‘Well, Vanessa,’ cried an eager voice in my ear. ‘Who do you think she might be, then? Any ideas?’

I straightened up abruptly from the scone upon which I had been engaged in spreading a thick layer of clotted cream, preparatory to inserting a small portion of it into little Cedric’s expectantly open mouth.

‘Pat!’ I exclaimed. ‘How you startled me, coming up the garden path so quietly.’

‘I wasn’t particularly quiet,’ he retorted. ‘It’s you who were concentrating so deeply you didn’t hear anything. It happens every single time I come here, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you glance up like a normal person!’ He laughed comfortably, then reverted with typical single-mindedness to his original topic.

‘So – do you have any ideas about our newest mystery?’

‘Oh, Patrick,’ I sighed. ‘I’m sure you mean that you’ve written some exciting article lately that I ought to have read. I’m really sorry to say that I haven’t seen it. I don’t have time to look at the newspaper as regularly as I should, I’m afraid. I just don’t know where the hours and the minutes go, day after day.’

‘Didn’t see it?’ he said in a slightly theatrical tone of amazed disappointment. ‘And here I wrote it specially with you in mind. What a pity! If I’d thought for a moment you hadn’t seen it, I’d have brought a copy with me.’

‘That’s probably all right,’ I told him. ‘Arthur takes the Cambridge Evening News; it comes here every day. It must be lying around somewhere inside. Which day was it – yesterday? Goodness, you are impatient! Here, then, I’ll go and look for it now.’

I recklessly abandoned the whole of the scone and cream into Cedric’s chubby hands. The unexpected boon occupied his attention fully, allowing me to hasten indoors and rummage amongst Arthur’s newspapers for two entire minutes.

‘Here it is,’ I said, finding yesterday’s copy, snatching it up, and returning quickly outside in the hopes that no serious domestic disaster had yet occurred, to find Pat actively encouraging Cedric while discreetly and hastily removing cream from them both with the corner of a napkin. ‘What page should I look at? What is it all about?’

‘Murder!’ he said gleefully. ‘It’s on the front page, what do you think? A scoop for me again – but it could be even greater, if you’d help me!’

I read the article aloud, startled by his words.

‘Well?’ Pat interrogated me eagerly. ‘Are you willing to take it on?’

‘What, the case? Of course not, Pat. I am not the police – I’m just an amateur detective! I only take on cases when I am hired to do so. Nobody has hired me yet, as far as I know.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean take on the murder case,’ he said quickly. ‘I realise that is too big a job.’

I knew he was only trying to make me indignant and rejected the bait with a shake of my head and a smile.

‘What I meant was that you could try to identify the lady,’ he continued quickly. ‘If anyone could manage to find out who she was and what she was doing in Cambridge – it really doesn’t seem possible that she actually lived here – I’m sure you are that person. Then I would get an even bigger scoop, and the police would be better able to get on with their work of finding the murderer.’

‘Is it clear that there really is a murderer?’ I asked doubtfully. ‘Perhaps this poor young lady came from somewhere else to make away with herself, on account of some personal unhappiness.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said seriously. ‘She was murdered, I do know that. My brother-in-law’s on the case; you remember Fred Doherty. The full post-mortem report came in last night, and he showed it to me, though I’m not to publish anything of it yet. She had a problem, that is true enough – she was expecting a baby, Vanessa.’ He blushed slightly and glanced around the perfectly empty garden, as though someone might hear him speaking of scandalous things to ladies. ‘And she wore no wedding ring,’ he went on. ‘Yet she didn’t kill herself. The post-mortem was clear. She was killed; strangled, if you like, by pressure applied to the throat. It’s a very quick death,’ he added as I paled.

I paused, thinking. The girl was dead; how could I help her now? Pat had succeeded in intriguing me, yet one could not simply take up a case directly from the newspaper because it was intriguing. And even if I did wish to help identify her, it was difficult to see how to begin.

Pat put on his most persuasive and wheedling Irish expression, and began again.

‘My editor will hire you, up at the paper, if I ask him to,’ he said. ‘They couldn’t offer any big fee, of course, but just for the identification – they’d be interested in that, I’m certain. News makes sales, Vanessa.’

‘What a vulture you are,’ I remarked. ‘Listen, the thing is that even if I wanted to, I simply don’t see how I should go about it. Why don’t you simply put an advertisement in the paper?’

‘We did,’ he said. ‘That article of mine is an advertisement. It hasn’t received a single answer so far. I don’t think the girl can have been from here. But listen! Don’t say no. Just give it a chance; come with me this evening, to have a talk with my brother-in-law. Let him give you the details. Perhaps there will be something that can start you off.’

‘Well,’ I hesitated, ‘I suppose I will, if Inspector Doherty is willing. I can’t see anything wrong with that. Let me not agree to do anything until we have met with him, and I hear what he is willing to tell me, and think it over.’

‘Oh, he’ll be willing!’ he exclaimed as joyfully as if he had just been offered a gift. ‘He needs any help he can get on this! It’s smooth as a marble sphere for the moment; no handle anywhere. I’ll come by and pick you up tonight after supper, then, shall I?’

We did not go, as I expected, to Inspector Doherty’s home on George Street, not far from where I had lived as a young teacher before my marriage. Instead, Pat directed me to the too-familiar police station on St. Andrew’s Street.

‘Fred is on duty tonight,’ he explained, ‘and it’s just as well.’

‘Does he know I am coming? He might not be pleased,’ I said quickly. The visit to the police station made my involvement seem so much more official, more formal than a simple house call. I wasn’t at all sure that was what I wanted.

‘Fred will be delighted,’ said Pat. ‘He knows all about you, you know that. And even though it seems probable that Scotland Yard will soon be called into the case, especially if it turns out that the girl came up from London, he would be pleased to have something concrete to show them when they come, if that could be managed. Remember,’ he added slyly, ‘we are talking about identification here. Only identification.’

He was not mistaken. A smiling Inspector Doherty welcomed us into his small office, which was littered with a medley of interesting items of all descriptions, and lit by three or four small lamps placed on different articles of furniture, giving the little room an odd, contradictory glow: bright here, dim there. Like Pat, Inspector Doherty was a British Irishman; he had perhaps never set foot in the Emerald Isle in his life, but it was all reflected in his bright blue eyes, his snub nose which insisted on remaining boyish in spite of a hairy growth underneath it intended to increase its dignity, and in the sheen of his dark hair. A different model from red-headed Patrick, yet equally typical. Our Irish contingent.

‘Hullo, hullo,’ he greeted us warmly. ‘Once again, I have the honour to meet the famous Mrs Weatherburn. A pleasure. Pat has told me that you are most interested in the case of the drowned girl he wrote about.’

‘Oh?’ I said. It had seemed to me, rather, that it was Pat who was interested. I am not a sensation-monger. I opened my mouth to say something of the kind, but suddenly realising that I actually was, by now, most interested in the case, I changed my mind, and said,

‘It seems nobody has the slightest idea who she is.’

‘No. And no missing person of her description has been reported since the death,’ he said, plunging without hesitation into the facts. ‘Of course, we looked into the records of missing persons from well back, as we thought she may have gone missing some time ago, and now the result makes things difficult the other way. Far too many blonde girls have gone missing in the last few years. Run away, I should think, most of them, but you never know. It’ll all have to be verified.’

‘How do you do that?’ I asked.

‘We start with physical particularities,’ he said. ‘The girl had a small, heart-shaped birthmark on her left elbow. For that matter, her nose had a rather special shape, too. There was a little wave in it, seen from the profile. Those pieces of information eliminated all the girls from the families we’ve been able to interrogate up to now.’

‘If you found a girl that seemed to correspond, what would you do?’ asked Pat.

‘Family members would have to come and have a look,’ responded his brother-in-law. ‘Somewhat uncomfortable, in a case like this. The body has undergone post-mortem. And it had already spent some hours in the water. It is…it is not very presentable, you know. Not too presentable, but we show only small morsels at a time, avoiding the cut areas. It’s not nice,’ he added, making a face.

‘Oh,’ said Pat. ‘Is she that bad? Can’t one make out what she looked like?

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I meant it is not nice for the families in general. This particular case is not so dreadful, apart from evidence of the post-mortem. Long periods of immersion in water cause swelling and wrinkling, but in this case the body cannot have been there for more than three or four hours. And one or two of the photographs taken before the post-mortem would be quite usable in case of positive response to the preliminary questions.’

‘Photographs? Let’s see them,’ said Pat with authority.

The inspector shuffled about in a drawer and extracted two or three large photos, which he handed to us. I looked at them, studying each one for some time, with Pat staring and breathing over my shoulder. They showed the dead girl lying on a stretcher on the bank, after having been removed from the water. Her hair, though still wet and matted, had lifted into heavy waves. Her features were small and delicate. She looked very dead. One of the photographs was a portrait, showing only her face. I gazed, fascinated, at the slight shadow of her eyelashes, the curve of her cheek, the drops of water clinging to the hair at her temple. The powerful, inexplicable difference between life and death arose from the photograph like a vapour. ‘She is wearing an unusual dress,’ I said, trying to make out the details from a full-length photograph in which the body lay stretched on the bank, and pointing to the lace collar around her neck.

‘Yes,’ he assented, touching a box on the floor at his feet. ‘Her effects are all here.’

‘You’ve got more photographs in there, haven’t you?’ asked Pat, indicating the drawer with his chin.

‘Er, yes,’ replied the inspector. He opened it again, with some reluctance, then finally resigned himself to withdrawing the whole sheaf of pictures. He sighed. I waited.

‘Some of these are not so easy to look at,’ he told me. ‘Here she’s still in the water; we haven’t touched her yet,’ and he handed me the first one.

‘Ophelia,’ I said, astonished. I had unconsciously braced myself for a scene evoking murder; instead, the image in front of me was one of sublime and peaceful beauty quite incompatible with that notion. The grass and flowers, all the little life that flourishes on the edge of a stream, formed a frame for the figure of the floating girl. She lay face down in the water, caught in the rushes near the edge, her hair fanning out like algae, and her white dress forming a poetic, ghostly shape as the lines of those parts of it which floated under the water were deformed into waves. The back of her head emerged from the stream, and the wet hair floated, echoing the ripples of the Cam itself. My river – my river contained this mermaid. She was murdered.

‘I don’t like to show these others to a lady,’ said Inspector Doherty uncomfortably. ‘Photographs of the corpse as we took it out. I don’t think you would learn much from them, actually. It’s not that it’s as horrible as many other murders I’ve encountered in my career. But there’s something weird, ghostly about these images.’

‘Oh, be a good fellow,’ said Pat, exactly as I was about to say that I didn’t want to see them. Shrugging, the inspector handed them over, obviously not wanting to seem superior or to put obstacles in the way of help. Pat spread them out. I took one look, and shuddered. There was no horror, nothing spectacular, nothing overtly revolting, yet they emanated death. My eyes were held by an image of a hand, a dead, limp hand, hanging down as they lifted her onto the bank, white against the dark background. I turned away, and picked up the portrait photo again. It was the only one whose image spoke more of the living girl than of her miserable demise.

‘May I see her things?’ I said after staring at it for a while.

He took the photographs back and stuffed them into his desk drawer with some relief, I thought, then lifted the box onto his desk.

‘If anything could tell you something, it might be these things,’ he said. ‘Here is where a lady’s knowledge can be useful. The quality, the make, all that.’ He opened the clasp, and lifting back the lid, began handing me the items one by one. I examined them carefully, starting with the underwear: a pair of Dr Jaeger’s woollen knit combinations, plain white cotton corset, white cambric corset-cover and petticoat with a simple ruffle and no lace.

‘These are very standard items,’ I said. ‘Such things can be purchased in any number of large shops, or by catalogue. They are mass produced.’

‘Well,’ he said, disappointed, ‘suppose I asked you to tell me what they reveal about the young woman herself. Would such items tend to indicate a person of good family?’

‘Good, perhaps, but middle class,’ I replied. ‘They would not belong to somebody dressing at the height of fashion. That is confirmed by the corset strings; you see how they are marked by the lacing holes? They were loosened to remove the garment, but look: this is how she laced herself. A pretty form, as you see, but not as tightly pulled as today’s fashion seems to encourage.’

‘She wouldn’t be,’ he said, ‘given her, uh, condition.’ He looked at me carefully to see if I was aware of the situation.

‘True,’ I concurred, nodding briefly. ‘But the corset shows no signs of ever having been laced more tightly.’

‘But it looks very new. Don’t you think it must have been purchased recently?’

‘It is practically new,’ I agreed. ‘What is odd is that all these garments seem to be new – the, well, undergarments, I mean. Obviously, people buy themselves new items as the old ones wear out, but one’s garments do not usually all wear out at the same time; that’s why it seems a little odd. Girls often do keep a collection of new things aside, of course, in their wedding trousseau. However, they are not supposed to be worn before the wedding. I wonder if this girl had a particular reason either to use her trousseau, or to completely renew her wardrobe.’

‘It’s a little unfortunate,’ he remarked. ‘The newness of the things makes it impossible to deduce anything about her ordinary habits. The dress is different, though. Have a look at it.’

I took it from him, and gave an exclamation of surprise. Made of silk, it was loosely cut, and embroidered with a scattering of pansies and green sprigs. I turned it over, then inside out, and examined it closely, studying the seams.

‘It’s an unusual gown, isn’t it?’ he remarked.

‘Quite unusual,’ I agreed. ‘In fact, I have never seen a pattern just like it before. It’s not a true evening gown; it’s more like a tea gown. Although peculiar even for that. It must have been very pretty. Oh, I know what it might be – Aesthetic Dress!’

‘An aesthetic dress? I should hope that all dresses are aesthetic,’ he said.

‘No, I mean Aesthetic Dress, with capital letters. It’s a movement, the Reform Movement in Dress, you know. It’s rather old already, decades, I should think; it gained a little popularity when Oscar Wilde adopted it and began wearing the clothing and writing about it—’

‘Oscar Wilde? The playwright-turned-convict?’

‘If you want to put it that way,’ I answered with a sigh. There would be a great deal to say about the fate of the once celebrated and adulated writer. But this was definitely neither the time nor the place. I turned the conversation quickly back to dress. ‘The clothing was inspired by the work of the pre-Raphaelite painters,’ I went on, ‘Rossetti, Morris, and the others. They painted women wearing loose, romantic draperies. They just meant it artistically, but the reform movements, Aesthetic Dress, Rational Dress and so on, were inspired by those images to create very beautiful, very comfortable clothing for both men and women. Never cinch the waist; hang from the shoulders, that was one of their main creeds for both beauty and health.’

‘And such dresses would have been fashionable…when?’ he asked, eyeing the white dress with its old lace and sparse scattering of embroidery doubtfully. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any like the ones you describe.’

‘I don’t think such dresses ever actually became the fashion, in the sense that they were not adopted by the majority,’ I replied. ‘But there are still women who are known to wear them frequently. I am thinking of some rather well-known figures such as Ellen Terry.’

‘The actress?’

‘Yes, such dresses are typically worn by ladies who wish to appear – or really are – artistic and bohemian.’

‘Interesting. So do you think we can conclude that about this particular young lady?’ he asked, fingering the silk.

‘I wish we could conclude something more precise than just a reflection on her character. She was no conformist, that much is certain. But it is impossible to say whether she dressed in this manner from personal taste, or as an echo of some artistic profession, or, let me be very frank, quite simply because she found this style of dress more comfortable in her condition.’ I peered at the dress slowly, then turned it inside out.

‘You know,’ I added, ‘this is rather curious. The seams of this dress are stitched well enough, but they have not been finished! That is very odd.’

‘Oh, girls nowadays,’ replied Inspector Doherty with a wave of the hand. ‘Don’t know how to do things properly any more. Only think about what will show on the outside.’

‘That seems unlikely,’ I said. ‘It is foolish to leave the seams unfinished; even the most inexperienced seamstress is taught that one cannot leave them like this – they would begin to come undone after just a few wearings, as the edge of the material frays. No one wants to find themselves with an unravelling seam in the middle of the day. Also, this dress has been altered, and probably more than once. It was originally sewn to fit a different person, someone rather larger. You can see the traces where the seams were undone and redone. Here are the marks of the former seams; at the waist, and on the shoulders and under the arms. And the extra material on the inside has not been trimmed away.’

‘Perhaps the dress was borrowed, and would need to be altered back to the way it was before? That would explain not finishing the seams, wouldn’t it?’

‘It could,’ I said, ‘though it seems like going to a lot of trouble. Still, it is possible. The thread is obviously fairly new, whereas the dress itself looks to me as though it has been worn quite a number of times, and washed many times as well. We’ll keep that in mind; a borrowed, altered dress.’

‘She didn’t have any handbag or reticule?’ asked Pat hopefully, as I put the dress aside and turned to the other items.

‘No. It may have been taken from her, or else it floated off down river. It may still be found. But look at her jewellery. This is quite interesting, don’t you think?’

He handed me a remarkable bracelet of intricately carved ivory beads threaded on a silken twist. I looked at them intently.

‘It comes from the East,’ he said. ‘Now, where might she have got hold of an Oriental bracelet? I’ve never seen one like it.’

Hmm, I thought to myself, looking at it.

‘The ring holds a single pearl set in silver. Banal, though pretty enough. Do you think you could discover anything about any of it?’ the inspector asked me. ‘It’s annoying: the purchased items seem too typical to trace, and the personal ones too original to have been purchased.’

I fingered the bracelet of ivory beads, wondering if I had not seen something quite like it…not long ago. Surely – yes, surely…Pat’s eyes met mine, and he stood watching as I tried the bracelet on my wrist, slipped it off, and stood holding it, thinking, and wondering. He stood up and began helping the inspector to pack the unknown girl’s affairs back into the box. They rolled up the dress with pansies and put it away, and I watched them, and thought of the young body itself lying under the scalpel on a brightly lit post-mortem table…and from thence to a hard, dark coffin. Pat piled up all the undergarments and placed the sad little pair of water-soiled slippers together on top. He looked at them a little wistfully.

‘Where is the ring?’ said Inspector Doherty suddenly, glancing suspiciously at his brother-in-law.

‘Here it is, everything is back in the box,’ said Pat cheerfully, placing the ring carefully inside a shoe. Inspector Doherty closed the lid and snapped the clasp firmly, then handed me the portrait photograph.

‘Pat says you’re willing to see what you can do in the way of identification,’ he said. ‘Sometimes locals can find out things more easily than the police. Take this, if you think it might be useful. I can spare it, I have all the others.’

‘I will see what I can do,’ I said, rising and taking it. Not that I could really imagine myself using it. Going around showing photographs of dead faces to people – what better way to look like a policeman? Goodness gracious! Yet I did want the photograph, if only for myself. I wrapped it in a piece of paper and slipped it into my bag.

Pat accompanied me home in a silence quite unusual for him. I had expected him to inundate me with questions as to my intentions. But he seemed wrapped up in his thoughts, and when he did speak, it was not about the murdered girl, but about quite other things. He shook my hand warmly when we separated, and told me to let him know about anything particular which came my way. His handshake was unusually long and firm, and when he dropped my hand, I felt something unfamiliar slide onto my wrist.

‘Pat!’ I called, but he was already striding off into the distance. I looked down unwillingly. The Chinese beads hung there looking innocent. They gleamed and winked at me in the darkness.

‘All right,’ I said to myself. ‘I knew he was going to do it, that is, I didn’t really know, but really, I did. I saw that he saw I was thinking about them. So there we are. I think these beads are going to be useful, and I shall use them – and then it will be up to Pat to make his misdemeanour good.’

I returned home and placed the ivory beads carefully in the little alabaster dish on my night-table, where I habitually put my jewellery when going to bed if I intend to wear it again in the morning.

A Chinese ivory bracelet – I saw such things not long ago, and right here in Cambridge. Not just like this one, to be sure – carved ivory bangles, rather, and bangles and beads of jade. Yet they all differed from each other, and this one may have been among them. I plan a little investigative shopping trip for tomorrow.