All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 2 of 3

by G. A. Henty

The Policeman was away about three minutes, which seemed an age to the watcher in the cab. Then he came again to the door. Stephen Walker gazed at the grave face as if to read his sentence there. “I can tell you nothing, sir, it has been ten days in the water, and ten days in the Thames alters one beyond all knowing. I have asked about the clothes, and there were none on to speak of, and the marks have been torn off what there were, either before on purpose, or accidentally, it looks as if on purpose. You will not know more than I do when you see it, but I suppose you had better, though it is a pitiful sight.” He opened the door as he spoke, and assisted Stephen Walker to get out. The old man followed him into the station-house with a firmer step; it was a relief at any rate that it was not certain that it was she. Besides, the very extent of his dread took away all hesitation or nervousness. There were two or three policemen in the office which they passed through. An inspector was sitting in a sort of railed off den writing, the others were standing about talking in a low voice. They ceased speaking as Stephen Walker passed through with his conductor. A 56 paused for a moment to take up a tumbler of water which had been placed in readiness, and then, accompanied by the inspector, led the way through the office into a yard, in one corner of which was a small outhouse. A policeman was standing at the door; he opened it and they passed into a small room, bare and whitewashed, with a brick paving. The shed was unceiled, and the roof was of slates supported by light rafters. Opposite the door upon some boards and tressels, and covered with a sheet, lay the body of the dead girl. A 56 closed the door, and the inspector moved forward to turn down the sheet from her face. But Stephen Walker motioned him back, and with a steady step approached. His face was hard set; he was strung up to a point now, when even the dreadful spectacle which met his gaze, and which few strong men could have viewed without shuddering and turning faint, had no effect on him. He looked steadily at it, every thought was absorbed by the question, “Had it been Carry?” He could not say. No one could say now. It was past all recognition. Only the hair remained intact, and although it was fair and long, even that was changed; the sheen and the glossy brightness were gone, and in the tangled skein were pieces of straw and wood and river drift. Even the hair was scarcely a guide. He took it in his hands, as if he would fain tell by touch whether it was the same hair he had so often tenderly stroked and played with. A thousand memories rushed upon him as he did so, the golden haired child who had climbed upon his knee and stroked his face and called him daddy, the bright merry girl whose laugh had cheered him in his darkest days, the graceful woman he had been so proud and fond of; and then a mist swam before his eyes, the room reeled round, and he felt himself grasped by the strong arms of the inspector and A 56. When he recovered he was lying upon a bed, and the inspector and policeman were standing by him. His shirt was open and wet, and a glass of brandy was upon a table near. As soon as they saw that he was reviving they raised him up, and held the spirits to his lips. In a few minutes he was able to sit up.

“Do you feel better now, sir?”

“Yes,” he said, “I am better now.” In a short time he was able to walk.

“Before you go, sir,” the inspector said, “I must ask you if you identify the body you have seen as being that of your daughter?”

“I do not,” Stephen Walker said firmly. “It may be; I do not know; God alone can answer. Her hair is of the same colour, but that is not sufficient for me to say. Please put down that I do not identify the body.” This denial upon Stephen Walkers part was in obedience to a suggestion which A 56 had thrown out upon their way down. This, although he had at the time made no reply, and had not apparently even heard it, now recurred to him. The Policeman had said,—

“Unless you are sure, Mr. Walker, quite sure, don't swear to it, else the name might get into the paper, and be put into the registries, and come out at the coroner's inquest, and all sorts of painful inquiries would be made. Don't you identify, Mr. Walker, unless you are quite certain.”

“At the same time,” Stephen Walker continued to the inspector, “although I do not recognise the body, it is possible that it may be hers, and I should wish to pay the funeral expenses. I should not like her to lie in a parish grave.”

“The coroner and jury will see it this afternoon,” the inspector said, quite understanding Stephen Walker's feelings, “and I will tell them that the body is not identified. Of course an open verdict will be found, and I will speak to the parish people; they will offer no objection to the expenses being saved. I shall go off duty this afternoon myself, and if you like, sir, will make all the necessary arrangements for you. The funeral must take place to-morrow morning.”

“Thank you very much,” Stephen Walker said, “you are very good. I will be down here at ten o'clock.”