Stephen Michael Hilary Byrne had given his mother the maximum of trouble
that Friday evening; and on Sunday morning she was still too feeble and
ill to appreciate his beauty. Old Dr. Browning was less cheerful than
Stephen had ever seen him. He shook his head almost grimly as he
squeezed his square frame into his diminutive car.
Stephen went back disconsolately into the warm garden. He had seen
Margery for a moment, and she had whispered weakly, "You go out in your
boat, my dear," and then something about "a lovely morning ... I'm all
right." Also he had seen his son and tried hard to imagine that he was
two years old, a legitimate object for enthusiasm. He had helped Joan to
feed her rabbits and swept the garden and tidied things in the
summer-house. But he had done all these things with an anxious eye on
the full and falling river. And already he had had several shocks.
Now he felt that he could not leave the river, not at least while the
tide was up and there was all this muddle of flotsam quivering past.
Usually, on Sunday mornings he sat in his sunny window writing, with
the birds bickering in the creeper outside and the lazy sounds of Sunday
morning floating up from the river. Sunday morning along The Chase was
an irreligious but peaceful occasion. The people of The Chase strolled
luxuriously in the hot sun from door to door, watching their neighbours'
children depart with fussy pomp upon their walks. Babies slept
interminably in huge prams under the trees. The old houses looked very
gracious and friendly with the wistaria and ivy and countless kinds of
green things scrambling about the rickety balconies and wandering
through the open windows. Strangers walked in quiet couples along the
path and admired the red roofs and the quaint brass knockers on the
doors and the nice old names of the houses and the nice old ladies
purring sleepily inside. Out on the river the owners of the anchored
boats prepared them happily for action, setting sails and oiling engines
and hauling laboriously at anchors. Two white cutters moved delicately
about in the almost imperceptible breeze. Strenuous eights and fours and
pairs went rhythmically up and down. The hoarse adjurations of their
trainers came over the water with startling clearness. Single scullers,
contemptuously independent, shot by like large water-beetles in slim
skiffs. On the far towpath the idle people streamed blissfully along,
marvelling at the gratuitous exertions of the oarsmen. Down the river
there was a multitude of small boys bathing from a raft, with much
splashing and shrill cries. Their bodies shone like polished metal in
the distance. There were no tugs on Sundays, but at intervals a
river-steamer plodded up towards Kew, a congested muddle of straw hats
and blouses. Sometimes a piano tinkled in the stern, sounding almost
beautiful across the water.
On all these vulgar and suburban and irreligious people the June sun
looked down with a great kindness and warmth; and they were happy. And
Stephen, as a rule, was happy at Hammersmith on Sunday mornings. He
thought with repugnance of Sunday morning in Kensington, of stiff
clothes in the High Street and the shuttered faces of large drapery
stores; he thought with pity even of the promenaders in Hyde Park,
unable to see the trees for the people, unable to look at the sky
because of their collars. He loved the air and openness and pleasant
vulgar variety of Sunday morning at Hammersmith. Here at least it was a
day of naturalness and rest. On any other Sunday, if the tide served, he
would have slipped out after breakfast in his boat to gather firewood
for the winter. Just now there was a wealth of driftwood in the river,
swept off wharves by the spring tides or flung away by bargees--wedges
and small logs and box-wood and beams and huge stakes, and delicious
planks covered with tar. Any one who had a boat went wood-hunting on the
river.
He had a mind to go now. But it would look so odd, with his wife
dangerously ill indoors, though she herself had told him to do it. But
then that was like her. He must not go unless he had to--unless he saw
something.... All Saturday while the tide was up he had furtively
watched from window or garden, and seen nothing. Perhaps he had made a
mistake on Friday.
No. He had made no mistake. Emily Gaunt was drifting somewhere in this
damnably public river. Unless she was already found, already lying in a
mortuary. And if she was--
Stephen looked enviously at the happy crowds on the towpath, on the
steamers, in the boats. A heavy sculling-boat passed close to the wall.
It seemed almost to overflow with young men and women. All of them gazed
curiously at him, muttering comments on his appearance. Their easy
laughter annoyed him. He went indoors.
He sat down automatically at his table in the window, and took out of a
pigeon-hole a crumpled bundle of scribbled paper. It was the beginning
of a long poem. He had begun it--when? Two--three weeks ago. Before
Emily. He read through what he had written, and thought it bad--weak,
flabby, uneven stuff--as it stood. But it was a good idea, and he could
do it justice, he was sure, if he persevered. But not now. Just now he
was incapable. Since Emily's night he had not written a line of poetry;
he had only tried once. Not because of his conscience--it was the
anxiety, the worry. He could not concentrate.
A bell rang below, and he wondered if it was John Egerton. There was the
sound of conversation in the hall, Cook's voice and the voice of a man,
powerful and low. Then Cook lumbered up the stairs.
"If you please, sir, there's a man brought the sack back what Mr.
Egerton took, as used to 'ang in the scullery, and 'e'd like to see
you."
Stephen braced himself and went down. The man in the hall was an obvious
detective--square built and solid, with hard grey eyes and a dark walrus
moustache, a bowler hat in his hand. In the other he held the end of a
yellow sack, muddy in patches and discoloured.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir, but can you tell me anything about this
sack? I'm a police officer," he added unnecessarily.
Stephen felt extraordinarily cool.
He said, "Can't say, Inspector. Sacks are very much alike. We had one in
the scullery once, but--" He had the sack in his hands now, looking for
the label.
"And what happened to _your_ sack, sir?" said the man smoothly.
"We lent it to Mr. Egerton, and--_Hullo!_ where did you find _this_,
Inspector? It is ours!" And he held it out for the other to see the
blurred lines of the label stitched inside the mouth of the sack. The
name of Stephen Byrne, The House by the River, W. 6, was still legible.
"Very curious, sir," said the man, looking hard at Stephen. "Do you
remember when you lent it to Mr. Egerton?"
Stephen made a rapid calculation. The exact period was seventeen days.