with his handkerchief. “It’s lucky it fell on the turf.” He took off the cap, and pulling out the tubes, peered vaguely through it up and down the river. Presently he handed it to me. “Look at those craft down below the dockyard,” said he.
I took the little instrument from him and pointed it at the group of small, cutter-rigged vessels that he had indicated, of which the telescope, small as it was, gave a brilliantly sharp picture.
“What are they?” I asked. “Oyster dredgers?”
“No,” he replied. “They are bawleys with their shrimp-trawls down. But there are plenty of oyster-dredgers in the lower river and out in the estuary, and what beats me is why none of them ever brings up anything in the trawls or dredges--anything in our line, I mean.”
“What did you expect them to bring up?” Bundy asked.
“Well, there are the things that have washed ashore, and there are the other things that haven’t washed ashore yet. And then there is the body.”
“Mr. Noah would have something to say if they brought that up,” said Bundy. “By the way, what had he got to say when you called on him?”
“Old Bangs? Why he is getting a bit shirty. Wants me to pay him for all the time he has lost on creeping and searching. Of course, I can’t do that, I didn’t employ him.”
“Did he find the hat-pin that you spoke of?” Bundy asked.
“Yes; and he has been grubbing round the place where he found it ever since, as if he thought hat-pins grew there.”
“Still,” said Bundy, “it is not so unreasonable. A hat-pin couldn’t have floated ashore. If the hat came off, the two hat-pins must have fallen out at pretty much the same time and place.”
“Yes,” the sergeant agreed, reflectively, “that seems to be common sense; and, if it is, the other hat-pin ought to be lying somewhere close by. I must go and have a look there myself.” He again reflected for a few moments and then asked: “Would you like to see the place where Israel found the pin?”
As I had seen the place already and had shown it to Thorndyke, I left Bundy to answer.
“Why not?” he assented, rather, I suspected, to humour the sergeant than because he felt any particular interest in the place. Thereupon Cobbledick, whose enthusiasm appeared to have been revived by Bundy’s remark, led the way briskly towards the wilderness by the coal-wharves, through that desolate region and along a cart-track that skirted the marshes until we came out into a sort of lesser wilderness to the west of Gas-House Road. Here the sergeant slipped through a large hole in a corrugated iron fence which gave access to a wharf littered with the unpresentable debris resulting from the activities of a firm of ship-knackers. Advancing to the edge of the wharf, Cobbledick stood for a while looking down wistfully at the expanse of unspeakable mud that the receding tide had uncovered.
“I suppose it is too dirty to go down,” he said in a regretful tone.
Bundy’s assent to this proposition was most emphatic and unqualified, and the sergeant had to content himself with a bird’s-eye view. But he made a very thorough inspection, walking along the edge of the wharf, scrutinizing its base, pile by pile, and giving separate attention to each pot, tin, or scrap of driftwood on the slimy surface. He even borrowed Bundy’s telescope to enable him to examine the more distant parts of the mud, until the owner of the instrument was reduced to the necessity of standing behind him, for politeness’ sake, to get a comfortable yawn.
“Well,” said Cobbledick, at long last, handing back the telescope, “I suppose we must give it up. But it’s disappointing.”
“I don’t quite see why,” said Bundy. “You have found enough to prove that the body is in the river, and no number of further relics would prove any more.”
“No, there’s some truth in that,” Cobbledick agreed. “But I don’t like the way that everything seems to have come to a stop.” He crawled dejectedly through the hole in the fence and walked on for a minute or two without speaking. Presently he halted and looked about him. “I suppose Black Boy-lane will be our best way,” he remarked.
“Which is Black Boy-lane?” I asked.
“It is the lane we came down after we left Japp and Willard that day,” Bundy explained.
“I remember,” said I, “but I didn’t know it had a name.”
“It was named after a little inn that used to stand somewhere near the top; but it was pulled down years ago. Here’s the lane.”
We entered the little, tortuous alley that wound between the high, tarred fences, and as it was too narrow for us to walk abreast, Bundy dropped behind. A little way up the lane I noticed an old hat lying on the high grass at the foot of the fence. Bundy apparently noticed it, too, for just after we had passed it I heard the sound of a kick, and the hat flew over my shoulder. At the same moment, and impelled by the same kick, a small object, which I at first thought to be a pebble, hopped swiftly along the ground in front of us, then rolled a little way, and finally came to rest, when I saw that it was a button. I should probably have passed it without further notice, having no use for stray buttons. But the more thrifty sergeant stooped and picked it up; and the instant that he looked at it he stopped dead.
“My God! Doctor,” he exclaimed, holding it out towards me. “Look at this!”
I took it from him, though I had recognized it at a glance. It was a small bronze button with a Tudor Rose embossed on it.
“This is a most amazing thing,” said Cobbledick. “There can’t be any doubt as to what it is.”
“Not the slightest,” I agreed. “It is certainly one of the buttons from Mrs. Frood’s coat. The question is, how on earth did it get here?”
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “that is the question; and a very difficult question, too.”
“Aren’t you taking rather a lot for granted?” suggested Bundy, to whom I had passed the little object for inspection. “It doesn’t do to jump at conclusions too much. Mrs. Frood isn’t likely to have had her buttons made to order. She must have bought them somewhere. She might even have bought them in Rochester. In any case, there must be thousands of others like them.”
“I suppose there must be,” I admitted, “though I have never seen any buttons like them.”
“Neither have I,” said Cobbledick, “and I am going to stick to the obvious probabilities. The missing woman wore buttons like this, and I shall assume that this is one of her buttons unless someone can prove that it isn’t.”
“But how do you account for one of her buttons being here?” Bundy objected.
“I don’t account for it,” retorted Cobbledick. “It’s a regular puzzle. Of course, someone--a child, for instance--might have picked it up on the shore and dropped it here. But that is a mere guess, and not a very likely one. The obvious thing to do is to search this lane thoroughly and see if there are any other traces; and that is what I am going to do now. But don’t let me detain you two gentlemen if you had rather not stay.”
“I shall certainly stay and help you, Sergeant,” said I; and Bundy, assuming the virtue of enthusiasm, if he had it not, elected also to stay and join in the search.
“We had better go back to the bottom of the lane,” said Cobbledick, “and go through the grass at the foot of the fence from end to end. I will take the right hand side and you take the left.”
We retraced our steps to the bottom of the lane and began a systematic search, turning over the grass and weeds and exposing the earth inch by inch. It was a slow process and would have appeared a singular proceeding had any wayfarer passed through and observed us, but fortunately it was an unfrequented place, and no one came to spy upon us. We had traversed nearly half the lane when Bundy stood up and stretched himself. “I don’t know what your back is made of, John,” said he. “Mine feels as if it was made of broken bottles. How much more have we got to do?”
“We haven’t done half yet,” I replied, also standing up and rubbing my lumbar region; and at this moment the sergeant, who was a few yards ahead, hailed us with a triumphant shout. We both turned quickly and beheld him standing with one arm raised aloft and the hand grasping a silver-topped hat-pin.
“What do you say to that, Mr. Bundy?” he demanded as we hurried forward to examine the new “find.” “Shall we be jumping at conclusions if we say that this hat-pin is Mrs. Frood’s?”
“No,” Bundy admitted after a glance at the silver poppy-head. “This seems quite distinctive, and, of course, it confirms the button. But I don’t understand it in the least. How can they have come here?”
“We won’t go into that,” said the sergeant, in a tone of suppressed excitement that showed me pretty clearly that he had already gone into it. “They are here. And now the question arises, what became of the hat? It couldn’t have dropped off down at the wharf, or this hat-pin wouldn’t be here; but it must have fallen off when both hat-pins were gone. Now what can have become of it?”
“It might have been picked up and taken possession of by some woman,” I suggested. “It was a good hat, and if the body was brought here soon after the crime, as it must have been, it wouldn’t have been much damaged. But why trouble about the hat? Appearances suggest that the body was either brought up or taken down this lane. That is the new and astonishing fact that needs explaining.”
“We don’t want to do any explaining now,” said Cobbledick. “We are here to collect facts. If we can find out what became of the hat, that may help us when we come to consider the explanations.”
“Well, it obviously isn’t here,” said I.
“No,” he agreed, “and it wouldn’t have been left here. A murderer mightn’t have noticed the button, or even the hat-pin, on a dark, foggy night. But he’d have noticed the hat; and he wouldn’t have left it where it must have been seen, and probably led to inquiries. He might have taken it with him, or he might have got rid of it. I should say he would have got rid of it. What is on the other side of these fences?”
We all hitched ourselves up the respective fences far enough to look over. On the one side was a space of bare, gravelly ground with thin patches of grass and numerous heaps of cinder; on the other was an area of old waste land thickly covered with thistles, ragwort, and other weeds. The sergeant elected to begin with the latter, as the less frequented and therefore more probably undisturbed. Setting his foot on the buttress of a post, he went over the fence with surprising agility, considering his figure, and was lost to view; but we could hear him raking about among the herbage close to the fence, and from time to time I stood on the buttress and was able to witness his proceedings. First he went to the bottom of the lane and from that point returned by the fence, searching eagerly among the high weeds. I saw him thus proceed, apparently to the top of the lane in the neighbourhood of the remains of the city wall. Thence he came back, but now at a greater distance from the fence, and as he was still eagerly peering and probing amongst the weeds, it was evident that he had had no success. Suddenly, when he was but a few yards away, he uttered an exclamation and ran forward. Then I saw him stoop, and the next moment he fairly ran towards me holding the unmistakable brown straw hat with the dull green ribbon.
“That tells us what we wanted to know,” he said breathlessly, handing the hat to me as he climbed over the fence; “at least, I think it does. I’ll tell you what I mean--but not now,” he added in a lower tone, though not unheard by Bundy, as I inferred later.
“I suppose we need hardly go on with the search any further?” I suggested, having had enough of groping amongst the grass.
“Well, no,” he replied. “I shall go over it again later on, but we’ve got enough to think about for the present. By the way, Mr. Bundy, I’ve found something belonging to you. Isn’t this your property?”
He produced from his pocket a largish key, to which was attached a wooden label legibly inscribed “Japp and Bundy, High-street, Rochester.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Bundy, “it is Japp’s precious key! Where on earth did you find it, Sergeant?”
“Right up at the top,” was the reply. “Close to the old wall.”
“Now, I wonder how the deuce it got there,” said Bundy. “Some fool must have thrown it over the fence from pure mischief. However, here it is. You know there was a reward of ten shillings for finding it, Sergeant. I had better settle up at once. You needn’t make any difficulties about it,” he added, as the sergeant seemed disposed to decline the payment. “It won’t come out of my pocket. It is the firm’s business.”
On this understanding Cobbledick pocketed the proffered note and we walked on up the lane, the sergeant slightly embarrassed, as we approached the town, by the palpably unconcealable hat. Very little was said by any of us, for these new discoveries, with the amazing inferences that they suggested, gave us all abundant material for thought. The sergeant walked with eyes bent on the ground, evidently cogitating profoundly; my mind surged with new speculations and hypotheses, while Bundy, if not similarly preoccupied, refrained from breaking in on our meditations.
When, at length, by devious ways, we reached the High-street in the neighbourhood of the Corn Exchange, we halted, and the sergeant looked at me as if framing a question. Bundy glanced up at the quaint old clock, and remarked:
“It is about time I got back to the office. Mustn’t leave poor old Japp to do all the work, though he never grumbles. So I will leave you here.”
I realized that this was only a polite excuse to enable the sergeant to have a few words with me alone, and I accepted it as such.
“Good-bye, then,” said I, “if you must be off, and in case I don’t see you before, I shall expect you to dinner on Saturday if you’ve got the evening free. Dr. Thorndyke is coming down for the week-end, and I know you enjoy ragging him.”
“He is pretty difficult to get a rise out of, all the same,” said Bundy, brightening up perceptibly at the invitation. “But I shall turn up with very great pleasure.” He bestowed a mock ceremonious salute on me and the sergeant, and, turning away, bustled off in the direction of the office. As soon as he was out of earshot Cobbledick opened the subject of the new discoveries.
“This is an extraordinary development of our case, Doctor,” said he. “I didn’t want to discuss it before Mr. Bundy, though he is really quite a discreet gentleman, and pretty much on the spot, too. But he isn’t a party to the case, and it is better not to talk too freely. You see the points that these fresh finds raise?”
“I see that they put a new complexion on the affair, but to me they only make the mystery deeper and more incomprehensible.”
“In a way they do,” Cobbledick agreed, “but, on the other hand, they put the case on a more satisfactory footing. For instance, we understand now why the body has never come to light. It was never in the river at all. Then as to the perpetrator; he was a local man--or, at least, there was a local man in it; a man who knew the town and the waterside neighbourhood thoroughly. No stranger would have found Black Boy-lane. Very few Rochester people know it.”
“But,” I asked, “what does the finding of these things suggest to you?”
“Well,” he replied, “it suggests several questions. Let me just put these things away in my office, and then we can talk the matter over.” He went into his office, and shortly returned relieved--very much relieved--of the conspicuous hat. We turned towards the bridge, and he resumed: “The first question and the most important one is, which way was the body travelling? It is obvious that it was carried through Black Boy-lane. But in which direction? Towards the town or towards the river? When you think of the circumstances; when you recall that it was a foggy night when she disappeared; it seems at first more probable that the crime might have been committed in, or near, the lane, and the body carried down to the river. But when you consider all the facts, that doesn’t seem possible. There is that box of tablets, picked up dry and clean on Chatham Hard. That seems to fix the locality where the crime occurred.”
“And there is the brooch,” said I.
“I don’t attach much importance to that,” he replied. “It might have been picked up anywhere. But the box of tablets couldn’t have got from Black Boy-lane to Chatham except by the river, and it hadn’t been in the river. But the hat seems to me to settle the question. You see, one hat-pin was found on the shore and the other in the lane near the hat. Now, one hat-pin might have dropped out and left the hat still fixed on the head. But when the hat came off, the pins must have come off with it. The hat came off near the top of the lane. If both the pins had been in it they would both have come out there. But one pin was found on the shore; therefore when the body was at the shore the hat must have been still on the head, though it had probably got loosened by all the dragging about in the boat and in landing the body. You agree to that, Doctor?”
“Yes, it seems undeniable,” I answered.
“Very well,” said he. “Then the body was being carried up the lane. The next question is: was it being carried by one person or by more than one? Well, I think you will agree with me, Doctor, that it could hardly have been done by one man. It is quite a considerable distance from the shore to the top of the lane. She was a good-sized woman, and a dead body is a mighty awkward thing to carry at the best of times. I should say there must have been at least two men.”
“It certainly does seem probable,” I admitted.
“I think so,” said he. “Then we come to another question. Was it really a dead body? Or might the woman have been merely insensible?”
“Good God, Sergeant!” I exclaimed. “You don’t think it possible that it could have been a case of forcible abduction, and that Mrs. Frood is still alive?”
“I wouldn’t say it was impossible,” he replied, “but I certainly don’t think it is the case. You see, nearly three months have passed and there is no sign of her. But in modern England you can’t hide a full-grown, able-bodied woman who has got all her wits about her. No, Doctor, I am afraid we must take the view that the woman who was carried up Black Boy-lane was a dead woman. All I want to point out is that the other view is a bare possibility, and that we mustn’t forget it.”
“But,” I urged, “don’t you think that the fact that she was being carried towards the town strongly suggests that she was alive? Why on earth should a murderer bring a body, at great risk of discovery, from the river, where it could easily have been disposed of, up into the town? It seems incredible.”
“It does,” he agreed. “It’s a regular facer. But, on the other hand, suppose she was alive. What could they have done with her? How could they have kept her out of sight all this time? And why should they have done it?”
“As to the motive,” said I, “that is incomprehensible in any case. But what do you suppose actually happened?”
“My theory of it is,” he replied, “that two men, at least, did the job. Both may have been local waterside men, or there may have been a stranger with a water-rat in his pay. I imagine the crime was committed at Chatham, somewhere near the Sun Pier, and that the body was put in a boat and brought up here. It was a densely foggy night, you remember, so there would have been no great difficulty; and there wouldn’t be many people about. The part of it that beats me is what they meant to do with the body. They seem to have brought it deliberately from Chatham right up into Rochester Town; and they have got rid of it somehow. They must have had some place ready to stow it in, but what that place can have been I can’t form the ghost of a guess. It’s a fair knock-out.”
“You don’t suppose old Israel Bangs knows anything about it?” I suggested.
The sergeant shook his head. “I’ve no reason to suppose he does,” he replied. “And it is a bad plan to make guesses and name names.”
We walked up and down the Esplanade for nearly an hour, discussing various possibilities; but we could make nothing of the incredible thing that seemed to have happened in spite of its incredibility. At last we gave it up and returned to the Guildhall, where, as we parted, he said a little hesitatingly: “I heard you tell Mr. Bundy that Dr. Thorndyke was coming down for the week-end. It wouldn’t be amiss if you were to put the facts of the case before him. It’s quite in his line, and I think he would be interested to hear about it; and he might see something that I have missed. But, of course, it must be in strict confidence.”
I promised to try to find an opportunity to get Thorndyke’s opinion on the case, and with this we separated, the sergeant retiring to his office and I making my way homeward to prepare a report for dispatch by the last post.
