Read The Riddle of the River Online
Authors: Catherine Shaw
The Riddle of the River (21 page)
‘No one can do it if you can’t, Sir Oliver,’ said Ernest with enthusiastic devotion. Kathleen, instead, responded to the
Professor’s speech by playing a little ostentatiously with her beads and repressing a yawn. I remembered that she disliked scientific conversations, and hastened to relieve her by rising to leave. Sir Oliver bid me goodbye with great eagerness, vehemently expressing the hope of seeing me participate ever more actively in the sessions of the Society for Psychical Research of which he was a key member, and of which I had attended one of the sessions, without knowing it, at the home of Mrs Thorne. He pressed a pamphlet into my hand, which I perused upon my road home.
Society for Psychical Research
The original Sidgwick Group, founded in 1874, consisting of Henry Sidgwick, Frederic W H Myers, Edmund Gurney, Walter Leaf, Lord Raleigh, Arthur Balfour, Eleanor Balfour Sidgwick and Lady Raleigh, created the Society for Psychical Research for the purpose of investigating mediums and Spiritualistic séances with total objectivity, whether exposing frauds or discovering new truths. Since the founding, numerous new members have joined the society, including a number of esteemed public figures: Sir Oliver Lodge, physicist, William Crookes, chemist, Arthur C Doyle, physician and author.
The SPR contains six distinct research committees, each devoted to the study of a particular aspect of Spiritualistic and psychical phenomena:
1) Thought transference, or ‘telepathy’.
2) Mesmerism, hypnotism, clairvoyance, and related phenomena.
3) ‘Sensitives’ and ‘mediums’, being people with the ability to communicate with the dead.
4) Apparitions of all types.
5) Levitations, materialisations, and other physical phenomena associated with séances.
6) The collection and collation of data on the history of the above subjects.
I hesitated for a long time before consigning the pamphlet to the wastebin.
Experiments of the last summer have made perfectly certain the possibility of using captive balloons on the high sea. In place of balloons, without doubt one might use the modern kites, brought to such a pitch of perfection in America. I owe it to the kindness of an acquaintance in New York that I know something of these excellent kites. Altogether, we are face to face with very peculiar phenomena. Nature has opened a new door for us. It is the mission of science at present to bring light into the opened room.
I hardly dared believe that Ernest would succeed where I had failed, and was thus surprised and amazed to receive not one but two letters today, as though in answer to my prayers. I opened Ernest’s first. It was short and to the point.
Dear Vanessa,
As promised, I confronted the dragon’s lair and laid siege to Miss Wolcombe’s door until she let me in. You were right; she is no other than Ivy’s friend Jenny, who shared lodgings with her until last week. Vanessa, should you have further contacts with Miss Wolcombe, as knowing you I am sure you will, I want to warn you: she is a good creature, she is, indeed, but her life and her circumstances have been so vastly different from yours, and indeed, from my own, as to make her thought processes appear totally foreign to us. Her instantaneous reaction upon learning from her landlady (who learnt it from the police) of Ivy’s death, was to raid her friend’s boxes and drawers in order to remove anything personal from prying eyes, and to then proceed to remove herself bodily from the path of the police. I expressed amazement at her reluctance to aid them in their legitimate enquiry into Ivy’s death, but she simply stared at me as though I were suggesting she aid wolves in their legitimate quest to devour her. Women such as Miss Wolcombe keep as far as possible from the police at all times, and it is a kind of fundamental rule of existence for them, from which no deviation is conceivable.
When I explained that no one was involved in the present investigation other than you and myself, and pressed her to help us, she still hesitated, but yielded when I painted a grim picture of Ivy’s murderer still wandering the streets. Still, I got no more from her than a promise to write to you directly; she told me nothing, in spite of all my coaxing and entreaties. Being aware that she knows more about Ivy’s life than anyone else, and that she now holds any private letters Ivy may have received before her death, made it torture for me to accept her refusal with equanimity, but I forced myself to do so, for men, in the eyes of women such as she, are natural enemies and sources of harm, to be mistrusted, hated, vanquished, and at the very best, used. I put my trust in you, therefore, to tell me what there is to be known.
With my very sincerest regards and prayers for your success,
Your devoted servant,
Ernest Dixon
I put down this missive, seized the second letter, which was actually a rather heavy envelope obviously containing several documents, and tore it open at once. Out came a letter from Miss Wolcombe, as well as other older, somewhat crumpled and folded letters – letters to Ivy!
Dear Mrs Wetherburn,
I am writing to you because Mr Dixon said you are trying in good faith to find out who killed Ivy Elliott who was my best friend and the best friend anyone could ever have. I dont want to be mixed up in anything. But Ivy was strangled and drowned Mr Dixon told me and I am ready to kill the
person who did it with my own hands. I was never going to tell anybody about this but I will tell you in case you can find out who it is, because Mr Dixon says you can find out anything and you wont tell anyone. Just before she died Ivy was engaged to be married and she was the happiest girl in the world and her whole life was going to change. She was in love and he was in love with her. I know this because she told me, and they were going to be married very very soon. I dont know if this has anything to do with her dying. Maybe it does and maybe it doesnt. Maybe I have another idea about this. Im not sure but I am trying to find out. I hate to think he killed her or she died because of him, because she loved him and was so happy in those last two weeks you cant imagine, like I never saw her, but the trouble is that from his letters I found in her droors he lives in Cambridge and that is where she was killed Mr Dixon says. But I know she went to Cambridge to see another old man as well, him that wrote one of the letters. If you could find out who the man was, the one she was going to marry, maybe that would help you do what you are trying to do. I dont know who he was. Ivy beleeved he loved her and he did give her real happiness before she died, but if he killed her Ill kill him. I am sending you his letters which I took.
Yours from Jenny Wolcombe, Ivy’s friend
The spelling, the uneducated handwriting and the passionate attachment to her friend which glowed from between the lines combined to make this missive strangely moving. I picked up one of the enclosed envelopes and took out not one but two folded letters, whose thin, onion-skin pages I smoothed out with a feeling of triumph. The handwriting corresponded
exactly to that of the empty envelope that had somehow been left behind amongst the bills. Refined and expensive paper; elegant handwriting, filled with character; a good-quality quill.
My love, my beloved, my heart,
Three days before I can see you, three days of burning impatience, three days of waiting, every minute wasted in which I cannot tell you, by look and word and gesture, what you are to me, what you are: you, radiant with the glow of youth and loveliness, scarred with suffering, fragmented but not destroyed, come into my life like light into the eyes of a blind man. This is what I want to say to you: come to my arms with all the baggage of your life, all that which renders human a being as beautiful as an angel; all those things which are unspeakable and about which I make no myth, believe me: your past, with all its acts, its experiences, its memories, and above all, above all, my beloved, the child within you; come to me with everything, I want all of it, such as it is; there is nothing else in this world that I desire. If you can possibly consider it, if you can turn your forget-me-not eyes in my direction, say one word, just one single word, and I will marry you as soon as the law allows – I believe it takes no more than a few days – and under any conditions you want, anything at all that you request, require, demand or need; I want nothing but to keep you safe from harm.
And at the bottom – a scribbled, totally illegible signature! I flung the paper onto the table in fury after scrutinising it in vain, then snatched it up again, guilty for my momentary anger, then put it down and quickly unfolded the second letter.
My beloved,
It is done, it is settled, it is fixed for the twenty-second; one life until that day, another one, thereafter. Your hand in mine, my darling, your heart near mine, your child mine also – ours, to raise together in love and tenderness, in front of the whole world: I, a husband, a father! You, the bringer of this miracle! This banal, common condition that is yet a miracle each and every time an individual man attains it.
I have wondered and questioned to exhaustion whether I can bring you happiness. You could offer me no greater gift than the words you sent me, which restored my joy, my peace, my very life, stained and burnt by the acid of doubt. All is well, all is ready; come to me on the twenty-first, and do not breathe a single word to anyone.
I stood stunned, holding these two letters in my hand, and absorbing, with a shock, the idea that somewhere in Cambridge beat a heart shattered, in total silence, by Ivy’s death. I had wondered if her own innocent words of love were not addressed to a perfidious Julian Archer, but I found that hard to believe now. Could he be the author of these desperately sincere words? Was he as passionately in love with Ivy as these letters indicated? Was he planning to wed her secretly, no doubt in order to avoid the angry and, I suppose, partially justified interference of his father? He did not appear to be a man shattered by the death of his beloved, but that meant little; we British are past masters at hiding our feelings, and have made it into a source of pride to boot.
I sat down, trying to restore order to my thoughts, but could get no farther than the urgent need to determine whether or not he was the author. It would be easy enough to
do, surely, on the basis of the handwriting. I put the letters into my bag and issued forth without further delay, not pausing until I stood in front of Heffers bookshop. I pushed the door and went in, ready with my ruse; I meant to ask Mr Archer for detailed information on some book or other, and get him to write it down for me. The bell tinkled and a clerk emerged from the office; Julian Archer, however, was nowhere to be seen.
‘Is Mr Archer in?’ I asked the young man, a vacillating and uncertain personage of an obviously inferior position.
‘No, ma’am,’ he replied, ‘he’s in London today, taking care of purchasing. He’s due back later this afternoon. Can I help you in any way?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, repressing my frustration at not obtaining an immediate answer to my question. Various plans for seeing some sample of his handwriting from the back office flashed through my mind, but all of them were too complicated and could not fail to arouse suspicion. No, there was no help for it but patience. I went back out into Petty Cury – and found myself standing at the door leading to the upper floor. Mr Archer’s rooms over the shop! Without conscious thought, my finger flew to the bell and pressed it firmly. I then stood awaiting the consequences of my actions, wondering what to expect.
After only a few moments, a manservant opened the door and gazed upon me enquiringly. Improvising rapidly, I asked him if Mr Archer was in, even though I knew full well that he was in London. This made my surprise all the greater when he responded with a nod and invited me into the narrow entrance hall, which contained nothing but a small table set against the wall, and a staircase leading to the upper regions.
‘Yes, he is in. Your name, please? Will you wait here? I will go and enquire whether he can receive you.’
‘Miss Duncan,’ I said meekly, wondering how on earth to justify this sudden and impossible visit, and I almost considered dashing out into the street and away, except that I had already given my name. I fluttered, dismayed – and then something suddenly caught my eye! On the table just at my hand, in a salver, lay two letters, addressed and ready to be carried to the post. I moved them gently with my finger, staring hungrily at the written addresses. Yes, it was – yes, they were – surely! Surely? I opened my bag, extracted the envelopes from inside it, compared – yes – yes, the same! I was in luck, one of the letters was addressed to a Professor Iverson at Emmanuel College. That capital I – yes, this was the same handwriting. Julian Archer was the author of the letters hidden in my bag – he must be!
But what could it all mean?
The manservant’s hurrying feet were heard on the stairs, and he stood at the bottom, beckoning me upwards. Even though my task was now accomplished, there was nothing for it but to go.
I followed the manservant up not one but two flights of stairs, to the top of the house, where he opened a door and ushered me into an agreeable, sunny and pleasantly furnished sitting room. Plump armchairs stood about the fireplace, a grand piano stood at the far end from the street, and near the windows was a large desk, at which was seated a curious figure. The pale sunshine glanced over a hunchback as round as a stone; from between two narrow, jutting shoulders, a head seemed to grow forwards rather than upwards. This head turned as I entered, heralded by the manservant’s stolid
enunciation of my name, and revealed an interesting, not unattractive face.
‘Oh,’ I said in confusion, ‘I expected to see Mr Archer.’
‘I am Mr Archer,’ he replied with a slight smile. ‘But I suppose you wanted to see my brother Julian.’ As he spoke, he pushed himself away from the desk with his hand, and I saw that he was seated in an invalid’s chair with wheels. This he swivelled to face me.
‘Please sit down,’ he said kindly. ‘I rarely receive the pleasure of a visit; perhaps I can be of some help to you instead of my brother.’
I sat down upon the sofa; I felt slightly shy, and also foolish to have completely forgotten about the existence of Julian Archer’s invalid brother. I looked at him now, resisting the natural impulse to avert my eyes from his grotesquely deformed body. His shrivelled legs, encased in well-tailored trousers, seemed almost useless; his arms were strangely long, with sensitive and elegant hands. I noticed a smudge of ink on the inside of the middle finger, and glanced over at the desk where he had been working. It was piled high with tomes and papers; I tried to make out the title of the one nearest me, but it was in Greek. Mr Archer used his arms to propel his chair towards me until he was facing me at a reasonable distance.
‘May I offer you some tea?’ he asked.
I stammered a refusal, not at all sure that I was going to stay long enough to partake of a cup. I was intrigued by his face, which, while bearing not the slightest resemblance to his father and brother, seemed somehow slightly familiar to me. It was not displeasing, yet there was something strange about it; it was a face that was extremely hard to read, a veiled face. Why did I feel as though I recognised it?
‘I wonder if we have ever met before?’ I mused, almost absently.
‘Undoubtedly not. I am afraid that I rarely set foot out of doors,’ he replied. ‘And if I had already encountered you, I should not be likely to have forgotten it.’ He smiled rather sadly, then went on, ‘Do tell me in what my brother could have been of help to you? If you need some advice or information about a book, I might be able to replace him.’
I stifled a nervous giggle which rose to my throat at the idea of telling him the truth, seized eagerly upon the fiction of a book, and suddenly, moved by an urge to probe without revealing myself, I said, ‘Yes, that is what it was. I am looking for a book by someone called Alexandre Parent-Duchâtelet, a book in French – that is, I wanted to know if this book has been translated into English. I haven’t been able to find it anywhere.’
I cringed inwardly as I realised that if he knew the book, my question would be most embarrassing. I regretted my impulse and tried to console myself by hoping that he couldn’t possibly have heard of it. Surely, surely not. How many invalid scholars read books entitled
De la prostitution dans la ville de Paris?
His reply showed that apparently, some do. However, he preserved a quietly professional attitude which revealed nothing at all.