“Go ahead.”
“Very well. My understanding is that the body–that of the drowned girl you buried last month–was not mutilated in any way? In particular, there was no injury about the face?”
The youth heaved a great sigh. “No. The coroner of course concluded that she had died of drowning. Scarcely a scratch was visible, as I recall. Except for the rigor of death, the girl’s face was quite undamaged. but ah, what a difference, now that I look back! How could I have ever been deceived? Dead is dead, while Louisa is so, so essentially, unquenchably alive...”
Certain ineradicable memories, acquired in 1897, prompted me to break in with a question: “Were there any wounds, even small ones, elsewhere than on the face?”
Both men looked round blankly at my unexpected interruption. Then Armstrong responded: “Nothing of importance, as far as I know. Now that you mention it, it seems to me that the coroner did mention two small scratches, or punctures, on the throat. but I noticed nothing of the kind. Perhaps the mortician could tell you more about the details of the poor girl’s condition–whoever she was.”
Merivale was frowning at an Americanism. “‘Mortician’? You mean the undertaker? Ah, just so.” The inspector nodded, then asked: “Once again, either at the time of the tragedy or since, have Louisa’s mother or father ever expressed the slightest doubt that the body found on the bank of the river was their daughter’s?”
“They have given no sign of any such uncertainty,” Armstrong admitted.
“Even now?”
“Even now,” Martin reluctantly agreed. It was his turn to sigh. “I talked with both of them just before we left the house. They both realize now that it was truly Louisa who came to us last night–but they insist on regarding her as some kind of ghost, or ectoplasmic form.” The young American shook his head in pitying amusement. “They’ve both been taken in by this spiritualist nonsense.”
And he continued to insist that his beloved Louisa was not dead, had never been dead, but that she had been somehow imprisoned or enslaved, and must be rescued.
Suddenly, pacing the platform and then spinning round on his heel to confront Merivale, he had a new suggestion: “It occurs to me that there’s a simple answer, Inspector. If you doubt what I am telling you, have the body exhumed. If you cannot find the living woman, you know where the dead one lies. There must be, if we look for it, some difference discoverable to prove that that poor girl in the tomb is not Louisa Altamont.”
The inspector growled something to the effect that, unless the girl’s parents suggested such a course, he could not consider it.
I for my part endeavored to be comforting, insofar as that was possible without contributing to the false hopes Armstrong had so rapidly built up. The inevitable crash of disillusionment, when it came, would be violent indeed. With our adventure of 1897 in mind, I feared that exhumation might very well disclose inexplicable horror; and I was perfectly certain that nothing in the way of comfort was at all likely to result.
And yet I could tell no one openly that the conclusion I had drawn from the apparition was quite different from young Armstrong’s–and from any speculative theory of Inspector Merivale’s. While Armstrong had concentrated entirely on the essential presence of that white figure, I had carefully observed the mystery of its coming and going, the fact of its passing unhindered through locked doors or windows. Above all, I had noted the absence of any reflection in the mirror formed by the windows–and all I had observed had taken me back six years.
Abruptly the young American, seemingly unable to contain his excitement, and evidently despairing for the moment of making us see the glorious truth, announced that he was driving back to Norberton House at once, and asked if the inspector wanted to return with him.
Merivale shook his head. “No, sir, thank you; I’m going to try to get an hour or two of sleep here at my inn. I’m fair beat, and I’ve already arranged for a room arranged at the Saracen’s Head.” The distinctive signboard of that establishment could be seen clearly, swinging slightly in the morning breeze, not a hundred yards from where we were standing, down the main street of the village.
Armstrong did not delay, but left us with an impatient wave; in a few moments he had cranked his motor into roaring life again, and was gone, leaving a faint cloud of dust hanging in the village air.
In the ensuing silence, the inspector and I were left alone, at least for a few moments, on the platform at Amberley Station. There were indications that this time alone would be brief, for already the whistle of the oncoming train could be heard and the smoke of its engine was visible above some distant trees.
Merivale began by informing me frankly that he did not know what to make of the claim that Louisa Altamont might be still alive.
“See here, Dr. Watson, I’ll put my trust in you as a steady, reasonable observer of last night’s events. And as a student of the whole affair up to this point. No doubt Mr. Holmes, before he went away, shared with you all his thoughts on the subject?”
With that the inspector fell silent, assuming an expectant look I found quite irritating. I said: “I am afraid that Mr. Holmes does not always share his thoughts with me. As for last night’s apparition, I never approached it quite as closely as did either Armstrong or the Altamonts–or Sherlock Holmes. And of course I was never acquainted with the girl in life.”
“I see.” Merivale, hands behind his back, leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. Again, delicately stroking his mustache, he frowned as if he still thought I might be holding something back. “First, in the interest of thoroughness, let me be absolutely clear on one point. Does Mr. Holmes have any theory along that line–that Louisa Altamont might
