The House by the River

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 boxwood and beams and huge stakes, and delicious planks covered with tar. Anyone 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 pigeonhole 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.

He said, “When was it, Cook? About three weeks ago, wasn’t it?”

“Couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure. All I knows is it went one day, and the other day we asked for it back from Mr. Egerton when the man came about the bottles, and he said⁠—Mr. Egerton said, that is⁠—as he was sorry he’d lost it picking up wood, or so Mabel said, and it was Mabel as went round for it.”

Stephen was feeling cooler and cooler. It was all amazingly easy.

He said, “That’s right, Cook; I remember now. I gave it to Mr. Egerton myself one evening; he was going out to get wood.” Then, with a tone of cheerful finality as one who puts an end to a tedious conversation with an inferior, “Well, I’m sure we’re much obliged to you, Inspector, for bringing it back. Where⁠—”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to keep it a little longer. Those are my orders, sir⁠—there’s a little matter we’re clearing up just now⁠—”

“Just so. Certainly, Inspector. As long as you like.”

“Thank you, sir. And as I take it, sir, none of your household has seen anything of this article since you lent it to Mr. Egerton?”

“As far as I know, no one⁠—I certainly haven’t seen it myself. In fact, I was looking for it only the other day.”

The Inspector thought obviously for a moment, and obviously decided to say no more. “Well, that’s all, sir, and thank you.”

Stephen bowed him affably out of the door. “Of course, if it’s anything important, I should look in and see Mr. Egerton⁠—he’s only next door.”

“No, sir, it’s of no consequence. I’ll be off now.”

The man departed, with many smiles, and “sirs,” and “Thank you’s,” and Stephen watched him round the corner.

Then he went into the garden, full of a curious relief, almost of exultation. He could delight at last in the sun and the