The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN EMMY OPENED her eyes, she was lying on her back in darkness, aware only of the sound of lapping water and a splitting pain in her head. For a moment, she imagined that she must be in the fo’c’sle of Ariadne: then, as consciousness returned and she tried to move, she realized with a pang of horror that she was efficiently gagged with some soft material, and that her wrists and ankles were bound. Memory came flooding back. She had been at Berry Hall...and Priscilla...had just been going to say something important. And then, without warning, there had been a sickening, thudding crash: she recalled a glimpse of Priscilla’s vacuous face expressing a mild surprise, and, after that, darkness.

Now, with returning lucidity, Emmy strained her eyes in the gloom to take in her surroundings. She had not been so far mistaken in her first impression. She was indeed in the fo’c’sle of a boat, and the uncomfortably lumpy surface on which she was lying was a coil of rope. She wriggled desperately, but found that she could not move more than a few, painful inches. As her eyes grew slowly more accustomed to the gloom, she turned her head agonizingly from side to side in an effort to locate anything sharp-edged against which she might be able to chafe the rope round her wrists. The only possible object seemed to be a muddy CQR anchor on her right, but its flukes looked depressingly blunt.

Still, thought Emmy, fighting back panic, it’s better than nothing. She began to edge her way towards it. The situation had a ridiculous, nightmare quality. One came sailing with friends to Berrybridge Haven. One met charming people and grew to love a quiet, secluded corner of England. And then... Colin. Suddenly she remembered Colin. Colin was dead. Nice, intelligent Colin with his dangerous sense of humour—Colin had been murdered. Pete Rawnsley had been murdered. And she was in the process of being murdered, too. Hysteria rose from her throat and threatened to suffocate her. Somebody had knocked her out and tied her up and thrown her into the bows of a boat. Soon somebody would be back to finish the job. Soon...

Simultaneously, came noise and movement. The boat rocked violently, and there was the unmistakable sound of a footfall on deck. Somebody had come aboard. Emmy froze into immobility. She heard the noise, immeasurably magnified by the echo chamber of the fo’c’sle, as somebody moved about the boat. There was the dull ring of metal on metal. And then she heard a voice, and tears of relief and joy came into her eyes. For it was Henry’s voice, and it said, in a diffident and embarrassed tone, “Oh, hello...”

“Good heavens, Tibbett,” said Sir Simon. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Henry had reached the boathouse by a devious route through bushes and undergrowth, and was considerably disheveled. Gingerly, and with a nervous glance in the direction of the house, he emerged from the shelter of shrubbery and made a run for it across the few yards of open field that separated him from the black wooden walls of the shed. A moment later, he was in the cool darkness of the boathouse, and looking straight into the startled blue eyes of Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby, who stood in Priscilla’s open cockpit, a bag of tools in his hand. The two men regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then Henry, feeling exceptionally foolish, said, “Oh, hello...”

“Good heavens, Tibbett.” Sir Simon put his tool bag down. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I was...that is, I came over with the Bensons,” said Henry.

“My dear fellow,” said Sir Simon. He climbed out of the boat and on to the concrete landing stage. “You must come up to the house. I was just tinkering with Priscilla’s engine. Something wrong, as I told you this morning. Most annoying.”

Even Sir Simon’s well-bred politeness could not quite disguise the strong undercurrent of curiosity in his voice. Henry felt compelled to give some sort of explanation, and he decided that the least complicated one would be the truth.

“I’ll be frank with you, Sir Simon. I came down here to look for my wife.”

“Your wife? But she left some time ago.”

“That’s just what’s worrying me,” said Henry. “She hasn’t arrived back in Berrybridge, and it’s extremely unlike Emmy to go off on her own without leaving any message for me. I didn’t want to trouble you, but I felt I must look for her. I don’t suppose,” he added, “that she could be anywhere in here?ᾠ

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“In here?” Sir Simon was clearly taken aback. “Heavens, no. I’ve been working on Priscilla most of the time since I got back. There’s certainly nobody here.” He climbed out of the boat, and wiped his hands on a filthy rag. “This is very disturbing, Tibbett,” he went on. “I got back about two o’clock, I suppose, and there was no sign of her. Thought it was strange, myself. Still, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Come on up to the house. I’ve got the car down here—just been into Woodbridge to buy some tools I needed. I’ll run you up, and we’ll soon find out what’s happened.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Henry. “I’m sorry if I appear to be panicking unnecessarily, but I may as well tell you that we now have definite proof that Colin Street was murdered. Inspector Proudie is back in Berrybridge, carrying out his investigations. It means that there’s a very unpleasant character loose in the neighbourhood, and—”

“Murdered? My dear chap—” Sir Simon was momentarily speechless. “In that case, the sooner we locate your wife, the better. Come with me. I suggest we start by telephoning...”

The voices faded into silence. In the dark fo’c’sle, Emmy wept.

Rosemary and Alastair were sitting disconsolately side by side on the sunny terrace. They heard the Daimler draw up in the drive, and were more than a little surprised to see Henry getting out of it, in company with Sir Simon. Henry’s passage through the undergrowth had not improved his appearance. His face and hands were scratched with brambles, and his sandy hair stood up like a halo round his thin, worried face. Sir Simon boomed an uneasy welcome.

“Ah, there you are. Henry told me. Council of war, eh?”

Rosemary and Alastair scrambled to their feet. “We just came over—” Alastair began.

“I know, I know. Mrs. Tibbett. Very worrying.” Sir Simon turned to Henry. “Have you notified the police?”

“No,” said Henry. “I am the police.”

A depressed silence greeted this remark.

“All the same...search parties and so on... Inspector Proudie should surely be told.” Sir Simon settled down happily into control of the situation. “Where’s Riddle?”

“There doesn’t seem to be anybody here,” said Rosemary.

“What’s today?” Sir Simon asked. “Ah, yes. Sunday. Of course. Riddle’s afternoon off. And my sister’s sleeping upstairs. In any case, she wouldn’t be able to help. Mrs. Tibbett told me she didn’t intend to go up and disturb her. Well, I suggest we ring The Berry Bush first, just to make sure that she hasn’t got back, and then alert the good inspector and his men.”

There was no doubt from his tone that Sir Simon reckoned the inspector and his men to be of considerably more practical value in a crisis than Henry. To Rosemary and Alastair, sanity seemed to be returning fast. Henry’s melodramatic behaviour now appeared ridiculous. If Emmy really had disappeared, this was surely the sensible, businesslike way to deal with the emergency.

The telephone calls brought little comfort. Bob Calloway was still out, but the barman—having looked in both bars and on the hard outside—confirmed that there was no sign of Emmy. Inspector Proudie was taking a late lunch at The Berry Bush. He listened respectfully to Sir Simon, and then asked to speak to Henry. The latter seemed to him distraught and unhelpful.

“No, she’s not at Mr. Rawnsley’s house. I’ve just come from there. The best thing is to issue a description and circulate it, sir. What was the lady wearing?”

“Blue jeans and a white shirt, with a navy blue sweater,” said Henry. “It’s very kind of you, Inspector. I expect I’m worrying over nothing.”

“Not at all, sir, not at all,” said Proudie soothingly. “After all, things are serious, as we know. But there, she’ll turn up all right. Anything special you’d like me to do?”

“No, no,” said Henry. “I’m sorry to bother you. Everything is quite all right, really. It’s just that one worries, you understand. Just locate Mr. Rawnsley and Miss Petrie, if you can. They went off at lunchtime in the black M.G. In fact, round up everybody concerned, as far as you can...see what they’ve been doing since noon. It may be important... I really don’t know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Proudie. Privately, he thought, Funny sort of Chief Inspector from the Yard. Lost his grip. Happens sometimes. Aloud he said, “Well, if that’s all, sir...”

“That’s all,” said Henry. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.” He rang off.

“Well, now,” said Sir Simon soothingly, “it’s late, and I’m prepared to bet you people haven’t had any lunch. If you’d like to come into the kitchen, we’ll see what Riddle has in the larder. Can’t promise much, but there’s sure to be something... This way...”

It seemed to Emmy that hours, days and weeks passed in dark silence, broken only by the lapping of water. She knew where she was, at least. In the fo’c’sle of Priscilla, in Sir Simon’s boathouse. Ever since the reassuring voices of her husband and Sir Simon had faded into unintelligible murmurs, and she had heard the car start up and drive away, she had lain in a stupor of pain, misery and apprehension. She cursed the malignant workings of fate. Henry had had the sense to look for her. Sir Simon had mercifully come down to work on Priscilla’s engine...had, in fact, been in the boat earlier, while she lay unconscious. Either one of them, left to himself, would surely have found her. In silence, she would surely have been able to make enough noise to draw attention to herself. As it was, they had met, and their voices had drowned her frantic efforts to create a noise... She stirred herself into some sort of life again. There couldn’t be much time left. Must try to get to that anchor again. If only she could get the gag off, or her hands free... She began the slow, dolorous process of movement again. Inch by inch, she squirmed her way across the fo’c’sle floor. After what seemed a year, she was touching the damp coldness of the anchor. She rolled over, so that her bound wrists could reach a fluke. If only she could free her hands, she wouldn’t be helpless...

It was at that moment that her ears, sharply attuned to silence, caught the sound of oars. Somebody was rowing into the boatshed from the seaward side.

Oh, God, thought Emmy. This is it. Well, he knows I’m here. What does it matter if I make a noise? If I could get my hands free...

The sound of oars grew louder. Then there was the scraping of a dinghy alongside the concrete landing stage, the clatter of oars being unshipped and laid in the boat. Emmy made a tremendous effort. She rolled herself sideways, and, as she did so, knocked over a Primus stove. It fell with an echoing crash. If only I’d been able to do that before...she thought, in despair.

For a moment, there was dead silence. Then somebody boarded Priscilla. The Primus was leaking, filling the constricted space with the stench of paraffin. Emmy took another reckless lurch sideways. And the door of the fo’c’sle opened.

Dim light poured in for a moment, and was immediately blocked again. Against the light, Emmy could just make out the silhouette of a man’s figure crouching in the hatchway. His hands groped blindly in the darkness and then brushed against Emmy’s foot. For a moment, he did not move, but she could hear his fast, nervous breathing. Then the strong hands found her foot again. A moment later, the man’s arms grasped her legs, and Emmy was dragged unceremoniously out into the cockpit.

Even in the shadows of the boathouse, there was no doubt about who it was. Above the gag, Emmy’s frightened brown eyes were staring up into David Crowther’s face. She could not make out his expression against the light. For perhaps half a minute they looked at each other in silence. Then David said, “Emmy...” in a strange, apologetic sort of voice, and abruptly turned his back on her and began rummaging in the after locker. When he came back, he held an open knife in his hand.

Emmy closed her eyes, and tried not to faint. As he rolled her over onto her face, she made a great effort to pray—but all the time she was wondering, idiotically, how he proposed to kill her, and if it would hurt very much, and whether Henry would catch him in the end.

And then, suddenly, her hands were free, and the gag fell away from her mouth, and David was saying, “Emmy, what happened? Who did it? How did you get here?”

She managed to murmur, “David...” into a coil of rope, and then everything went black, and she fainted properly, and with great relief.

The party at Berry Hall had just finished a morose and scrappy meal of cold beef and undressed lettuce in the kitchen, when they heard David’s voice calling from the hall, “Anybody here?”

Henry jumped up and ran along the flagged corridor, closely followed by the others. David was standing in the centre of the white marble hall, with Emmy in his arms. Sharply defined by the filtered sunlight, her dark head lay limply against his white shirt, and her left arm swung lifelessly, like the pendulum of a clock that is running down.

David said, “It’s Emmy. I f-found her.”

Instinctively, Rosemary, Alastair and Sir Simon stopped dead, while Henry went forward. Sir Simon had gone as pale as his ruddy complexion would allow, and Rosemary grabbed Alastair’s hand.

Hardly daring to trust his voice, Henry said, “Is she...” and when David said exhaustedly, “She’s O.K. She’s fainted,” Henry just stood there. For a long moment, the sudden relaxation of unbearable anxiety robbed him of the power to move or speak. At last he stepped forward and took Emmy’s limp hand in his.

Emmy opened her eyes. Momentarily, black terror returned. Then she saw Henry, and smiled tremulously. “I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered. “Fool that I am...so much trouble...”

Henry said, “Give her to me,” and gathered his wife awkwardly into his arms.

It was Sir Simon who broke the tension by saying, brusquely, “Where was she? Where did you find her?”

David told him. “Good God.” Sir Simon was almost past surprise. “And to think that I was down there...and all the time...” He pulled himself together. “

Well,” he went on, briskly, “don’t just stand there. We must get her into bed and call the doctor.”

Henry was looking fixedly at David. “How did you come to be in the boathouse?” he asked.

David was trembling. “I...I r-rowed ashore and I heard...”

“It’s about time you were back,” said Henry, flatly. “I want to talk to you. Colin was murdered last night.”

“M-murdered?” David’s face went from white to grey, and he looked as though he, too, might faint. “W-what do you mean?”

“I mean that things are very serious indeed,” said Henry. “I need to talk to you. Where’s your boat?”

“Anchored out in the river. I...I j-just...”

“Then get aboard again and bring her up to Berrybridge as fast as you can. We’ll see you there.”

For a moment, David hesitated. He looked at Sir Simon with a sort of appealing indecision. His right hand was in his pocket, and Henry could see it clenching and unclenching nervously through the thin denim. Then he said, “Very well.” He turned on his heel and almost ran out of the house.

“Now,” said Sir Simon, “it’s bed for you, young lady. Mrs. Benson, if you’d heat some water, for—”

Henry could feel Emmy shivering in his arms. “Not here, Henry,” she murmured. “Please not here...take me home...”

So despite Sir Simon’s vigorous protests, Henry carried Emmy out to the station wagon, and sat with her on the back seat, his arm tightly round her shoulders, while Alastair drove them back to Berrybridge.

The Berry Bush, fortunately, had a room free. Emmy, walking unsteadily, protested that she was now perfectly all right: but it did not take a great deal of persuasion on the part of the others to convince her that, for the rest of the day at least, bed was the best place. The doctor arrived, bustled about cheerfully and inquisitively for some minutes, and finally pronounced that the only trouble was slight concussion and shock. He prescribed rest, hot-water bottles and pills—whereupon Rosemary and Alastair immediately volunteered to drive with the prescription to the one chemist in the neighbourhood who functioned on Sundays.

At last, the bedroom door closed behind the last intrigued chambermaid, and Henry and Emmy were left alone. Henry sat down on the bed, took Emmy in his arms and buried his face between her breasts, and for some time neither of them said a word. Then Emmy said, “What a couple of old fools we are. Don’t take it so hard, darling. It was all my own fault, and anyway I wasn’t really in any danger.”

Henry sat up and smiled at her, but his eyes were weary and worried. “You were,” he said, “and you know it. Do you feel strong enough to talk about it? It’s terribly important to know what happened.”

Emmy raised her hands in a weak gesture of helplessness. “I know it is,” she said, “and I can’t tell you a thing. I was sitting there, and suddenly I heard a sort of noise behind me, but before I could turn round—”

“You’ve no idea who hit you?”

“None at all. Everything went black, with a tremendous crash, and the next thing I knew, I was in the boat.” She shuddered. “The worst part of the whole thing was hearing you and Sir Simon talking, and not being able to attract your attention. I did try to make a noise, but I could hardly move with the ropes...” She rubbed her sore wrists.

“Don’t think about that now,” said Henry. “The important thing is—what happened before. Why should anybody have done this?”

Emmy wrinkled her brow. “I was talking to Priscilla,” she began, and then suddenly she sat up and cried, “Henry! Priscilla!”

“You mean,” said Henry, sharply, “that you were talking to Priscilla when—”

“Yes. Oh, Henry. Quick. I never thought—”

There was a knock on the door, and from the corridor the barman’s voice said, “Inspector Tibbett? Telephone, sir.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” said Henry, and ran downstairs.

“Tibbett?” Sir Simon’s voice crackled over the wire, urgent and strained. “Tibbett, a rather terrible thing has happened. I thought you ought to know—”

“Your sister—”

“Yes. How did you know? I told you she was asleep when I got in—I went up to take a look. Well, after you left, I went to see her again, and—well, frankly, I didn’t like the look of her. Couldn’t wake her. And then I saw the empty bottle. So I called the doctor.” There was a pause.

“Well?” said Henry.

“Coma,” said Sir Simon. There was a break in his voice. “Overdose, combined with... He...the doctor...he doesn’t expect her to regain consciousness...”

“What empty bottle did you see?” Henry demanded urgently.

“Sleeping pills. The doctor prescribed them after...after the robbery, you know. I don’t suppose there’s any connection between this and...well, the business of your wife. But with all that’s been going on, I thought...”

Sir Simon’s voice trailed off into a miserable silence.

“I’m most terribly sorry, Sir Simon,” said Henry. “There’s nothing adequate one can say or do in the way of sympathy.” Sir Simon made an unidentifiable but moving noise of inarticulate grief. Henry went on. “But I can tell you that the two things are connected, and I’m afraid I’ll have to send a policeman to sit by your sister’s bed in case she does recover consciousness. I know that it seems like a brutal intrusion on your privacy, but—”

“I understand,” said Sir Simon. “I understand. Thank you for being so...” Abruptly, he rang off.

Henry put through a quick call to Proudie, and then went upstairs again. Emmy was sitting propped up on her pillows, her dark eyes full of anxiety.

“What was it?” she asked. “Is Priscilla...?”

“Not so good,” said Henry, sitting down on the bed again, “but she’s alive. Now, darling, think. Think hard. What were you talking about?”

“I guessed,” said Emmy slowly. “I guessed when I first got there and she put her head out of the window and started talking. I knew that she had something important to tell me, if only I could get it out of her.”

“So you stayed behind,” Henry prompted.

The mists were clearing from Emmy’s mind. “Sir Simon didn’t want to leave her alone,” she said, “so I offered to stay with her. Fat lot of good I did,” she added, bitterly.

“And then you talked to her.”

“I went upstairs,” said Emmy. “It was very quiet and bright and eerie in the house. She was in her room, with her hair in curlers, drinking gin out of a toothmug. She talked about...oh, thousands of things. I couldn’t get any sense out of her. She talked about her father and gin in the wardrobe and people wanting money. And then...yes, that’s right...then she suddenly said she had such a wonderful view from her bedroom window, and all the people who came and went—”

“Who?”

“Well, that’s all. She hadn’t really started when it happened. That’s the last thing I remember before I went out of the world, being furious because she hadn’t had time to tell me after all.”

“She must have said something,” said Henry. “Think. She must have said something that somebody overheard, which made it imperative that she shouldn’t say any more. What was it?”

Emmy closed her eyes and thought, desperately. At last she said, “There was something about a number.”

“A number?”

“Eleven.” Emmy opened her eyes, excited. “That was it. Eleven.”

“What about eleven?”

“Before eleven.”

“Ten, you mean?”

“No. That was what she said. Before eleven.”

“What was?”

“That’s what I asked her. And before she could answer—”

“Before eleven.” Henry got up. “Something happened before eleven. And if only we knew what it was... Well, there’s only one thing to do now. Something I should have done long ago.”

“Henry...”

“Yes, darling?”

“Henry, I know I’

m a fool, but after this—well, honestly, I’m frightened. Whatever it is you have to do, can’t you do it here?”

Henry grinned at her. “Yes, my sweet,” he said. “I can. Right here in this room. I’m going to make a complete, detailed report of everything that’s happened and everything we’ve been told about, properly tabulated. I’ll need Reid’s Nautical Almanack, Proudie’s reports and mainly my tired old memory. I hope to God I can do it.”

“And you think that’ll give you the answer?”

“I’m pretty close to the answer already,” said Henry. “I want proof. Something to go on, at any rate. And I hope to find out what happened before eleven, and why it’s important.”

“Poor Priscilla,” said Emmy. “She’s such a lonely person.” She closed her eyes.

It was nine o’clock that night when Henry finished his report. The small, chintzy bedroom was littered with notebooks and files. Emmy dozed peacefully. Henry chain-smoked, wrote and studied what he had written. Occasionally he underlined certain words and put a big cross in the margin against them.

“What does that mean?” Emmy asked, sleepily.

“An inconsistency,” said Henry. “A lie.”

Twice, he called Alastair up from the bar, checked on a point, and nodded, gravely and sadly. At five past nine, Henry was called to the phone again. It was Proudie.

“Well, sir,” said the latter heavily, “I’m afraid we’ll never get any evidence from Miss Priscilla now.”

“She’s dead?”

“Ten minutes ago. My man Trouncer just phoned from Berry Hall.”

“Poor old girl,” said Henry. And then, “How’s Sir Simon taking it?”

“Hard, sir. Very hard. Trouncer says the poor gentleman is quite distraught. Of course, it’s understandable. There were just the two of them.”

“I know,” said Henry. “And how have you been getting on?”

“I’ve got statements from everybody about their movements this afternoon,” said Proudie gloomily. “And a more unpromising lot you’ve never seen. Seems everybody remotely connected with the case was hanging round Berry Hall sometime this afternoon. I’ll bring the transcripts up for you to see. And, incidentally, I’ve got everybody here in Berrybridge in case you want to see them. As far as I can make out,” Proudie ended, “the only person we can put in the clear is Mr. Crowther.”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, he rescued Mrs. Tibbett, didn’t he?” Proudie pointed out, somewhat aggrieved.

“Yes,” said Henry, “he did. Thank God.”

“But now that poor Miss Priscilla—”

“It’s tragic,” said Henry, “but from our point of view, her death isn’t such a complete disaster. I’m pretty sure now that I know what her evidence would have been.” As Proudie broke into an excited spate of questions, he added. “Give me another half hour or so, will you, and then come up? I can’t talk over the phone.”

Henry rang off, and walked down the dark passage. As he passed the brightly lit bar, he saw Bob Calloway busy serving beer. Hamish and Anne were sitting in an inglenook: David was talking to Rosemary and Alastair: Herbert and Sam Riddle were playing darts, while George Riddle chalked: Bill Hawkes and Old Ephraim were engaged in a discussion in a corner. It should have been a typical, jolly Sunday evening in an English country pub. But the voices were subdued, the faces strained. Berrybridge Haven was in the grip of a nightmare, faced with facts which it did not understand, and there was terror abroad. Henry, his heart filled with anger and compassion, made his way slowly upstairs.