The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER TEN

BY TEN PAST ELEVEN, all the revellers were out of the pub, with the exception of George Riddle, who had stayed behind to give Bob a hand with the dirty glasses. The locals swayed happily homewards, and Sir Simon walked across to his ancient Daimler.

“Goodnight to you all,” he called. “I’ll just get the old girl warmed up while I wait for Riddle.”

He climbed into the car as the others made their way down the hard, glad of the assistance of Alastair’s powerful torch in the moonless blackness. The atmosphere was uncomfortably stormy. The Bensons and the Tibbetts walked together, and tried to keep up a semblance of light-hearted chatter. Behind them came David and Anne, arm in arm; Hamish followed, moodily. Colin, somewhat unsteady on his feet, brought up the rear. At the water’s edge, Colin said loudly, “Anne, my beautiful, there’s a complication that may have escaped you. Alastair’s dinghy only takes four people.”

Anne received this remark in a dangerous silence.

“By all means refuse to talk to me if it amuses you,” Colin went on. “I am merely making a chivalrous gesture. I am prepared to row you to Mary Jane, pick up your sleeping bag, and return you and it to Ariadne. In the process, you may speak to me or not, as you wish. Personally, I find silence very restful.”

“You’re drunk,” said Anne, clearly and bitterly. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in your dinghy.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, go with Colin,” said Rosemary irritably. “We can’t possibly take five.”

“I’m sorry,” said Anne, obstinately.

Eventually, as always, David came to the rescue, and suggested that he should do the ferrying: demanding as his reward that Anne should take a nightcap with him on Pocahontas, before returning to Mary Jane to get the sleeping bag. He would then, he said, deposit Anne on board Ariadne for the night. This seemed an excellent idea to everybody except Colin, who was rapidly reaching a stage of morbid self-pity. When Anne and David had disappeared into the darkness, and Hamish had said “Goodnight” and made off to his cottage, Colin sat down firmly on the damp hard, and announced his intention of staying there all night. It was with some difficulty that Rosemary and Alastair at last persuaded him to get into his dinghy, and he had still not cast off the painter when Ariadne’s crew were ready to leave.

“I hope to God Colin’s all right,” said Rosemary anxiously, as Alastair pulled away from the hard.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said her husband crossly, “leave him alone. He can look after himself... That was a bloody awful evening. I’m sorry you people were let in for it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Emmy, gallantly, but without a great deal of conviction. “It had its moments.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with all of us,” said Rosemary. “We never used to be like this. You must think we’re a very odd lot.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Emmy. But she shivered slightly.

When they reached the boat, Rosemary said to Henry and Emmy, “There’s no need for you two to sit up for Anne. I’m going to turn in myself. If and when she comes, she’s only got to put her sleeping bag on the floor between our bunks and climb into it. She’s done it often enough before.”

“I’ll wait up for her,” said Alastair.

“Please yourself,” said Rosemary, with the faintest edge on her voice. “She probably won’t come at all. She’ll make it up with Colin and stay on Mary Jane.”

So Henry and Emmy climbed into the fo’c’sle, while Rosemary got into her bunk and instantly fell asleep. Alastair sat in the cockpit, smoking.

As they lay side by side in the darkness, Emmy said to Henry, “You’ve been very quiet all the evening, darling. What’s up?”

“My nose,” said Henry sombrely.

This was an expression with which all Henry’s colleagues were familiar. By it, he meant that strange mixture of intuition and deduction which had led him to the solution of many difficult cases. Although he always maintained that he was the most unimaginative of men, Henry undoubtedly possessed a flair. Tiny inconsistencies of fact and more important, of character, mounted up as an investigation proceeded until, taken together, they roused this constantly strengthening certainty of the direction in which truth lay hidden, which Henry had dubbed his “nose.” But this was not an investigation: ever since the previous weekend Henry had known—not the whole truth, but the direction in which to look. No amount of closing his eyes to facts, no amount of drowning his instinct in the pure pleasure of sailing, had been able to quieten the nagging insistence of the truth: and the events of the evening had clinched the matter. He knew now that, promises or no promises, he could not let it drop.

After a pause, Emmy whispered, “Oh dear. Is it that bad?”

“It’s all wrong,” said Henry. “I don’t pretend to know everything that’s going on, and I don’t know what Colin’s up to: but I do know that there’s something very wrong, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s going to blow up soon.”

“Not tonight, I hope,” said Emmy sleepily.

“I hope not,” said Henry.

Some unidentifiable time later, they were both dragged back to the brink of consciousness by the bumping of a dinghy alongside. David’s voice called “Goodnight,” and a peace descended on the river again, hardly broken by the murmuring voices of Anne and Alastair.

Henry drifted back into sleep. In a strangely vivid dream, he found himself in Priscilla, roaring downstream with Colin at the wheel.

“It’ll be rather fun,” Colin was shouting, and, in his dream, Henry knew that Colin was mad.

“Don’t do it!” he heard himself repeating urgently, although he had no idea of what Colin was proposing to do.

“Hole for Mayor!” replied Colin, spinning the wheel. “Who painted the notices new?”

Another boat loomed up ahead of them. It became desperately important that Henry should read the name of it, but Colin would not keep the wheel still. All that Henry could see was that Anne was at the helm of the other boat, and that Priscilla was going to ram her. Anne waved gaily, and shouted, “Darling Henry!”

“Stop the motor!” Henry yelled, “There’s going to be a collision!”

But the figure at the wheel had unaccountably turned into Hamish, who merely remarked, “A man has a right to do what he likes with his own money.”

For some reason, Sir Simon suddenly appeared in the cockpit beside Henry. “Unfortunately,” he said pompously, “I was in Ipswich at the time.”

Henry threw himself at Hamish, and tried to wrench the wheel from his hands, but Priscilla kept relentlessly on course. As the two boats collided, there was a deafening crash. And another...and another... Henry opened his eyes, and identified the sound. It was Rosemary, banging a mug of tea on the floor boards beside his face.

“Eight o’clock,” she said. “Time to get up.”

It was a glorious morning, sunny and windless. They breakfasted in the cockpit. Ahead of Ariadne, a vacant mooring buoy bobbed in the water.

“Good lord,” said Alastair. “David’s out already.” He looked sharply at Anne, but she turned her head away and gazed astern to where, some way downriver, Mary Jane rode quietly at her mooring.

Suddenly Anne said, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” asked Alastair lazily.

Anne stood up and looked upriver. “It’s a stray dinghy,” she said. “Capsized.”

They all stood up to look. Sure enough, a tiny shell of a boat was drifting slowly toward them on the tide, upside down.

“It looks—” Anne began, and then stopped.

Alastair dived down into the cabin, and came up with a pair of binoculars. He focus

ed them on the little boat for a moment, and then said, “I’m going to have a look.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Anne.

“No,” said Alastair, with unexpected firmness. “Finish your breakfast.”

He climbed into Ariadne’s dinghy, and they all watched as he pulled strongly upriver. Soon he had the dinghy in tow, and it was not many minutes before he was once again alongside Ariadne. His face was very grave and troubled.

“Is it...?” said Anne, quietly.

“Yes,” said Alastair. “It’s Mary Jane’s dinghy.”

“Oh God,” said Anne. “I thought it was.”

“I’m going down to see if Colin’s all right,” said Alastair.

“May I come with you?” Henry asked.

“Of course.”

Neither of them questioned the fact that Anne, too, got into the dinghy. Still towing the deadweight of the capsized boat behind them, they rowed downriver to Mary Jane, and pulled alongside.

“Colin!” shouted Alastair.

There was no reply. “Colin, wake up!” Anne cried, a little desperately. There was no answer.

They all clambered on board. The hatchway leading to the cabin was swinging open. Mary Jane was in apple-pie order. Everything was neatly stowed, and the bunks made up in their daytime covers. There was nobody aboard.

In fact, it was Herbert Hole in his old grey launch who, two hours later, found Colin floating face downwards in the mud at the edge of the river, slightly upstream from Ariadne. He was quite dead, and there was no doubt at all that the cause of death was drowning.

The rest of the morning was spent in a nightmare of formalities. There would, of course, have to be an inquest. Alastair drove Henry into Ipswich, where the latter spent an hour talking to Inspector Proudie: Rosemary gallantly undertook to telephone Colin’s parents and break the news to them. Anne, who had maintained a dry-eyed calm during the anxious hours of searching, collapsed in a dead faint when Colin’s body was discovered. Hamish carried her up to his cottage, telephoned the doctor, and opened a bottle of whisky. In The Berry Bush, Herbert recounted the grim story of his find with much relish.

At midday, Henry and Alastair arrived back from Ipswich, bringing Inspector Proudie with them. Alastair parked the car outside The Berry Bush and walked across to Hamish’s whitewashed cottage, which stood at the water’s edge some hundred yards upriver. He came back with the news that Hamish was perfectly agreeable to lending his drawing room to Henry and Proudie for their interviews.

“Berry View” was a charming little house. Three years before, it had been nothing more than a pair of derelict cottages, once occupied by fishermen. Hamish had converted them without in any way destroying the charm and simplicity of the original. No wrought-iron whimsies or refurbished carriage lamps marred its clean, well-proportioned exterior, no lattice-work discouraged the sunlight from penetrating its neat, rectangular windows: instead of a phony and insanitary thatch, Hamish had re-roofed the house with large grey slates of pleasing irregularity. The solid front door of unvarnished oak opened directly into the main living room, which, with the kitchen and bathroom, occupied the entire ground floor. Here, black and white handwoven mats made a cool contrast to the warm glow of the ancient red tiles which still paved the floor. The furniture was sparse, good-looking and comfortable. At one end of the long room, a huge sofa and two armchairs, upholstered in dark blue whipcord, faced a simple, square fireplace: at the other end stood a plain oak dining table and four ladder-back chairs. On either side of the front door, the whitewashed wall was almost entirely covered with well-filled bookcases. A small oak coffee table, several early Picasso and Lautrec lithographs, two brass oil lamps and an assortment of ashtrays completed the furniture. Henry’s first impression, as he stepped inside and looked around him, was of uncompromising masculinity.

Hamish was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring moodily at the empty fireplace, with a glass in his hand and a decanter on the table at his elbow. He looked somewhat taken aback to see Proudie, but greeted him civilly enough, reminding the Inspector that they had met before during the investigations into the Trigg-Willoughby robbery: he then proffered the decanter all round. Proudie looked shocked, and everybody declined politely, if with some regret.

“Now,” said Henry, “where is everyone and how is Anne?”

“She’s upstairs asleep,” said Hamish. “Rosemary’s with her. The doctor came and gave her some sort of dope. He says she’s suffering from shock. David’s still out in his boat. Nobody’s seen him all day. Since it’s after twelve, I imagine that Herbert and Sam and the rest of the locals are in the pub. I haven’t seen Emmy.”

“That’s all right,” said Henry. “She’s over at Berry Hall. Well, I suppose we’d better make a start. Would you like to come first and get it over with, Hamish? It’s just a question of getting some facts for the coroner. Inspector Proudie is in charge of the investigations, of course, but since I was involved, the Chief Constable agreed—”

“Of course,” said Hamish, sourly and somewhat enigmatically.

So Alastair wandered out onto the flagged terrace that overlooked the muddy, reedy bank where Colin had been found. He watched a fleet of sailing dinghies drifting idly, their white racing burgees flapping sadly in the windless air, and reflected bitterly on the general bloodiness of life: in the drawing room, the police shorthand writer who had been brought from Ipswich settled himself at the dining table: Henry sat morosely in an armchair, while Inspector Proudie took Hamish quickly and accurately through the events of the preceding evening.

Emmy had been surprised and not a little dismayed when, immediately after the discovery of the body, Henry had told her to call for Berrybridge’s only taxi, and drive over to Berry Hall to break the news to Sir Simon.

“Why not telephone him?” she demanded. “Then he can drive over here.”

“Two reasons,” said Henry. “One, I want you to observe very carefully the effect of the news on the various members of the Berry Hall ménage. And secondly, I think you may find that there’s something wrong with Sir Simon’s car.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I heard him trying to start her when we were walking down the hard last night,” said Henry. “He didn’t seem to be succeeding. I thought nothing of it then, but now it occurs to me that a man without a car is immobilized and therefore can’t be in places where he shouldn’t be or see things that he shouldn’t see.”

Emmy looked more and more mystified. “You think somebody deliberately put the car out of action?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry, “but somebody might have found it useful. In any case, I want you to bring Sir Simon and George Riddle back here, either in Sir Simon’s own car or in the taxi, by about half past twelve.”

In view of this conversation, Emmy was considerably impressed when, as she clambered into the venerable Lanchester which served as a taxi, the driver—a grizzled character referred to in the pub as Old George—remarked acidly, “Berry ’All. Berry ’All. Nothin’ but Berry Bloody ’All.”

“Why do you say that?” Emmy asked.

“Larst night,” said Old George, “arter the binge. Drove Sir Simon ’ome. Ar parst eleven. Didn’t get back till midnight.”

“What happened to his own car, then?”

“Broke,” said Old George succinctly. “Left Young George tinkerin’ with ’er insides. No good. Garage towed ’er away first thing this morning.”

“When you say Young George, you mean George Riddle?”

“That’s right,” admitted Old George grudgingly.

“So he didn’t go back to Berry Hall last night?”

“No. Kipped at ’is Dad’s place, I reckon.”

“I see,” said Emmy, in a small, thoughtful voice. She spent the rest of the drive trying to avoid discussing the subject of Colin’s death with Old George, and finally left him in the drive of Berry Hall, sitting on the step of the Lanchester smoking a small, noiso

me cigar, with instructions to wait for her.

With some trepidation, Emmy walked up to the imposing, pedimented front door. Before she had mustered enough courage to pull the graceful iron doorbell, however, she was startled to hear the sharp rattle of a window sash being thrown up, and a shrill voice above her head cried, “Who is it? What do you want?”

Emmy took a step backwards and looked up. A first-floor window to the left of the front door was open, and from it, like a snail emerging from its shell, protruded the stout torso of Miss Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby. Her head bristled with chromium hair curlers, which glinted like a helmet in the sunshine.

“Who is it?” Priscilla demanded again, and added, “Why don’t you ring the bell?”

“I was just going to,” said Emmy, hastily.

“What’s that? Speak up!”

“I was just going to,” Emmy shouted. “It’s Mrs. Tibbett. I wanted to—”

Priscilla’s attention had suddenly focused itself on the Lanchester. “George!” she remarked, majestically. Old George jumped guiltily to his feet and stamped out his cigar. “Why are you still here, George? You were engaged to drive my brother home. That gives you no right to prowl around the house all night and smoke your horrible cigars in my garden. Go home at once!”

“I think I can explain, Miss Trigg-Willoughby,” Emmy yelled hastily. “George hasn’t been here all night. He’s just driven me over from Berrybridge.”

Priscilla’s domineering mood crumbled suddenly into pathos. “Thank you, Mrs. Hibbert,” she said humbly, with a trace of tears. “You explain things so clearly. Nobody else explains things to me. That’s why I imagine things, you see. It’s very difficult when nobody will explain.”

Emmy felt a sudden surge of excitement—an instinctive feeling that she was about to learn something important, if only she played her cards right. Cursing the fact that this most delicate conversation had to take place at the top of her voice, she shouted, “What won’t they explain to you? Perhaps I could help?”

Priscilla leant dangerously far out of the window, and spoke in a travesty of a stage whisper. “Mrs. Tappitt,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something. You see, I happen to know that—”

“Good morning, madam,” said a fruity, P. G. Wodehouse voice loudly. “Was there something?”

Furious, Emmy dropped her gaze to the front door. It was open, and George Riddle stood there, looking like a dentist in his starched white jacket. When she glanced up again, Priscilla’s window was empty.

Biting back her anger, Emmy said, “I want to see Sir Simon, please. It’s very urgent.”

Riddle stood back to allow Emmy to enter the famous, marble-paved circular hall, with its spiral staircase leading to the circular gallery on the first floor. Then he opened the door of the Blue Drawing Room.

“If you will wait in here, madam,” he said, in his carefully cultivated butler’s accent, “I will inform Sir Simon.”

On an impulse, Emmy said, “I’m sorry to hear about Sir Simon’s car. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Riddle looked far from pleased. “I really cannot say, madam. It is in the hands of the garridge.”

“But you worked on it last night, didn’t you?” Emmy persisted. “What was wrong with it?”

“I was not able to locate the trouble, madam,” said Riddle angrily.

Oh, very well, thought Emmy. You’ll have to tell Henry later on. Aloud she said, “You must have made an early start to get back here from Berrybridge this morning. There’s not a bus, is there?”

There was a perceptible pause, and then Riddle said, in his normal voice and very fast, “I come on me Dad’s bike.” Then, quickly recollecting himself, he added, “I will inform Sir Simon of your arrival, madam,” and withdrew.

Emmy gazed out of the window, over the vista of lawns, trees and water, and wondered miserably how she should handle the coming interview. Henry had given her so little to go on. He had told her to watch people’s reactions to the news of Colin’s death. Perhaps she ought to have sprung it on Priscilla and Riddle, instead of trying unsuccessfully to follow her own hunch that they might divulge certain information more readily before they heard the news. She felt that she was making a hash of things, and hoped that Henry was not counting too much on the results of her expedition.

At the back of her mind, with nagging insistence, a tiny conversation she had had that morning with Henry repeated itself like a worn gramophone record.

“Henry,” she had said, “was Colin murdered?”

And Henry had replied, “I think so.”

Emmy was jerked out of her reverie by the sight of Sir Simon. He was dressed in old tweeds and Wellington boots, and he was walking up towards the house from the path that led to the boathouse. Wiping his hands on his dirty trousers, he disappeared round the corner of the house towards the front door. A minute or two later, Emmy heard voices in the hall, and Sir Simon came in.

“My dear Mrs. Tibbett,” he began, “forgive me—can’t shake hands—covered with oil from Priscilla’s engine—didn’t even stop to wash. Felt I had to see you straight away when I heard the news. Tragic business.”

Emmy’s morale sank beneath the load of failure. “You mean—?” she began.

“Young Street, of course. Found drowned. Old George told me just now, in the drive. I suppose that’s why you’re here. Expect your husband sent you.”

Emmy could have cried. “Yes,” she said, inadequately and miserably.

“Lucky you got old George to wait,” Sir Simon went on. “We can get him to drive us both back. Expect you may have heard about my old bus. Most mysterious. Running perfectly earlier in the evening, and then when I came to go home—just wouldn’t start. Plenty in the battery, too. Riddle couldn’t find what was wrong. And to crown it all, Priscilla’s out of action, too. Oil in her plugs, I’m afraid. So we’re well and truly marooned out here. My goodness, I can hardly believe it. Tragic.” Sir Simon paused for breath. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Tibbett, I’ll get some of this grease off my paws and change my trousers, and we’ll be off.”

With that, he bustled out, leaving Emmy to her bitter thoughts, and to the contemplation of the river. A few minutes later he was back, spruce and clean in a faded pair of grey flannels and a hacking jacket. He demurred somewhat when Emmy insisted that they should take George Riddle back to Berrybridge with them.

“Don’t like leaving my sister alone,” he explained uneasily. “Since Mrs. Bradwell left, there’s nobody else in the house. Cooks are hard to come by, these days, and my sister...nervous, you understand...”

It was then that Emmy had her inspiration. “I’m afraid my husband was quite definite about wanting to see both you and Riddle,” she said, “but why shouldn’t I stay here with Miss Trigg-Willoughby? Whoever drives you back here can pick me up.”

Sir Simon looked uncomfortable. “It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Tibbett,” he began, “but I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble of—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Emmy firmly. “I can have another look at your beautiful house, and I’m longing to see the garden. It was pouring with rain last time I was here, if you remember. I needn’t bother your sister at all, if she’s resting. But I expect you’ll feel happier, just knowing there’s someone in the house.”

“Well...” Sir Simon could not hide the relief in his voice. “It would be most kind of you. I’ll just tell Priscilla.”

Emmy stood at the front door and waved goodbye to the hearselike black Lanchester, as it rolled its stately way down the broad drive. When it was out of sight, she turned and went indoors. Her footsteps echoed across the marble circle of the hall. At the foot of the stairs she paused in a shaft of sunlight, and listened. The beautiful, pale house was enveloped in a veil of bright silence as though crystallized in ice. Slowly, Emmy began to climb the spiral staircase.

The sunshine splashed onto the red-tiled floor of Hamish’s drawing room in golden pools, and Inspector Proudie mopped his brow with a very white handkerchief. Hamish and Rosemary had given their accounts of the events of the evening before, and now Alastair was sitting, unhappily, on the edge of one of the big armchairs, trying to recall at what time Anne and David had arrived at Ariadne the previous night.

“It must have been after half past one,” he said, at length. “I had given up waiting and gone to bed soon after midnight. I was dozing off when I heard David’s dinghy alongside. I got up and helped Anne on board. She hadn’t been back to Mary Jane for her sleeping bag after all—thought it was too late—so I gave her mine and made my bunk up with blankets. We tried to make as little noise as possible, and I don’t think any of the others woke up—did you?”

“Not really,” said Henry. “I just heard David’s voice and then I went off to sleep again.”

“I was pretty tired, too,” said Alastair. “I didn’t need any rocking to sleep. I remember hearing David rowing away again, and the next thing I knew, it was morning.”

Henry leant forward. “David?” he said.

“Well, I presume so,” said Alastair. “Nobody else would have been out at that hour. I heard a dinghy, anyway. It was an absolutely still night, and you know how sound carries over the water. I heard the splash of oars and that slight creaking you get from the rowlocks.”

“David delivered Anne to Ariadne,” said Henry. “You and she discussed the matter of the sleeping bag, you remade your bunk, and you both went to bed. How long did all that take?”

“About a quarter of an hour, I suppose. I noticed it was ten to two by the cabin clock when I blew out the lamps.”

“And then,” said Henry, “you heard a dinghy. Meaning either that David had been rowing round in circles for nearly twenty minutes, or that somebody else was out last night.”

“I never thought of that,” said Alastair slowly. “Not that it matters. Poor old Colin must have been dead already by then.”

“By the way,” said Henry, “it’s true, isnᾠ

™t it, that Colin couldn’t swim?”

“Yes,” said Alastair. “I often told him he ought to learn. It’s not safe messing about in boats, unless you can at least keep yourself afloat in an emergency.” He passed a hand over his brow. “It’s hell,” he said. “I ought to have gone after him last night and made sure he was all right. If only I—”

“Now don’t worry about that, sir,” said Proudie soothingly. “You couldn’t possibly know what was going to happen.”

“You see”—Alastair was talking to Henry—“I’ve seen old Colin a bit pickled many times, but he always managed the dinghy without any trouble. That’s why I—”

“Nobody could possibly blame you, Mr. Benson,” said Proudie, more firmly. Alastair gave him a glance in which gratitude and anguish were equally mixed. “And now,” Proudie went on, “I think that’s all for the moment. We needn’t keep you any longer, Mr. Benson.”

In the doorway, Alastair narrowly missed colliding with Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby, who came striding in, bristling with anger. Before either Henry or Proudie could say a word, he barked out, “I have a complaint to make to the police. My car has been tampered with!”

Proudie looked taken aback; Henry, unsurprised, said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Simon. What happened?”

“Last night.” Sir Simon sat down heavily. “Last night, when I wanted to go home. Thing wouldn’t start. Nothing unusual in that, of course, but damned annoying. I took Old George’s taxi home, and left Riddle working on the car. He couldn’t find the trouble—hardly surprising, really. Pitch dark and only a torch to work with. So very sensibly he left it and went home to his father’s place. Early this morning he phoned the local garage to come and tow the car away. I’ve just been in to see them.” Sir Simon paused, and snorted. “Rotary arm,” he went on, outraged. “Deliberately removed. Nothing wrong with the car at all. And what’s more, we found it.”

With that, he produced a small piece of Bakelite triumphantly from his pocket and threw it down on the table.

“Where did you find this?” Henry asked, intrigued.

“Riddle found it, to be accurate,” said Sir Simon. “Under a bush in the pub yard, close to where the car was parked. Disgraceful. Silly childish trick. Don’t see why these damned youngsters should get away with it.”

“What makes you think a youngster did it?” said Henry.

Sir Simon did not answer this directly, but merely remarked with venom on the bad manners and misguided sense of the humour of the younger generation in general, and in particular of...at which point, he went even redder than usual, and stopped.

“You mean you think Colin Street did this?” Henry asked.

“I’m making no accusations,” said Sir Simon quickly. “But he had a macabre sense of fun, poor boy, for all his brilliance. Practical jokes. You know the kind of thing I mean. Not funny, in my opinion.”

Henry picked up the distributor head. “May I keep this?” he asked.

“Must you?”

“It might be important,” said Henry. “The garage has surely supplied a new one.”

Sir Simon grunted his assent. Henry wrapped the small object carefully in his handkerchief, and then said, “By the way, Sir Simon, were you planning to take the car out again last night, or early this morning?”

“I wanted it for this morning,” said Sir Simon. “Priscilla’s motor is out of action, and I wanted to go to Woodbridge for some spares. The whole matter is extremely irritating.”

“Well, you can be sure that Inspector Proudie will investigate your complaint very thoroughly,” said Henry. Proudie looked none too pleased, and suggested a little acidly that they might now get down to the business in hand, asking Sir Simon to run through his recollections of Colin’s last hours: but apart from a positive and caustic assertion that the latter had been drunk and incapable when he left The Berry Bush, Sir Simon had nothing to add to what Henry and Proudie already knew. He gave his answers brusquely and briefly, and seemed glad to escape into the sunshine.

By contrast, George Riddle was inclined to be garrulous.

“Terrible business, sir,” he said earnestly. “Criminal offence, if you ask me.”

“What’s a criminal offense?” Proudie asked sharply.

“Falsifying the vote,” said George Riddle, unctuously. “Disgrace to the borough. Just what you’d expect from Herbert Hole.”

“We’re not talking about that,” said Proudie impatiently. “We’re talking about Mr. Street.”

“Not that he was much better,” said George, with a self-righteous sniff. “Wrecking people’s cars.”

“What makes you so sure that Mr. Street took the distributor head out of the Daimler?” Henry asked.

“Just like him,” said George.

“You didn’t think of looking at the rotor arm last night?”

“Course I didn’t. I thought it was the petrol pump—she’s given trouble before, see.”

“Why,” Henry persisted, “didn’t you go back to Berry Hall with Sir Simon in the taxi?”

“I could have,” admitted George a trifle uneasily, “but I felt sure I could fix her, and Sir Simon didn’t want to wait—doesn’t like leaving Miss Priscilla alone in the house. And I knew he wanted the car first thing in the morning.”

“Tell us,” said Proudie, “what you saw and heard while you were working on the car.”

“Me?” George looked surprised. “Nothing much. The ladies and gents from the boats all went off down the hard. Then Sir Simon went inside the pub with Bob Calloway, and they called Old George. He came round straight away, and took Sir Simon off. After that, Bob locked up The Berry Bush and put the lights out. It was all quiet and dark then.”

“How long did you work?”

“About an hour, I reckon—maybe a bit less. Then I got fed up and packed it in and went to my dad’s cottage.”

“Where’s that?” Henry asked.

George jerked a thumb. “Bit upriver from this one,” he said. “Couple of hundred yards. I did notice the lights were still on in here. Fact, I saw Mr. Rawnsley through the window.”

“What was he doing?”

“Nothing much. Sitting at that table, with a lot of papers and things laid out on it. Didn’t stop to look.”

When George had gone, Henry said to Proudie, “I’m bothered about the place where Colin’s body was found. Why was it so much upstream from the hard?”

“That’s easy,” said Proudie. “Question of tides.”

“How do you mean?”

“High water, four twenty-seven this morning,” said Proudie. “That means, before half past four, Mr. Street’s body—and the capsized dinghy—would have floated upstream. Half past four, dead water. Then, about five, they’d start drifting down again. That’s what the dinghy was doing when Mr. Benson spotted it.”

“So,” said Henry, “we can be absolutely certain that Colin was drowned before half past four.”

“Good lord, yes.” Proudie frowned. “I’d say about two o’clock would be the latest time, judging by where the body was found. But of course you never know for certain. In any case, I’m afraid it’s only too clear what happened.” He glanced through the notes he had taken. “Mr. Street had had too much to drink. Nobody disputes that. Mrs. Benson was worried about leaving him to row back on his own, but her husband was annoyed—and very naturally, if I may say so—at Mr. Street’s behaviour earlier in the evening, and took the attitude of letting him stew in his own juice. I hope Mr. Benson won’t go on reproaching himself. Anyhow, it’s perfectly clear that, in his drunken state, Mr. Street capsized his dinghy. We know that he couldn’t swim, and it’s well-known that bathing with too much alcohol in the system often causes cramp. He must have been too fuddled even to cry out. Just sank like a stone. A very nasty accident.”

Proudie drew a firm line across his notebook. “Q.E.D.” he seemed to be saying.

“I don’t believe it,” said Henry, stubbornly.

“Now, look, sir,” s

aid Proudie, trying not to sound exasperated. “You yourself were on board Mary Jane this morning. You saw for yourself that Mr. Street never reached her last night. His bunk wasn’t made up. Nothing had been touched since he and Miss Petrie left the boat before dinner. You yourself saw Mr. Street just about to set off in his dinghy, at eleven thirty. So it’s clear that he must have met his death while rowing out to his boat—say between eleven thirty and eleven forty-five. Where was everybody then? You and Mrs. Tibbett were on board Ariadne with Mr. and Mrs. Benson. Miss Petrie and Mr. Crowther were together on Pocahontas. Sir Simon was on his way back to Berry Hall in Old George’s taxi. Bob Calloway was clearing up the pub with the barman.”

“George Riddle,” said Henry, “was allegedly tinkering with Sir Simon’s car in the yard of the inn. And Hamish Rawnsley was allegedly here in his cottage, going to bed, although he was still up an hour later, according to George. Neither of them has any proof that he’s telling the truth.”

“I know that,” said Proudie, “but what does it prove? Here’s a perfectly straightforward accident, and you want everybody who knew the dead man to have an unshakeable alibi. It would be unnatural if they did.”

“I suppose so,” said Henry.

It was at that moment that the telephone rang. Proudie picked it up.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, speaking... Yes... Yes...”

There was a long silence. Proudie’s face clouded with worry. “What’s that? Say that again... You’re sure? No mistake at all?... I see... Yes, it does change things... Yes, I’ll tell him.”

He put down the receiver and looked sombrely at Henry. “Looks as though your hunch may have been right after all, sir,” he said slowly. “That was the police doctor. He’s just finished the post mortem.”

“Well?” said Henry.

“Death due to drowning,” said Proudie. “Body had been in the water between five and eight hours, as near as he could say.”

“That’s what we thought.”

“But,” said Proudie, “there’s something else. The skull was cracked by a heavy blow before death. Mr. Street wasn’t just drunk when he fell in the river. He was unconscious, and he might have died anyhow.”

“Could it—” Henry began.

“He was already sitting in his dinghy when you left him.” Proudie, who knew Berrybridge Haven as well as any man in Suffolk, was visualizing the scene. “He was still tied up to the hard. There’s no obstructions other than moored boats between Mary Jane and the jetty, and if he’d bumped into anything, the dinghy could have taken the force of the collision. It’s just not feasible that he could have dealt himself a blow with one of his own oars, even if he’d been trying. The doctor says it was a powerful crack delivered from directly in front of him, and above. No,” said Proudie heavily, “I’m afraid we’ve got to face it, sir. This is a murder case. And it does strike me that—well, we’ve had another similar sort of accident in these parts lately. Chap hit on the head and then drowned. I mean Mr. Pete Rawnsley.”

“Inspector Proudie,” said Henry, “I don’t know what you propose to do next, but personally I’m going straight out to have another look at Mary Jane.”

“Mr. Street’s boat? What d’you expect to find there?”

“First and foremost,” said Henry, “a book. Secondly, if I’m lucky, fingerprints. Can you get your man out here and send him after me to take prints? I’m going to find Mr. Benson and borrow his dinghy.”

Henry got up and hurried out of the cottage and down to the hard. It did not even occur to him to wonder where Emmy was.

“Please,” said Emmy. “Please try to remember.”

Priscilla looked at her stupidly, and pulled the orange silk kimono more tightly across her flabby bosom. A half-empty bottle of gin stood bleakly on the dressing table.

“We’re all alone in the house,” said Priscilla suddenly, with a little giggle.

“I know,” said Emmy. “That’s why I thought it would be a good opportunity to have a little chat.”

“You have to be careful,” said Priscilla owlishly. “People listen.”

“Not today,” said Emmy firmly. “We’re all alone. Tell me about the night you lost your jewels. You locked them up, didn’t you?”

“Hamish used to come and talk to me,” said Priscilla inconsequentially. “Such a charming young man. Of course, he wanted money. They all do. Everybody wants money. I suppose it’s only natural. How much do you want?”

“I don’t want any money. I—”

“Of course, I can’t give you any,” added Priscilla, with genuine regret. “I’m so sorry. All gone now. Nothing left.”

Emmy seized this lead. “Where has it all gone?” she demanded.

Priscilla waved a plump hand. “Bills,” she said. “We have bills, just like other people. Simon deals with the money. He’s very clever, you know. Very clever indeed.”

“Where?” said Emmy, loudly and clearly, “does your gin come from?”

Priscilla looked startled. Then she lowered her voice, and whispered solemnly, “The wardrobe.” She pointed an unsteady finger.

“Who puts it there?”

“Papa.”

“Miss Priscilla,” said Emmy briskly, “your father has been dead for years. Who brings you your gin?”

“It comes from Papa.” Priscilla’s voice trembled. “Dear Papa. Always so thoughtful. That’s what he says.”

“Who says that?”

“Why, everybody. Everybody loved Papa.” Priscilla lost interest in the subject abruptly, and began to take the curlers out of her hair, unrolling each one with elaborate care.

“This morning,” said Emmy, “you said people wouldn’t explain things to you, and you told me you knew something. What was it?”

“I think,” said Priscilla, “that I will take a little drink now. It’s good for me, you know. It stops me from worrying.”

In silence, she poured a generous measure of gin into a toothmug. Downstairs, a clock struck once with a silvery chime. Emmy tried again.

“You remember Colin Street?”

“The ill-mannered young man,” said Priscilla promptly. “Simon likes him. Simon says he’s clever. I think he’s just rude.” She giggled slightly. “What about Colin Street?”

“He’s dead,” said Emmy, very distinctly.

“Dead, Mrs. Babbitt? How sad.” Priscilla’s voice expressed no more than a travesty of polite concern. “But then, of course, so many people are dead, aren’t they?”

“He may have died,” said Emmy, “because he found out what it is that you know.”

“No, no, that’s not possible,” said Priscilla in a calm, earnest voice. “Nobody knows what I know. I haven’t told anybody.”

“You were going to tell me, this morning.”

“Was I? Oh, I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. Humbert. I mustn’t tell anybody, or Papa will be cross. I promised.” She lifted the toothmug and sipped the neat gin. “In any case,” she added, “it couldn’t be important. That’s what nobody will explain. Why it’s important.”

“You must tell me,” said Emmy desperately. She had so little time.

“We are lucky to have this house,” said Priscilla socially. “Of course, it is an expense, but Simon insists that everything should be of the best. It’s what Papa would have wished.”

“Miss Priscilla, I—”

“And the views are so fine,” Priscilla went on relentlessly. “From my windows here, I can see everything—the front door, the drive, everything. It’s most interesting. And then, from the Blue Drawing Room, one can see Steep Hill Sands—on a clear day.”

Emmy’s mood of despair turned abruptly to intense excitement. She sat quite still, hardly daring to breathe, lest the stream of chatter should dry up.

“So much coming and going,” Priscilla went on with a little laugh. “Boats and cars and people. Day and night. You’d be surprised the people I’ve seen. Herbert and Sam and Hamish, and that nice Mr. Benson and his wife...there’s a pretty girl who comes sometimes, too, and a tall, fair young man. And then the boats. Priscilla and Mary Jane and Ariadne...Pocahontas and Tideway and Blue Gull... No, not any more. That was when it started. No, not then. Earlier. Much earlier, it started.”

There was a silence. Then, suddenly, Priscilla turned to Emmy. Her eyes were bright, and she clasped her stubby hands together, like a delighted child.

“Mrs. Tibbett,” she said, “I have made up my mind. I like you. I trust you. I am going to tell you.” Emmy waited, breathless. Priscilla leant forward. “You see,” she said, “it was before eleven.”

“What was?”

“Why—”

A light footstep sounded outside in the white marble gallery, and a door opened quietly. Neither Emmy nor Priscilla heard it.