THE HALL CLOCK strikes eleven as Annabel Krout removes the pin from her chignon, letting her hair fall down over her shoulders, concealing the lace trim of her night-gown. Sitting in front of her writing desk, she can hear footsteps upon the adjoining landing, Mrs. Woodrow and her husband, retiring to their bedrooms. She turns up the oil-lamp, so that its orange glow extends further over the sheet of paper before her, and takes up her pen, dipping it in the nearby ink-well, writing ‘An English Dinner Party’ at the head of the page. She ponders a first sentence for some minutes, but her thoughts are suddenly interrupted by an urgent knock at the bedroom door.
‘Come in?’
The Woodrows’ maid-servant swings the door open, and walks breathlessly into the room, looking anxiously around her.
‘Jacobs? What is it?’ asks Annabel.
‘Lor, Miss, I thought she might be here.’ She pauses for a moment, red-faced, almost tearful. She seems to struggle to speak, as if she cannot quite bring herself to say the words. But, at last, she bursts out, ‘Oh, please, help us.’
‘If I can,’ says Annabel, ‘but what is it?’
‘Miss Lucy. I can’t find her.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Is she missing?’
‘Yes, Miss. I mean, I don’t know. I should have been keeping an eye on her. I was only downstairs for a moment, just to get some water. I thought she was sound asleep.’
‘And now she is not in her room?’
The maid shakes her head. ‘No, Miss. What if she’s had one of her turns again? I was supposed to be watching her.’
‘Perhaps she is with her mother,’ suggests Annabel.
‘Oh no,’ says Jacobs, anxiety in her voice, ‘I’d hear about that quick enough.’
‘You have looked upstairs?’
‘Every room, Miss.’
‘Downstairs?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then,’ says Annabel, hurriedly tying her dressing-gown tight around her waist, and picking up the lamp upon her desk, ‘don’t worry, we shall look for her together. She can’t have gone far. She is just playing a trick on you.’
‘Thank you, Miss,’ says Jacobs. ‘You’re so good.’
‘I just do not want her to get into more trouble with her father,’ says Annabel quietly, as they go out on to the landing and descend the stairs. ‘You look in the study, Jacobs, I will check the drawing-room.’
Jacobs obeys, but before Annabel can reach the drawing-room door, she feels an intense cold draught of air. Stopping short of her destination, the sensation causes her to look down into the hall below, where she notices the heavy curtain that conceals the front-door lies partially pulled back, and the door itself slightly ajar. A shiver runs down her spine.
‘Jacobs,’ she exclaims in an urgent whisper.
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘Look,’ says Annabel, pointing at the open door. ‘Why is the door open?’
The maid-servant stares open-mouthed at the open door. ‘Oh, Miss, you don’t think? Don’t say it. The master’ll have my guts.’
‘Go and wake Mr. and Mrs. Woodrow,’ says Annabel firmly. ‘If she has gone out, we must all go and look.’
‘Miss, I can’t . . .’
But before Jacobs can say another word, Annabel Krout has ran down the stairs, her dressing-gown flapping about her legs, and out into the street.
Annabel almost despairs as she steps out into the night air. For the fog of previous days, though only thin wisps of vapour, seems to have begun maliciously to re-form. Moreover, her lamp, though adequate for reading in bed, seems barely to penetrate the darkness; likewise, her house-slippers suddenly seem rather inadequate upon the hard stone, so that she half trips as she descend the steps from the front door to the street.
‘Lucy!’ she shouts.
There is no reply.
‘Lucinda!’
She waits but again hears no response. Then she sees a movement, a hint of something white, just like the little ghost she saw in her room, moving past the gaslight upon the other side of the gardens, then abruptly disappearing from view. She cannot fathom it for a moment, how the figure vanishes so suddenly; but then it comes to her: the gate down to the canal.
Annabel does not hesitate but sprints across Duncan Terrace, and around the iron-railed gardens, the weight of the heavy lamp making her run in ungainly leaps and bounds. Mud splashes her velvet slippers, soaks into the soles of her feet. Losing her balance, she bangs her arm against the corner of the railings. But she does not fall and keeps running until she reaches the gate. She can hardly see down the slope that runs down to the tow-path, for the only light by the canal itself is the one she carries. Nonetheless she levers open the barrier.
‘Lucy!’
Again, no reply. The slope is rather wet and slippery and, in the darkness, the surface of the still, black water below looks somehow strangely solid, a smooth, dark trench. She cannot help but think that it would be tempting to reach out with her foot and try to walk across to the other side; and then, thinking of Lucy, the idea rather chills her. She extends her arm, holding the lamp as far from her body as she can, as if swinging it will somehow generate some additional radiance that will reveal the little girl. But nothing comes of it, except that she abruptly feels terribly cold and tired. Worse, the fog seems to grow even denser with each passing moment.
But then there is something that makes her spin around; not a sign of Lucy but a rumbling, heavy moan, which sounds like it comes from within the very bowels of the earth. First one terrible resounding, reverberating thud, then another, growing louder each time. Then a small ball of yellow light hovering in the air, appearing as if from nowhere; the low roar of a churning engine, the splash of water. Annabel stands transfixed, as the light grows bigger and more lurid, the machine noise louder; then comes an almighty hiss as clouds of billowing smoke issue from the Islington tunnel, mixing with the fog, like the breath of some ancient river-dragon. The sight seems weirdly Tartarean, fantastical. Indeed, it takes her a moment to catch her breath, to make out the true character of the beast: a steam-tug coming through the tunnel, making its way free of the arched entry, dragging its quota of clattering barges behind, each one banging against the stone walls. But the captain of the vessel is quicker to respond.
‘Who’s there? On the path? You there!’
‘Please, stop for a moment,’ shouts Annabel.
‘Hold there,’ shouts the man in question. But Annabel barely hears him. For, in the lamp-light that shines from the rear of the tug, she can just make out a small white figure, standing silently by the edge of the tow-path, a couple of feet before it terminates, back by the entrance to the tunnel. Annabel stumbles along the path, driven by a mixture of excitement and fear, until she can make out Lucinda Woodrow standing quite still.
‘Lucy! Can you hear me?’
Lucy does not reply. The captain of the boat, however, now drawn to a halt, shines his lamp back along the path, illuminating Annabel and the little girl. Annabel holds up her light, and finds Lucy’s eyes as vacant as when she stood in her bedroom, staring into the street.
‘What’s happening there?’ shouts the man, his voice a mixture of irritation and curiosity. ‘Who’s that?’
Annabel does not reply. For she realises that her little cousin is not simply standing still, but pointing her finger down into the water. Annabel bends down, holding her lamp by the very side of the path.
And though it is dim, it is quite sufficient to reveal the body of a man, floating in the canal, his head submerged in the dark water.