The Riddle of the River Page 7

  ‘Failure,’ he said, sitting down at the dining room table and throwing his hat on it crossly. ‘It was easy to get at him, as I told you it would be. I interviewed him – standing on the doorstep, since he wouldn’t let me in – and took notes of everything he said. But I couldn’t get anything useful out of of him at all. Not one dashed thing, even though I tried using what you said about the girl possibly being an actress.’

  He pulled a couple of folded pages of notes from his pocket and slid them to me across the table with a rueful smile. I took them and read.

  Notes of interview

  P O’S: I’m here from the Cambridge Evening News, sir, to ask you if you would be willing to be interviewed for our new series of articles called Arts and Society. Our goal is to raise public interest in artistic productions by presenting the opinions of important members of society on them.

  G A: Well, I’m afraid I don’t have much to say on the subject. I don’t get out much.

  P O’S: Surely a gentleman of your standing has a busy social life, sir, if I may make so bold as to say so.

  G A: Well, I go out of an evening on occasion, but I prefer to dine with friends than to go to a show.

  P O’S: What are your feelings about paintings? Do you visit museums, or collect?

  G A: No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m more interested in machines.

  P O’S: (Afraid the interview is about to be summarily ended) Well, how about the theatre? Surely you go to see a play from time to time, sir?

  G A: Well, from time to time, I suppose I do.

  P O’S: Can you tell me the title of the last play you saw?

  G A: Now, you’re not going to be pleased, young man, but I can’t. I really don’t remember.

  P O’S: (Never discouraged) How about artists, sir? Are you personally acquainted with any artists? That would do just as well for an article in the paper.

  G A: I don’t believe I know any artists, no.

  P O’S: No painters? How about actors? Actresses? Ah (afraid of being too explicit) – singers? Musicians?

  G A: The problem is that although I’ve met such people on occasion, I really don’t have anything particular to say about them. Individually, they’re – why, they’re just individuals, some pleasant and others unpleasant, no different from anyone else. And as for their work, I really don’t have an opinion on such things.

  P O’S: Could you at least give me the names of some artists you are personally acquainted with?

  G A: I’d rather not, because I have a suspicion that you’d manage to make more newspaper copy out of what I’ve told you than it deserves. I’d prefer not to appear at all in your series of articles about Arts and Society. Come back when you start one on Technology and Society.

  ‘That’s when he stepped back inside and closed the door rather firmly,’ grumbled Pat. ‘I can’t even say he was disagreeable – but he certainly wasn’t friendly. Well, you see how it was.’

  I couldn’t help laughing at his discomfiture, and even more at the style of his notes. But I was brought suddenly back to earth by his next words.

  ‘Vanessa, we’re going to have to take this to Fred. It’s too important to go on playing with. This Archer must know who the girl was, and the police will get it out of him if we can’t. I feel we don’t have the right to waste any more time.’

  ‘You are right,’ I said slowly. ‘I have begun arranging a possibility for myself to meet Mr Archer, but I am almost certainly going to run into the same difficulty as you, apart from the fact that it may take days if not weeks to organise. We can’t wait so long. You are right; we must go and see Inspector Doherty.’

  ‘And this very minute,’ said Pat. ‘I feel bad already about not going yesterday. As far as I know – and he promised to keep me abreast – he’s got nowhere as yet with the stuff from the Missing Persons Bureau. Come along, Vanessa, get your things on!’

  ‘Hm,’ I said, thinking how uncomfortable it was going to be to explain about the identification of the bracelet. ‘Do I have to come? Can’t you explain it all to him yourself?’

  ‘Nonsense. He’s sure to have questions to ask you,’ he said obliviously. ‘Come along, do – it won’t take much time. He’s not working tonight. We’ll find him at home.’

  I yielded, ran upstairs to explain my errand to Arthur, and left with Pat, buoyed up by a comfortable feeling of relief at the idea of delivering the whole puzzle over to the capable hands of the police. Yet when we reached Inspector Doherty’s little terraced house on George Street, I felt a little nervous again. What if I was about to disturb an important policeman with nothing but a heap of nonsense? I wished I had been able to conclude the investigation with all its details by myself. But it was too late, and too urgent for that.

  ‘Vanessa’s found out who she is, Fred,’ announced Pat with his characteristic careless haste, as soon as the door opened, whilst poor Inspector Doherty was still peering half-blind into the darkness to make out who his visitors were.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ I objected quickly.

  ‘Oh, Pat dear, how nice of you to come by,’ said a friendly voice from within, and a female version of Pat appeared in the hall behind him, complete with red hair, freckles and irrepressible gaiety.

  ‘My sister Molly,’ he told me, drawing me inside as though the house belonged to him, pushing freely past his brother-in-law, and kissing his sister warmly on the cheek. During this time, the inspector slipped quickly back into the dining room, where we found him seated at an imposing mahogany table which dwarfed the humble room, in front of the remains of what looked like a most appetising plate of ginger pudding.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Molly Doherty. ‘He’s just finishing. Here, Fred, run along to the sitting room and talk. I’ll take the things out to the kitchen.’

  ‘I’m not done yet,’ he protested, hastily scooping up the last morsel as she swept his dish out nearly from under his fork. ‘Oh all right, Pat. I see you’re just bursting with the discovery, and I’ll admit that, pudding or no pudding, I’m longing to know what you’ve found out.’ He rose, and leading us to the little adjoining parlour, he looked at us expectantly.

  ‘Vanessa had better tell it,’ said Pat.

  ‘I really wish I had more to tell,’ I began. ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t true that I know who the girl is. But I believe I have found someone who must know.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘that sounds like a good start. Who is it, and how did you find the person?’

  I hemmed for a moment, wishing but not seeing how to avoid mentioning the bracelet.

  ‘What happened is that, as soon as I saw the dead girl’s Chinese bracelet in your office, I believed it might have been sold at Robert Sayle’s,’ I finally chose to say. ‘They had a whole collection of such items for sale a week or two ago. I enquired with the girl who sells them, and she remembered the bracelet quite well. She said it was one of a kind, for most of the other bracelets in that lot of imports were carved ivory bangles, whereas this one was a string of intricate beads.’

  ‘She recognised the bracelet from a description?’ he asked, eyeing me sharply.

  ‘No, Vanessa showed her the bracelet,’ intervened Pat, rescuing me. ‘I – ah, borrowed it temporarily. Did you notice it was missing?’

  ‘I did,’ said Fred. ‘It didn’t occur to me it might be you who took it, you rascal. I couldn’t think where it had got to. But then I found it again – oh, I see, you actually put it back when you came by the other day! Now I know why you asked to see the girl’s things again.’ He glared at Pat. ‘You made off with Crown’s evidence, Pat. That’s very bad; I’m astounded at you. Believe me, this is the last time I’ll show you anything in my office.’

  ‘But it was useful, Fred! It was in a good cause,’ said Pat. ‘You see, as soon as Vanessa took a look at the bracelet, I saw the cogs in her brain begin whizzing like mad. So I knew that she needed it.’

  ‘You should have told me that right away,’ he said.

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p; ‘But I wasn’t certain,’ I answered quickly. I was about to add that I had never suggested Pat steal it for me, but decided this was too childish and that my share of the blame must be accepted with no moral detours.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. The right thing to do was to tell me then and there,’ he said severely, then relaxed somewhat. ‘Well, all’s well that end’s well. Go on. Let’s hear your story.’

  ‘All right’, I said meekly. ‘So, as I was saying, the girl remembered selling the bracelet to a man who was accompanied by the dead girl. She identified her from the photograph you gave me. But the main thing is that she actually recognised the man as a person who passes fairly regularly in the street in front of the shop. She promised to write to me the next time she should see him, and she did so. She had managed to slip away from her counter for a few minutes, and followed him as far as Petty Cury, where she saw him go into Heffers bookshop and enter into conversation with the clerk there. I then spoke with the same clerk, and discovered that the person in question is apparently none other than the clerk’s own father, a gentleman by the name of Geoffrey Archer. He lives towards Grantchester, in a manor called Chippendale House. The girl from Robert Sayle’s confirmed the identification of Mr Archer as the gentleman who bought the bracelet, accompanied by the dead girl, whom she identified from the photograph. That’s all I’ve been able to find out up to now. But you will probably be able to get the girl’s identity from Mr Archer directly.’

  The inspector had drawn a pad towards him and was writing busily.

  ‘We thought we’d come to you with this,’ said Pat, wisely suppressing all mention of his unsuccessful interview attempt. I supposed that he felt that the inspector would view that as a piece of clumsy interference.

  ‘I’ll see him tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If this turns out to be correct, it’s going to be very useful. I’m grateful for your help. Now, listen to me,’ he added, fixing me with a look of authority. ‘Don’t you go meddling in this business any further. You must realise that it may be dangerous. The girl was murdered, and any person you encounter while meddling around might be the murderer. You realise, don’t you, that you can’t be allowed to take that risk. This absolutely and completely goes for you, too, Pat. Out of it. Right?’

  ‘It’s our meddling that brought you this key information,’ grumbled Pat resentfully.

  ‘Yes, but it mustn’t go any further! I’m saying what I’m saying for your own safety,’ retorted his brother-in-law. ‘And for mine, too. Your sister will kill me if I let you go stumbling into danger.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Pat, ‘I’ll stop detecting if you promise to tell me what you find out from Mr Archer and I can put it in the newspaper. Will you do that?’

  ‘It’s a bargain, for the girl’s name at least. I’ll let you know, and you keep out.’

  I remained silent, but Inspector Doherty turned to me relentlessly. ‘Thank you again, Mrs Weatherburn. Good work,’ he said. ‘That’s quite enough for now, please. You can leave the rest of it to the police.’

  1890

  The boy stood alone on the edge of the stream, concentrating so deeply he lost touch with his surroundings. He had borrowed the family’s dishes for an experiment, and was attaching them all together with a complicated arrangement of knotted string. His first thought, as the entire pile went crashing and splashing onto the wet rocks below, was that his experiment had failed. Only afterwards did he wonder if his father might not be angry.

  Monday, July 4th, 1898

  ‘Remember that Ernest is coming here tonight,’ said Arthur, as he settled himself at the breakfast table and poured out a cup of pleasantly steaming coffee. ‘His lecture is this afternoon. Shall I bring him home for dinner?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Let me see, what shall we have? Roast beef, I think, don’t you? What is he lecturing on?’

  ‘Recent experiments in electromagnetism,’ he replied. ‘Interesting stuff, though rather far from my speciality. Perhaps, if I don’t understand his lecture, you’ll manage to get a translation for laymen out of him at dinner.’

  ‘If I feed him well enough, maybe,’ I said. ‘All right, I will try. Gravy, perhaps…’

  ‘Gravy, by all means,’ he laughed, gathering up papers and putting on his coat. ‘He was looking peaky in London, don’t you think? Thinner and paler than usual. Hope he’s all right today.’

  I spent the day as domestically as can be, playing in the garden with the twins while Sarah went to the shops for some ribbon, then discussing the details of the menu with Mrs Widge, then out with Sarah for the afternoon walk. It was only after we returned and the children were taken off to the nursery for their supper of bread-and-milk that I found myself alone, and only then did I realise with what unconscious anxiety I had been waiting for news from Pat. I started up eagerly when, towards six o’clock, I heard the little jingle of the bell of the garden gate. But it was Arthur and Ernest who appeared, divesting themselves of their jackets and settling themselves on the grass, in the rays of the late afternoon sunshine. There was a silence.

  ‘How was the lecture?’ I asked, taking it upon myself to break it. Ernest closed his eyes and did not answer.

  ‘Most interesting,’ said Arthur. ‘Quite revolutionary stuff, some of it. You must tell Vanessa more about it, Ernest.’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ he said, not opening his eyes. There was another small silence.

  ‘Ah, is Kathleen well?’ I asked, gathering the twins onto my knees, as they suddenly formed a small crowd around me, eyeing the stranger suspiciously.

  ‘Very well, very well,’ replied Ernest a little moodily, and the conversation lapsed again. He seemed to be in a dreadful mood. I rose and went into the kitchen, hoping that dinner would provide a diversion.

  The roast was done to a turn, surrounded by new potatoes and glazed carrots. Mrs Widge was stirring the gently bubbling soup while Sarah, momentarily free from twins, was adding a large bowl of flowers, as a finishing touch, to a table already pleasantly laid with the pretty Limoges porcelain that Arthur had had delivered in a large box after his last visit to France, and which we kept for use only in the presence of guests.

  ‘Everything is ready, ma’am,’ she said as I glanced over the table to see if anything was missing. ‘I’ll put the children to bed now.’

  Fresh and dainty as always (when she might well have presented an exhausted and harassed appearance, given the infinite quantity of hard work she performed every single day), she stepped into the garden and announced, ‘Dinner is served.’

  This rather formal statement roused the gentlemen, who were now lying propped on their elbows, while Arthur recited ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ with suitable drama, both twins draped heavily over him and clamouring for more every time he stopped to draw breath.

  ‘Time to go in now,’ he said, sitting up and shaking them off. They responded unanimously with a wail, containing various primeval shrieks and long-drawn-out syllables.

  ‘Now, now,’ said Sarah, taking over and scooping them up. ‘What kind of behaviour is that? Come with me at once – we’ll go upstairs and have games and stories.’

  Their screeches diminished in volume at once. Arthur kissed them and brushed grass off his trousers. We settled ourselves around the table and Mrs Widge brought out the soup, and I tried once again to make small talk, hoping that Ernest’s mood was not going to render the evening endless and heavy. Fortunately, he seemed to realise that the necessities of politeness demanded that he respond to my encouraging questions, and taking refuge in science, he became first courteous, then loquacious, and finally positively excited.

  ‘The world is trembling on the verge of fundamental discoveries, explaining the true nature of all things!’ he told me.

  ‘All things?’ I replied, taken aback by the megalomaniac echo in this somewhat overglorious statement, but attempting to look duly impressed.

  ‘Far more than you would believe,’ he said. ‘If I told you that we were appr
oaching a complete understanding of the nature of light and matter, and force and energy, you would perhaps not blink an eye. But I and others believe that these things will lead even further, to discoveries about the very nature of life and death, and the soul itself.’

  ‘There speaks the physicist,’ I said. ‘Surely you are not one of those who believe that thoughts and emotions can be reduced to equations!’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I believe the universe around us is filled with mysteries that are not, in fact, impenetrable, if one approaches them with an enquiring, but not a doubting mind.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I assented. ‘I suppose that all scientific discoveries may be thought of that way.’

  ‘They can, certainly. But most of them tend to centre on the physical world which surrounds us. My belief is that tremendous progress can also be made by applying such methods to human phenomena! I am not claiming to quantise or predict feelings; no. But such well-known and yet insufficiently understood, insufficiently proved, insufficiently mastered experiences as out-of-body motion or communication with far-away people, both dead and alive, should and must have scientific explanations.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Perhaps I am too much of a rationalist, but I have always wondered if such things were not fairy tales or hoaxes.’

  ‘No. They are not always hoaxes,’ he said. His expression grew intense, and he leant over the table towards me till he nearly dipped his shirtfront into the soup.