The Riddle of the River Page 26

  ‘There’s too much fog,’ shouted the boys to the people massed below. ‘We can’t see a thing – they’re already out of sight! If there’s as much fog out to sea, they’ll have to cancel the whole race!’

  A collective groan went up from the rearguard formed by those, like myself, unable to push to the front of the crowd. But our disappointment was certainly less than that felt by the people who had struggled to obtain the best viewing places for the start of the race, some of them by arriving, with campstools, in the dark that precedes the dawn. Murmurs of discontent were heard from all sides, and there were some movements of departure.

  Half an hour later, the crowd had thinned considerably, as people went off to console themselves with promenades or drinks, in the hopes that the mist would soon lift and that some distant trace of the boats could be made out with telescopes, or at least their return perceived. It was then that I spotted Mr Archer, standing amongst his friends, one of the last of the faithful, still eagerly peering out to sea. And as the crowd dissolved, I saw that the fog rendered it impossible to see the departing boats, even though they were probably still not out of sight of the starting point.

  ‘Goodness, what fog,’ I exclaimed, as I joined him. ‘I wonder how the sailors can see to sail!’

  ‘Miss Duncan!’ he exclaimed, greeting me with more warmth than I might have wished. ‘So you have managed to join us! This is delightful! I hardly dared hope!’

  I applied a look of enthusiasm to my face.

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for worlds!’ I assured him. Then, glancing out over the sea, I modified, ‘At least, I didn’t expect it would be like this.’

  ‘The weather is rather unfortunate,’ he agreed. ‘And if the sailors cannot see to sail, they will have to put it off until tomorrow. But we may hope that there is little or no fog twenty miles out. It is difficult to know what is happening – quite a mystery! Well, let us make the best of it, now that you are here. Munroe, let me introduce you to my charming friend Miss Duncan. Miss Duncan, Mr Munroe, and Miss Eaglehurst.

  Miss Eaglehurst was a young woman who corresponded physically much better to the type I was pretending to be than I did myself. Young and pretty, but tainted by a brash and forward manner, she shook my hand boldly. Apparently this young woman was beyond the need for a chaperone, unless, indeed, we could be considered to be chaperoning each other. But perhaps the mores and customs of the yachting world are different from those of the towns and villages, and chaperones are not considered necessary. As incorrect as I was well aware my own situation to be, Miss Eaglehurst’s was certainly much worse, since she had obviously come there together with Mr Munroe on the yacht. I hoped that Mr Archer was not going to renew his suggestion that I join him on it for the trip home, fingered my return ticket within my glove, and set myself to be as charming as he had announced me to be.

  ‘Do let’s take a turn; there’s nothing to see here,’ said Miss Eaglehurst in a rather petulant voice.

  ‘My dear girl, the fog may lift at any moment,’ replied Mr Archer optimistically. But his companion was less confident.

  ‘Oh, let’s go,’ he said, drawing the woman away on his arm. ‘We can come back soon enough, but in any case there’s nothing to see when the boats are distant. At any rate, we’ll all meet for luncheon at one, shall we?’ And they moved away, leaving me uncomfortably alone.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Archer, instantly taking advantage of their departure to lay his hand undesirably upon my shoulder. ‘So here we are, are we?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, adopting a hypocritical look once and for all and willing myself not to depart from it even for a second. ‘How lucky you are, to come to such interesting events every year, and several times a year.’

  ‘Today is not the best example,’ he said, ‘although it might improve. Last year was much more splendid, with coloured flags waving from all the masts.’

  ‘Oh—’ I said, ‘but last year, you weren’t here with me. Still, I’ll wager you weren’t alone. Don’t lie now; I know you are very naughty, aren’t you? You must have been here with some other lady!’

  ‘I was,’ he said, pretending not to like having to admit it, but showing his pleased vanity clearly enough.

  ‘Was it the actress you told me about?’ I said, pouting jealously, and hoping I was not proceeding too quickly, too obviously.

  ‘Yes it was, as a matter of fact,’ he answered briefly, and a shadow crossed his face. He did not much want to talk about her, that was clear. My task was not going to be especially easy. Now that I had broached the subject, I thought that I had better forge ahead with it, for coming back to it later on might seem even more annoying and suspicious.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘I feel bad at taking the place which legitimately belongs to someone who died.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he replied shortly.

  ‘Of course not,’ I assented, fluttering my eyelashes. ‘It’s just sad. It isn’t my fault or your fault, either, that she died.’

  I scrutinised him intently from under the brim of my hat as I pronounced these daring words, wondering if the slightest sign of awareness or knowledge might not flash however briefly across his face. I did not expect him to turn towards me, suddenly black with fury, and shout,

  ‘Shut up, you imbecile!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, stepping backwards and covering my mouth with my hands. There was a time when I had clearly suspected him of being the murderer. The idea came back to me sharply now. A frightening look shone from his eyes.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I said quickly, soothingly. ‘Here I am, causing you pain by reminding you of it, when I should be helping to offer you a lovely, pleasant day. Please forgive me. Let us talk of other things.’ And I went so far, in my fear, as to lay my hand upon his arm.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, recovering his calm and squeezing my gloved fingers. ‘You’re upsetting me, harping on about that.’ He paused, then forced a smile, in an attempt to erase the negative impression his violence had left upon me. Then he leant towards me, and the smile converted itself into his usual strange leer, which always made me feel just a little bit like a piece of red meat.

  I stared at him, fascinated as though by a serpent, and suffered him to provide me with an unwelcome caress, only pushing him away after a moment to remark feebly that ‘people will see us’. He appeared aware that although but few people were left on the docks, they were not of the sort that one might freely offend. We were surrounded by proper ladies, families with children in stiff frocks, monocled aristocrats and elegant dandies. The number of little boys in sailor suits was quite a bit larger even than the number one usually sees about the streets, and several little girls were wearing sailor-type collars over the shoulders of their navy-and-white dresses. Their image imprinted itself on my retina as though I were watching them through a glass. On the far side of the glass, the gay throng pressed in the streets to participate in the festivities. On my side, the inner side, a different scene proceeded: Mr Archer, asking Ivy to get him out of a scrape, by putting some money back into the till at Heffers before its loss was noticed. Ivy assenting willingly, used to rendering service, pleased to make a last gesture for the man who had at least treated her with kindness. And then, Mr Archer waiting calmly until she expressed the desire to leave – no hurry, no pressure – handing her a roll of bank notes, closing the door behind her, glancing at his watch, and then – then what?

  Philip had claimed there was no telephone in the flat. But he had said there was one in the shop below. Could a wire not be brought upstairs? If the elderly gentleman had one in the manor, then might one not believe that it had somehow been done so?

  ‘Mr Archer,’ I said suddenly, ‘I know you’re very interested in machines. I wanted to ask you – do you have the telephone at home?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had one installed,’ he said, surprised at my odd question. ‘The Darwins have, though; they were one of the very first families in Cambridge to get it. Number 10, I
believe they are, and they highly recommend it.’

  ‘Do they? And what do you think?’ I improvised quickly. ‘I wanted to ask your advice, because my parents were wondering if it would be a useful thing to have, and not too difficult or peculiar to use.’

  ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘it certainly isn’t difficult. And it’s absolutely fascinating, technologically speaking. But as to usefulness, it has its disadvantages, I find. As far as calling the tradespeople is concerned, they come to the house for their orders and deliveries, and for anything particular, I have servants who can just as well go and call upon them. And for any private communication, I prefer the post. There’s no privacy over the telephone, you know. The girl at the Exchange hears everything, to say nothing of other families, if you have a party line. It doesn’t tempt me.’

  ‘I wonder what it is really like to live with the thing,’ I said. ‘It is strange to think that a girl one doesn’t even know can listen to everything one is saying. Do you mean that a telephone call can never be secret in any way?’

  ‘Not even the fact that you made one,’ he answered, with a smile that struck me as smug.

  The flame of hope that had suddenly awoken in me died down. Not only was every telephone in Cambridge apparently registered by number, so that it would be impossible to hide the fact of owning one, but the girl at the Exchange would know about and quite possibly remember precisely any call that had been made. One could not be sure that she would remember, of course, but the risk was far too great for him to have even considered using such a method.

  Then what? What had he done?

  ‘Let’s do like Munroe,’ said Mr Archer, becoming impatient with my thoughtful silence and pulling me by the arm. ‘We’ll take a turn and see what’s happening in the streets.’

  It was after a long time of strolling about the streets and lanes, punctuated by a pleasant cup of tea, that we began to notice that a large portion of the crowd that had previously been at the water’s edge was now headed inland, seemingly all in the same direction. A little automatically, we took to following them.

  The moving stream thickened as we advanced, and there was a sense of expectation. The few people we crossed who were coming the other way were in animated conversation.

  ‘It’s some kind of hoax,’ said a man who passed us, speaking loudly, ‘to keep people from becoming bored with the whole race because they can’t see it.’

  ‘I wonder what’s happening?’ I said. ‘Shall we follow all these people and find out what the hoax might be?’

  Mr Archer merely smiled enigmatically.

  After just a few moments, we discovered the place where the stream of people had converged into an excited, milling pool. They all stood in front of a long, low, cream-coloured building, elegantly built in the style of a Palladian villa, its two Ionic porticoes linked by a colonnade, which ran down a great length of the street. People were pressing and crowding under the porticoes, in front of the enormous windows giving out on them. The words

  Royal St George Yacht Club Founded 1838

  were emblazoned over the main entrance, which was further decorated with a triangular flag, red with a white cross in the centre of which was a crown.

  Starting on the fringe, we worked our way forwards as people looked and departed, until we finally reached the window which was the main feature of attraction. As it came into my field of vision, I saw a young man adding, from the inside, a piece of paper to a long column of papers already gummed to the pane. The top paper read

  Queen’s Cup Reporting By The Irish Daily Express

  Underneath was a list of handwritten messages describing the progress of the yachts in the race. Mr Archer began to read them eagerly.

  10:55 The RAINBOW having crossed the line before the gun was fired was recalled thereby losing 3 1/4 minutes,

  stated the first one. All were brief, technically worded descriptions of the movements of the various boats.

  11:00 Time round Rosberg buoy: AILSA 10:54, BONA 10:54:33, ISOLDE 10:58, RAINBOW 10:59:10, ASTRILD 10:59:42

  11:15 The AILSA stayed, and went away on the port tack, as did also the ASTRILD. After going a short distance the BONA also stayed, following the example of the other two.

  11:36 The RAINBOW and the ISOLDE standing in under Howth.

  11:55 Yachts heading for Kish BONA leading by five minutes, AILSA second, RAINBOW 3rd, ISOLDE 4th and ASTRILD last. Breeze freshening

  12:5 BONA had to go about unable to fetch ship but still leading. ASTRILD ahead of ISOLDE.

  12:13 BONA rounded Kish

  12:17:29 AILSA rounded

  12: 24:29 RAINBOW turned the lightship

  12:36:41 ISOLDE rounded

  12:45:42 ASTRILD following

  ‘And it’s nearly one o’clock now,’ said Mr Archer, taking out his watch and glancing at it. ‘They’ll be more than an hour finishing the loop and starting the second round. Let’s go get something to eat, shall we? We’re to meet the others at a very nice little place – you’ll like it.’

  ‘I should love to,’ I said. ‘But do tell me how the Yacht Club can know all this, when nobody can see anything?’

  ‘They’ve got a boat out there watching,’ he said shortly.

  ‘But…’ I stopped, staring at him, my heart pumping suddenly. ‘But…but how can the boat out there tell the people here what is going on?’

  He hesitated, but before he could say anything, a lady standing near me, wearing a very large hat decorated with ostrich feathers, intervened excitedly. ‘Don’t you know?’ she asked. ‘Why, this is the work of the Italian boy genius Marconi. Don’t say you haven’t heard about his astounding discovery? It’s been in all the papers!’

  I felt Mr Archer pulling on my arm, and a tiny alarm seemed to go off inside me. I wanted to know about Marconi – the name, already, reminded me of something – and I felt that Mr Archer did not want me to know. I resisted his pressure, and opened my mouth to put some questions to my informative neighbour, but I was forestalled by a gentleman standing close by.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘It’s all nothing but a great trick to keep us busy till the boats come in! Messages transmitted from the water twenty miles away! What will they expect us to believe next?’

  ‘I read that they are transmitted by waves travelling through the ether,’ cried the lady.

  I felt a great shock of disappointment. The ether – why, Arthur had told me that modern physicists no longer believed that it even existed! This was no better than Sir Oliver. I shrugged gloomily, and followed Mr Archer.

  ‘Then it really is some great hoax?’ I said to him as we emerged into the street, in which the mist was lifting slowly, allowing glimmers of pale sunshine to seep through.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said brusquely. ‘We’ll see what is going on later on. It’s sure to be better by two or three. The Queen’s Cup will not be over until after four o’clock, so we’ll have plenty of time to go back down to the waterfront to watch the end. Do you like oysters?’

  I admitted to a fondness for oysters, and allowed myself to be taken to a open-air restaurant looking directly out over the water. Mr Munroe and his lady friend were standing in front of it already, waiting for us. We were seated together at a table for four, and oysters duly arrived, followed by cod, Atlantic salmon and halibut. Mr Archer ordered conger eel.

  ‘We’ve been on a ramble,’ said Mr Munroe. ‘Can’t see a thing. Dead boring.’

  I wanted to ask him if he had seen the messages at the Yacht Club, but I felt that the subject annoyed Mr Archer, perhaps because of the foolishness or pretence surrounding an activity to which he clearly attributed the highest importance. However, I soon became aware that two gentlemen at the table next to ours were discussing nothing other than that precise topic. Showing nothing, keeping up a light flow of conversation, I lent an ear to their words over the clink and scrape of glasses and forks.

  ‘The Flying Huntress is a good little tug,’ remarked the elder of the two, who wa
s elegantly dressed in summer flannels and wore a close-cut beard. ‘Marconi did well to choose her. He’s a good sailor; he and his assistant will be able to follow the manoeuvres as accurately as it’s possible to think of doing.’

  ‘Yes, we’re in luck,’ replied the other. ‘Marconi knows as much about yachting as any good amateur; he and his assistant can handle the sailing, the messages and the transmission all by themselves.’

  ‘And know what to write,’ said the first. ‘Not that he couldn’t have taken an expert on board if he’d needed to. But he’s a loner, that fellow. Have you ever met him?’

  ‘No, have you?’

  ‘Once, at Cowes. The fellow’s a regular yachting maniac. He’ll change the future of yacht races with this system of his. It was a splendid idea of the paper’s, hiring him to report on the race. And they’ve got even more than they bargained for. They couldn’t possibly have guessed how foggy it would be.’

  ‘They say it’s all for the best,’ said the bearded gentleman. `His system works better in fog and stormy weather, so I’ve heard. Something to do with conductivity. I wonder what’s happening now? Just look at the time – they’ll be well into the Sovereign’s, and the Queen’s will be starting the second round. Let’s go and get some news.’