It had always been for him a source of mild entertainment that the cantonal police, in entire outward look—their stiff helmet, blue uniform and capacious boots—bore so close a resemblance to the London bobbies: perhaps a delicate compliment, he had surmised, contrived in earlier days to make the visiting English milords feel safe and more at home. But now Moray was not entertained, nor did he feel safe and reassured as Herr Sacht and his companion advanced towards him. He felt instead a sinking of his heart that was the sickening premonition of unknown yet inevitable disaster.
“Grüss Gott, mein Herr.” Respectfully, apologetically almost, the pier-master made himself spokesman—Sacht, a slow and stolid man, was at all times sparing of words. “We have some trouble down below, and have come for your advice—though not wishing to disturb you. A young woman . . .”.
“No . . . no . . .” said Moray, barely breathing.
“Alas, yes. We have just found her.”
“But how . . . ?” He could say nothing more. Pale and rigid, he had ceased to breathe.
“After the night boat I heard a splash—like a springing fish. Of it, I thought nothing. But when I made my last round of the pier, there was a handbag, fallen down, and in the water, floating, a lady’s small brown hat. I thought it wise to alarm the Polizei.” He glanced at Sacht, who nodded in heavy confirmation. “We got the boats out and after dragging, just two hours, we found the young person—of course completely dead.” He paused in respectful sympathy. “I fear it is—may be a friend to you. . . . The young Englische girl, she who came this afternoon on the five o’clock boat.”
He drew back, staring at them, horrified. Then, all at once he was crying hysterically.
“Oh, my God, it can’t be. But yes, a young lady . . . she did come . . . Kathy . . . Kathy Urquhart . . . a friend, as you say, daughter of an old, very dear friend. . . . She left us, running, running to catch the last boat . . .”.
“Ach, so?” Sacht said, with a slow comprehending nod. “She was running, in the darkness. Perhaps—or surely, then, this has been an accident.”
Moonfaced, Moray looked from one to the other, grasping towards the chance of exoneration, dizzily seeking a way out of the impact of this atrocious disaster.
“But what else could it be?” Struggling, he forced himself to bring out explanatory words. “She was on her way home, looked in to visit me again . . . briefly . . . to say goodbye. She was a nurse, you understand . . . fully trained . . . a fully trained nurse . . . meaning to work with her uncle in Africa . . . a missionary. I wanted to send her back by car . . . but she had her ticket and liked the boat. She must have slipped, missed her footing . . . it had been raining, the melting snow is very treacherous. . . . And now . . .”. He covered his face with his hand.
“It is sad for you, Herr Moray,” said the pier-master, “and we do not wish to cause you inconvenience. But you could help. Herr Sacht says, if only you will come to identify the body, he can then complete his report.”
“Yes, of course. . . . Yes, I will come,” His tone was expressive of assistance, complete willingness to co-operate.
“First you must put on warmer clothes, so you do not get chilled. We will wait here until you are ready.”
He had not realised his state of undress. In the hall cupboard he found a coat, cap and scarf, a pair of felt-lined snow boots. Hastily rejoining the other two, he went down the path. Still in a state of shock, he was instinctively, protectively, acting a part, but as they approached the little-pier, where a silent group stood gathered outside the low wooden shed that served as waiting-room, he could not repress a shudder of numbed and, silent dread.
The group parted, still in silence, as they drew near. They went into the bare waiting-room, where they had laid her on the pitchpine table under a single hanging electric globe. There was no sheet; she lay half covered by a fisherman’s jacket which Sacht now discreetly withdrew. At first Moray could not look. Frozen. Too much to demand of him. A physical impossibility. He stared woodenly at the near end of the table, seeing only the worn sole of one small brown shoe, hearing a slow steady drop of water from the upper edge of the table. The room smelled of the drifted fume of the paraffin flares and of stale cigarette smoke. Wandering away to safety, his gaze caught an ashtray, stamped Melsburg Bier, on the floor. It was filled with stubs and had been removed. But the pier-master was speaking to him; he must look or they would begin to think something was seriously out of order. Slowly and with great effort he raised and twisted his head, still protecting himself, not looking at the face, not yet, making only a swift and limited survey.
Her total stillness was astounding, and her extraordinary immaturity. God knew he had reason to know that she was small and slight—but never had he dreamed her to be so—so young as this. The sodden clothes moulded her thin body, cupped the tender breasts, bisected the slender limbs, nakedly revealing the delicate swell between, the mons veneris—the phrase came—he was a doctor—and all, all with the stark indecency of death. One of her stockings had come down, wrinkling about the ankle, a button on the blouse was undone; one hand, the palm upturned receptively, the soaked skin already blanched, hung over the table edge.
A faint convulsion went through him as, knowing it must be done, he forced himself to look towards her face. Once he had looked, he could not look away. Upturned to the light, the face was shrunken and of a greenish colour, the blue lips flattened and fallen away, the drenched hair plastered back from the brow, hanging in dank switches about the thin white neck, still exuding the trickle that kept drip, dripping to the floor. Almost unrecognisable in its dead ugliness, the face was wrapped in a strange unbearable enigma. Most mysterious, most unbearable, were the eyes, still open, expressionless, gazing directly at him. Within their unfathomable depths, suddenly, in a moment of truth, he saw himself, exactly as he was, without illusion, naked under the watchful sky.
“Ach so? It is the young English lady?” It was spoken in a low voice of sympathy.
Moray turned, made a slow, melancholy gesture of assent. Revelation might have shattered him, but habit, the style and form of years, persisted.
“Alas—yes,” he said, with careful articulation. “It is too painful for words. Cut off so suddenly—and so young. Only an accident could account for it. Did you observe the shoe, the sole—worn smooth? On the wet planks of the pier—the slippery edge . . .”.
“Yes, it is always bad in such weather.” The pier-master spoke defensively. “But not possible for me to dry it.”
“Oh, I only pray God she did not suffer.”
“Ach, no,” Sacht said, crudely, yet trying to be kind. “The cold of the water would kill quickly.” He had taken out his notebook.
“Well, you will want particulars,” Moray said, and standing erect, he gave them calmly, name, age, nationality, while Sacht indited in the dog-eared book with a moistened stub of pencil.
When it was all done, the pier-master, presuming in his sympathy, pressed Moray’s arm.
“You do not look well, Herr Moray. Come to my house for a cup of coffee.”
“You are most kind. But, thank you, no.” He turned to Sacht. “You are finished with me now? I suppose you have no further need of me.”
“For the present, no. But of course we will require you at the Leichenschau.”
“Ah, the inquest . . .”. Moray said, in an extinguished voice. “You consider it will be necessary?”