The Riddle of the River (10 page)

‘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.’

He turned away, sweeping his hand through the air in a gesture of despair.

‘An actress is public property,’ he said. ‘It’s a hopeless task. But after all, she was killed in Cambridge. Shouldn’t you be looking for the murderer there?’

‘Oh, I am going to do that,’ I said quickly. ‘But her murderer must have come from her own circle. I need to find out more about it. More about
her
.’

We composed our faces into cheerful politeness as we entered Ernest’s flat. Kathleen was still up, waiting for her husband. She looked thin and tired.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked me. ‘Ernest always wants me to go, but I just don’t believe in those things.’

‘Oh – it was extremely interesting,’ I said. ‘I don’t know yet whether I am a believer or not. I would need to see more.’

‘Who was there?’ she asked him.

‘Professor Lodge and the other usuals, minus a few,’ he said. ‘We’re all members of the SPR, you know,’ he added, turning to me, ‘the Society for Psychical Research. We are dedicated to pursuing any hint of psychic activity that we hear of. Mrs Thorne is a fairly recent discovery of ours, although she has been having trances for years. She is remarkable. So simple about it all; no pretension, no pose, no properties. No Ouija board, no tricks, no wires.’

‘The lights did go on,’ I remarked.

‘Well yes, but that was the effect of the electromagnetic waves,’ he replied. Quite exactly as though this were an established scientific fact.

It was already late, and Kathleen rose and showed me to the small spare bedroom. I settled myself in bed, looking around me a little sadly; it was obvious that the pretty Morris wallpaper, the white ceiling, the fresh curtains in front of the window protected by white-painted iron bars, had all been
arranged with the intention of making the room into a nursery. But there were no children in it. I fell asleep with the image of the twins in front of my eyes, hearing the echo of their quick little feet as they went trotting across the room on some errand of fundamental importance to their infant minds.

I was awoken from deep sleep in what seemed to be the darkest part of the night, by a hand laid gently on my shoulder. I started awake, and sat up. Kathleen was kneeling by the bedside, faintly visible in the gloom in her white nightgown.

‘I am sorry to wake you, Vanessa,’ she whispered. ‘Please forgive me. But I can’t sleep, I am so worried. What happened in Cambridge, while Ernest was staying with you? Why did he return so changed? What has come over him? He has been like a sleepwalker since he came back. I am beside myself with worry. What is going on? You were there – you must know!’

I sat up straighter, and rubbed my eyes. I felt myself in a most difficult moral predicament. What was I supposed to do? Hide the truth from her, or tell it? My ability to make swift, accurate decisions was hindered by the sleep which seemed to fill all the pores of my brain, as Newton had described the ether filling the pores of all solid materials.

‘I love him, Vanessa,’ she urged me. ‘But he won’t talk to me. It’s like he’s gone somewhere else. I can see he’s suffering, but I don’t know why. I’ll go mad if this goes on. I can’t bear it.’

‘I do know what the matter is,’ I said finally. ‘He has received a bad shock. A woman was found murdered in Cambridge several days ago, and I am working on the case. Ernest was present when we discovered that the identity of
the dead woman was none other than an actress he greatly admired.’

‘Ophelia,’ she breathed, with sudden understanding. ‘I know the actress you mean.’

‘Yes, the actress who played Ophelia, and was to play Titania when we went to see
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. Do you remember how we discussed whether or not she was wearing a wig? Well, she was, because it wasn’t the same actress. The actress Ernest knew was already dead on that day.’

‘So she’s dead!’ she whispered, with an emotion which emerged as a strange little squeak. ‘I see it all now. Vanessa, I can’t thank you enough. I was desperate. I was thinking – you can’t imagine what I was thinking. I thought maybe Ernest had fallen in love with
you
. He came back this morning, and could talk about nothing but you for the whole day, and how he wanted you to come to the séance in the evening. Ernest can’t help talking, talking, when he is upset. Yet he doesn’t say what’s on his mind – he’ll go all around it. Oh, I know him so well! I see now why he wanted to go there – and why he wanted you to come.
She’s
dead. He must have thought that she would speak.’ She stopped, thinking for a moment, and then added, ‘Did she? Did she appear?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but she only said strange, incomprehensible things like ‘‘the dark box”.’

‘Horrible!’ she said, shuddering. ‘The dark box. It’s nightmarish. I must go to him. Forgive me for having woken you, Vanessa. I am more grateful than you can imagine.’

She slipped away, and I lay down again, feeling that I had been as tactful as the situation permitted.

A gentle hand touched the woman’s shoulder as she lay sleeping, the early light of dawn shut out from her room, but for a glimmer round the edge of the heavy dark curtains. She opened her eyes sleepily, and catching the hand of her son in hers, she looked up at his tall figure.

‘Shh, Mamma, don’t make a noise,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t wake Papa. Come upstairs with me, quickly. I have to show you something wonderful. But it’s a secret.’

She followed him up the stairs to the enormous, empty room under the rafters, and observed him wordlessly as he drew her to a small and curious construction of wood and metal. His eyes shining, he stretched out his finger and pressed a crude button. A little bell tinkled shrilly at the other end of the room.

It was cold in the vast, empty chamber. Mother and son held each other close for a long time before returning to their beds.

I woke early, and rose and dressed as soon as I heard movements in the adjoining bedroom. I was in a hurry to leave; I was afraid to find the domestic situation too tense for my liking, and I wished to begin my investigations at once. However, when I emerged from my room upon hearing Kathleen enter the kitchen, I found her in high spirits, humming as she made tea. She turned a radiant face to me, but said nothing. Indeed, she could hardly ask me how I had slept, or I her! I watched her for a few moments, admiring the sturdy, well-built yet very feminine body Nature had seen fit to bestow upon her, moving with vigour and purpose inside a close-fitting bodice. When Ernest entered the room, she caught his arm and drew him towards her briefly, in passing, then let it go; a mere butterfly caress. Her reconquest of her husband was clearly underway.

I waited till Kathleen had left the room to ask Ernest what I most desired to know, namely whether the Outdoor Shakespeare Company was still playing in Hampstead, or had moved to another location. He did not know, but fetched the morning paper from where it had been delivered on the doormat, and spread it out among the teacups. We bent our heads together over the announcements of theatre productions.

‘Why look,’ said Ernest, ‘they’re going to be playing in a
real theatre. The Acropolis. It’s been closed for ages for renovations. I expect they got it temporarily – and inexpensively.’ He spoke quite normally, but his hand trembled as he refolded the paper.

‘I am going there at once,’ I told him. He nodded without comment.

In spite of the improved conjugal atmosphere, I sighed with relief as I emerged into the sunny street. London! I never set foot in it without feeling a surge of excitement caused by the busy immensity of its populous thoroughfares and byways. It was a joy to me to walk and walk, even as the streets became narrower, the houses seedier, the pavements dirtier and the people more unkempt. I had located the position of this unknown theatre in the East End of London, and it took me more than an hour to reach it, but it was an hour well spent. I arrived somewhat dusty, but feeling refreshed and renewed.

It was, nevertheless, with a feeling of timidity that I hesitated in front of the door of the dilapidated building located at the address corresponding to the Acropolis theatre. There was no sign over the door to indicate the nature of the building, although traces remained of a sign that had hung there and been removed. It was pressed closely between two peeling tenements, and the large wooden door was worn, scratched and discoloured by inclement weather and total lack of care. Two broad windows, one on either side of the door, bore cracked and broken panes, some of which had been summarily patched with canvas, and sheets of yellowed newspaper covered them on the inside so that it was impossible to obtain a glimpse of the interior.

I remained in the street for a few moments, contemplating this unwelcoming door. It did not seem to be equipped with
any kind of bell, but finally the staring eyes of a little group of street children impelled me to move, and I stepped forward, laid my hand upon the knob, and pushed. The door creaked and yielded; it was not locked.

I entered a foyer running the whole width of the building. It was not especially large, yet its dimensions were fair enough to give an impression of spaciousness, especially in the dimness produced by the covered windows, which caused the walls to recede into vagueness. A stone floor which could have been quite impressive if swept and polished rang under my feet. The space was entirely empty except for a counter along the length of one of the side walls. Counter and floor were strewn with old programmes, newspapers and scraps of all kinds. I thought that it might have been a decent entrance to the theatre, and could again become one with a little effort; a thorough cleaning, new glass and curtains at the large front windows, and reasonable lighting would suffice. The idea of light caused me to glance upwards, and I found myself admiring an enormous chandelier covered with cobwebs and hanging somewhat askew.

There were two doors in the far wall, a double door in the centre and a little one off to the side. I advanced slowly towards the double door and tried it very delicately. It yielded; I opened it a crack, and found myself looking straight into the theatre itself.

Curved rows of fixed, wooden folding seats faced the stage, watching, like silent spectators, the scene unfolding thereupon. These hundreds of seats were occupied by two or three people only. On the stage, an actor and an actress were reading some lines, standing with their texts in their hands. A young man, following the shouted directions of one of the
seated gentlemen, drew chalk lines and circles upon the floor. The back of the stage was half-collapsed, partly open into the backstage area beyond, where several other people could be seen occupied at different tasks. At least two men stood upon ladders, one hammering away with rather gentle taps, as though he were not on familiar ground, or did not wish to disturb the actors, another tearing away strips of peeling paper from what might have been an old backdrop. A row of electric lights, several of which were not functioning, lined the edge of the stage.

The actress on the stage, a tall, well-built girl, lifted her head, and I recognised Helena from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
although today, instead of Greek drapery, she wore only a simple walking skirt and a modest blouse waist with unfashionably small sleeve puffs no greater than my own. No doubt she, like me, belonged to a small sisterhood of those who willingly sacrifice fashionability in order to avoid wearing frighteningly gigantic leg-of-mutton sleeves which require special cloaks and refuse to pass through ordinary doors.

‘Let’s move to the confession scene,’ said the director sitting in front of the stage, and the young woman turned her head towards the area behind the stage, and bellowed unceremoniously,

‘Mrs Warren’s wanted now!’

Immediately, there came a middle-aged woman dressed in a skirt fitted closely around her generous hips, and a blouse whose fantastic decorations turned her shoulders into the widest part of her body – no mean feat, considering the rest of it. I slipped into a seat at the very back of the theatre to watch the continuation of the rehearsal.

The young man left, and joined one of the workmen at the back, standing at the bottom of the ladder and reaching tools up to him. I could make them out through the partially destroyed backdrop. The two women fetched a pair of wobbly chairs and sat on them, facing each other, holding their scripts in their hands. They read from these, but lifted their faces to look at each other whenever they could, having taken in a whole line or two in a single glance.

The young woman played a character by the name of Vivie Warren, a person who appeared to consider herself vastly superior to her mother. The older woman expressed this by acting querulously hurt as she spoke her lines. Vivie began by criticising her mother and her mother’s friends, but after a short time moved to what was obviously the uppermost question in her mind: the identity of her unknown father. At this point, the dialogue was interrupted and recommenced more than a dozen times, as the play’s director seemed to be seeking a way in which to allow Vivie’s mother to pronounce an admission so bold that I was doubtful that such a play could be performed on the London stage at all, and not only because of the scandal, but also because of the artistic effect. It seemed impossible that the entire audience should not immediately feel, as I did, that the whole play had been written uniquely with a view to pronouncing exactly these words and exposing those facts in a public place.

‘Listen, you’re describing your youth,’ said the director to Mrs Warren. ‘You need to take a kind of calm but slightly wailing tone, as though you’re going through these old memories which are drab and wearisome to you, but not acutely painful any more. The important thing is to speak
without
emphasis.’

I sat back, unnoticed, and went on listening.

‘This is rubbish, Alan,’ said the actress playing Vivie, jumping out of her chair and throwing her script to the floor. ‘We can’t play this stuff! It’s all very well to say ‘‘without emphasis”. But the emphasis is there, in the words. The whole thing is just wrong.’

‘It can’t be done without seeking effect,’ agreed the older woman. Rising, she walked to the edge of the stage and squinted down at the man called Alan, whom I now knew to be the Alan Manning that Ernest had mentioned. ‘It’s missing the human aspect, Alan. What Shaw is doing here is trying to prove a point. I’m not saying the point he’s trying to prove is wrong. But the authenticity of any dialogue is bound to be lost when you try to use it to
prove
something.’

‘I do see what you’re saying, of course,’ said the director, standing up and stretching. He was in his shirtsleeves, having thrown his jacket over the back of his seat. ‘It doesn’t dig deep enough, does it? I didn’t realise that when I read the script at home. It seemed to hit pretty hard. But now it’s starting to sound a bit like a social tract. Still, maybe we’re spoilt by Shakespeare. Don’t you think we could save it?’

‘It’s risky,’ said the older woman. ‘If the play were really good, we could overcome the public anger it’s bound to produce. But with a play as poor as this, it doesn’t stand a chance.’

‘I hate it!’ cried the younger actress vehemently, joining her colleague at the edge of the stage. ‘What does he think he knows? How does any man dare write about such things – as though he can possibly understand! How dare he – how dare he even pretend to imagine!’ She stamped her foot, and continued furiously. ‘He wrote these lines to be spoken by
actresses
. And what will the effect on the public be? It’s – it’s
like a betrayal in the midst of our struggle. Our profession is only just beginning to be perceived as…honourable. No, that isn’t even true yet. No decent girl would be allowed to go on the stage, even today. But the subject is being
raised
, at least! There are
some
playwrights who are trying to tell the public that our profession is
not
to be confused with—’