Peter Lovesey - Swing, Swing Together

“I’ve got one for you,” said Cribb, apparently deciding that the conversation ought to be encouraged. “Where did the three men put up in Marlow?”

“Easy!” said the man with the thick spectacles. “The Crown. We were there on Tuesday night.” He spoke in bursts and with an excess of enthusiasm, as if every phrase ought to be punctuated with an exclamation mark.

“Splendid!” said Cribb, catching the habit. “What is it? — a pilgrimage you and your friends are making?”

The large man looked at each of the others and back at Cribb. “In a manner of speaking it is. We’re each of us admirers of Mr. Jerome’s work. From your question, sir, I take it that you share our enthusiasm.”

“It’s a book I greatly enjoyed, but never finished,” said Cribb. “I left my copy somewhere and haven’t picked up another since. My name’s Cribb, by the way. I’m travelling the lazy man’s way-by passenger steamer.”

“Humberstone,” announced the large man. “And my co-pilgrims are Mr. Gold”-he extended a hand towards the owner of the thick spectacles-“and Mr. Lucifer.” The lip lifted to display the teeth again in something between a smile and a snarl.

“So you stayed at the Crown on Tuesday,” Cribb repeated. “You must have passed through Hurley the day the body was picked up from the weir.”

“Body?” said Gold. “We heard nothing about a body.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have, unless we asked,” said Humberstone with a glare. “It isn’t the sort of thing people mention to strangers, like the weather.”

“A suicide, I suppose?” said Gold, shrugging off the rebuke.

“Only a tramp,” contributed the landlord, appearing again. “Probably drank too much and fell in. Carrying quite a lot of money, he was. Didn’t you see it in the newspaper?”

Lucifer shook his head. “One of our reasons for embarking upon this little excursion was to escape from newspapers and their dismal tidings. You cannot open The Times these days without reading of death and disaster. Thank Heaven for men like Mr. Jerome, who afford us a brief respite from such things.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Cribb, lifting his glass. “It’s a wonderful thing to get out of the City for a bit and take a boat up the river, even if it’s only in your imagination. Are you gentlemen in business together?”

“We work for a prominent life insurance company, the Providential,” said Humberstone. “As you may imagine, there isn’t much occasion for jollity in the claims department, so Mr. Lucifer here occasionally reads us items from periodicals he buys at the station bookstall in the morning. One of these is Home Chimes, in which he found the first instalment of Three Men in a Boat. Gold and I were surprised to hear belly laughs coming from his corner of the office, particularly as his job is answering letters from the recently bereaved. We insisted that he read the chapter aloud. We read it every day for a week, until the next issue of Home Chimes appeared. It was such a wonderful pick-me-up that we got through our work in half the time, and the claims department was soon known as the jolliest office in the Providential. Naturally we all bought a copy of the book as soon as it appeared and read it from cover to cover again. It followed quite without question that we arranged to take our holiday together on the Thames. We know every incident by heart, and consequently everything along the route has its interest, you see. By the way, Lucifer, one shouldn’t suggest that death and disaster are totally absent from the book.”

“Ah!” said Gold. “The dog in the water at Windsor.”

“No, I think Humberstone must be referring to the woman in the water at Pangbourne,” said Lucifer. “That unfortunate creature of sin who put an end to her troubles by drowning herself-like your tramp, I presume, Landlord. Are bodies often recovered from the river in these parts?”

“Occasionally, sir, occasionally. It’s more common the other side of Teddington, I believe, in the tidal river. The closer you get to London, the more unfortunates there are, you see. Women mostly, that have taken to a life of sin and come to regret it. I believe they jump off the bridges. I’d do the same if I was in their position, come to think of it, with that there Jack the Ripper stalking the streets murdering and mutilating those he finds.”

“The Ripper?” repeated Gold. “Hasn’t been heard of for months. Gone into retirement, in my opinion.”

“He obviously favours the winter for its dark nights and fog,” said Lucifer. “I have no doubt we shall hear of him again before the end of the year.”

“If the police were any good at their job, they’d have caught him long ago,” said Humberstone. “He leaves them enough clues. They even found the knife after one of the murders. A great long-bladed thing it was, with a wooden handle, and the blood still on it.”

Across the room Thackeray said confidentially to Harriet, “I think you ought to step outside for a bit, miss. This sort of conversation ain’t suitable for one of the fair sex.”

She had to make an effort to compose herself before replying. Thackeray’s suggestion had been kindly intended, no doubt, but what presumptions it made! “From what I have heard of Jack the Ripper’s doings,” she said, “my sex has more reason to be informed about him than yours. You may step outside if you like, but I shall remain.”

“Some say he took his own life after the murder in Miller’s Court,” Cribb was saying. “He spent at least an hour dissecting that unfortunate woman. It was the ultimate in his style of killing. There was nothing more dreadful he could do.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the theory,” said Lucifer, speaking with disquieting authority on this subject. “A man of his description is said to have drowned himself in the Thames a few days after. A very convenient occurrence, for it reassured the public that London was safe again and stopped the accusations of police ineptitude. My own belief is that Jack slaked his thirst for blood last winter, but it will be as irresistible as ever when the nights get long again. Would anyone care for another beer?”

“The conversation seems to have taken a morbid turn,” said Humberstone, pushing his glass towards Lucifer. “Whatever got us round to this subject?”

Cribb helpfully recapitulated. “ Three Men in a Boat and a body in the river.”

“Who would have thought there was any connection at all between Jerome and the unspeakable Jack?” said Humberstone.

“It takes all sorts to make a world, eh?” said Gold. “Take any night last summer in London. There was Jerome under one roof writing a comic masterpiece and Jack under another brooding on murder and mutilation. Lord knows what was going on under all the other roofs.”

“Safest not to inquire,” said Cribb. “Mind, I don’t suppose it’s generally known that Three Men in a Boat is read aloud in a certain life insurance office, but if it hurts nobody, I don’t see that there’s anything offensive in it. Doing the river trip yourselves is a stunning idea, if I might say so, gentlemen. Are you following Jerome to the letter?”

“So far as we are able,” answered Lucifer. “He is disconcertingly ambiguous at times. In Chapter 18 you will find that the three sleep under canvas in the backwater at Culham. Next morning, two or three pages on, they wake up three miles downriver, for they proceed to pass through Clifton Lock.”

“Perhaps Jerome had a drink too many in the Barley Mow,” suggested Cribb. “But do you propose spending the night at Culham?”

“Most certainly. Like the characters in the book, we want to be in Oxford as early as we can tomorrow. We shall have to leave here in half an hour.”