‘According to the play we have just heard – Trelawney of the Wells, it’s called – some actors are obliged to purchase their own costumes,’ said Kathleen. ‘They must share, though. It’s too expensive for the beginning ones, on their tiny salaries. After all, theatre costumes are no ordinary clothes. They are both special and expensive. The actresses in the play shared everything, although Ernest’s friend told us he keeps his own things for himself. But there isn’t anything about the theatre that Pinero doesn’t know.’
‘You mean that the play you heard was a play about acting?’ I said curiously.
‘Exactly. It was about the life of actors and actresses in a small London theatre. But the true subject is not so different from what we were discussing yesterday. Rose Trelawney is an immensely popular, successful young actress, but she falls in love with a rich young man of good family, and gives up the stage for him. Yet she cannot get used to the life of his family and social class. She suffers from the restraint, and from agonising boredom, exactly like poor Mrs Tanqueray. Only this play ends on a much happier note, with Rose returning to the theatre, and her young man running away from home and becoming an actor himself in the hopes of winning her back.’
‘And does he succeed?’
‘Well, yes, although it doesn’t seem too realistic. He gets his heart’s desire, his career, and the forgiving acceptance of his parents as well. All very positive, and done with humour. Yet it’s easy to see that it’s all just a happy ending to make sure the play is perceived as a comedy and not a tragedy. The pain, the sensation of bitter failure during the scenes showing the clash of the classes, that’s what carries the force of the play.’
‘Yes, it is a tragedy disguised as a comedy, and it won’t be so easy to perform,’ agreed Kathleen. ‘It’s difficult for an actor to succeed well in both tragedy and comedy. And the more so as one tends to get used to the actor in one persona, and have difficulty admitting of his appearance in the other, so that even if he is doing a fine job, one feels somehow put out.’
‘Or else one cannot help feeling the tragedy behind his comedy, or vice versa!’ added Arthur.
‘No, but there are actors and actresses who can do both, extraordinarily,’ said Ernest enthusiastically. ‘Their tragedy is not heavy, and their comedy contains tears. That is exactly what I admire in Ivy Elliott. I’ve seen her in both types of role and she is totally convincing in both.’
‘But you saw her in both types of role in Shakespeare, isn’t that right?’ said Arthur. ‘It’s a bit different, because there is no question that all of Shakespeare’s characters spring from the same family, whether tragic or comic. Like the strange kinship, or twinship, between Lear and his Fool.’
‘Yes, that is true. Playing Shakespeare is a whole art in itself. I’d like to see Ivy in a play by someone else – then we’d see what she’s really capable of!’
‘Pah!’ interrupted Kathleen. ‘A girl who wears a wig, they say, and you don’t even notice it! I’ll take Mrs Campbell, myself. You’ve only seen her in Pinero – but we saw her as Mélisande not four months ago. Maeterlinck, you know – Pelléas and Mélisande. Now, that’s an actress. It’s not that I’m really taken by that symbolic stuff – it’s all rather too heavy for me. But Mrs Campbell played Mélisande as a waif-like lost girl that made me cry.’
‘Well, if anyone was wearing a wig, it was she in that role!’ said Ernest, harping a little unnecessarily, as I thought.
‘That’s different,’ argued Kathleen, ‘it’s symbolism. Mélisande’s long blonde braids are part of the play. You can’t do without them, and no one has such braids in reality.’
‘Rubbish,’ said her husband.
I started to smile, until I caught sight of Kathleen’s face, and all of a sudden felt a little stab of worry.
1887
Two little boys knelt at the edge of the road, giggling uncontrollably, concealing something under the bushes with busy hands.
‘It will never work,’ said one of them, covering his mouth to stifle the sound, as he scrambled to hide from some elegantly dressed passers-by.
‘It will!’ exclaimed the other. ‘It will! You’ll see. All we need is a thunderstorm.’
They both looked up at the endless, perfectly blue Italian sky, and doubled up with laughter again.
Thursday, June 30th, 1898
The weekend at the theatre helped greatly to soothe the impatient turmoil of my feelings, and to maintain me in a state of relative calm, although I had to restrain myself daily from dropping by Robert Sayle’s. After four days of waiting, my patience was rewarded by a little letter which arrived, somewhat unexpectedly, through the post.
Dear Mrs Weatherburn,
I have a little information for you; not much, but it may help.
Please visit me when you can.
Estelle (from Robert Sayle’s).
I dropped it on the table and pulled on my gloves at once, calling for Sarah to let her know that I was going out for a while. She nodded cheerfully.
‘I’ll give the twins their dinner, then,’ she said.
The walk into Cambridge seemed longer than usual, though I love walking, and know every detail of the way from dusty Newnham to the lovely university buildings of the centre. I arrived a little dishevelled, feeling as though I had been running, although of course I had been doing nothing of the kind. Yet my heart was pounding exactly as though I had, and I felt dampness on my forehead, under the edges of my hair. Estelle was sitting composedly behind her counter, just as she had been the first time I saw her. A young man was examining some wares that she had spread out in front of him, but even though she was serving him, her expression remained distant, as though it did not make the slightest difference to her whether or not he bought anything, though she was perfectly courteous. I observed her from a distance for some time, while ostensibly examining silk squares and handkerchieves, and waited for him to leave before approaching. She lifted her eyes and saw me.
‘Ah,’ she breathed in a little voice, glancing hastily around.
‘What have you discovered?’ I asked her quietly, half-pretending to examine the articles on the counter. She began to remove and put away the different trinkets and knick-knacks she had taken out to tempt the customer.
‘I saw him passing in the street outside yesterday,’ she told me. ‘I asked Emma to watch my counter for a moment—’ she nodded towards the stout lady at the corset counter ‘– and ran out after him. I followed him for a few minutes as you told me, then I had to leave him and return. I stayed away ten minutes; I really could not stay any longer.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘And what did he do during the ten minutes that you followed him?’
‘He went into Heffers bookshop,’ she said. ‘I think you may be able to find out more about him there. Through the window, I saw him talking quite familiarly to the man behind the counter. I looked at the time; it was almost exactly a quarter to four. I am sorry I couldn’t do anything more, but I did think that the shop assistant at Heffers spoke to him as though he knew him. You may be able to find out simply by asking him who the gentleman who came in yesterday at a quarter to four was; he’s tall, silver-haired, and was carrying a cane. I don’t know the assistant, that is, I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard something about him. The girls say he’s the heir to a gigantic fortune, but obliged to work for his living while he waits for it.’ She smiled, and added, ‘Who wouldn’t like to make his acquaintance?’
I laughed, and thanked her warmly and concretely for this information, which struck me indeed as being potentially very useful. She promised to keep me informed if she saw him again, and to help me further if need be. I left the shop thoughtfully, and my feet led me naturally straight to Petty Cury.
Heffers bookshop was, as always, comfortably populated with clients, not a few of whom were occupied in turning the pages of books with a studious concentration more suggestive of reading than purchasing. There were two or three comfortable leath
er armchairs between the shelves, and the general impression was welcoming and cosy. I entered, my arrival signalled by a little tinkle, and hesitated briefly on the threshold, wondering how to identify the clerk that Estelle had seen. I thought it likely to be the very man who was there now, briskly serving a small group of customers, with a nod and a friendly smile for each. I decided to proceed on the supposition that he was the right man, given that Estelle could always accompany me to the bookshop later on if further identification should be necessary. Ah, how reassuring facts are, and how useful an observant spirit and a good memory for faces.
The clerk appeared to be something over thirty years of age; he was well-mannered and distinguished, humorous and pleasant, with nothing of the obsequiousness or the vulgarity that sometimes distinguishes salespeople. His confident air and the advice and counsel that he freely offered to those who asked him for suggestions made me suspect that he was, in fact, more than a mere salesman; a manager, perhaps, or something more responsible. This feeling was strengthened when I saw him call a younger man who was supervising the shelving of new books from a large box, and ask him to replace him at the counter for a few moments while he consulted a catalogue to see whether a particular edition requested by an elderly gentleman was still in print. Entering a small, glass-windowed office behind the counter, he could be seen turning over the leaves, after which he took up a telephone, requested a number, and spoke silently (as it seemed through the window) into the machine at some length. He then returned and proceeded to give a comparative analysis of the different editions in existence to the elderly man, explaining to him that the one he wanted, while no longer available, was also no longer particularly desirable since more scholarly ones had been compiled since.
I stood by, listening with half an ear, until the peevish old man departed, having stubbornly refused all advice and counsel. Suddenly the personable clerk stood in front of me, asking engagingly if he could be of help.
‘I have to ask you a rather awkward question,’ I said, fabricating hastily. ‘I do hope you will forgive me. I – I met a most interesting gentleman recently at the house of a friend, but I simply cannot remember his name, although he was introduced to me. However, it so happens that – that I saw the very same gentleman in here yesterday, so I thought you might know him. I should so like to meet him again!’
‘Good Heavens,’ he said, ‘but many dozens of people come in here every day! How can I tell whom you mean?’
‘He came in yesterday, at about a quarter to four,’ I said, neatly parroting Estelle’s words. ‘He is quite tall, and silver-haired, and carries a cane.’
‘Oh-oh!’ he said, with a sudden, amused smile. ‘Why, you must be talking about my father! So you’ve met him and would like to meet him again? I see,’ and his eyes suddenly roved up and down me in a slightly provoking manner. Instinctively, I buried my left hand in my dress to hide my wedding ring, although there was no real need to do so, given that I was wearing gloves. But it was a reflex, for it suddenly appeared obvious to me that the best way to become acquainted with the elderly gentleman was to be a young woman of the type of the dead girl – frivolous, light, possibly even somewhat loose. I smiled much more widely than was natural, and flickered my eyelashes, deciding instantly that my sprigged muslin and beribboned hat, although both proper and elegant, were not so excessively ladylike as to contradict my attitude. I altered my stance, leaning on one foot and crossing my ankles, as advanced young ladies often did.
‘He’ll be charmed,’ said the young man with a smile that was a little too meaningful for my taste, although it had appeared through my own fault. ‘Listen, my father lives outside Cambridge, towards Grantchester. Here, I’ll write down his name and address for you.’ He took up a pen from the counter, dipped it in the ink, and wrote:
Geoffrey Archer, Esq
Chippendale House
Grantchester Meadows
‘Oh, thank you very much,’ I said, taking the paper and glancing at it attentively. ‘I do hope I will meet him soon. May I take it that your name is Mr Archer, too?’
‘Julian Archer at your service,’ he replied with a slight bow.
I returned to Robert Sayle’s before making my way home after this most satisfying interview. I could not prevent my mind running, as I walked jauntily along, on the manner in which I would present Pat with the information that his little puzzle was already solved. But I checked myself firmly. There was still work to be done.
‘I’ve found out his name, but I need you to identify him positively before I do anything else,’ I said to Estelle.
‘I don’t want to meet him!’ she said hesitatingly. ‘That girl – that girl died.’
‘No, of course not,’ I said quickly. ‘You must not get involved at all; you must not meet him.’
‘But then what can I do?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you are willing, the best way is to wait in front of his house for him to come in or go out or pass in front of a window. It can be boring and last some time, I am afraid, but it really is the best and safest way. We will do it together, if you wish. Are you willing to try it with me this evening?’
‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘If we’re together I won’t be frightened.’
Returning home, I found Arthur in the sitting room with the twins on his knees, putting together a small train with pegs whenever he had both hands simultaneously free, while Cecily tried to figure out how to untie his cravat and Cedric tried to push her aside and get more space for himself. Their ringing cries filled the room chaotically. I gave up my half-formed plan of asking his advice.
‘Ernest and Kathleen answered your thank-you note,’ he said, looking up at me and smiling as I removed my hat. ‘Their letter’s on the table.’
I picked it up and read it through. They spoke warmly of the pleasure they had had in our company and our shared interest in theatre, and invited us to return soon. I looked over at Arthur and the little scene in front of me, and sighed.
‘Their note sounds almost lonely,’ I remarked. ‘Do you think a happy couple living in London can be lonely?’
‘Of course,’ he said, peeling off some little arms that were clinging too tightly to his neck. ‘I think they wish they had a family.’ He smiled, kissing Cecily’s dimpled fingers.
‘Oh,’ I said, turning over the note and reading the postscript on the back. ‘Look, Ernest says he’s coming up to Cambridge on Monday to give a lecture.’
‘Yes, I saw,’ he said. ‘Can we have him here?’
‘Oh, yes, if you like,’ I replied. ‘Why not? We mustn’t tease him too much about his blonde – actress, though…’
I put down the letter, suddenly struck by the word blonde which had already been so much in my head because of the dead girl. I turned to Arthur to make the remark, but he was taken up with the noisy, vigorous little pair, so I sat down on the sofa instead, and proceeded to think.
Ernest had said Ivy Elliott was small and blonde. The actress we had seen was undoubtedly dark and rather tall. Could it possibly be that we had seen a different actress? And if so, why was Ivy Elliott not playing her role? Where was she?
No, I was being silly.
Yet he had admired Ivy as Ophelia – and I had thought of Ophelia at once…
Yes, but who would not associate a young girl floating in the river with the eternal image of Ophelia?
Yet it would explain the strangeness of the dress, the ill-sewn, altered white gown with its scattered pansies.
…and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
Ophelia, in her theatre costume, floating in the green water?
I shook myself and rose. I had set up a logical procedure to identify the dead girl, and I should follow it through. There was no need to speculate or jump to conclusions.
‘Arthur, I must go out again,’ I said as soon as supper was over. As the time of my meeting with Estelle approached, my desire to confirm Mr Archer’s identity as the purchaser of the bracelet was becoming
irresistible. He looked up at me queryingly. I crossed over to him and put my hand on his shoulder.
‘You are taking care of yourself, of course,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Nothing much is happening, Arthur. It’s just a matter of identification. I’m not even working under false pretences at this point. I’m not letting myself be seen at all.’ He smiled, relieved, and I put on my hat and left, trying not to let my sense of urgency drive me into an unseemly show of haste.
Mr Archer’s imposing manor house was easy enough to find, a mere twenty minutes’ walk from my own. I realised as I located it that I had passed in front of it uncountably many times on my rambles, but I had never actually seen it, since it was set deep within stately grounds filled with trees and was not actually visible from the street. We crept through the wrought iron double gates and walked quietly up the curving main drive until we came in sight of the house. Dusk was falling, and the lamps were lit in all the rooms of the lower floors.
‘Oh, be careful,’ whispered Estelle, even though there was not a soul within hearing distance. She seemed nervous; she breathed rapidly, and I could not help glancing at her trim figure and wondering if she ought not to have prepared for her adventure by relaxing her tight-lacing a little.
‘There’s somebody there!’ she gasped, snatching my hand. ‘There is somebody in that room!’ and she pointed to one of the large, lit front windows.
‘Let’s go nearer,’ I said.
‘Up to the house?’ she squeaked.
‘No, no,’ I reassured her. ‘Just near enough to see through the window.’
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘What if someone comes out and chases us away?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘then we will go away. We’ll ask if Mr…Mr Lighthorn lives there, and say we made a mistake with the address. Nothing bad can happen to us, Estelle.’
The Riddle of the River Page 5