The House by the RiverHerbert, A. P. (Alan Patrick)
General
The House by the River
Herbert, A. P. (Alan Patrick)
London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; Murder -- Fiction; Poets -- Fiction
Over the shallow wall he inspected furtively the silent river. Nothing
moved. It was slack water, and the downward procession of tugs had not
properly begun. The water was smooth; the black reflections of the
opposite trees were sharp and perfect. Down towards Hammersmith a few
lights hung like pendant jewels in the water. Over the far houses there
was a flicker like summer lightning from an electric train. A huddle of
driftwood and odd refuse floated motionless in mid-stream, very black
and visible, waiting for the tide to turn; but along the edges the
stream already crept stealthily down, lapping softly against the moored
ranks of boats, against Stephen's boat riding comfortably beneath him.
In the neighbouring gardens nothing moved. About this hour in the hot
weather the residents of Hammerton Chase would creep out secretly into
their gardens and cast their refuse into the river, and there was often
to be heard at dusk a scattered succession of subdued splashes.
But tonight there were no splashes. Probably the duty was already done.
Stephen remembered incongruously this local habit, and was at once
relieved and disappointed. Too many people prowling in their gardens
might be dangerous. On the other hand, there was a certain safety in a
multitude of splashes. One more would have made no difference.
There were no splashes now, and scarcely any sound: only the fretful
muttering of distant traffic, the occasional rumble of buses on the
far-off bridge, and the small plops of fishes leaping at the moon. Close
to Stephen was an unobtrusive munching in the wired space where Joan's
rabbits were kept. A buck rabbit lay hunched in the moonlight
masticating contentedly the last remnants of the evening cabbage.
Another nosed at the wire-netting, begging without conviction for
further illicit supplies. Stephen stooped down automatically and rubbed
his nose.
But for the moonlight and the present slackness of the tide the moment
was propitious. Stephen walked back more boldly into the conservatory.
"You take the feet," he said.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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