The Riddle of the River

by Catherine Shaw

  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.

  1893

  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.

  Wednesday, July 6th, 1898

  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.

  Mrs Warren: The clergyman got me a situation as a scullery maid; then I was a waitress, and then I went to the bar at Waterloo station; fourteen hours a day serving drinks and washing glasses for four shillings a week and my board. Well, one cold, wretched night, when I was so tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up for a half of Scotch but my sister Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a lot of sovereigns in her purse. When she saw I’d grown up good-looking, she said to me across the bar, ‘‘What are you doing there, you little fool? Wearing out your health and your appearance for other people’s profit!” Liz was saving money then to take a house for herself in Brussels, and she thought we two could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and gave me a start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then went into business with her as a partner. Why shouldn’t I have done it? The house in Brussels was real high class: a much better place for a woman to be in than the whitelead factory where girls get themselves poisoned, or the scullery, or the bar, or at home. Would you have had me stay in them and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty?

  Vivie: No; but why did you choose that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any business.

  Mrs Warren: Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to save in any other business? Could you save out of four shillings a week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if you’re a plain woman and can’t earn anything more; or if you have a turn for music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: that’s different. But neither Liz nor I had any turn for such things at all: all we had was our appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us as shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not likely.

  Vivie: You were certainly quite justified – from the business point of view.

  Mrs Warren: Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the benefit of his money by marrying him? – as if a marriage ceremony could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any good-for-nothing drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will last forever. I despise
such people: they’ve no character; and if there’s a thing I hate in a woman, it’s want of character.

  Vivie: Come now, mother: frankly! Isn’t it part of what you call character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of making money?

  Mrs Warren: Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make money; but they have to do it all the same. I’m sure I’ve often pitied a poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some man that she doesn’t care two straws for – some half-drunken fool that thinks he’s making himself agreeable when he’s teasing and worrying and disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the rough with the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. It’s not work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; though to hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of roses.

  ‘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?’