Part 11

“Then in the case of frost-bite there is the occupation factor. What class of men tend most to become frost-bitten? Well, beyond all doubt, the greatest sufferers from frost-bite are sailors, especially those on sailing ships, and, naturally, on ships trading to arctic and sub-arctic countries. But the bulk of such sailing ships are those engaged in the Baltic and Archangel trade; and the crews of those ships are almost exclusively Scandinavians, Finns, Russians and Poles. So that, again, the probabilities point to a native of North Eastern Europe, and, taken as a whole, by the overlapping of factors, to a Russian, a Pole, or a Scandinavian.”

Foxton smiled sardonically. “Very ingenious, Jervis,” said he. “Most ingenious. As an academic statement of probabilities, quite excellent. But for practical purposes absolutely useless. However, here we are at the police station. I’ll just run in and give them the facts and then go on to the coroner’s office.”

“I suppose I’d better not come in with you?” I said.

“Well, no,” he replied. “You see, you have no official connection with the case, and they mightn’t like it. You’d better go and amuse yourself while I get the morning’s visits done. We can talk things over at lunch.”

With this he disappeared into the police station, and I turned away with a smile of grim amusement. Experience is apt to make us a trifle uncharitable, and experience had taught me that those who are the most scornful of academic reasoning are often not above retailing it with some reticence as to its original authorship. I had a shrewd suspicion that Foxton was at this very moment disgorging my despised “academic statement of probabilities” to an admiring police-inspector.

My way towards the sea lay through Ethelred Road, and I had traversed about half its length and was approaching the house of the tragedy when I observed Mrs. Beddingfield at the bay window. Evidently she recognized me, for a few moments later she appeared in outdoor clothes on the doorstep and advanced to meet me.

“Have you seen the police?” she asked as we met. I replied that Dr. Foxton was even now at the police station.

“Ah!” she said, “it’s a dreadful affair; most unfortunate, too, just at the beginning of the season. A scandal is absolute ruin to a boarding-house. What do you think of the case? Will it be possible to hush it up? Dr. Foxton said you were a lawyer, I think, Dr. Jervis?”

“Yes, I am a lawyer, but really I know nothing of the circumstances of this case. Did I understand that there had been something in the nature of a love affair?”

“Yes--at least--well, perhaps I oughtn’t to have said that. But hadn’t I better tell you the whole story?--that is, if I am not taking up too much of your time.”

“I should be interested to hear what led to the disaster,” said I.

“Then,” she said, “I will tell you all about it. Will you come indoors, or shall I walk a little way with you?”

As I suspected that the police were at that moment on their way to the house, I chose the latter alternative and led her away seawards at a pretty brisk pace.

“Was this poor lady a widow?” I asked as we started up the street.

“No, she wasn’t,” replied Mrs. Beddingfield, “and that was the trouble. Her husband was abroad--at least, he had been, and he was just coming home. A pretty home-coming it will be for him, poor man. He is an officer in the civil police at Sierra Leone, but he hasn’t been there long. He went there for his health.”

“What! To Sierra Leone!” I exclaimed, for the “White Man’s Grave” seemed a queer health resort.

“Yes. You see, Mr. Toussaint is a French Canadian, and it seems that he has always been somewhat of a rolling stone. For some time he was in the Klondike, but he suffered so much from the cold that he had to come away. It injured his health very severely; I don’t quite know in what way, but I do know that he was quite a cripple for a time. When he got better he looked out for a post in a warm climate and eventually obtained the appointment of Inspector of Civil Police at Sierra Leone. That was about ten months ago, and when he sailed for Africa his wife came to stay with me, and has been here ever since.”

“And this love affair that you spoke of?”

“Yes, but I oughtn’t to have called it that. Let me explain what happened. About three months ago a Swedish gentleman--a Mr. Bergson--came to stay here, and he seemed to be very much smitten with Mrs. Toussaint.”

“And she?”

“Oh, she liked him well enough. He is a tall, good-looking man--though for that matter he is no taller than her husband, nor any better looking. Both men are over six feet. But there was no harm so far as she was concerned, excepting that she didn’t see the position quite soon enough. She wasn’t very discreet, in fact I thought it necessary to give her a little advice. However, Mr. Bergson left here and went to live at Ramsgate to superintend the unloading of the ice ships (he came from Sweden in one), and I thought the trouble was at an end. But it wasn’t, for he took to coming over to see Mrs. Toussaint, and of course I couldn’t have that. So at last I had to tell him that he mustn’t come to the house again. It was very unfortunate, for on that occasion I think he had been ‘tasting,’ as they say in Scotland. He wasn’t drunk, but he was excitable and noisy, and when I told him he mustn’t come again he made such a disturbance that two of the gentlemen boarders--Mr. Wardale and Mr. Macauley--had to interfere. And then he was most insulting to them, especially to Mr. Macauley, who is a coloured gentleman; called him a ‘buck nigger’ and all sorts of offensive names.”

“And how did the coloured gentleman take it?”

“Not very well, I am sorry to say, considering that he is a gentleman--a law student with chambers in the Temple. In fact, his language was so objectionable that Mr. Wardale insisted on my giving him notice on the spot. But I managed to get him taken in next door but one; you see, Mr. Wardale had been a Commissioner at Sierra Leone--it was through him that Mr. Toussaint got his appointment--so I suppose he was rather on his dignity with coloured people.”

“And was that the last you heard of Mr. Bergson?”

“He never came here again, but he wrote several times to Mrs. Toussaint, asking her to meet him. At last, only a few days ago, she wrote to him and told him that the acquaintance must cease.”

“And has it ceased?”

“As far as I know, it has.”

“Then, Mrs. Beddingfield,” said I, “what makes you connect the affair with--with what has happened?”