The Riddle of the River Read Online Free

three days that the sale lasted?
    Upon rising this morning, I slipped the bracelet onto my wrist and scrutinised my memories. I could not recall having seen this precise bracelet, yet it seemed to correspond well enough to the kinds of objects spread over the shop counters. I carried it to the nursery and showed it to Cecily, who, with a large napkin around her neck, was deeply engaged in manoeuvring a spoonful of bread-and-milk to her mouth without letting fall a single drop. I waited until the operation had come to a successful conclusion before showing her the bracelet; not, however, with much hope that her three- year-old mind could contain any really useful memories.
    ‘Ooh, pretty,’ she remarked, admiring it.
    ‘Do you remember the big shop with bracelets like this, Cecily?’ I asked her, but she merely stared at me, shook her head, and thrust her hand through the circle of beads. I had some difficulty in recovering it from her firm grasp. Dropping a kiss on top of her silky brown head, I returned it to my wrist and set off to Robert Sayle’s shop on St Andrew’s Street by myself.
    It is always a pleasant walk, if somewhat long, up the Newnham Road towards the centre of town. The sun wasbright and strong, and I failed to open my parasol, letting the warmth radiate down instead upon my hat, comforting and inspiring. The shadows fell, dark and sharply outlined, on the pavement, and all looked so open, so reassuring, so free from secrets that my heart was lifted by a little wave of pure well-being , until the vision of the hand came, unbidden and undesired, floating into my mind. That limp, drowned hand lying like a withered lily on the edge of the photograph, my eyes fixed on it so as not to see the rest, the face, the staring eyes. I quickened my steps, and was glad to finally enter the shop and cool my forehead in its quiet shade.
    There were few clients at this hour, and those were essentially concentrated about the areas selling useful items. The counter where jewellery and imported items of all kinds were presented was deserted. A girl sat on a stool behind it, her dark eyes filled with melancholy boredom. I stared at her, wondering, although I did not exactly recognise her, if she might not be the very same girl who had sold the Chinese items on the days of the sale. I could not quite remember – yet if it were she, if this girl had sole charge of the counter, and if my guess about the bracelet were correct – why then, she herself may have seen the dead girl alive…
    I shook myself quickly, severely. If I could barely remember her face, then how could she, who sold dozens, no hundreds of objects, possibly remember a single client? There was nothing for it but to ask her. I made my way over to her; lost in her thoughts, she perceived me only as I arrived in front of her. Then she jumped to her feet, arranging a polite, albeit artificial smile upon her features. Her simple white dress bordered with black lines outlined an astonishingly firmly laced waist, whose strained tininess provoked me to anenormously deep inhalation, for the sheer pleasure of feeling my lungs expand. In spite of the prevailing fashion of tight-lacing , which has been if anything reinforced by the controversy swirling around it, I really cannot endure lacing beyond a certain, very reasonable point. I like to breathe, not to mention the frequent necessity of bending down. And I consider that as a mature matron, I have the right to do as I please on this score. Anyway, Arthur says that a womanly figure has just as much charm as a young girl’s, if not more. The girls one sees on the streets, however, seem to vie with each other to achieve waists of such small dimensions that they sometimes resemble ants more than young women. I recalled that the dead girl had not entered into this rather frightening game.
    Before addressing the girl, I let my eyes rove over the items spread out in front of her. Today they seemed to be Indian rather than