The Riddle of the River

by Catherine Shaw

  Their natural reluctance to suddenly adopt a total stranger for a journey of several hours in necessarily rather intimate conditions was, I believe, shunted aside by their own preoccupation and haste. It would have taken them longer to explain politely to me why this was not possible than it did to simply accede to my request. In less than two minutes, therefore, I found myself seated in a handsome brougham, assenting with almost excessive eagerness to the gentleman’s explanation that he must leave his sister at the house where her husband lay grievously ill, and that our arrival in Cambridge would necessarily be somewhat delayed. After some discussion of our relative destinations, they agreed to drop me at my home, and I settled into my corner and remained more or less silent for the remainder of the journey, while the sister, sister-in-law and brother analysed and prognosticated over the symptoms of the sick man. At any other time, such a conversation would have held much to interest me, as do all human affairs. But under the present conditions, Richard’s inflammations were as foreign to me as if he were suffering from them in far-away China. I was walled up within myself, and had to force myself to make what friendly conversation I could, as we stopped various times to change the horses, and once, rather late in the evening, when our host insisted absolutely on his wife and his sister taking some dinner at the inn. At any other time, such a pleasant and unusual adventure would have been most delightful to me, and the succulent dishes which were laid before us a welcome variation to our usual fare. But images of the dead girl filled my mind, and I saw the hours pass, and evening blend into night, with increasing dismay. I had thought we might arrive in Cambridge in some six or seven hours, but I had counted without the lengthy halts for the relays and the dinner, the detour to Huntingdon and the time spent there in farewells and taking news of the sick man. Long before our journey’s end, I was annoyed with myself for not having waited for the mail train to be repaired. But I knew that in the absence of any certainty as to when that might be, I should probably always act the same again.

  It was the darkest part of the night when we finally reached Cambridge, and I was deposited in front of my house with the kind wishes of my benefactor. The night was black as pitch: black, and utterly still. There was not a soul to be seen, not even an animal; the only sounds were those of the breeze sighing through the leaves, and the occasional gentle whush of what might have been a small animal. I thought of Ivy, who had walked this very street, that other night, filled with joy and thankful anticipation, unaware of her mortal danger. I wondered painfully if she had realised what was about to happen to her when she saw Julian entering the bookshop, and how many of the last minutes of her life were spent in fear and anguish.

  When I entered the house, I found it as silent as though it were utterly uninhabited. Unlocking the door with a feeling of relief, I tiptoed inside, removed my boots and hat, and hurried upstairs into the bedroom to reach the safety of Arthur’s arms. Quickly, I removed my jewellery and the pins from my hair and dropped them on the dressing table, then turned towards the bed, visible as no more than the darkest patch in the darkness. It was only then that I became aware of the complete silence in the room. There was no sound of breathing; no sound of anything at all.

  I moved to where Arthur should have been lying asleep, and felt with my hand. The bed was empty. Startled, I felt for the matches, lit the bedside candle and looked around me. The bed was not unmade, but not perfectly smooth. It looked as though he had lain down on it without undressing. He must have been taking his surveillance of Jenny seriously enough to be too worried to go peacefully to bed.

  I hurried out into the hall: the two doors on the opposite side leading into the twins’ room and the nursery, and the door next to ours leading to the spare bedroom were all closed. Jenny should have been in the guest room, but all of my instincts told me that she was not. I hesitated a moment, then opened the twins’ door and let a little glow from the candle shine in. They lay in their cots, their cheeks flushed with sleep. The door communicating directly with the nursery was open, and Sarah was sleeping there near the door. I could not see her, but I heard her stir and quickly closed the door. Then, in a quick gesture, I opened Jenny’s door.

  Nothing. She had gone, of course. There was no other possible explanation for Arthur’s absence.

  If events of such importance had occurred earlier in the day that the two of them had not come home at all, then his bed would not have been disarranged. Yet I could not believe that he had allowed her to go out at such an hour, or accompanied her purposely. I could only conclude that she had pretended to go to bed and then slipped out, and that Arthur, lying prepared for such a possibility, had heard and gone after her.

  Where would she have gone? To find Julian Archer, of course. She wanted revenge; she meant to kill him. She was quite mad.

  In my haste, I ran straight out of the house in my stockinged feet, my hair falling down, then dashed back and tugged on my boots, ignoring the buttons. On an impulse, I snatched up a box of matches and thrust it into my dress, then hastened straight down the path to the gate.

  It was while I was feeling in the blackness for the latch that I thought of the Darwins’ bicycle. I had found it difficult to take the quaint-looking toy seriously enough to want to purchase one for myself, and could not really imagine myself riding it around in public. But the thing had become all the rage amongst young people recently; both men and ladies had taken it up as a sport. Our neighbours, always on the crest of the wave of fashion, had enthusiastically made the purchase for their large family of youngsters, and I had frequently seen them wobbling up and down Silver Street upon it, practising riotously. I was tempted.

  I had noticed the bicycle in their garden when I was at their house; they kept it leaning against the old granary, just within the street gate. To run there was a matter of a few short minutes; to hurry on foot all the way to the centre of town would be much longer. I hesitated no longer, but hastened down my lane and up the Newnham Road in the darkness until I reached Silver Street, my eyes growing progressively used to the dimness around me. I soon made out the large square of the gate set in the dark mass of the high garden wall, unlatched it, and felt around tentatively within – there was the bicycle! I dragged it out carefully and closed the gate, hoping that I would be able to put it back without mishap before the night was over. But if I could not, the explanation for my act would be, I believed, sufficient to justify it.

  By the time these thoughts had gone through my head, and I had emitted a nervous gurgle of laughter at the mental picture of myself trying to explain why I was doing what I was doing, I had balanced myself upon the machine, hair wild, skirts hitched into a bundle to free my ankles, and was pedalling unsteadily over the bridge and on up Silver Street, then left on King’s Parade. It was fortunate that I was the only vehicle on the road, and even more fortunate that I did not happen to encounter any rock or obstacle over which I should certainly have taken a spill. But the road was smooth and silent, and glided away beneath my wheels, which turned faster and faster as I grew used to the rhythm of the movement. I was driven by fear; I do not believe I could have learnt nearly so quickly or so well if I had been doing it for pleasure.

  Not five minutes later, the dark shadows of the Cambridge buildings loomed against the slightly paler sky sprinkled with tiny stars.

  Once I perceived something like a delivery cart moving along ahead of me, and once I heard something coming up the road behind me. I dismounted in a tumble, and stood waiting silently and tensely at the side of the road until the vehicle had passed far enough ahead to pose no further risk of collision. Then I sprang back onto the machine and pedalled swiftly onwards.

  I stopped the bicycle just before turning into Petty Cury, half-fell off it, leant it silently against a wall, and stood still, listening and peering down the street as best I could. I perceived neither sound nor movement at first, and began to wonder if I had made a mistake by coming here. Then I became aware of muffled noises. Quickly and silently, I cre
pt towards them.

  As I approached Heffers, I realised that the sounds were actually proceeding from across the street, in the narrow alley separating two neighbouring buildings where I had waited and watched secretly just yesterday. Confused grunts were interrupted by a whispered imprecation, and diverse sounds of a struggle could be heard, as well as heavy breathing. I hastened to the opening, pulled out my box of matches and struck one.

  In its momentary flash and glare, I made out three human figures cramped in the tiny space. Two were stretched full length upon the ground. The flame illuminated Jenny’s body as she lay unconscious, a dark mark across her throat, while a figure whom I identified as none other than my very own husband was kneeling on the back of a man lying on his stomach, his body half over hers. Arthur had planted his knee in the small of the man’s back and was pressing him down by the shoulders, while the man was struggling violently. At the flash of light from my match, Arthur looked around, and Julian Archer took advantage of his second of inattention to writhe violently foward, throwing Arthur off balance.

  ‘Be careful!’ I cried, stepping forward.

  The match burnt my fingers and I dropped it and reached for another, which I lit in time to see Julian struggling away from Arthur’s grasp, reaching out his arm, stretching it out to its full length, away from me, towards Jenny’s head which lay beyond him – no, not towards her head, but next to her head. I held the match out over him and perceived a metallic gleam.

  ‘The knife!’ I screamed. Arthur lunged, and grasped Julian’s arm, pulling it back. They struggled for a few long seconds, Julian gaining inches towards the knife, which I had suddenly and incongruously recognised as one of our very own best kitchen knives, much approved of by Mrs Widge. It lay well out of Arthur’s reach, but only just beyond Julian’s fingers. If he once grasped it, death lay in his hands.

  I dropped the match, hurled myself over the two of them, a tangle of bodies and arms and legs, landing in a completely disorganised heap on the other side. Julian Archer swore as my skirts covered his head, Jenny’s body and the knife. But I disentangled my arm and and felt for the blade in the darkness, where I thought I had seen it. His fingers reached it just as mine did, and I snatched it out of his reach and scrambled back. Then I lit another match.

  He looked up at me, recognised me and unexpectedly burst into a short, barking laugh.

  ‘Why, Miss Duncan,’ he said, ‘you here, joining this little party? At such an original hour, too. What might you be doing here, I wonder? Joining in the attack, perhaps? This lady here rang at the bell, woke up my servant and had me called out of the house, then pulled me in here and tried to stab me! Just as I was fending her off, this other ruffian came and jumped on me from behind. I thought it was some kind of robbery. Can you be connected with it all? What on earth is going on here?’

  ‘He was strangling her,’ said Arthur quickly.

  ‘Nonsense, man – she was trying to stab me, the vixen! I was just holding her off!’

  ‘We need the police,’ I said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Julian Archer quickly, and I heard his smile preserved in his voice as the match once again flickered out, leaving us in darkness. ‘There’s no need for the police now. This woman has not been badly hurt, I hardly touched her. If this person could just get off my back, we can have a look at her and set her back on her feet, and then perhaps we can all be on our way without any further disturbance.’

  I struck another match. Arthur looked at me questioningly. I looked back at him, willing him to remain where he was.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We must summon the police at once.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Archer with a show of annoyance, ‘I must say that I don’t see how you’re going to manage to get them here. I intend to shake off this fellow and get up; I’ve had quite enough of the dust, thank you very much.’

  ‘Don’t get up,’ I said, and grasped the knife threateningly.

  ‘My dear girl, that knife in your dainty little hand doesn’t frighten me in the least! A little bluff, a little feminine drama; it makes me laugh! Go on then, get the police, if you can manage it without going anywhere!’ And he attempted to roll over, but Arthur made himself heavy, and because of the extreme narrowness of the alley, he could not escape to one side or another.

  I well knew that I would be utterly incapable of stabbing him, yet his words provoked me to an indiscretion.

  ‘Oh,’ I said coldly, ‘I can get the police here very quickly without going anywhere. I could do it quietly, if I had a nice little wireless machine. But as I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to be a bit noisy about it.’

  His eyes swung to my face, his jaw dropped. I believe he truly understood only at that moment what was at stake. It might have been safer to keep him in ignorance – but his reaction nailed the lid to my certainty. Fixing my eyes on his face, I inhaled deeply and forced myself to produce an extremely long, loud scream.

  It was not an easy thing to do, in that dark city street, at that dark hour. If one has never tried it, one cannot know that it is necessary to overcome an immense, almost overwhelming inhibition. In fact, in order to do it at all, one must gigantically overdo it. My scream turned into a wild, primeval, unstoppable ululation.

  ‘Poliiiiiiiiiiiiiiice! Heeelp!!!!! Poliiiiiiiiice!!! Murder!!!!!!!’ I shouted and screeched into the darkness.

  Lights flickered on in windows up and down the street. Some of the windows opened, and heads peered out.

  ‘Help! Call the police! Murder!’ I shouted again and again.

  A man wearing a nightcap on his head emerged from one of the nearest houses, carrying a candlestick in one hand and a weapon of some kind in the other. I saw him start towards the sound of my voice; then he was overtaken by a horse and cart which came clopping up the street and pulled to a stop just in front of Heffers. Totally ignoring the man with the candlestick, the lights and heads at the windows, and my continuing cries, an elderly man climbed down from the cart, slowly extracted a key from his pocket, and proceeded to fit it into the door of the bookshop.

  Startled, my attention was momentarily distracted by this man, and I missed Julian Archer’s swift movement. With one violent lunge, he freed his arm from Arthur’s grasp and snatched the knife out of mine. Then he was on his feet facing Arthur.

  ‘Get out into the street,’ he snapped. Arthur moved back three or four steps, and Julian followed him, threateningly. By now two or three people had congregated at the entrance to the little alley; we heard them gasp as they saw him emerge, the knife in his hand.

  I stood up to follow, then stooped down and quickly laid my hand on Jenny’s breast. She was breathing; her eyes fluttered as I touched her. I left her there and followed Julian onto the street.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mr Archer was saying tranquilly to the shocked, startled neighbours. ‘I was attacked by the crazy woman in there, but I managed to seize her weapon and all is well.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Archer, sir?’ asked the man with the candlestick, and I realised that obviously all these people were his neighbours; they were well acquainted with him and would certainly take his part rather than ours.

  ‘Quite all right,’ replied Mr Archer calmly. ‘I’m not sure why this gentleman attacked me; I thought he was together with the woman, but I suppose he just saw me defending myself and leapt on me, believing I was harming her. Quite understandable, I’m sure, and I’m very sorry we conflicted,’ he added, lowering the knife and stretching out his hand to shake Arthur’s.

  ‘No!’ I cried, hurrying forwards. Arthur’s steady gaze met mine, then Mr Archer’s, and he did not lift his hand. Mr Archer drew his own back, and turned to stare at me inimically.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he snarled in a low voice.

  Ignoring him, I crossed the road and addressed myself directly to the delivery man, who was now engaged in stolidly removing labelled and addressed crates of books from the interior of the shop and loading them onto his ca
rt.

  ‘Do you come here every morning at this time?’ I asked him.

  ‘No miss,’ he replied, attending calmly to his work as though it was perfectly normal to be surrounded by people wearing caps and nightgowns at four o’clock in the morning. ‘Only Mondays and Thursdays or when I’m asked for special.’

  Ivy’s corpse – the dark box. It was all so devastatingly plain; Ivy’s strangled corpse had been placed into a crate, casually prepared beforehand by the manager in the interior of the shop and placed amongst a number of other crates ready for delivery, surprising no one…and all picked up and taken away by a man with a cart, early, early on the Wednesday morning, when the usual delivery man would not be there. This one would be a different man; no other than Mr Archer senior, I could no longer doubt it; Mr Archer senior dressed in a working man’s overalls and cap after bidding goodbye to his elegant guests…driving slowly into the centre of town with his gardener’s cart and pony, lifting and packing the crates, taking away the corpse in full view of any chance nocturnal passers-by without arousing the slightest suspicion, while his son rested peacefully in his camp bed upstairs, enjoying his perfectly organised alibi. Delivering the boxes, and above all, the last one – delivering it first, when no one would be walking through the Lammas Land for pleasure; driving straight there and emptying the contents of the box into the river, then clopping calmly away to the next place. Completing the other deliveries, if there were any, then returning home and burning the unwanted crate on the refuse heap at leisure. Just an old crate of books from the shop.

  The dark box! The bride, the bride will never see the church!

  Had it been Ivy’s voice, then, that I had heard? Can such things ever have any rational explanation?

  I turned and looked at Julian Archer. He was staring at me, shaken by my question to the driver, following my mention of the wireless. His mouth was twisted strangely and his lips were dry. He moved towards me and I felt danger approach as thick as electricity in the air of a storm. Yet surely he would not stab me in front of all these people – would he? How strange to stand watching, wondering, as though someone else’s life was at stake. He was approaching me, his face was leaning into mine.