The Riddle of the River Read online

The whole identification procedure took us, in the end, no more than ten minutes. We did not continue up the drive, but skirted it, moving quietly under the shadow of the trees and approaching the house from the side. Several windows looked out onto the side where we now stood, one of them a large french window giving onto a terrace with stairs leading down to the garden. As we approached cautiously, moving from tree to tree, this door suddenly opened a crack, and an arm appeared, holding the knob from inside.

  ‘I thought I heard something out here, Spokes,’ a voice tossed back into the room, and a man emerged onto the terrace and stood looking out into the night. He moved down a few steps, and Estelle and I froze behind a rather large oak.

  ‘I’ll put out a trap, sir,’ said the butler from the doorway. ‘It might be a fox or a rat.’

  ‘All right. Bring me a whisky and soda, and then you can lock up,’ said his master, returning into the house and shutting the door behind him.

  ‘It’s him all right,’ cried Estelle ungrammatically, in a loud whisper. She was squeezing her hands together enthusiastically. ‘That’s the very gentleman who bought the bracelet! I know him for sure. It’s him! Oh, ma’am, do you think he murdered her? Do you?’

  ‘I don’t really,’ I said. ‘It would be too obvious, somehow. Still, one never knows, so I now advise you to forget about everything we have said and done together. Whatever you do, do not try anything further.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘Just doing this has frightened me to death! But perhaps you will come and see me when it’s all over and you have found out who did it. Will you do that?’

  I smiled as I drew her away, and tried to explain that I was not investigating the murder. Yet my task was not complete, and certainly not without its own importance. I spent the rest of the walk home puzzling deeply over the best way in which to accomplish the next step in my investigation. I now knew the name and residence of a man who had bought a bracelet for the dead girl. From there to discovering her identity seemed but a short leap – yet not an easy one! In fact, I simply could not think how to go about it. I could not figure out a single reasonable way of initiating a conversation with a gentleman with whom I was absolutely not acquainted, on the subject of a girl with whom he obviously had illicit relations, and whom he may or may not know to be dead – and, for all I had said to Estelle, who may or may not be her murderer. I was still wondering what I should say to him in the event that I could somehow wangle a meeting when I reached home. Upon entering, I discovered that Pat was there, enjoying a late drink with Arthur.

  ‘Already back?’ said Arthur, extremely surprised to see me arrive so soon after I had left. ‘I thought you’d be out for the evening.’

  ‘It was quick,’ I said.

  ‘Well, here’s someone who will be delighted to hear that,’ he said. ‘Pat considers me but a poor substitute for your company, Vanessa.’

  ‘I’m an impatient man,’ said Pat apologetically. ‘It’s been a while, Vanessa, and you haven’t written or let me know anything. What have you been doing? Where have you been this evening? Have you found out anything? You can talk – I told Arthur everything anyway.’

  ‘Oh, Pat,’ I sighed. ‘I do hate sharing the details of an investigation at this stage. It isn’t ripe yet!’

  ‘Well,’ he said pitilessly, ‘too bad. Do it anyway.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said. ‘I will, because I’m in a bit of difficulty about how to proceed, so I’ll ask your advice. What I have discovered is that the girl’s bracelet was bought in Robert Sayle’s last week when they had their Chinese sale. I went to the sale myself, that’s how I thought of it. The bracelet was bought by an elderly gentleman who was accompanied by the dead girl. The shopgirl recognised her from the photograph.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ cried Pat. ‘Now we just have to find the old gentleman!’

  ‘His name is Archer, and he lives in a manor not very far from here. It’s called Chippendale House.’

  ‘Chippendale House!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why – don’t tell me you’re talking about old Geoffrey Archer?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said in amazement. ‘Why, do you know him?’

  ‘Well, I do,’ he replied proudly. ‘I’m a journalist, you know; I know all the major citizens of our fine metropolis.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I do indeed, you can believe me or not. I’ve interviewed Mr Archer myself, on a question of financial matters. I remember him very well. It was a little matter of funds for the restoration of Little St Mary. The paper did a great splashy project to help raise the money, and a couple of us journalists were sent around to solicit interviews with a list of wealthy people we felt might be induced to contribute. We were instructed to be ready to write up a flattering article on each major contributor. I was assigned several, and got plenty of pounds and shillings from them altogether, I must say. But Mr Geoffrey Archer said he couldn’t do it, so he never did get his article.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘He must be very rich. I wonder why he wouldn’t contribute?’

  ‘Actually, he told me. He explained it all quite frankly,’ said Pat. ‘Only I can’t recall exactly what he said. He asked me not to write anything about it. What was it now? Something about his estate being all tied up so he didn’t have the right to touch anything, not anything significant, anyway. He gave me ten pounds and said let it remain anonymous, he’d rather be seen publicly as giving nothing at all, rather than a trivial sum. Ten pounds was a very nice little sum for the church, of course, but I can imagine that a gentleman would like to make a bigger mark than that. I remember feeling a bit sorry for him; he keeps up such a train of living, in that big splendid house, that one can’t help thinking he’s very wealthy, and so he is, but all the money is administered by trustees or some such thing.’

  ‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘It might be true, I suppose, although he did buy the girl a bracelet. But what’s a bracelet? Still, the impression of the shopgirl from Robert Sayle’s was definitely that she was a kept woman. How much does it cost to keep a woman, I wonder?’

  ‘Vanessa – what a question!’ said Arthur.

  ‘A lot, if you have to pay rent,’ said Pat pragmatically. ‘But let’s get back to the point. This man obviously knew the girl well enough, kept or not. Now we know who he is, but we don’t know who she is, or was. So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I was rather stuck on that point. I wish we could just ask him. What I was thinking of doing was asking Mrs Burke-Jones if she knows him. I might be able to become acquainted with him through her. She moves in quite good circles, and given that her brother is a don, she has managed to surround herself with a rare social mixture of town and gown. She might easily have met our Mr Archer somewhere.’

  ‘But that could take days,’ he said, echoing my own thoughts, ‘and even when you do meet him, how on earth can you ask the question? You can’t just go up and say ‘‘What was the name of that girl you bought the bracelet for?” No, I have a better idea. How about if I do it? I can get at him easily. I’ll interview him!’

  I kept silent about the vague thought that was tickling the back of my mind. If the dead girl was one and the same as the actress Ivy Elliott – and if I simply brought the conversation round to theatre and mentioned how much I admired her, might he not be led to react? No, but I couldn’t mention the idea to Pat yet, it was too silly; I should make a fool of myself. Ivy Elliott was very likely the bewigged Titania.

  ‘But you’ll have the same problem as me,’ I said instead. ‘If you pretend to be interviewing him for some newspaper business or other, then you can hardly bring up facts from his personal life.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, leave it to me. I’ll think of something,’ he said confidently, already on his way out of the door. I felt a little envious. Being a real journalist is a fantastic cover for a little detective work. Simply going up and ringing Mr Archer’s bell and asking to speak to him was admittedly a le
gitimate possibility under such circumstances. It was not obvious that he would succeed, but the chance was there. And he ought to have the best chance possible.

  ‘Pat!’ I called impulsively, as he was already disappearing down the path to the gate. ‘Pat, listen. This may be all wrong – this may be wrong and simply silly, but – I just have a hunch that the dead girl might have been an actress. Perhaps it might give you an idea about how to talk to him. And another thing, Pat – please take this back! I don’t need it any longer.’ And I thrust the Chinese Bracelet into his hand, and latched the gate behind him.

  1887

  They gathered them together, sisters, brothers and cousins, and swearing them all to secrecy, made them pray for rain every day. Weeks went by before the longed-for black cloud was perceived on the horizon. And then the grown-ups could not understand why the youngsters were so tumultuous and so excited – not only were they not annoyed at being penned inside the house by the downpour, but they were all crowded together in Guglielmo’s room, and they didn’t even seem to be talking, except for bursts of whispers and hushes.

  The grown-ups didn’t even hear the tinkle of the tiny bell. But they heard the burst of applause and the children’s screams of joy.

  Saturday, July 2nd, 1898

  Even though I knew that Pat had an advantage over me, and that he might be speaking to Mr Archer at that very moment, I could not resist taking myself off, yesterday, to pay a call on Mrs Burke-Jones. In order not to seem too goal-directed, I brought Cecily with me, proudly dressed in her best with new patent leather shoes on her minuscule feet. I found Mrs Burke-Jones enjoying a peaceful afternoon by herself, school having let out for the holidays some days ago. She was cutting the heads off the dead roses and piling the withered flowers in a basket on the grass at her side. I paused, admiring her upright carriage and well-tailored dress. I do find that the modern fashion of skirts closely fitted near the waist and sweeping into a gentle flare as they descend to the ground becomes her better than the stiff bustles we used to wear when I first met her ten years ago, which seemed to underscore rather than soften her somewhat stern and authoritarian style.

  ‘Why, Mrs Weatherburn,’ she said – our friendship, although warm, having begun on too unequal a footing to ever admit of the use of Christian names between us – ‘how unexpected and what a pleasure. Do join me in the garden. Would the child like a biscuit?’

  Cecily registered due enthusiasm at the suggestion of a biscuit, and holding it tightly, went to stand in front of a large flower-bed which was buzzing with an astonishing number of busy bees.

  ‘Bzzz, bzzz, bzzzz,’ she said to herself, quietly, observing them.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Burke-Jones, ‘aren’t you afraid she’ll get stung?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She won’t disturb them. She likes to watch. She looks at things very carefully, and can tell you quite a lot about them afterwards.’

  ‘She’ll be a good pupil, then,’ she said, ‘if you mean to send her to school.’

  ‘Well, naturally I’ll send her to your school, and her brother,’ I laughed, recalling a time when her school used to be my little school and the audacious idea of including small boys in its composition came to us together. That idea of ten years ago seems almost banal now, as schools of its kind have sprung up all over the country. What had seemed so daring, so original to us, had apparently struck the mind of an entire country all at once.

  ‘But it won’t be for a long time yet,’ I went on. ‘They’re only just three – they’re practically babies still. They need far too much sleep and love and play to even think about learning anything yet!’

  ‘Why the bees say bzzz?’ said Cecily suddenly, turning around.

  ‘It’s the sound of their little wings,’ Mrs Burke-Jones told her, agitating her hand quickly in illustration of her words, ‘going back and forth very very fast, like this: bzzzzzzzzz.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cecily seriously, and turned back to her observations. Mrs Burke-Jones laughed.

  ‘They may be readier than you think!’ she said.

  The maid brought out a tray containing tall glasses and a pitcher of fresh lemonade, which she placed on a little iron table. Mrs Burke-Jones poured out a drink and handed it to me. I settled myself to perform a certain number of indispensable social tasks before proceeding to my true purpose.

  ‘How is Emily coming along with her studies?’ I asked.

  ‘Very well indeed,’ she said, with a satisfaction that contrasted sharply with the consternation I well remembered when Emily had first declared her intention of attending university to study mathematics. ‘She says that her dissertation is advancing, and she expects to finish it within the next two years. Unfortunately, it seems out of the question for her marriage to take place then, for Roland is only just beginning his own dissertation now.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Arthur told me that he was Senior Wrangler this year. Emily must be extremely proud.’

  ‘Oh, it was not much of a surprise,’ she said. ‘Hudson of King’s has been the best mathematics student in his year since he arrived. His sister Phoebe – Hudson of Girton, they call her – is in her second year now, and favoured to achieve Wrangler status as well, and there is a third sister who will begin at Newnham in September.’

  ‘I met the Hudson family in London once,’ I recalled. ‘They seem quite astonishing.’

  ‘Emily says that Roland will hopefully complete his dissertation within three years, and is planning to be married then. It seems a long time. Why, I should have been furiously impatient to be married, in her situation. They have already been engaged for nearly a year! But she seems quite content.’

  ‘I was engaged for four years myself,’ I said, ‘and found the time very pleasant. I wanted to marry, to be sure, but I clearly remember also feeling a tinge of fear at the idea of abandoning all of my professional activities and remaining unoccupied at home. Even if I was only a teacher of small children, I led a busy life.’

  ‘Emily talks of continuing to do mathematics after her marriage,’ said Mrs Burke-Jones, looking as though she did not believe that any such wild plan could be put into execution. ‘Well, we will see,’ she added. ‘Now that Edmund is at university and Robert is already a lad of fourteen, I am beginning to look forward to having small children about the house again. Your little girl is a delight. That age is so extraordinarily charming. I suppose she and her brother keep you extremely busy?’

  ‘I am busy,’ I assented, ‘but I have nevertheless found the time to take on a case recently; a case of identification. In fact, I must admit that there is something I thought you might possibly be able to help me with.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. Mrs Burke-Jones is always very serious about such things as work. Her attitude towards mine has never been disapproving, although she is both discreet and incurious. Still, I felt that I could count on her help if necessary.

  ‘Are you,’ I asked, ‘by any chance acquainted with a certain Mr Geoffrey Archer, who lives in a large manor called Chippendale House, in the direction of Grantchester?’

  ‘Geoffrey Archer,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘It rings a bell. I don’t really know him, yet the name is definitely familiar. Where might I have met a Mr Archer? Is he old or young?’

  ‘He’s not young,’ I said. ‘He can hardly be less than sixty, I should think.’

  ‘Sixty,’ she said, ‘that narrows it down. I know – yes, I believe I have it. Is he a tall man with good bearing and white hair, and a rather loud voice? I think I may have met him at the Darwins.’

  ‘The Darwins?’ I said. ‘Do you mean Darwin as in Evolution, or Darwin as in my neighbours in Newnham?’

  ‘It is the same Darwin,’ she said with a smile. ‘The same family, that is. Your neighbour George Darwin is Charles Darwin’s son. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Really, no, I didn’t!’ I said, startled into a new respect for the querulous, bearded gentleman I saw frequently passing down the Newnham Road
, well wrapped up and leaning heavily on a cane even on the loveliest day.

  ‘Why yes,’ she went on, ‘Charles Darwin had a number of sons, and several of them live in Cambridge. Your neighbour has a lovely American wife. Now that I think of it, their house is only a few minutes from yours, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just a short walk,’ I said, ‘and I pass in front of it almost every day. Most of Cambridge does, I think, living just off the Silver Street bridge as they do! The children like to run wildly along the top of the garden wall, and even when I don’t see them, it is easy to hear them playing in the garden. They are an adventurous bunch, I think. However, I am not acquainted with them. I should quite like to be. But my real goal is to meet Mr Archer. Do you think there is any chance that something might be arranged?’

  ‘It really should be possible,’ she said, ‘assuming that I haven’t made a mistake about Mr Archer. But no, I am quite sure I remember him from a dinner party at the Darwins. I will call on dear Maud and see what I can do. The Darwins receive very frequently.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ I said eagerly, wishing that social conventions did not leave me so powerless to hurry events along, but exhorting myself inwardly to be grateful for small blessings. ‘Just – I must ask you another small favour. I hope you don’t mind.’

  She looked questioning, so I continued quickly.

  ‘It’s only this: if you mention me to Mrs Darwin, it would be best to call me by my maiden name. I – hum – for purposes of detection, I really must be taken for a single woman. And please, please do not be surprised if I behave a little strangely. My goal is to begin a friendship with Mr Archer.’

  She raised her eyebrows and said nothing, merely nodded in discreet acquiescence.

  So excited was I by the prospect of progress in this quarter, that the ringing of the doorbell, early this afternoon, sent me jumping out of my seat, wondering if Mrs Burke-Jones could have worked the miracle so quickly. But I was not surprised when upon throwing open the front door, I perceived Pat upon the step. A comically dejected, deprecating look painted itself upon his features as he saw me.