‘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.
‘Murder,’ she wailed in a strange, sing-song voice. ‘Murder, murder, grisly murder.’ This was not accompanied by raps, but by a strange swishing noise. I started, wondering if I was hearing the lapping of water.
‘Ivy?’ gasped Ernest, in a half-whisper, obviously not sure of himself. I wished he would keep silent.
‘Who wants to know about murder, here? Who is thinking about murder?’ said the chanting voice.
‘I do,’ he said with stiff lips. ‘I am.’
‘The dark box,’ said the lilting, softly wailing voice. ‘Oh, the dark box. Oh, the dark box.’
I had a horrible vision of Ivy, still young and fresh, struggling miserably in her coffin. Ernest winced.
‘Who killed you?’ he asked.
‘The ba-a-ad man,’ wavered the voice. ‘The bride will never see the church, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,’ and it tailed off into weak sobbing.
Ernest glanced at me doubtfully.
‘Are you Ivy?’ he said.
‘Yes, Ivy. I am Ivy. Poor Ivy,’ said the voice.
‘Go away, Ivy, go away!’ shrieked another, violent voice. ‘Macky is back! Macky is back, ha ha ha.’
‘No! You go away!’ said Mr Doyle severely. But Macky had displaced Ivy once and for all. He proved immensely difficult to get rid of, and no other relevant messages came for anyone present. Mrs Thorne fell silent for longer and longer periods, and finally she appeared to be sleeping deeply. After about five minutes of total silence, Mr Doyle said,
‘It is over. We should wake her.’
He leant forwards and touched her gently on the shoulder once or twice. She opened her eyes, and sat up.
‘Finished, ducks?’ she said kindly, although she appeared extremely worn and tired.
‘Yes, Arabella,’ he replied. ‘You were wonderful, as always. Shall we ring for tea?’
The guests were rising, pushing back their chairs. Mrs Thorne tottered to the wall, pressed the electric light switch, and rang the bell. A neatly dressed maid appeared, carrying a large tea-tray containing a pot of tea, several mismatched pretty porcelain cups piled in each other, and a plate of biscuits. Obviously all had been kept in readiness for this moment. The sofas were pulled out and placed about the room, and we all sat down to partake of refreshments. It was most peculiar.
‘Did everyone get a message?’ asked Mrs Thorne.
‘Not I,’ said the girl with spectacles.
‘Nor I,’ said the bearded gentleman.
‘Nor I,’ I said meekly, but nobody heard.
‘Who were you expecting, Professor?’ asked the medium.
‘Oh, no one in particular,’ he replied. ‘I’m interested in the science of the thing. How do they reach you, Kate?’
‘I’ve no notion, dear,’ she said. ‘It just takes me. I don’t remember a thing.’
‘It is my dearest wish to understand what makes some people into better mediums than others,’ said the professor. ‘I consider it a kind of magnetism. It is like investigating why some materials make better magnets than others. Something about the structure of the atoms reflects the force of the magnetic field. But human beings are all made of the same atoms.’
‘It could be chemical, Professor Lodge,’ said Ernest eagerly. ‘Different people have different chemical compositions in their brains, don’t you think?’
I looked at him with renewed interest. So this was Ernest’s mentor, Sir Oliver Lodge, the professor of physics from Liverpool who studied the ether.
‘Certainly,’ said the Professor. ‘But the transmission: how does it work? If only you could remember what it feels like, Kate. What happens in your brain before you begin speaking with the voice of another?’
‘I can’t remember a thing, you know that,’ she replied. ‘Everything I know about my own trances, other people have described to me.’
‘It must be waves,’ said Sir Oliver. ‘Electric waves of some kind. Because the lights came on.’
‘Did they really? No, I just turned them on myself.’
‘No, during your trance they flashed on and off without anyone else touching the switch. Could it have been your maid, by any chance? Is there another switch to your lights?’
I admired the purity of the Professor’s mind. Did he really think that if Mrs Thorne had arranged with her maid to flash on the lights, she was about to tell him? But she merely replied,
‘No, dear, the only light switch is right in here.’
‘So they are electromagnetic waves,’ he said firmly.
‘I am disappointed,’ murmured Ernest into my ear, as we stepped out into the darkening street a short while later, having bid our hostess goodbye exactly as though we had been invited for a perfectly ordinary tea rather than a conversation with the spirits of the dead. ‘I hoped – I truly hoped that we might learn something important, something definitive.’
‘The –
the spirits don’t seem to give a lot of factual information,’ I said hesitantly.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t really expect Ivy to name her murderer. The spirits are far removed from our daily world of living beings. But I thought she might say something about the circumstances of her death.’
‘Ernest, I will try to discover them, I promise you, even if I do have to resort to more down-to-earth methods,’ I said.
‘But how?’ he groaned. ‘I was so sure…’
‘Well, I will begin as I always do, by collecting information,’ I reassured him. ‘Tomorrow I will visit her theatre company. There are many things I need to learn about her life. And there are many questions that I will have to ask you. For instance – do you know where Miss Elliott lived?’
‘No, I don’t,’ he replied glumly. I glanced at him quickly. It was obvious that he had been in love to the point of sickness, yet it was not at all clear what the material circumstances of that love had been. I did not know whether the two had ever exchanged even a single word, or whether it had all been the passion of a spectator for an actress upon the stage. And it seemed extremely difficult to ask directly.
‘You’ll never be able to find all the people she knew,’ he said. ‘I mean, all the people who knew her. There are too many, they are too anonymous.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, surprised and confused by this odd remark. ‘Are you talking about spectators?’
‘Not spectators,’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand? She was an actress, Vanessa. An actress is – I mean – known to many people. An actress is public. Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’
‘But it can’t be a member of the public who killed her,’ I said. ‘It must have been someone who knew her more closely than that.’
The Riddle of the River Page 10
