The Riddle of the River (9 page)

‘So this is his alibi?’ I said. ‘The fact that he remained at the party until two o’clock in the morning? What did he do after that?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told me. ‘After that she was already dead. As it turns out, she must have been killed very shortly after midnight. The post-mortem showed definitively that she was killed within an hour of leaving the house at the very most.’

‘Really!’ I said. ‘That’s strange, very strange. How can they be so sure? Isn’t the time of death usually rather vague?’

‘When you have to guess it from the condition of the corpse itself, yes,’ he said. ‘But in this case, there were the, ah, the stomach contents.’ He glanced at me apologetically. ‘You see, the meal was partially although not much digested, but the stomach contained fragments of practically undigested food…actual biscuit crumbs. They were identified as
almond-flavoured
wafers. We were able to determine that Mr Archer had a tray of such biscuits served at eleven-thirty, and not before. Given their state, the pathologist claims that they must have been in the stomach for a period of half an hour to an hour.’

‘She could have eaten them any time between eleven-thirty and midnight,’ I said.

‘Yes. So we can narrow down the time of her death to the half-hour between twelve-thirty and one o’clock,’ he replied.

‘It’s so peculiar, though,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you tell me that she had been floating in the river for about three hours? What time did you say the body was discovered?’

‘At seven. Yes, I agree that it is very odd. The results of the post-mortem clearly indicate that she was strangled before one o’clock and placed in the water around four or even five o’clock. Even by stretching the medically established times, the two events cannot possibly be brought to within less than three or four hours of each other.’

‘So she was killed somewhere, and her body transported to the river later?’ I asked.

‘Who knows? She was found in a place almost directly on her way from Chippendale House to the centre of town, so at first I wondered if her body had not been left on the bank of the river, and rolled or slipped in of itself after some lapse of time. But there were no stains of grass or mud on her clothing to substantiate that idea, nor could we find a specific imprint where the body might have lain, even searching some distance upriver. We may never know exactly where she was actually dropped in, but we can estimate the farthest possible distance, since drowned bodies sink after some time if they do not become caught, as this one did. We searched up and down both banks over the whole area, but the trouble is not that there are no marks, but that there are far too many. The riverbank is constantly being trampled by people and animals. We found nothing conclusive. Still, as far as Archer’s involvement is concerned, his alibi seems final. We’re looking into the circumstances of the girl’s life in London.’

‘Well,’ I said, deciding that I had better confess at once and get it over, ‘so am I. My services as a detective have been retained by a friend of hers.’

He stared at me.

‘I know you told me not to,’ I went on quickly. ‘And I certainly would not have gone on meddling in your investigation on my own. But now I have a client, and, well, I want to propose something to you, Inspector Doherty, if you will allow me.’

‘Who is your client?’ he barked abruptly.

‘Oh, I can’t reveal his identity,’ I said, feeling a little guilty at having openly disobeyed his injunction to stay out, and now refusing his very first request.

‘Any friend of hers might be or know the murderer,’ he said.

‘It does not appear possible to me that the murderer would retain my services, and the rules of my profession do not allow me to divulge my client’s identity at this point,’ I said anxiously. ‘However, I did want to tell you that if I discover anything at all that seems to have a bearing on the case, I will tell you about it at once. I do not want to enter into any kind of competition with the police, but simply to add the results of my investigation to theirs.’ This promise afforded me some relief. It seemed to me to be more than likely that Ernest would plunge into acts of inexcusable and irreversible foolishness were he to learn the identity of the murderer of his idol before the police had seized him. Inspector Doherty allowed himself to smile.

‘You do that, Mrs Weatherburn,’ he said. ‘I cannot stop you from investigating, much as I would prefer to, but since you insist upon it, I would much prefer that we work together. I believe I can work with you – and I wouldn’t say this about just any private detective, you know. Stay out of danger, see what you can do, and let me know.’

I thanked him profusely and shook his hand. I really do not want to arouse the hostility of the police. Such a worthy, able and admirable institution.

I boarded the London train in the early evening with a feeling of rising tension. Had Ivy Elliott been murdered by a passing tramp or common thief, for the money he snatched from her dress? Or was somebody waiting, waiting for her outside Mr Archer’s home, knowing that she was there, biding his time, planning, pulling on the gloves of the strangler, perhaps…

Then he would have carried her body to the river – but why not throw it in directly? Why wait three or four hours?

No, she must have been killed somewhere else, and the body transported somehow to the river later on. Midnight was too early; there were people in the streets, Mr Archer’s guests were being driven home. Three or four o’clock in the morning seemed a much safer hour for disposal of bodies. It began to make more sense. The question was to discover where the girl could have been strangled and kept, secretly, for three or four hours.

In Mr Archer’s house, for example? Could her departure have been nothing more than a gesture of politeness, to save appearances? Could she not have slipped quietly back into the house through some other entrance? And could not Mr Archer have known it and darted quickly upstairs – a mere minute of absence – to strangle her?

This idea so excited me that I had to remind myself firmly that I was in a train to London, and that there was no possibility of immediate communication with Inspector Doherty. I sat back and breathed deeply. I might be wrong, of course. Ernest had something important to show me. I should
complete my task in London. Cambridge and its police force – and for that matter, very probably London’s police force as well – would still be there upon my return.

The train drew into Liverpool St, and I stepped out, collected my little valise, gave up my ticket, and proceeded to the exit, where I found a cab to take me to Islington. Heron Lane turned out to be a small, curved street with a line of little houses built along it, separated from each other by small gardens with high walls. From what I knew of her, I thought it a rather surprising place for a girl like Ivy Elliott to be frequenting, but I pushed all preconceived ideas to the back of my mind, walked up the path, and rang the bell firmly.

The door was opened at once by a plump, buxom lady who seemed too decoratively dressed to be a housekeeper. She wore a long, ample turquoise gown with flounces, and an aqua-green silk shawl embroidered with butterflies was draped over her shoulders and hung almost to her knees. Around her neck was a heavy necklace of large, irregular stones, shells and feathers.

This lady immediately seized me by the hand and drew me into the house.

‘You must be Mrs Weatherburn, dear,’ she said kindly. ‘We are expecting you. Come in, come in and meet the others.’ She divested me of my wrap and led me into a rather small, stuffy drawing room, lit with electric lights – the first time I had seen them in a private house. Several men and women were already there, seated on numerous little sofas and hassocks. Their presence filled the room to overcrowding. The air was permeated with a strong fragrance of incense; I perceived the slim little stick burning and smoking in a corner of the room.

Ernest rose to greet me as soon as he saw me in the
doorway. He came forward and pressed my hand, nodding at his hostess.

‘I am glad you came. I’ll admit it; I was not sure you would,’ he said. ‘All I ask you, Vanessa,’ he added in an undertone, ‘is to let go of your prejudices completely for one hour. Just one hour.’ He eyed me significantly, and I assented with some surprise. Were these good people so very disreputable as all that? I glanced about me, and saw a little drab woman with red eyes and a hat decorated with flowers, two portly gentlemen, one bearded and the other moustached, a young man afflicted with a complete absence of chin, a stern young woman with spectacles and a notepad, and my genial hostess. Who
could
they be?

‘We are all here, are we not, Mrs Thorne?’ said one of the portly gentlemen, rising from his seat. ‘Perhaps we should begin.’

‘Certainly, Mr Doyle,’ replied my hostess with great respect. He smiled at me, a kind of friendly walrus, looking somewhat uncomfortable in his formal collar. Then suddenly he hoisted up his large armchair in his arms, and shoved it unceremoniously against the wall.

To my surprise, the guests all now rose in unison and began to move the furniture, pushing all of the sofas and little tables to the edges of the room, and carrying a round table to its very centre. Around this they arranged eight chairs. Mrs Thorne turned off the electric lights with a flip of a switch, and the room fell into utter darkness. For a moment I was quite blind, but after a few moments, the tiny glow of the incense stick sufficed to allow me to make my way to the table and seat myself together with the others.

‘Place your fingertips on the table,’ said Mrs Thorne, and I
realised that I was participating in a spiritualism séance – and understood why Ernest had exhorted me to forget my prejudices. I saw him glancing anxiously in my direction now, and stifled a nervous giggle of apprehension. Was he – could he seriously be expecting the dead girl to communicate with us?

We sat in silence for a long time, while I repressed a series of powerful urges to cough, to scratch, to yawn, to look at the time. Not that I was in the least bit bored; these irritating urges seemed to appear uniquely because I was not in a position to satisfy them at once. I ignored them in deed, and tried sincerely to ignore them in thought, although nobody had told me what to concentrate upon instead. So I gazed alternatively at Mrs Thorne and at the shiny table-top.

Suddenly, I felt it vibrate under my fingers. Mrs Thorne was rocking softly back and forth in her seat, her eyes closed. There was a tremendous atmosphere of tense expectation around the table. Then, after several minutes, I felt the table tilt and rock. Two or three sharp raps sounded against it. I glanced around the table, and saw all the hands of those present simply resting on it, as mine were.

Mrs Thorne took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to speak.

The effect was startlingly unexpected, amazing, horrifying. The voice which issued from her mouth was absolutely not hers. It was a man’s voice, deep and slightly raucous.

‘Louise? Louise? Louise? Louise?’ it repeated, again and again.

The drab little woman with the flowery hat burst into excited sobs.

‘Oswald?’ she squeaked. ‘Oswald? Is that you?’

‘Louise? It’s me, Oswald. I’m here, Louise. I’m near you, I’m near you. I watch over our children – always.’

‘Oswald?’ said the woman again. ‘Oswald – what is it like there?’

‘It’s good, Louise. It’s good here. Good. Only – they all want to speak. I must go.’

Mrs Thorne shivered and fell silent for a moment. Oswald appeared to have departed. Louise was weeping and helplessly wiping the tears which were running down her face. I tried to check the many thoughts which flashed through my mind.
Drop all prejudice
.

I jumped half out of my seat with shock, as Mrs Thorne now burst into a shriek of manic laughter – ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaaah. This was accompanied by a frenetic series of raps.

‘It’s Macky!’ cried a shrill voice. ‘Macky is here! Ha-ha-ha! Let me speak! Let me speak!’

It continued in this vein for a minute or two, until Mr Doyle suddenly said, in a stentorian voice,

‘Go away, Macky. Go away now, unless you have a message to transmit.’

‘
He
doesn’t want to be dead,’ said Macky. ‘
He
doesn’t like to be dead. He wants to come back. You know who I mean! ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!’ The weird staccato laughter rang out mockingly.

‘What rubbish,’ said Mr Doyle firmly. ‘Let him stay dead. I shan’t resuscitate him.’

I found this quite incomprehensible.

Mrs Thorne fell silent again. Her eyes were closed, her face chalky white. After some time, a sad, throaty voice emerged from her mouth.

‘Is my son here?’

‘Is that you, Mother?’ cried the young, chinless man. The bearded professor did not speak, but looked as though he hoped it might be his mother.

‘Nobody loves like a mother loves her son,’ said the voice.

‘I know, Mother,’ said the young man, and appeared at a loss for words. ‘Are – are you well?’ he said after a second’s hesitation, and then blushed furiously at the stupidity of the question.

‘Be well,’ said the sad voice. ‘Goodbye.’

There were several further interventions of this kind. The spirits, some acquainted with the members of the circle, others strangers, came and went at will, sometimes rudely pushing each other aside. The young woman with spectacles was never addressed by any spirit. The members of the circle did not seem to be allowed to call up whomsoever they wished, although several times I felt that one or another of them would have liked to do so. I saw Ernest frame the word ‘Ivy’ with his mouth more than once, as though trying to silently summon her. I could not help wondering how much Mrs Thorne knew about the lives of the people surrounding her, and in particular how much about Ivy. Surely Ernest would not have informed her – his desire for knowledge was intense and genuine.

Suddenly the electric lights in the room flashed on, all together, and then off again. All the faces seemed white and strained in the brief glare. Mrs Thorne began to rock more quickly, more agitatedly.