The House by the River

Mrs. Ambrose and Mrs. Church were kept very busy. For few of The Chase had been actually present in the flesh⁠—not because they were not interested and curious and indeed aching to be present, but because it seemed hardly decent. Since the great Nuisance Case about the noise of the Quick Boat Company’s motorboats there had been no event of communal importance to The Chase; life had been a lamentable blank. And it was an ill-chance that the first genuine excitement, not counting the close of the Great War, should be a function which it seemed hardly decent to attend: an inquest on the dead body of a housemaid from The Chase discovered almost naked in a sack by a police-boat at Barnes. Nevertheless, a sprinkling of The Chase was there⁠—Mrs. Vincent for one, and Horace Dimple, the barrister, for another⁠—though he of course attended the inquest purely as a matter of professional interest, in the same laudable spirit of inquiry in which law students crowd to the more sensational or objectionable trials at the High Court. There were also Mr. Mard, the architect, who was on the Borough Council, and Mr. and Mrs. Tatham, who had to visit the Food Committee that day. These, being in the neighbourhood of the Court, thought it would be foolish not to “look in.” Few of them overtly acknowledged that the others were visibly there, or, if they were compelled to take notice, smiled thinly and looked faintly surprised.

But so startling and sensational was the course of the inquest that when they returned to their homes any doubts about the propriety of attending it were speedily smothered by the important fact that they had positively been there, had been eyewitnesses of the astonishing scene, whether from chance or compassion or curiosity, or wisdom, or simple power of divination, which most of them felt they must undoubtedly possess. They had known all along that there was “something fishy” about that girl’s disappearance, and now, you see, they were right. They looked eagerly in the morning papers and in the evening papers as only those look who have seen something actually take place, and insanely crave to see it reported in dirty print in the obscure corners of a newspaper. So do men who happen on a day to hear part of a Parliamentary debate anxiously study on the morrow the Parliamentary reports at which they have never so much as glanced before, and are never likely to glance again.⁠ ⁠… But this is human nature, and we must not be unkind to The Chase because they were unable to depart from that high standard.

The papers reported the affair with curious brevity and curiously failed to get at the heart of it. The headlines were all about “Mr. Stephen Byrne”⁠—“Poet’s Housemaid”⁠—“Tragedy in an Author’s House”⁠—and so on. It was only at the end of the small paragraphs that you found out there were black suspicions about a Civil Servant, one John Egerton, first-class clerk in the Ministry of Drains. And for The Chase these suspicions were the really startling and enthralling outcome of the inquest, as Mrs. Vincent and others described it. Mrs. Vincent described it after dinner in the house of the Petways, where she had dropped in casually for a chat. By a curious chance Mr. Dimple had also dropped in, so that the fortunate Petways had two eyewitnesses at once. The Whittakers came in in the middle of the story.

And they all agreed that it was a surprising story⁠—highly surprising as it affected Mr. Egerton, and also highly unfavourable. Dear Mr. Byrne had given his evidence in his usual charming manner, very clear and straightforward and delightful: very anxious to help the Coroner and the jury, in spite of the worry about poor Mrs. Byrne. “Very pale, he was,” said Mrs. Vincent. “Overstrained,” said Mr. Dimple.

And it all depended on this sack, you see. The girl was tied up in the sack. Mrs. Vincent gave a little shiver. “Of course, it was all rather horrible, you know, but⁠—” “But you enjoyed it thoroughly,” thought Whittaker.

“Mr. Byrne said he remembered lending the sack to Mr. Egerton⁠—to collect firewood or something⁠—you know, he’s always poking about in that silly boat of his, picking up sticks.” (The operation as described by Mrs. Vincent sounded incredibly puerile and base.) “Then the Coroner asked him if he remembered when. Mr. Byrne said it was about three weeks ago. Then they asked was it before or after the day that this young woman disappeared. You could have heard a pin drop.

“I was really sorry for Mr. Byrne; I could see he didn’t like it a bit. He didn’t answer for a little, kind of hesitated, then he said it was about the same day⁠—he couldn’t be sure; and that was all they could get out of him⁠—it was about the same day. And you should have seen Mr. Egerton’s face.”

Mrs. Vincent paused to appreciate the effect of her narrative.

“Then there was the Byrnes’ young woman, Mabel Jones or some such name. She was sent round to Mr. Egerton’s to ask for the sack⁠—one day last week. And she said⁠—what was it she said, Mr. Dimple?”

“She said Mr. Egerton was ‘short like’ with her, and⁠—”

“Ah yes!” Mrs. Vincent hastened to resume the reins. “He was ‘short like’ and a bit ’uffy with her; and he said he’d lost the sack, picking up wood⁠—lost it in the river.⁠ ⁠…

“And then Mr. Egerton himself was put in the box and he told exactly the same story!” Mrs. Vincent said these words with a huge ironical emphasis, as if it would have reflected credit on Mr. Egerton had he invented an entirely new story for the purposes of the inquest.

“He told exactly the same story, and he told it very badly, in my opinion⁠—you know, hesitating and mumbling, as if he was keeping something back⁠—and looking at the floor all the time.”

“We must remember he’s naturally a very shy man,” said Mr. Dimple, “and