The Riddle of the River (25 page)

‘My portrait is there as well,’ he replied. ‘My father had us both sit for the American, Sargent. He had Julian painted because the doctors told him I might die at any age; according to some, I was not likely to live past the age of twenty-five.’

‘Of course!’ The portrait I had noticed in Mr Archer’s study leapt suddenly out of my memory, as clearly as if it stood again in front of my very eyes. Now I knew why Philip had seemed familiar to me when I first saw him, although so different from his father and brother. I remembered what I
had thought of his portrait when I first noticed it. I had thought it the face of a burdened man – burdened by the Archer evil…

‘She was desperate when she found out about the child,’ he said suddenly. ‘She told my father, she told Julian, she begged them for help. She didn’t know what to do; she had no money, no one who could help her; she was going to lose the work as an actress that she cherished. She came here to the flat to see Julian – to beg him yet again! I knew her already, of course; I’d seen her often with my father. She was so beautiful…But we had never really spoken together. She had such eyes…She came to see Julian, and he wasn’t here, and she talked to me instead; she talked to me for hours; she laid her head on my knees and cried; she told me everything about herself, and I think…I think I told her everything also, about myself…words that I had never before spoken aloud. And I asked her to marry me then, at the end of that afternoon. When I think it was barely more than a month ago. It seems forever.’

He stopped, drew a deep breath and continued.

‘We were to be married the very day she died; did you know that? It was all planned. She was to come upstairs in the night, after leaving my father’s party. She didn’t have any things with her, she didn’t want anyone to suspect what she meant to do. She had chosen her Ophelia costume from the theatre for a wedding dress; she didn’t possess anything else remotely suitable, and she wouldn’t hear of my offering her anything before the wedding – I had enough ado persuading her to accept just a little, simple pearl engagement ring. I would have kept her here for the rest of the night, and first thing in the morning after Julian went down to work, I would
have sent Simpson out for something, and she would have helped me get to the church. But she never came. She was killed on her way here, and I only found out about it weeks later, when the police came to tell me. For all that time, I knew nothing of what had become of her; nothing, not one word. I thought that she had just changed her mind, and couldn’t bear to tell me. God knows I wasn’t even surprised. I thought that she couldn’t go through with it – that she couldn’t face marrying a – a
thing
like me. After all…no woman could.’

‘You are wrong,’ I said. ‘She could have, and she would have. She loved you. Didn’t you hear what Jenny said? Haven’t you read her letters? She was going to marry you, and she was killed for it.’

‘I loved her,’ he said, ‘loved her and was in love with her. Strange, isn’t it? That can happen even to a man like me. The body is ill, but the heart is just like anyone’s heart. After those hours we spent together, I was like a madman. I told her so; she stared at me; I’ll never forget her look full of amazement and tears. I didn’t want to force her or blackmail her into marrying me out of despair, if she didn’t want to of her own free will. I told her I would give her money; I have an allowance of my own, I could have kept her decently. I would have had her child brought up at my expense and never asked anything of her. But I took her hand in mine and told her that if she could accept it, I would marry her. I would adopt her child and make it legitimate. I knew what she felt about men and the love of men, the physical, bodily love; I knew she felt nothing but revulsion. I swore to her that our marriage would be exactly as she wanted; nothing, or everything – or anything. And she told me I was the first man in the whole of
her life who had spoken such words to her. I remember what she said – many of those she had taken home with her for money had spoken of love, but not one had ever spoken to her with generosity. I’ll treasure every one of her words until I die. I had so few of them! I wanted her – I wanted her child. Can you understand that? I wanted her child, to hold and cherish; I, who will never have a child of my own. That’s why we chose not to tell Julian until the thing was done. He’s always known that I cannot live long; he had but to wait, and the family fortune would be his. He’s known that all his life; he wouldn’t have accepted this.’

Julian
– his name, inevitably, had reappeared.

‘Did the police tell you where she was killed, and what we believe she was doing when she was killed?’ I asked him suddenly.

‘No,’ he said, glancing up at me, surprised. ‘I know she was found in the Cam, in the Lammas Land. I didn’t know they knew anything about what she was doing when she died.’

‘You should know,’ I said. ‘It concerns you closely. It seems virtually certain now that she was killed in the bookshop just downstairs. I don’t know why she went in there or how she had a key, but I believe that she was there, writing a letter to you, which she meant to slip into your hand as she came upstairs a few minutes later, so as not to let your brother hear any special words pass between you. I found her letter to you; she thrust it down into the armchair. I gave it to the police, so I don’t have it here, but I can tell you what it said.’ And as closely as I could remember, I quoted the words of Ivy’s last little note. He bent forwards to catch my words.

‘Can I have the letter back?’ he asked softly.

‘I will get it for you,’ I promised him. ‘But – now we
must
talk about your brother – I have to ask you the most difficult question of all. Given that Ivy was in the bookshop, do you not think that your brother could have slipped down and killed her there during one of the times that he briefly left the room?’

There was an awful silence. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a low croak.

‘It is horrible to say…Julian – my brother! Is it possible? No – it’s too horrible.’

It was not enough. I waited, but as he did not speak again, I urged him gently.

‘No one knows Julian like you do,’ I said. ‘No one but you can answer this question:
would he have been capable of it?’

‘I thought he would go to any lengths to prevent my marrying Ivy. I thought it, and feared it, and did everything to hide it,’ he admitted. ‘He
could
have done it, perhaps – yet no! I told you, he spent the whole evening with me.’

‘Except for a few minutes now and then,’ I reminded him. ‘And she was just downstairs. It would have taken no more.’

‘But he couldn’t have known she was there!’ he said, as though with a last surge of energy in the defence of his brother. ‘Even I had no idea she meant to stop down there before coming up here.’

‘Couldn’t they have planned it between them?’ I persisted gently. ‘Could he not have asked her to meet him for some reason?’

‘Impossible,’ he replied. ‘Ivy would never have agreed to meet him anywhere, day or night. She hated him; her one desire was never to see him again. I didn’t know why, I thought she had some inkling of the difficulties he might put in the way of our marriage; she never told me about my
brother’s role in her life; I believe she kept silent about it to protect my feelings. But she told me she hated seeing him. And besides, if she had meant to meet him down there secretly, she wouldn’t have written to me while waiting for him.’

‘I know, I’ve thought of that,’ I admitted. ‘Listen, perhaps he did not find out that she was going to the bookshop from Ivy herself. Might it not have been your father who sent her there, and told Julian?’

‘My father?’ He stopped, stunned, and stared at me. ‘Why would my father do that?’

‘Why would he send her to Heffers? I don’t know, but he could easily have found a pretext. He gave her quite a lot of money before she left his house, a whole roll of bank notes, according to a lady who saw him do it. He admits it, and says it was a gift, but it seems like too much money…’

‘She wouldn’t have accepted a gift from him, not on that day,’ he said. ‘She no longer needed it! When she begged him for help the week before, he gave her just ten shillings – and she was in desperate need!’ He covered his eyes with his hand.

‘Well,’ I said, pursuing an idea that had been vaguely in my mind, ‘do you think it is possible that he asked her, as a favour, to bring that money to Heffers? Could he have borrowed it and meant to return it, or told her some such story, and lent her the key to get in and put the money there?’

‘My father doesn’t have the key to the bookshop,’ he said weakly.

‘Julian could have given it to him,’ I said.

‘But
why
?’

‘To save his son from losing the family fortune to a bastard child…’ I said wearily. I hated saying the words, but he
must
know. He stared at me.

‘Are you saying that my father would have sent Ivy there on purpose to be killed?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, unable to speak my honest thought:
yes
!

‘It can’t be,’ he said, echoing the logical objections that hovered in my mind, contradicting my own intuitive conviction. ‘Even if Julian gave him the key and knew he meant to send her there during the night, how could he have known exactly when she would be there? He didn’t spend his time listening or looking out for her, I swear it. He sat at the piano and played waltzes and…comic songs…’ His voice trailed away, trying to reconcile the memory of that cheerful moment with the murder.

I was struck by a sudden revelation. ‘The
telephone!’
I shouted suddenly, springing to my feet! ‘I’ve been wondering how your father could have let Julian know exactly when Ivy left his house – just that one detail would make it easy for him to predict her arrival at the bookshop and slip down within a few minutes of the right time! I’ve been so stupid, thinking about telepathy. Mr Archer – do you have the telephone installed?’

He looked at me blankly, and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The shop downstairs has one, but we don’t, up here.’

My face fell utterly. ‘Is there
any
other way your father could have communicated with your brother on that evening, without leaving his house, without your knowing anything about it?’ I said.

He did not answer. He looked utterly wretched.

‘They’ve offered us to cover the Kingstown Regatta in a boat,’ he said, showing the letter to Kemp, his eyes dancing. ‘Let’s do it. It will be the best publicity we’ve ever had, by far!
’

The darkness was agitated around me, its peace shattered by the incessant rumble and chug of the train, the rolling movement imparted to the whole of the sleeping car, the sensation of proximity of a world of living humanity enclosed together in a series of wagons, all engaged in the communal business of trying to get some rest, not many, probably, succeeding. The train was the Irish Mail to Holyhead, which after stopping innumerable times to pick up the mail bags suspended for collection alongside the track, disgorged a group of dishevelled and exhausted passengers at the landing stage at the unholy hour of two-thirty in the morning.

I was on my way to the Kingstown Regatta. Mr Archer, who meant to return home in his own yacht, sailed by his friends, had naturally invited me to join him for the trip, but I had pleaded the necessities of my daily life and refused. Spending a festive day in town together was one thing; spending a night enclosed on a boat with no possibility of escape an entirely different one.

The decision to make the trip at all had not been taken lightly. I had thought long and hard, and I continued to do so, interrogating myself pitilessly as I lay, eyes open against the darkness, broken by flashes of light, bumps and shouts, as the train stopped at Harrow, at Hempstead, Bletchley, Nuneaton, Tamworth, Stafford, Rhyl, Bangor.

Logic, reason and Inspector Doherty told me that my entire investigation of the Archers must be a mistake; the alibis were too solid, the instantaneous message that would have solved the mystery remained inconceivable, Sir Oliver’s experiments in telepathy had done no more than convince me that the thing was impossible – and the Archers did not possess the telephone. Yet at the very moment when I was wavering, almost convinced by all these objections, Philip had revealed to me an overwhelmingly strong motive for the murder, of which I had suspected nothing. And Ivy had been killed in Heffers, or at least I was convinced that it was so. Then how could the Archers be unconnected with her killing?

I promised myself that this trip to Dublin represented my very last, final attempt at finding out the truth. If the Archers were guilty, I must discover it
now
, and if I failed, I must accept their innocence and either search for the murderer elsewhere against all my intuition, or give up the search altogether. Coming here at all seemed tremendously dangerous. If Mr Archer were guilty, then by questioning him too closely, I risked making myself suspicious to him. If he were innocent, then it was a frightening risk to go away leaving Jenny behind; Jenny, in the same town as Julian Archer, aware now of his role in her past life, filled with hatred and violent fury. Whatever I undertook seemed fraught with danger.

The sky was dark and cloudy when the train pulled into Holyhead. My eyes, which had firmly refused to shut for the entire duration of the journey, now protested vigorously at the necessity of remaining open. The other passengers and I trudged across the landing stage
and embarked on the Royal Mail Steamer. For several hours, I lay in a berth in the ladies’ cabin, snatches of dreams mingling in my mind with moments of waking during which I perceived the slowly lightening sky through the porthole. Towards seven o’clock I gave up all pretence of sleeping and went above onto the deck.

The sight of the sea, infinite and twinkling, reflecting even the meagrest morsels of sunlight accorded to its purling surface, moved and awakened me to the sense of the largeness of the world. My own task gained in sharpness and perspective. I suddenly realised that outside the necessary contact with Mr Archer, the regatta might turn out to be one of the unforgettable travelling experiences of my life. I know nothing about boating, but who cannot be struck with admiration at the sight of a splendid yacht, manned by expert sailors exhibiting the kind of rapid, precise motion that one usually expects from horses or acrobats? I found myself looking forward with eager purpose to the coming day, and my sense of purpose began to share space in my breast with a sense of impending beauty and excitement.

The little train from Dublin to Kingstown, the first railway constructed on Irish soil, revealed to me a landscape whose dominant colour was a vivid green, produced, I thought sadly, by an enormous quantity of rainfall, which we were not absolutely certain to avoid that very day, since the sky overhead was becoming increasingly grey as the train progressed through the countryside. The ride was short; no more than six or seven miles later all passengers were invited to alight, and I found myself in Kingstown.

It was unmistakably a festival day, reminiscent of Ascot. The crowd that milled in the streets surrounding the port
were dressed in clothes so elegant and fashionable that my own carefully chosen muslin gown and bonnet appeared countrified and even, in spite of my best efforts, slightly wrinkled. I smoothed out my skirts as well as I could, adjusted my shawl and proceeded to the Anchor Hotel.

It took some courage before I could persuade myself to enter, but when I did, I saw that the dark, quiet interior contained almost no clients, and my awkward shyness diminished. Mr Archer was nowhere to be seen, as it was still long before midday, but a kind gentleman pointed the way to the port, and told me that everyone had already gone there, as the race was about to begin.

The scene on the docks was impressive. A throng of passionate spectators crowded together so solidly that the sea was invisible behind them; their hats and umbrellas formed a screen impenetrable even to the tallest viewer. The jostling was indescribable, and only the masts of the boats could be perceived. The tall lamp posts surrounding the area in front of the dock were all covered with clinging and climbing boys, and these served as the only useful source of information about what was happening on the water.

‘They’re off for the Queen’s Cup!’ a voice cried; a general shout went up, and the boats sailed away – but only, as I soon understood, to take up their starting positions for the first race. This placing in position took up what seemed an immense amount of time, which was relieved by the boys on the lamp posts shouting out descriptions of the boats as they manoeuvred. Finally, when I had tired of moving around the edge of the crowd, waiting and trying unsuccessfully to find a loophole through which I could perceive the water, I heard the report of a gun, and knew the race had begun. I gave up
on the waterfront altogether and moved to the outskirts of the crowd, hoping to hear something interesting, at least. But no.

‘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?