The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER NINE

ELEVEN A.M., Wednesday. High tide and a shining day, with a moderate easterly breeze.

“Let her go,” called Alastair.

Emmy threw the red and white buoy overboard with a splash: Henry hardened in the jib sheet, then released it again as Ariadne turned downstream. Rosemary sat on the slightly tilting deck, munching an apple. The business of setting sails, of dropping and picking up moorings, had by now become a smoothly efficient routine, and Henry and Emmy felt justifiably proud of themselves. When Alastair shouted “Back the jib,” or “Free the mainsheet,” or “Oh, hell, the burgee halyard’s snarled up again,” they not only knew what he was talking about, but could even take appropriate action.

Since his interview with Proudie, Henry had resolutely cleared his mind of all thought of work, and had settled down to enjoy himself. Freed from Anne’s conscious witchery, from Colin’s dark irony and David’s frenetic unease, the atmosphere on board Ariadne had become calm and idyllic. If Alastair was still obsessed by Dorinda and her blackguard boy, he managed not to show it. Rosemary was apparently her old, happy self again, singing tunelessly as she sat on the edge of the deck. Even the menace of Steep Hill Sands was obliterated, for the high tide had temporarily submerged the treacherous bank under a dazzle of blue water.

They passed Herbert, chugging in from seaward in his old grey launch, and they were overtaken by Sam Riddle’s battered black fishing boat, which was rattling its noisy way out to the fishing grounds off Harwich, with old Ephraim steering, while Sam prepared the nets. Otherwise the river and, beyond it, the sea were theirs alone—clean and clear and empty.

They rounded Steep Hill Point and hardened in sheets as the nose of the boat swung to windward. Ariadne leant into the breeze and sped out to sea. A couple of miles out, they came about, freed sheets, and set a course on the starboard tack, headed north for the entrance to the River Deben.

So began a four-day cruise which included all the ordinary delights, hazards and small misfortunes which add up to the sport of boating. From the detection point of view, the four days were a dead loss. From every other standpoint, however, they were an unqualified success. Henry and Emmy got burnt brown with sun and salt water, soaked to the skin in the one heavy downpour, badly frightened in the one severe wind, and ridiculously elated at their own progress as mariners. They ate like lions and slept like logs, and Henry gave up shaving.

Ariadne’s return to Berrybridge was planned for Saturday afternoon, in view of the mayoral celebrations taking place that day. It was not an easy sail, nor a particularly pleasant one. The sky was overcast, and a fresh nor’easterly breeze, running counter to the tide, had whipped the sea up into short, angry waves. It was a dead beat into the wind all the way, and Ariadne, wearing her smallest jib, butted and tossed and leant over at a tipsy angle, burying her nose in the lead-grey water and throwing back great fountains of icy spray. Every time they came about, the sails thrashed deafeningly, and the jib sheet developed a frightening habit of snarling itself round a cleat on the mast, which necessitated a hazardous journey forward over the steep, slippery deck before it could be freed.

Lunch was impossible, but Rosemary managed somehow to produce mugs of hot soup, which improved morale considerably. Although the boat was never in the slightest danger, it was nevertheless a cold, exhausting and exacting business: but, as is the way of life, these hardships brought their own rewards. The blessed, joyful moment when Ariadne turned upriver, into the comparatively sheltered water inside Steep Hill Point: the serenity of the quiet Suffolk fields flanking the river: the final peace as Ariadne rode quietly at her own mooring at last: the immense solace of a huge, untimely meal of eggs and bacon and tea in the warm cabin.

Relaxing luxuriously against soft cushions, Henry suddenly remembered some lines he had heard somewhere, long ago.

“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,

Ease after war, death after life does greatly please...”

Maybe he hadn’t got the words quite right, but for the first time he knew what they meant. Port after stormy seas...death after life... Not death in battle, not murder...death crowning a serene old age...no

, that wasn’t right. The whole point was the abrupt contrast between storm and calm, like rounding Steep Hill. Suicide, then, perhaps. But that was taking a gloomy view: after all, stormy seas were stimulating and exhilarating and even pleasurable. It was just that one couldn’t live at that pitch for ever. After the gale, the calm. After life, death...does greatly please...

“I do believe he’s asleep,” said Emmy.

Henry opened his eyes with a jerk. “I’m not,” he said. “I was thinking. Can I have some more tea?”

At half past six they went ashore. In honour of the occasion, they had all changed into their cleanest and most respectable clothes, and the men—after some debate—had actually shaved. As they pulled for the hard, speculation ran high as to the identity of the new mayor of Berrybridge. The polling booth was due to close at a quarter to seven, but they suspected that the result was already known, or at least that counting was by now taking place.

Rosemary came out strongly for Old Ephraim, but Alastair would have none of it. “It’ll be new blood this time,” he said. “You’ll see. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Bill Hawkes got in.”

“Well, I’m for Herbert,” Emmy said. “He’d be so thrilled.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Alastair. “He’d be even more impossible than ever.”

“Of course, we mustn’t forget Sam,” Rosemary put in. “Remember, he’s got connections with the Hall. I think we’ve been underestimating Sam.”

The waterfront of Berrybridge Haven presented a bizarre aspect as they came ashore. Herbert’s ramshackle, black-tarred shed had virtually disappeared under a thicket of posters. These were written in bold but shaky scarlet letters on white paper: most of them read, simply, VOTE FOR HOLE, but the writer had evidently tired of his repetitive task, for occasionally he had substituted HOLE FOR MAYOR, and in one case, in an excess of personal loyalty, UP WITH HERBERT.

On the other side of The Berry Bush, Bill Hawkes’s smart, newly built boathouse had also been subjected to electioneering zeal. He—as befitted the youngest and most go-ahead candidate—had hit on the revolutionary and eye-catching notion of writing his slogans in pale blue paint on black paper. And the slogans themselves provided additional evidence that an imaginative mind had been at work. WHO, demanded one poster, GOT THE NEW SLIP BUILT?: WHO, echoed another, CLEANED UP THE FORESHORE?: WHO, persisted a third, PAINTED THE NOTICES NEW? To these superbly rhetorical questions, there was but one answer. Along the front of the shed, a series of sheets of black paper, each bearing a single letter in blue, spelt out BILL HA KES. On the shore, a further sheet inscribed with the letter “W” was being chewed systematically to pulp by a fat, thoughtful-looking black spaniel.

The other two candidates had, Henry surmised, been taken unawares by this high-powered campaigning, for their attempts at retaliation bore all the marks of hasty improvisation. Also, Ephraim and Sam lacked the advantage of the splendid display areas afforded by the professional establishments of Messrs. Hawkes and Hole. However, to do them justice, they had tried. A grimy piece of paper, tacked onto a tree, bore the scribbled retort EPHRAIM BUILT THE BRIDGE, DIDN’T HE?, while the black hull of Sam’s boat, which was hauled well up onto the foreshore, was adorned with two sheets of newspaper, on which had been written, in enormous letters of black tar, HONEST RIDDLE.

The foreshore was deserted. If the shore was deserted, however, the pub was packed to suffocation, and an excited babble of voices drifted out into the yard. As Ariadne’s crew pushed their way into the bar, a sudden silence fell. Standing on tiptoe, Henry just managed to catch a glimpse of what was going on, over the shoulder of a very stout, grey-haired woman in a flowered rayon dress. A space had been cleared around the table in the window, at which Sir Simon and Bob Calloway were ensconced in official dignity. On the table stood five biscuit tins. Four of them were labelled, respectively, HERBERT, RIDDLE, HAWKES, and EPHRAIM, and each of these contained some small pieces of paper. The fifth was empty. Sir Simon, who had evidently just completed his count of the votes, was writing some figures on a piece of paper. Then he looked up, and rose to his feet. The crowded bar held its breath.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Berrybridge Haven,” began Sir Simon, pontifically, “I have much pleasure in announcing to you the name of your new mayor. After a secret ballot, held in the highest traditions of British democracy,” Sir Simon went on, prolonging the agony, “I am delighted to be able to tell you that this borough has elected as its mayor for the coming year none other than that fine citizen and good friend to us all...” He paused for breath, looked at his paper again to make sure, and finally came out with it. “Our popular and esteemed Harbour Master, Mr. Herbert Hole.”

Instantly, uproar broke loose. There were cheers and boos and stampings of feet and shouts of congratulation and defamation, and, above all, urgent pleas for beer. Herbert himself was persuaded to climb onto the table, whence he surveyed his constituents with—Henry was surprised to see—tears in his faded blue eyes. For once in his life, Herbert seemed to be at a loss for words.

He was given a chance to recover from his emotion, however, for Sir Simon—appealing for quiet in a stentorian bellow—was insisting on reading out the details of the voting. Through the cries of “Good old Herbert!”, “Speech!” and “Pint o’ mild, Bob!”, he struggled to fulfill his duty to the electorate.

“Herbert Hole, sixteen votes,” yelled Sir Simon. “Bill Hawkes—do you mind being quiet over there?—Bill Hawkes, fourteen votes. Ephraim Sykes—can you hear me at the back?—twelve votes. Sam Riddle, eight votes. Which means,” he added, after a swift calculation, “that one hundred and six percent of the electorate registered their votes. Very creditable.”

This got an enormous cheer, and there were renewed shouts of “Speech, Herbert!” By this time, Herbert had recovered his normal composure. He raised his hands in a strangely dignified gesture, and silence fell. Henry, glancing round, saw David, Colin and Anne standing together near the window. Hamish was beside the bar, behind which Henry was somewhat surprised to see, in addition to the barman, Miss Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby and George Riddle. He presumed, correctly, that Sir Simon had insisted on Priscilla being relegated to this comparatively calm vantage point, and that George was keeping some sort of discreet check on her consumption of alcohol.

Herbert began to speak. “Friends,” he said. Everybody cheered again. “Citizens of Berrybridge, I thank you. On behalf of me and Mrs. ’Ole.”

Amid acclamation, the large lady who had been obstructing Henry’s view was propelled somehow through the mob, and a short delay occurred while several of Herbert’s more ardent supporters tried to hoist her onto the table beside her husband. The Lady Mayoress herself, however, soon put a stop to this procedure.

“You take your ’ands off of me, Jim Sykes,” she remarked tartly to an athletic-looking youth who had clasped her round the knees as a preliminary to heaving her upwards to join Herbert. “And mind me pore feet, if you please.”

This rebuke went home. Jim Sykes retreated into the crowd again, and Mrs. Hole favoured the company with a brief simper and a murmured “Delighted, I’m sure,” before saying to her husband, in a fierce whisper, “Get on with it, then.”

Herbert got on with it. “Twenty year,” he said, solemnly. “Twenty year I bin ’Arbour Master of Berrybridge. Twenty year ’Arbour Master and never Mayor, not till now. And if I ’adn’t ’ave got in this time, I’d ’ave known ’oo to blame.”

This lapse into customary vindictiveness was not well received by the electorate. There were several cries of “Come orf it, Herbert,” and “Wot you grumblin’ at now?”

“Hay?” said Herbert loudly, clapping a hand to his ear.

“You ’eard,” said a loud, rude voice, which was immediately followed by a thin, cracked one, which said, “Let ’im be, Bill, lad.”

Herbert cleared his throat. “I seen changes in Berrybridge,” he went on, with a disapproving snort. “I seen new folks come and I se

en the sort of ways they bring with them. I’m not talking about the old folk—Sir Simon and Ephraim and Sam and the like,” he added, unnecessarily. “But there’s others.” His eye fell malevolently on Bill Hawkes, then roved around until it came to rest on Bob Calloway. “Some is generous and some isn’t. Some play fair and some don’t. Some is gentlemen and some isn’t.” Here his beady stare fixed itself on Hamish. “And some ’as come and gone again, one way and another, and I say good riddance.”

Hamish put his tankard down on the counter with a thump, and turned an angry red. Herbert was certainly pulling no punches. Henry guessed that he had been looking forward to this moment for months.

“Then there’s boats,” said Herbert. “When I come here, it were all working barges and fishermen, and not more’n a couple of bloody yachts between ’ere and Woodbridge.”

“Language, Herbert,” said the Lady Mayoress loudly. Herbert paid no attention.

“Look at it now.” He gestured towards the window. “’Ole bloody river full of ’em. Lunnon men, mostly, as we all know. Well, what I say is, it takes all sorts,” he added, rather hastily. Even in his state of exaltation, he had not quite forgotten that the London men were his best clients.

“So,” he went on, with splendid inconsequence, “what I say is jolly good luck to one and all, and a vote of thanks to Bob ’ere for the blow-out what we all know is waiting upstairs.”

Thunderous applause greeted this graceful acknowledgement of the landlord’s generosity. Herbert was about to climb down from the table, when Mrs. Hole plucked fiercely at his trouser leg and hissed something at him. Herbert straightened and added, cryptically, “And Mrs. ’Ole.”

This enigmatic tribute seemed to satisfy the lady, for she simpered again, and accepted a small port from Sam Riddle. Herbert clambered unsteadily off the table and graciously allowed Alastair to buy him a large gin.

The big room on the first floor of The Berry Bush, which was the scene of every local wedding reception, christening party and funeral wake, had been laid out in style for the inauguration. Two long trestle tables, draped with spotless white cloths, were laden with dishes of cold meat, veal and ham pies, hunks of cheese and bowls of green salad. Two barrels of beer stood promisingly in the corner. At the head of one of the tables was a large armchair, covered somewhat haphazardly by an old red velvet curtain. This was the mayoral throne.

For the moment, there was no sign of Sir Simon, Herbert or Mrs. Hole, as these august personages had retired to collect the mayoral regalia, and incidentally to have a quick and privileged drink with Bob in his private sitting room. Meanwhile, the voters of Berrybridge, together with their guests from London, milled around the tables, remarking on the quality and quantity of the food as compared to last year, and expressing their satisfaction or otherwise with the result of the election.

The members of the Fleet greeted each other and sat down at the remotest end of the second table. Anne was in high spirits, and delighted by Herbert’s success. Colin, too, seemed in a thoroughly good humour, and kept darting glances at Henry. He was obviously bursting to come out with some piece of information or other, but for some reason had decided to hug his secret to himself for the time being. David also seemed excited. He laughed a lot, particularly at Anne’s witticisms: in fact, Henry thought, he seemed to regard the girl with a sort of stunned, bemused wonderment, as though unable to believe in her existence. Only with Hamish did he seem nervous and ill-at-ease, and this, Henry reflected, was hardly surprising: the more so since Hamish was in a thundering rage. He had, probably correctly, interpreted Herbert’s remark about “good riddance” as expressing satisfaction over Pete’s death, and he could not leave the subject alone.

“That bloody disgusting, dishonest old man,” he growled, knocking back yet another beer. “I’ve never liked him, but this is the last straw. By God, I’d like to swipe that filthy grin off his ugly mug.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that, Hamish,” said Rosemary soothingly.

“Of course he did, damn his eyes. He was looking straight at me when he said it.”

“You shouldn’t pay any attention to Herbert,” said Anne, a little nervously. “He’s just an old fool enjoying himself. Do forget it, Hamish.”

Henry noticed, not for the first time, that Hamish was the only member of the Fleet whom Anne did not address as “darling.” In fact, she seemed to have a certain respect for him, which was conspicuously lacking in her dealings with the others.

“Actually, of course,” said Colin, “there’d be nothing easier than to demolish Herbert, if you really want to.” Again, dark mischief bubbled in his voice.

“What do you mean?” said Hamish.

“Don’t you know?” Colin’s voice was full of mockery.

“If you mean that story of Pete’s—”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Come over here and I’ll tell you. I wouldn’t even mind doing it myself. It would be rather fun.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said David. “We’ve had enough trouble as it is.”

“You mind your own business for a change,” said Hamish rudely. He and Colin went into a corner by the beer barrels and began talking earnestly. Henry, who guessed what Colin was saying, felt distinctly apprehensive. When they came back to the table, Hamish seemed doubtful. But Colin said, “O.K., if you don’t want to do it, I will. I feel just in the mood.”

A few minutes later, the mayor’s party arrived, to loud applause. First came Sir Simon, with Priscilla on his arm. Then Bob, carrying a dusty black garment trimmed with moth-eaten beige fur, a black cocked hat of ancient vintage and a long chain made of gilded tin. He was followed by Herbert (almost unrecognizable without his cap) and Mrs. Hole. George Riddle brought up the rear, bearing a large, rusty key on one of the metal bar trays.

This procession made its way to the head of the table with great solemnity. Then, while the rest of the company took their seats, Herbert stationed himself in front of the throne, with Mrs. Hole on his right. Bob and George stood behind the mayor’s chair, each holding his precious burden.

Sir Simon, leaving Priscilla by the chair on Herbert’s left, stepped up to the mayor-elect, cleared his throat, and said, “Herbert Henry Hole, inasmuch as you have been elected, by the free, fair and legal vote of the electors of the Borough of Berrybridge Haven to be their mayor for the term of one year, receive now the badges, insignia and privileges of your office.”

George stepped forward. Sir Simon took the key from the tray, and solemnly handed it to Herbert.

“Do you receive the key of the borough?” enquired Sir Simon rhetorically.

“I receive the key of the borough,” replied Herbert belligerently.

Bob stepped forward. Sir Simon took the dingy cloak from his arm.

“Do you receive the robe and hat of office?”

“I receive the robe and hat of office,” said Herbert. This was not strictly accurate, however, for no sooner had Sir Simon draped the robe round Herbert’s bony shoulders than it fell off again. Herbert made a grab at it, thereby lowering his head at the exact moment when Sir Simon was endeavouring to place the hat on it. The effect was unfortunate. In the end, it was George Riddle who retrieved both robe and hat from under the table. Nobody laughed. For all the idiocy of the proceedings, Berrybridge took its mayor seriously.

When at last Herbert was suitably robed and be-hatted, Sir Simon cleared his throat again. The high spot of the ceremony was clearly at hand. With a sinking heart, Henry saw Colin and Hamish exchange glances. The latter nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“And finally,” declaimed Sir Simon, with a parsonical intonation, “finally, receive the chain, the badge and mark of your—”

He got no further. There was a clatter at the far end of the table as Colin stood up. In a ringing voice, he said, “I object.”

“Oh, God,” muttered Rosemary.

“Bloody fool,” said Alastair, under his breath.

In a stunned silence, Colin strode up to the head of the table. Sir Simon, who had raised the chain in his hands, preparatory to slipping it over Herbert’s head, stood petrified by sheer astonishment. On Herbert’s face, incredulity and fury struggled for supremacy. Colin turned to the assembled company and said, conversationally, “This inauguration is a fake. The election was rigged.”

This was too much for the citizens of Berrybridge. Almost as bad as the implication that the election was fraudulent was the fact that bets had already been paid out. Angry voices broke out. Sir Simon put the chain down on the table, and said, coldly, “That is a very serious accusation, Mr. Street. What do you mean by it?”

Colin was enjoying himself. He appealed for, and got, silence. Then he said, “There are forty-seven registered electors in Berrybridge. Herbert got sixteen votes, Bill got fourteen, Ephraim twelve and Sam eight. That makes fifty. Which means either that three unauthorized people voted, or that three people voted twice, or that somebody managed to slip three extra voting papers into the box. Herbert’s majority is only two. If—and I emphasize the ‘if’—the illegal votes were for Herbert, it brings his total down to thirteen, and Bill wins by one vote.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hamish, loudly.

Herbert had gone pale. “Prove it!” he shouted. “Allegations of dishonesty! Blackenin’ my good name!”

“Disgusting!” said Mrs. Hole, loud

ly. Her large face had gone very red.

“There’s a very easy way of putting matters right, however,” Colin went on pleasantly. “All forty-seven electors are here. If they will indicate by raising their hands which candidate they voted for today, we shall know the truth at once.”

For a moment there was silence. Then everybody started to talk at once.

Sir Simon said: “Most irregular. Can’t have that.”

Mrs. Hole said: “It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is.”

Ephraim said: “I’m for it. Only proper, like the gentleman says.”

Priscilla said: “This cold beef looks delicious. May we start soon?”

Herbert said: “I’m callin’ the perlice, that’s what I’m doing.”

Bill Hawkes said: “Oh, what the hell. Let’s get on with the grub.”

The general tone of the meeting, however, was against this liberal sentiment. Colin’s lucid explanation and its implications had penetrated the consciousness of the good people of Berrybridge, and, slowly, they became angry. Even Herbert’s supporters, anxious to prove the validity of their winning bets, were disposed to clear the matter up. Eventually, Sir Simon took a vote: the result was forty-one in favour of a show of hands, and six against.

The visitors remained in an unhappy huddle at the end of the room, and cursed Colin quietly. Even Hamish, the instigator of the whole thing, now seemed to share their embarrassment. The villagers, however, had apparently forgotten that it was an outsider who had stirred up the trouble. Their only concern now was to reach the truth of the matter. In an atmosphere of almost unbearable tension, Sir Simon called for the show of hands.

“All those who voted for Sam Riddle,” he said nervously, “please raise your hands.”

Promptly, eight hands went up.

“Those who voted for Ephraim?”

Twelve hands were raised.

“Bill Hawkes?”

There was dead silence as Sir Simon counted the hands. There was no mistake. Fourteen.

“Leaving,” said Sir Simon grimly, “thirteen votes for Mr. Hole.”

At that pandemonium broke loose. Herbert, his cocked hat awry, turned on Colin in a fury.

“I’ll get you for this!” he yelled, beside himself with rage. “I’ll get you! Twenty year I’ve waited and you cheat me out of it! Bloody busybody! Bloody fine Lunnon gentleman, I don’t think! Pity you didn’t go the way of the other flamin’ nosey-parker!”

The situation showed every sign of turning nasty. Only Priscilla, who had quietly started on the cold beef, remained quite unperturbed. For the rest, the general sentiment was, to put it mildly, anti-Herbert. Cries of “Cheat!” “Swindler!” and worse flew about the room, and several private fights showed signs of breaking out.

In the end, it was Sir Simon who, by sheer force of personality, restored order. He climbed onto a chair and stamped on the table with his foot until some semblance of quiet reigned. Then he said, “Now, my friends. Let us consider the situation quietly. Obviously, there has been a mistake. Obviously, illegal votes were cast, and the new Mayor of Berrybridge is, in fact, Bill Hawkes. But that’s no reason for jumping to the conclusion that my friend Mr. Hole had anything to do with it. On the contrary, he deserves our sympathy in his disappointment. Whatever happened, you can depend on it that it was either a genuine mistake, or else a childish prank played by some irresponsible person. In any case, there’s nothing to be gained now by throwing mud. Let us be sensible, and write the whole thing off as one of those mishaps that may occur in any election. The thing to do now is to inaugurate Mr. Bill Hawkes as mayor, and get on with our food.”

A rumble of discontent went round the room, but it was plain that the force of the argument had come across. Somebody said, “It’s true, lads. We don’t know as it was Herbert done it.”

“In fact,” Sir Simon went on, gallantly throwing himself to the wolves, “in fact, the person most likely to have made a mistake is myself. After all, I counted the votes. As many of you know, arithmetic has never been my strong point, even at the dart board.”

This, blessedly, raised a laugh. At that moment, Priscilla looked up from her plate, and remarked loudly, “This beef is really excellent, Simon. Do have some.”

The tension was effectively broken. Everyone laughed, and murmurs of “Poor old Herbert” began to replace the ugly epithets. Sir Simon took advantage of the situation to add, “And we should all be grateful to Mr. Street for having brought the matter to light. Now that we are agreed that no blame can be attached to anybody but myself, let us get on with the business of the evening.”

It was very well done. Miraculously, good humour was restored all round. George Riddle, at a gesture from Sir Simon, quickly divested Herbert of his hat and cloak, leaving the Harbour Master standing, pathetically denuded of his finery, his sparse grey hair sticking up like a halo round his head.

“And now,” said Sir Simon, “I suggest that we give three cheers for Mr. Hole, and wish him luck in next year’s election. Hip, hip—hooray! Hip, hip...”

The cheers came, warmly. But Herbert was not to be consoled.

“I’m goin’ ’ome,” he announced darkly, before the last hurrah had died away. “I’m not stayin’ to be insulted. Me and Mrs. ’Ole, we’re goin’ ’ome.” He rounded on Colin. “And as for you and your bloody boat, you can take it to Bill Hawkes and welcome. If you’re still ’ere, which I doubt.”

With which parting shot, he and Mrs. Hole walked out of the room. There was a movement to go after them and persuade them back, but Old Ephraim said, “Let ’im be. ’E’s ’ad a shock, poor lad. Let ’im be.”

It was only when Bill Hawkes had been duly and ceremoniously robed and chained that Priscilla, losing interest in her food for a moment, looked up and said in a bewildered voice, “Where’s Herbert gone?”

“Home, dear,” said Sir Simon hastily. “Don’t you worry.”

“But...” Priscilla’s voice trembled. “But Herbert’s the new mayor, Simon. He can’t have gone home.”

Sir Simon gave his sister a sharp look. Then he said heartily, “And home’s the place for you, too, eh Prissy? You know you never like to stay out late. Riddle...”

George was at Priscilla’s side in an instant. Unprotesting, she allowed him to help her to her feet and lead her out of the room, to a respectful chorus of “Good night, Miss Priscilla.”

The door closed behind them. Sir Simon said loudly, “Well, after all that, I think we need a drink.”

The evening proceeded with traditional merriment, only slightly dimmed by these unfortunate events. Everybody ate and drank heartily. Bill Hawkes made a somewhat unsteady speech, assuring the residents of the borough that their future was in good hands. Sir Simon paid a short tribute to the sportsmanlike qualities of British democracy, and told a couple of not-very-funny stories, at which everyone laughed politely. Ephraim, as the retiring mayor, rambled on at some length about handing over to young blood, and eventually sat down, befuddled, in the middle of a sentence. Then they all sang the Berrybridge anthem, the words of which had been written many years ago by Ephraim, and which fitted more or less to the Londonderry Air.

“Oh, Berrybridge,

Sweet haven on the Riverber—RY,

Oh, Berrybridge,

The home we long to see.

Oh, Berrybridge...”

And so on, through an interminable number of verses. At the conclusion of the anthem, as was the custom, the ladies of the village went home. Rosemary and Emmy felt that, as a matter of etiquette, they should do likewise, but Anne was determined to stay to the end. Finally, they all stayed, and apparently nobody minded. London people were expected to behave oddly.

Soon after this, George Riddle came back. He spoke briefly to Sir Simon, and then settled down to the consumption of a modest half pint. Everybody else, however, drank deeply. The party began to split up into smallish groups. Sir Simon came down the table and joined the Fleet, while on the opposite side of the table Sam a

nd George Riddle, with Ephraim and Bob, formed the soberest of the village groups, discussing fishing with some passion.

It was shortly before Bob called “Time!” that Colin dropped his second bombshell of the evening. He and Anne had been fighting quietly, but with venom, ever since the Herbert Hole episode. Anne remarked, acidly, that she had found it neither clever nor funny to humiliate Herbert in such a sadistic way. Colin retorted that he had merely been upholding the principles of his profession by seeking out the truth. Anne made a short, sharp remark about his profession which prompted Colin, who had had rather too many drinks, to reply briskly that at least it wasn’t as old as hers. At this, Anne grew really angry, and declared roundly that if that was all he thought of her, there didn’t seem much point in being engaged. David at once leapt hotly to Anne’s defence. Hamish remained silent. The Bensons and the Tibbetts, by common consent, tried to ignore the bickering: but Rosemary whispered to Emmy, “I suppose this means that we’ll have Anne sleeping on board again, blast her.”

Matters appeared to have reached an uneasy deadlock, when Colin suddenly leant across to Henry and said, “My charming fiancée may not think much of my mental ability, but I’ll tell you one thing. I know all about Pete. I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Colin—” Anne began, but Colin was not to be stopped.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Pete was murdered. I know. And I intend to prove it.” He was more than half tipsy, and his eyes blazed with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to beat the police at their own game, and now I’m going to do it, by God.”

Henry said, uncomfortably, “You’re making a big mistake, Colin. Leave it alone.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Colin. “You don’t get anything out of me. But you wait. No good this weekend. Tide’s all wrong. Next weekend.”

“Oh, well,” said Henry, much more lightly than he felt, “that at least gives me a week to prove that you’re talking nonsense.”

“The best thing you can do this week,” said Colin, slurring his words slightly, “is to relax an’ read a good book. Don’t tire out that precious brain of yours. May need it sometime.”

“Rosemary,” said Anne, very clearly, “may I sleep on board Ariadne tonight?”

“Of course,” said Alastair.

“If you like,” said Rosemary, with less enthusiasm.

Then Bob called “Time!” and they all clattered downstairs and out into the yard.