The Shortest Way to Hades

the contest, there would have been a considerable commotion on the towpath: it would have taken a minute or so for those watching from the balcony to become aware of anything amiss. If she had thrown her niece over the parapet and immediately descended to the drawing-room, I dare say they would all have believed that she was already downstairs when Deirdre fell.”

“Hilary,” said Selena, “you aren’t serious about this, are you?”

“No,” I said. “No, as it happens, I am not. I agree that she couldn’t have done it — she isn’t tall enough.”

“And a study of history demonstrates, I suppose,” said Ragwort, “that women of short stature are incapable of murder?”

“The commonplace experience of lifting a suitcase into a luggage-rack demonstrates the muscular effort required to raise a heavy object above one’s head. If Dolly had ever trained as a weight-lifter, it is conceivable that she might be able to lift a young woman of similar height and weight to herself over a barrier some two inches taller; otherwise not — I am satisfied that the possibility may be excluded.”

We continued eastwards in silence. It was not until we reached Trafalgar Square, where buses, pigeons and wandering tourists, all equally indifferent to impatient toots of the horn, reduced our speed to that of an unhurried pedestrian, that Selena spoke again.

“I’m glad,” she said, “that there’s no question of murder. It means we can stop being anxious about Camilla.”

Unaware that we had begun to be anxious about Camilla, I invited her to explain her meaning.

“Well, you’ve always said, Hilary, that you didn’t think it was murder because the wrong girl was dead.”

“Yes,” I said. “I have always taken the view that if a murder were to take place in the Remington-Fiske family it would be the heiress who was murdered.”

“And it’s quite true, of course,” continued Selena, as she edged her way forward into the Strand, “that if anyone else in the family had wanted to inherit the estate, they would have had to dispose of Camilla. But Deirdre was the next in line of inheritance, so she was the only one for whom that would have been enough. Anyone else would have had to get rid of both of them. And there’s no particular reason, is there, why they should do so in order of seniority?”

The crew after all arrived before the captain. We found my young colleague Sebastian Verity sitting in Selena’s room in 62 New Square, peacefully reading a copy of Homer’s Odyssey—a graceful young man, gray-eyed and silken-haired, of agreeably poetic appearance. His name will perhaps be known to my readers — though the work has not reached so extensive an audience, even among the discerning, as its artistic and scholarly merits would deserve — for his verse translation of the Idylls of Theocritus, published some fifteen months prior to the events here related.

He rose and came forward to greet us with an eagerness astonishing in a young man who expected to spend the next two weeks being tossed about on the Mediterranean in a small, damp, dangerous sailing-craft. I reflected, however, that at the prospect of spending a fortnight in Selena’s company in a cell in Wormwood Scrubs the eyes of my young colleague would have shone with an equally rapturous delight; such is the effect of passion on a tender and devoted heart. Despite the adverse consequences which such familiarity might have on shipboard discipline, Selena allowed herself to be embraced.

“The first question is,” he said, “whether I should begin immediately to address you as ‘sir’ or may continue to call you Selena until we are on board.”

“I shall be quite content,” said Selena, “to be addressed as ‘skipper,’ provided that it is done in a suitably respectful manner.”

“Those of you,” said Sebastian, “who have seen Selena only on dry land will probably think of her as a reasonable, good-natured, easy-going sort of woman, and may find it difficult to credit the transformation which takes place as soon as she sets foot on a sailing-boat. I think it’s because of the books she reads. She spends the winter months, you know, reading books about sailing and seamanship — they all seem to recommend that the conduct of the ship’s captain should be modelled as closely as possible on that of Captain Bligh of the Bounty.”

“Sebastian,” said Julia kindly, but with a certain sternness, “we think that you exaggerate.”

“By no means,” said Sebastian, “quite the contrary. I wouldn’t venture to tell you, Julia, of the dangers and appalling living conditions which are the fate of anyone who puts to sea with Selena. If you were to imagine me clinging precariously to the rigging in the sort of howling gale which she describes as a nice, lively little breeze, or think of me scrubbing decks and pumping bilges from dawn to dusk under the merciless sun, pleading in vain for a small sip of retsina to cool my thirst — no, Julia, it’s more than your gentle heart could bear. You would want to report the whole thing to the Court of Human Rights or someone.”

“There is,” said Selena, “not a word of truth in this.”

“Sebastian,” said Ragwort, “we believe every word you say. We ask ourselves only by what compulsion, knowing all this, you were persuaded to enlist for the voyage.”

“Seafaring,” said Sebastian, “as of course you know, has from ancient times been a vital element in the Greek way of life, and has had a great influence on their thought and literature. I am anxious to achieve an insight into the sufferings and privations which would have been endured by the ordinary Greek seaman in the periods of which I profess the study. I dare say I’m overdoing it rather — one can hardly imagine that a freeborn Athenian of the fifth century, for example, however poor and economically exploited, would have submitted to quite such despotic treatment as I must look forward to. Still, I am doing my best.”

“When we go aboard,” said Selena, “I shall be revenged for this.”

“Your explanation,” said Ragwort, “reflects great credit on you. But it occurs to us, from our recollection of certain passages in classical literature, that rough words and harsh discipline were not the worst that an Athenian sailor — a young and personable Athenian sailor — might have had to face at the hands of his officers: advantage, we fear, would sometimes have been taken of his subordinate status to make him the instrument of sensual gratification. Have you considered, Sebastian, that you may be placing yourself in a similar danger?”

“Hilary will confirm,” said Sebastian, “that in the cause of Scholarship no sacrifice is too great.”

Having wished our friends a happy and prosperous voyage and waved them farewell from the great gateway between New Square and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Julia and Ragwort and I turned by common consent in the direction of the Corkscrew. The weather, which had been charming, became suddenly gray and blustery, with a suggestion of rain: we quickened our step, and Julia put on the raincoat which she was carrying.

“My dear Julia,” said Ragwort, as we walked through Great Turnstile, “I do not wish to appear critical, but would you care to tell us how in the world you came to purchase that raincoat? It’s at least two sizes too small for you.”

“It is rather tight across the shoulders,” said Julia. “Indeed, quite uncomfortably so. I rather wish you hadn’t mentioned it, Ragwort — I’ve never noticed before.”

“It might be better,” said Ragwort, “if you didn’t have so much in the pockets.”

“I don’t have anything in the pockets,” said Julia. “I emptied them yesterday in the cause of nearness and order. Oh.” Seeking to demonstrate the emptiness of her pockets, she had produced from one a cellophane- wrapped box, containing, according to its label, a bottle of expensive scent, and from the other a thick brown envelope. “I don’t remember why I’ve got these.”

“If you have been buying scents made by Monsieur Patou,” said Ragwort, “you may count on your bank manager to remember the transaction. Have you any idea what’s in the envelope?” Julia shook her head.

Comfortably established at one of the round oak tables in the Corkscrew, and with a reassuring glass of Niersteiner in her hand, she nonetheless continued for some time to gaze at the envelope with bewildered apprehension, turning it this way and that, as if fearing that its contents might prove inimical to her welfare. At last, however, she was prevailed upon to open it. It contained photographs: some two dozen, all in color, of about the same dimensions as a postcard.

“Julia,” said Ragwort with some severity, “these are not the sort of photographs which one expects to find in the possession of a member of the English Bar — except, possibly, for the purposes of a prosecution for obscenity. How in the world do you come to have them?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Julia. “Oh look,” she added, with every sign of pleasure, “there’s one of Selena