“Miss Stevens and Miss Edwards have gone up-stream in the Water-fly,” said the Dean, “and Miss Burrows and Miss Barton have taken the other sculler down to the Isis. The police are searching too. They’ve been gone about three-quarters of an hour. We didn’t discover till then that the key was gone.”
“Then there’s not much we can do.” said Harriet, suppressing the angry comment that the boat-house keys should have been checked the moment Miss Newland’s absence had been remarked. “Miss Haydock-did Miss Newland say anything to you-anything at all-while you were out, that might suggest where she was likely to go in case she wanted to drown herself.”
The blunt phrase, spoken openly for the first time, shook everybody. Miss Haydock put her head in her hands.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I do remember something. We were well up through the Parks-Yes-It was after tea, and we went a bit further before turning. I struck a bad bit of water and nearly lost the pole. I remember saying it would be a nasty place to go in, because of the weeds. It’s a bad bottom-all mud with deep holes in it. Miss Newland asked if that wasn’t the place where a man had been drowned last year. I said I didn’t know, but I thought it was near there. She didn’t say anything more, and I’d forgotten it till this moment.”
Harriet looked at her watch.
“Half-past nine, she was last seen. She’d have to get to the boat-house. Had she a bicycle? No? Then it would take her nearly half an hour. Ten. Say another forty minutes to the Rollers, unless she was very quick-”
“She’s not a quick punter. She’d take a canoe.”
“She’d have the wind and stream against her. Say 10.45. And she’d have to get the canoe over the Rollers by herself. That takes time. But she would still have over an hour. We may be too late, but it’s just worth trying.”
“But she might have gone in anywhere.”
“Of course she might. But there’s just the chance. People get an idea and stick to it. And they don’t always make their minds up instantly.”
“If I know anything of the girl’s psychology,” began Miss Shaw.
“What’s the good of arguing?” said Harriet. “She’s either dead or alive and we’ve got to risk a guess. Who’ll come with me? I’ll get the car-we shall go quicker by road than by river. We can commandeer a boat somewhere above the Parks-if we have to break open a boat-house. Dean-”
“I’m with you,” said Miss Martin.
“We want torches and blankets. Hot coffee. Brandy. Better get the police to send up a constable to meet us at Timms’s. Miss Haydock, you’re a better oar than I am-”
“I’ll come,” said Miss Haydock. “Thank God for something to do.”
Lights on the river. The plash of sculls. The steady chock of the rowlocks.
The boat crept slowly down-stream. The constable, crouched in the bows, swept the beam of a powerful torch from bank to bank. Harriet holding the rudder-lines, divided her attention between the dark current and the moving light ahead. The Dean, setting a slow and steady stroke, kept her eyes before her and her wits on the job.
At a word from the policeman, Harriet checked the boat and let her drift, down towards a dismal shape, black and slimy on the black water. The boat lurched as the man leaned out. In the silence came the answering groan, plash, chuck of oars on the far side of the next bend.
“All right,” said the policeman. “Only a bit o’ sacking.”
“Ready? Paddle!”
The sculls struck the water again.
“Is that the Bursar’s boat coming up?” said the Dean.
“Very likely,” said Harriet.
Just as she spoke, someone in the other boat gave a shout. There was a splash and a cry ahead, and an answering shout from the constable: “There she goes!”
“Pull like blazes,” said Harriet. As she drew on the rudderlines to bring their nose round the bend, she saw, across stroke’s shoulder in the beam of the torch, the thing they had come to find-the shining keel of a canoe adrift in midstream, with the paddles floating beside it; and all around it the water ran, ringed and rippling with the shock of the plunge.
“Look out, ladies. Don’t run her down. She can’t be far off.”
“Easy!” said Harriet. And then, “Back her! Hold her!”
The stream chuckled and eddied over the reversed oar blades. The constable shouted to the up-coming sculler, and then pointed away towards the left bank.
“Over by the willow there.”
The light caught the silver leaves, dripping like rain towards the river. Something swirled below them, pale and ominous.
“Easy. Paddle. One on bow. Another on bow. Another. Easy. Paddle. One. Two. Three. Easy. Paddle on stroke, backwater on bow. One. Two. Easy. Look out for your bow oars.”
The boat swung across the stream and turned, following the policeman’s signal. He was kneeling and peering into the water on the bow side. A white patch glimmered up to the surface and sank again.
“Fetch her round a bit more, miss.”
“Ready? One on stroke, paddle. Another. Easy. Hold her.” He was leaning out, groping with both hands among the ribbon-weed. “Back a little. Easy. Keep those bow oars out of the water. Trim the boat. Sit over to stroke. Have you got her?”
“I’ve got her-but the weeds are cruel strong.”
“Mind you don’t go over or there’ll be two of you. Miss Haydock-ready, ship! See if you can help the constable. Dean-paddle one very gentle stroke and sit well over.”
The boat rocked perilously as they heaved and tore at the clinging weeds, razor-sharp and strong as grave-bands. The Water-fly had come up now and was pulling across the stream. Harriet yelled to Miss Stevens to keep her sculls out of mischief. The boats edged together. The girl’s head was out of the water, dead-white and lifeless, disfigured with black slime and dark stripes of weed. The constable was supporting the body. Miss Haydock had both hands in the stream, slashing with a knife at the ribbon-weed that was wrapped viciously about the legs. The other boat, hampered by its own lightness, was heeling over to stroke with gunwales awash, as her passengers reached and grappled.
“Trim your boat, damn you!” said Harriet, not pleased at the idea of having two fresh corpses to see to, and forgetting in her wrath to whom she was speaking. Miss Stevens paid no attention; but Miss Edwards threw her weight over; and as the boat lifted the body lifted too. Harriet, keeping her torch steady so that the rescuers could see what they were doing, watched the reluctant weeds loose their last coils and slip back.
“Better get her in here,” said the constable. Their boat had the less room in it, but the stronger arms and the better balance. There was a strong heave and a violent lurch as the dead weight was hauled over the side and rolled in a dripping heap at Miss Haydock’s feet.
The constable was a capable and energetic young man. He took the first-aid measures in hand with admirable promptness. The women, gathered on the bank, watched with anxious faces. Other help had now arrived from the boat-house. Harriet took it upon herself to stem the stream of questions.
“Yes. One of our students. Not a good waterman. Alarmed to think she had taken a canoe out alone. Reckless. Yes, we were afraid there might be a accident. Wind. Strong current. Yes. No. Quite against the rules.” (If there was going to be an inquest, other explanations might have to be made there. But not here. Not now.) “Very unwise. High spirits. Oh, yes. Most unfortunate. Taking risks…”
“She’ll do now,” said the constable.
He sat up and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
Brandy. Blankets. A melancholy little procession along the fields to the boat-house, but less melancholy than it might have been. Then an orgy of telephoning. Then the arrival of the doctor. Then Harriet found herself, suddenly shaking with nerves, being given whisky by some kindly person. The patient was better. The patient was quite all right. The capable policeman and Miss Haydock and Miss Stevens were having their hands dressed, where the sharp weeds had slashed them to the bone. People were talking and talking, Harriet hoped they were not talking foolishly.