The Riddle of the River Read online

  ‘The flat that Ivy used was on the left side here, up the stairs, looking out at the back,’ Ernest told me.

  ‘If only we could get in,’ I remarked.

  ‘Let’s wait. Someone will surely come out by and by.’

  We waited patiently for half an hour. Ernest tried to extract information from me about the progress of my investigation, and I tried to find out more from him about Ivy. But like a man, he was incapable of giving me a real picture of the girl. He had created a romantic image which he served up to me upon a garlanded platter.

  We both jumped as the door swung open and a lady emerged; a lady of a certain age, her hair dressed fashionably though severely. As one, Ernest and I pretended to be just arriving, and made to enter the building through the door she had held open just long enough to pass through.

  But to our surprise, the lady wedged her generous frame in the doorway to block our entrance.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ she said angrily. ‘We have enough of you people here. This is a decent house.’

  ‘I – we are only coming to visit someone we know, who lives here,’ I stammered.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, young lady,’ she said. ‘You think I don’t know what you’re going to do up there in 4B? You think I haven’t seen this gentleman here before, with that other baggage, the blonde? You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she added, shaking her beaded handbag at Ernest. ‘It’s a scandal, and it’s perfectly disgusting! Why, I’ve written a dozen letters – I’ve only just put one in the box, but what’s the use? I’ve never had the shadow of an answer. I suspect you bad girls of simply stealing them! We’ve all had enough; I mean to see the end of this! It must stop at once or I will call the police! Heaven knows I don’t want the police here, but the situation is getting worse by the day – why, you, sir, are the fourth gentleman I’ve seen going up to 4B since last night! You’d better be on your way at once, this minute, for you’re not getting in here today, to pursue your shameful activities. You be gone, or I’ll call the police this instant!’

  She pulled the door closed behind her with a bang, and stalked off past us down the path without so much as a further glance. I looked at Ernest. He was beet red with shame and consternation.

  ‘I am really sorry,’ he managed to enunciate between closed teeth.

  ‘Well,’ I said drily, ‘it is all part of my job. Please do not worry about my feelings. I assure you much more unpleasant things have happened to me than being accused of being a woman of easy virtue.’ I thought of Mr Archer’s repulsive kiss and repressed a shudder.

  ‘What shall we do?’ he asked, as we continued to stand on the front path.

  ‘We are going to wait until someone else comes out,’ I said. ‘Or no, perhaps I had better wait alone, since you seem to be known here already. I think you should go, Ernest. I will manage it better by myself.’

  ‘But what will you do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Something or other. Just go, and let me see what I can discover.’

  ‘All right, I’ll go,’ he said, ‘but – please do come to our place for supper. Perhaps you can slip me a word about what you find out.’

  He left, still red, and I remained calmly waiting on the path until the door opened again. This time a young man came out. He breathed heavily as though he had been running, and his hat and tie were askew. He held the door for me as I entered, without even looking at me. In fact, he turned his face away. I, on the contrary, followed him with my eyes until he turned into the street and disappeared. Flat 4B?

  I entered the hall and hesitated, noticing the residents possessed individual letterboxes, arranged in neat rows along the walls. Each letterbox was marked with a name and a flat number. Immediately, I looked for the name attached to 4B – and this is what I saw!

  Mr G Archer, 4B

  Mr Archer’s flat! It was in Mr Archer’s London flat that Ivy and Jenny met their clients! Could the old gentleman have been aware of this use of his flat? It seemed scandalous, unthinkable – to be sure, Mr Archer had hinted at using his own flat for some unavowable purposes, but surely that was not at all the same thing as allowing it to be used as a…a…

  Through the narrow slot where letters were inserted into the box, I perceived a gleam of white. The letter of the irate neighbour, no doubt. Having only just been called a bad girl who stole letters, I felt an irresistible desire to oblige.

  I looked around carefully; the hall was empty. Taking off my gloves, I tried to slip my fingers through the slot, but it was too narrow for them them to enter. I could actually touch the letter, but it was impossible to seize hold of it, although I tried for some little time.

  Suddenly I thought of a pair of small pincers I always kept in my reticule. They had served more than once on similar occasions. I took them out, and manoeuvered the tips into the slot, grasped the letter and levered it carefully out. I hesitated for a moment – should I steam it open discreetly and put it back tomorrow? But no. It was too important (or I was too impatient). I tore it open unceremoniously.

  Mr Archer,

  I feel compelled to address myself to you yet again on the subject of the ill-frequentation of your flat number 4B.

  I have attempted to inform you many times, without ever receiving an answer, that this is a decent house and such goings-on cannot be tolerated. It is unacceptable for me to be unable to emerge from my own flat and cross the hall without encountering a flaunting female shamelessly accompanied by yet another of her men friends, entering your flat.

  I have told you many times that this use of your flat must cease at once. However, lately it has actually become worse. Whereas it was previously clear that the flat was not used at night-time, it now seems that permanent quarters have been established there. As my flat adjoins yours, I am able, and indeed, obliged, to overhear sounds from your flat both day and night, and I assure you that it is quite intolerable. I demand that you react instantly to the situation, or I will have the occupant bodily thrown out by the police within the week.

  Sincerely,

  Ada Furze (Mrs)

  Flat Number 4A

  I put this letter into my reticule and took my way up the left-hand flight of stairs till I reached the landing upon which gave both flats 4A and 4B. I stopped in front of the door and knocked on it strongly and abruptly, then listened carefully. I thought I heard the sound of a door opening within, and a rustle. I knocked again, and waited, thinking of the panting young man I had seen rushing hastily away, his face averted.

  I waited, knocked again, and waited some more. No one opened the door. After a while, I called out gently.

  ‘Miss Wolcombe? Are you home? I need to talk to you about Ivy. Please open the door.’

  But nothing happened. Further knocking and waiting produced not the slightest effect. It was only after half an hour of gentle knocking and coaxing that I gave up and left, walking down the stairs slowly, still vaguely hoping. Nothing happened, however, and I made my way to Ernest’s flat feeling both frustrated and disappointed.

  He looked at me quickly as he opened the door, then glanced behind him and sketched a finger in front of his lips. I heard voices emanating cheerfully from the dining room.

  ‘We have a guest,’ Ernest whispered. ‘Tell me quickly – anything?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I believe she was there, in fact I believe she is living there, and I’m quite sure I heard someone inside. But she wouldn’t open the door even though I knocked…and talked.’

  ‘I should have stayed,’ he said. ‘I could have persuaded her, I’m sure I could. Listen, I’ll – I’ll go there and try my luck tomorrow. If she’s there, I’ll find her, and I’ll talk to her. I’ll make her see that she must help you.’

  ‘Give her these,’ I said, and handed him the little bundle of bills and letters addressed to Ivy. He looked at them hungrily, but then thrust them quickly into a pocket as a voice spoke in the hall behind him.

  ‘Is that Vanessa?’ said Kathleen, coming
up to us and reaching for my shawl. ‘Do come in – what are you doing here, standing out on the mat? Professor Lodge is here, do come and be introduced.’

  I recognised the Professor at once, of course. Bearded and jolly, he radiated an atmosphere of conviviality throughout the room much in contrast with the tension I often felt at their home. The table was already laid; Ernest ushered me to a chair at once, and Kathleen kissed me warmly, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned carrying a large tureen. The Professor looked up sharply as I sat down across from him.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, before Ernest had a chance to make introductions, ‘why, we’ve already met, haven’t we? I recognise this lady – she’s the Doubting One!’

  ‘Me?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, you,’ he thundered heartily. ‘I saw you the other night at Mrs Thorne’s – watching, analysing, reasoning – it was all there in your eyes! Why do you think you didn’t receive any messages? The spirits can tell, you know. They won’t address any but receptive hearers.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘but I was receptive.’

  ‘You may have thought you were,’ he smiled, digging vigorously with a spoon into the large dish of stew that Kathleen had placed in front of him. ‘Consciously, I mean. But unconsciously, I can assure you that you were not.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, reflecting that what he said was very probably true. ‘Do you think it’s possible to change one’s unconscious attitude?’ I added meekly.

  He looked up at me thoughtfully.

  ‘An interesting question,’ he said, ‘not often asked. It is possible, yes, indeed it is. But it takes work and effort. It’s not enough to simply decide or desire it; such feelings affect nothing but the conscious state. The subject needs to uncover the causes for the unconscious doubt and remove them progressively.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Ernest, ‘I’ve seen more than one doubter become completely convinced by a single astounding manifestation.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed the Professor, ‘but those are not the same type of doubter as this lady. Those are the people whose doubt proceeds from the conscious, whereas unconsciously they desire nothing better than to believe. Therefore, in spite of appearances to the contrary, such people are receptive. It is much easier to overcome conscious than unconscious doubt.’

  ‘But I think I would be convinced,’ I argued, ‘if I were to perceive an astounding manifestation.’

  ‘I think not,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ I insisted.

  ‘Because, dear lady, you did perceive an astounding manifestation the other evening!’ he responded.

  ‘Oh, well,’ I said. ‘‘But that – it was a little vague – I thought—’

  ‘You thought of something which would be more convincing to a mentality such as yours,’ he completed my sentence. ‘Accurate factual analysis of the past, for instance, or an incontrovertible instance of thought transference, or what is sometimes known as ‘‘telepathy”, is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, not adding my secret further caveat of the manifestation in question involving only people that I absolutely trusted, like Professor Faraday with his friends.

  ‘I would love to witness something of the kind myself,’ said Kathleen. ‘I would like to believe, yet I can’t seem to. I can’t help believing that human beings are made to keep their thoughts private.’

  ‘As indeed they are, in general’ replied the Professor, happily accepting a second helping of stew. ‘Yet there are extraordinary exceptions. Have you never had any experience of thought transference?’

  ‘Not that I can remember,’ she replied. ‘Of course, there are some funny things…but one always just puts them down to coincidence, doesn’t one? Or else, to the fact that one knows the other person extremely well, so that one’s guesses about their thoughts or actions can be very accurate.’

  ‘When exactly does an accurate guess qualify as thought transference?’ I wondered aloud.

  ‘The typical question of a Doubter,’ he replied, twinkling in my direction. ‘I take such an attitude as a challenge.’

  ‘Please do!’ I encouraged him.

  ‘Anyone can be a medium, you know,’ he explained, ‘even a Doubter. Amazingly, they can be just as good mediums as anyone; I’ve seen it happen often. The quality of being a medium is, I believe, entirely independent of the subject’s conscious or unconscious attitudes and beliefs. It is a different capacity altogether. Some people are just naturally gifted with it.’ He sighed, and went on, ‘Some of the best telepathic mediums I have ever met are identical twins. Too bad we don’t have one here tonight.’

  ‘We do,’ I told him, smiling. ‘I am an identical twin.’

  ‘Really!’ he exclaimed, almost jumping out of his seat. ‘But this is ideal! You have a sister? Where is she?’

  ‘She lives in Kent,’ I said, ‘where I grew up. It is quite far away. Does that have anything to do with the thought transference?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he replied. ‘Telepathy can occur with anyone, not just between twins. However, it seems to occur particularly often between twins, which is probably why twins make better mediums in general. Tell me, have you never had any telepathic experiences with your sister?’

  I paused for a moment, pondering.

  ‘You have, but you never recognised them as such,’ he prompted me. ‘You think, like Mrs Dixon, that they were nothing but coincidences.’

  ‘No-o,’ I said. ‘There have been such flashes of understanding between us that no coincidence could explain it. But then, we are so alike on the outside, that it is understandable that sometimes we also think alike.’

  ‘Is it really?’ he said. ‘You look alike, but are your personalities alike?’

  ‘Not really,’ I told him, ‘I have always been the more adventurous of the two of us, Dora the more poised. But we understand each other perfectly.’

  ‘And there have been moments when you felt something about her, although she was far away?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I admitted, ‘and things that we did for the first time on the same day – and letters we wrote to each other at the same time, about the same thing, that crossed.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘and yet you don’t believe in telepathy?’

  I hesitated, and he pounced.

  ‘Let us give it a chance,’ he suggested, his eyes shining with eagerness. ‘I too rarely have an opportunity to work with a twin as medium. If you are willing, let us try some experiments after dinner.’

  Thus I found myself seated, one hour later, in a comfortable armchair, facing Kathleen similarly installed, and observed with fanatical intensity by Professor Lodge and Ernest.

  ‘Now, concentrate hard on a single idea,’ the Professor instructed Kathleen. ‘Mrs Weatherburn, you must empty your mind of your own thoughts entirely, and make yourself receptive. Fixing your eyes on Mrs Dixon will help you to concentrate and keep distracting sights out of your vision.’

  I sat obediently, staring at Kathleen and trying to empty my mind. This proved oddly impossible; I succeeded in stopping the train of conscious, directed thought, but the result was that I felt myself more aware than usual of the little voice that ran through my head permanently, producing a continuous stream of observations.

  Don’t think how silly all this is, and how self-conscious you feel, I instructed myself silently. Don’t think anything. Watch Kathleen.

  I stilled myself and watched her, and immediately became aware of how much one can perceive if one truly concentrates on careful observation. Kathleen was still settling into her seat; I saw her eyes flicker around the room, and as clearly as if I were thinking it myself (as indeed I would have been if I had been sitting in her place), I saw her wonder what item to think about and concentrate on. She glanced at her husband, her expression changed slightly, and all of a sudden a peculiar look crept into her eyes. It took me a moment to identify it; then she turned her gaze straight on me, and I clearly read defiance.

  She’s going to test me, I though
t, she’s going to test the whole notion. How? By doing exactly what I might well have done myself: by courageously, brazenly, defiantly thinking the most forbidden thought of all, in full view of the telepathic observers. She was throwing down a gauntlet in defense of the privacy of thought. Our eyes met. A moment of indefinable length passed.

  Suddenly my mind was filled with a storm of images so powerful that the room faded away completely behind their sudden reality. I saw the blonde actress, Kathleen’s face twisted with hate, an impression of hostility and terrible violence, an arm raised to strike – all rushing confused through my brain as though glimpsed through a wild tempest of wind and snow. Starting out of my chair with the shock, I stumbled towards Kathleen, my hands out to stop her…

  ‘Ophelia!’ I heard myself gasp.

  She stared up at me, startled, and I became aware that she had never moved from her chair, that I must have looked as though I were about to attack her. I withdrew hastily, feeling slightly stunned.

  ‘What did you see?’ Sir Oliver demanded eagerly. ‘Ophelia? Is she right, Mrs Dixon? Is that what you were thinking about?’

  ‘I – I—’ she began. ‘Ophelia? No – I wasn’t thinking about Ophelia.’ She looked at me edgily, warily. What was I to think? Had I just experienced thought transference, or had it all been nothing but a startling visual representation of my own repressed fears and suspicions?

  The Professor’s face fell.

  ‘What were you concentrating on?’ he asked her. There was an instant’s fluttering, or else I imagined it, and Kathleen said,

  ‘On my husband.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Professor, ‘let us not be discouraged. Mrs Weatherburn received an astonishingly strong impression, did she not? It may have come from someone else, from someone nearby – why, perhaps it came from your sister!’ he added, turning to me with renewed excitement. ‘Why, that must be it! You are more in tune to her thoughts, even when she is far away, than to the people about you, are you not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said reluctantly. ‘I know Dora well enough to guess her thoughts effortlessly sometimes, and in certain ways we are similar enough to think similar things at the same time. I have always supposed that to explain the various coincidental experiences we have had. But this is certainly something different. How could a thought travel hundreds of miles instantaneously? And how could it be perceived?’