The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

INSPECTOR PROUDIE walked, heavy-footed, into the bedroom, and greeted Henry and Emmy sadly, a load of distress weighing on his broad shoulders and clouding his normally merry face. In fact, the only ray of hope that he could see in the situation was that Chief Inspector Tibbett seemed to have recovered his usual brisk grasp of affairs, and Proudie charitably ascribed his earlier vagueness to acute anxiety over his wife. The latter’s escape from the murderer’s clutches was also gratifying, but somewhat outweighed by the tragic business of Priscilla’s death.

Proudie sighed deeply, and, at Henry’s invitation, sat down on the other side of Emmy’s bed. “Well, sir,” he said, ponderously, “I’m glad you’ve been getting on faster than I have. This is a nasty business, and I don’t like it.” He spoke with an air of personal affront, with which Henry sympathized. He realized that uppermost in the inspector’s mind was the inescapable fact that here in Berrybridge, among his own friends and acquaintances, was a coldblooded murderer who was by now so deeply committed as to be striking with lunatic ruthlessness against anyone and everyone who constituted a possible threat of betrayal.

“Before we compare notes,” said Henry, “I’d like to hear how you got on. By the way, did your men have a look at Sir Simon’s boat?”

“They did, sir. Nothing helpful. Mrs. Tibbett had been tied up with spare rope from the fo’c’sle, and gagged with an old white racing flag. No prints on the boat except Sir Simon’s, Riddle’s and Mr. Crowther’s.”

“So you’ve fingerprinted everyone already, have you, Inspector?” Emmy asked. “That’s quick work.”

“Voluntary, of course,” said Proudie. “We needed the prints, and—well, I think myself it was a good move. There’s nothing makes people take a case seriously like having their prints taken.”

“I think,” said Henry sombrely, “that everybody is taking this case pretty seriously by now. Well, let’s get on.”

Proudie pulled a thick notebook out of his pocket, and began thumbing through the pages.

“I saw everybody concerned,” he said, “with the exception of Mr. Crowther, who only came ashore from his boat an hour or so ago. I took his prints, which seemed to upset him, and he said he wanted to talk to you. So I let him be for the moment. He’s downstairs now.”

“I’ll see him later,” said Henry. “Go on.”

“Well,” said Proudie, “after you rang, I started straight away by locating Mr. Rawnsley and Miss Petrie. That wasn’t difficult. They were both back at Mr. Rawnsley’s cottage. Just got in.”

“Where had they been?”

Proudie shook his head in a sort of angry despair. “Berry Hall,” he said.

Henry looked up sharply. “Berry Hall? When? What for?”

Proudie consulted his notes. “They left here about a quarter to two,” he began. “Miss Petrie was feeling better and—”

Henry interrupted him. “Inspector,” he said, “I’m sorry, but would you mind very much if I got these people to tell me their own stories? In any case, it might be interesting to see if they check with what they told you.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Proudie, without rancour.

“I’ll go down and talk to them,” said Henry. “Would you mind staying up here with my wife. She’s had rather a shattering experience today, and she—”

“A pleasure.” Proudie beamed. “So long as you explain it to my wife.”

They all laughed with a polite pretence at roguishness, and Henry went downstairs and into the bar.

A sudden, uneasy silence greeted his entrance. David made as if to get up, but sat down again when he saw Henry making his way over to Hamish and Anne.

Henry said, “Would you two mind coming into the lounge and talking to me for a bit? This is official.”

Anne stood up at once. She was solemn and very calm, like an overawed child. “Of course, we’ll do anything we can to help,” she said.

Hamish got up more slowly. He looked at Anne with some concern, and then said to Henry, “I don’t think it’s right that Anne should be worried by any more interviews. We’ve already had the inspector...”

“I’m really sorry,” said Henry. “It must be done.”

“I’m perfectly all right,” said Anne, and walked composedly out of the bar.

The lounge was small and dingy, but unoccupied. The three of them sat at a small circular table, from which Henry removed a drooping green plant in a brass pot. Then he brought out his notebook and said, “Let’s start with this afternoon. Inspector Proudie tells me you went to Berry Hall.”

There was a tiny silence, and then Hamish said, “That’s right.”

“Why?”

“I—” began Anne, but Hamish stopped her.

“Let me tell this,” he said. “There’s nothing to it, anyway. I was feeling pretty bloody about what happened last night. Colin, I mean.” He glanced surreptitiously at Anne, but she seemed quite unmoved. “I felt,” Hamish went on, in a rush, “that it was all my fault. It was I who got angry with Herbert and provoked Colin into that ridiculous display, which got him overexcited, and when he’s—when he was excited he always got drunk. I don’t suppose all this sounds very logical, but I wanted to—to confess, as it were, and take the blame. There didn’t seem to be anybody to apologise to, except Sir Simon. He’s the person one tends to go to in these parts when there’s any trouble. So I decided to go and see him and tell him it was my fault. I suppose I wanted an excuse to get out of Berrybridge, too. I’m afraid my motives aren’t very clear, but—”

“All right,” said Henry. “Never mind. Just go on. What happened?”

“I went upstairs to see Anne and tell her where I was going and why. We talked for a bit, and then she—”

“I insisted on going with him,” Anne broke in. “I didn’t want to be left alone, and I—”

“What time was this?”

Hamish frowned. “About a quarter to two, or a bit after, I suppose,” he said. “Anyway, we set out in the car for Berry Hall.”

“Did you,” Henry asked, “meet anybody on the way? Think hard. It’s very important.”

Quickly, Hamish said, “We saw George Riddle.”

“Where?”

“About a mile from the Hall. He was on a bicycle, riding towards Berrybridge, but as we came up to him he turned down the lane that leads to Woodbridge.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Henry. “Anybody else?”

There was a pause. Then Anne said, “We saw Old George, too, in his taxi.”

“Did we?” Hamish sounded genuinely astonished.

“I did,” said Anne. “You were probably too busy driving. He was coming down the lane into Berrybridge as we went up it.”

“Anybody else?”

“Not that I

can remember,” said Hamish. He looked interrogatively at Anne. She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think we passed another car at all.”

“And what happened then?”

“Nothing,” said Hamish. “We drove up to Berry Hall, but it was completely deserted. We knocked and rang, but got no reply. So we came away again.”

“You didn’t go in?”

There was a silence.

“No,” said Hamish.

“Neither of you?”

“Well...”

“I went in,” said Anne. She turned to Hamish. “There’s no sense in lying to Henry. I can’t see that it’s important but I went in. Not for long. I just walked into the hall, and called, because the front door was open.”

“And you saw nothing and nobody?”

“Not a thing.” Anne was quite definite.

“You didn’t go into the Blue Drawing Room and look out over the river?”

“No. I walked about a bit on the terrace outside. So did Hamish.”

“I see.” Henry made a note. “And then?”

“Then we came away,” said Hamish.

“And you got to Berrybridge—when?”

Anne and Hamish exchanged the smallest of glances. Then Hamish said, “About half past four.”

“What were you doing in the meantime?”

“Just driving.”

“Where did you go?”

“I don’t know. I just drove. Anywhere.”

Henry looked at the two of them for a moment. They both seemed to be holding their breaths. Then he said, cheerfully, “Oh, well, that seems to cover the afternoon.”

There was a perceptible relaxation. Henry went on, “Now I want to talk about something else. The day Pete Rawnsley was killed.”

Instantly, the tension tightened again. Anne said, quickly, “Henry, I thought we’d—”

Henry said, “Everything has changed now, Anne. Colin’s dead.”

“Yes,” said Anne. It was a whisper.

“First of all,” said Henry to Hamish, “I’d like to know whether your uncle had made any night trips by himself in his boat shortly before he died.”

Hamish looked very surprised indeed. “Why do you ask that?”

“That’s my business,” said Henry. “Had he?”

“No.” Hamish was definite. “I’m certain he hadn’t. I’d have known if he had.”

“Right,” said Henry. He made a note. Then turned to Anne. “Now,” he went on, “I have two conflicting accounts of what happened after you and David rowed ashore that day. One from him and one from you. I want to know which is true.”

Hamish looked at Henry with a sort of horror. “Anne wasn’t on Steep Hill Sands that day.”

“Oh, yes, I was,” said Anne. A flush had come into her cheeks.

“It’s not true.”

“I was.” Anne leant forward. “I told Henry. I went ashore and I spoke to Pete and he—”

“She’s lying,” said Hamish calmly. He squared his shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to make a clean breast of it. I was the only person who went ashore and spoke to Pete.”

“No!” Anne cried. There was a suspicion of hysteria in her voice. “It’s not true, Henry! It was me!”

Henry said to Hamish, “What time did you go ashore?”

“Ten o’clock,” said Hamish. “I looked at the time before I went, because I wanted to be sure not to miss the weather forecast.”

“You shared a house with your uncle,” said Henry. “You could have spoken to him whenever you wanted to. Why couldn’t you talk to him quietly in your own drawing room?”

“That’s what I mean,” Anne broke in. “It’s so silly. Of course Hamish didn’t go ashore. He’s only—”

“Go on, Hamish,” said Henry. “Why did you have to see him so urgently? It was about money, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Hamish. There was a long pause. Then he went on, “I can’t expect you to understand. You’re not a sailing man...”

“Tell me, anyway.”

“Pete and I,” said Hamish slowly, “inherited quite a bit of money two years ago. My parents are dead, you see, and Pete was like a father to me. A pretty heavy-handed father sometimes, too. This money was inherited jointly, but he had absolute control of it until his death, or until I reached the age of thirty-five, whichever was the sooner.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“That meant ten years to wait for your new boat, unless Pete—”

“You’re very quick,” said Hamish ironically.

“Thank you,” said Henry gravely. “Go on.”

“I was sure I’d be able to talk him round,” said Hamish. “So sure that I’d already had the designs made without telling him, and work had started on the boat. That morning, I had a letter from the builders saying they must have their advance deposit, or... Well, Pete was off for a week’s racing, and he’d already set sail when the letter arrived. I just had to talk to him.”

“So when you saw him go aground, and the fog came down, you took the opportunity to—”

“Of course,” said Hamish brusquely.

“And what did your uncle say?”

Before Hamish could answer, Anne cried, “Tell him the truth, Hamish. It’s the only way. Tell him the truth.”

“All right,” said Hamish. “I was going to anyhow. Pete refused. We had a quarrel.”

Henry said, “I’m glad you told me that.”

“And so of course,” Hamish went on, with rich sarcasm, “I killed him so that I could inherit. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“It’s a tempting theory, you will agree,” said Henry.

Anne, her green eyes shining with tears, said, “Oh, Henry... Henry, you must believe me... Hamish—”

“I am not,” said Henry, “quite as silly as you think.”

Anne suddenly straightened her back. “What do you mean by that?”

Henry sighed. “You’ve fooled all of us, Miss Anne Petrie,” he said. “Me included. I hope you won’t do it any more. It’s a dangerous game. You run the risk of being disbelieved even when you’re telling the truth.”

Hamish stood up, his face dark with anger. “There’s no need to be offensive to Anne,” he said. “Say what you like to me. I’ve got broad shoulders.” He looked like a young bull, standing there in the cramped little parlour.

“I’m sorry,” said Henry. He suddenly realized that he was very tired, and middle-aged. “Just one more question, Anne? Where did you stow the sleeping bags on Mary Jane?”

“In the forepeak, of course,” said Anne, at once. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Nothing much,” said Henry. “You can both go now. Would you mind asking David to come and have a word with me?”

David Crowther came quickly and nervously into the room, lit a cigarette, and said, “How’s Emmy?”

“All right,” said Henry, “thanks to you. I’ll never be able to tell you how much—”

“It was nothing.” David sat down. “Just t-terribly lucky that I happened...that I was there.”

“It seems the worst sort of ingratitude to start asking you awkward questions just now,” said Henry, with some diffidence, “but I’m afraid I must. For instance—just what were you doing in Sir Simon’s boathouse this afternoon?”

David gave the ghost of a grin. “That’s not an awkward question,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to tell you about it.”

“About what?”

Instead of answering, David put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a small object and laid it on the table in front of Henry. It was a drop earring made in diamonds and emeralds. The two men looked at it in silence for a moment. Finally Henry said, “So you found it.”

“Yes,” said David. “I found it.”

“By accident?”

“Good God, no.”

“Please,” said Henry, “tell me all about it, fro

m the beginning.”

“There’s no beginning,” said David, with a trace of nervous irritation. “Not until yesterday evening. I don’t know what you mean, from the beginning.”

“Very well,” said Henry. “Tell me about it from yesterday evening.”

David took a long pull at his cigarette. “Anne and I,” he said, “went back to Pocahontas after that ghastly party. We had a drink and talked. About...about C-Colin.”

“Of course.”

“I was intrigued. I haven’t got Colin’s brains, and I never will have. J-just good old reliable David. But Anne told me that Colin had been reading Voss, and had made a cryptic remark to you about it when you were all in Walton Backwaters. And of course, we all heard what he said at dinner. So even my f-feeble intelligence began to click. After I’d ferried Anne to Ariadne, I went back and took a look at my own copy of the Venturesome Voyages, and of course it became obvious. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “But I was even slower than you were, if it’s any consolation. Now, to get back to last night. You and Anne talked for a long time on Pocahontas. What else did you talk about, besides Colin?”

David studied the tip of his cigarette. “I d-don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“I’m afraid it is. I may as well tell you at once that it’s perfectly obvious to everybody that you’re in love with Anne.”

David flushed. “That’s my affair,” he said.

“Colin and Anne had just had a big row,” Henry went on relentlessly. “It must have been an ideal moment for you to—to put your point of view.”

David said nothing. “I presume,” Henry added, “that she turned you down yet again. She probably told you that the only two men she’d ever cared about were Pete Rawnsley and Colin Street. Pete was dead. Colin was still alive.”

Slowly, David said, “If you’re implying what I think you are, it’s m-monstrous.”

“Perhaps Anne drew some withering comparisons between Colin’s mental ability and your own, so you determined to beat him at his own game.”

“That’s nonsense. I—”

“Last night,” said Henry, “when you had delivered Anne to Ariadne, did you go in your dinghy to Mary Jane?”

“Of course I didn’t. If I had, I’d have seen that Colin wasn’t aboard, and—”

“Colin was aboard,” said Henry quietly.

“What?” David was obviously stunned by this piece of news. “But Hamish said—”

“What did he say?”

“Well, I mean, we’ve all been talking about it,” said David defensively. “Hamish told me how Colin’s dinghy had capsized on the way back to the boat and... I never meant... I mean...”

“Why,” asked Henry, “didn’t you tell Sir Simon what you had found on Steep Hill Sands?”

There was a long pause. David passed his hand over his forehead. “Can I go back and tell it my own way?”

“Of course.”

“Well...last night, as I told you, I read Voss and came to the same conclusion as poor Colin had done. If you like, I did want to beat him to it. There’s no harm in that, is there? I wanted to prove that...well, it doesn’t m-matter. Anyway, I decided to go out and look for the jewels at low water this morning. I set sail at six—it was low tide at eight—and I ran the boat aground deliberately at about half past seven. I thought that would look less suspicious than rowing to the sandbank. Actually, I don’t think a soul saw me. Anyhow, the sands were dried out already, so I s-started searching.”

“How did you set about it?” Henry asked.

“I could remember roughly where it was that Pete went aground,” said David, “and it seemed likely that the stuff was s-somewhere near there. But it was much too big an area just to start digging in.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Henry.

“I decided,” said David, “that whoever had hidden the jewels must have marked the spot in some way.” He was speaking strongly and confidently now, with only the merest trace of a stutter. “A cross bearing seemed the obvious thing. It would have to be one that could be checked at night, and the only lighted objects in the neighbourhood are the flashing buoys—one off the sands and the other off the point. I reckoned our man would probably take the easiest and simplest method of marking. I got the compass out, and found there was a spot where I got a reading of due north on one buoy and due east on the other. At that point, I found I was almost standing on one of those biggish grey stones that you get washed up onto the sands at low water. I tried to lift it, and I couldn’t. Then I saw that it had a hole bored through the bottom of it, and a small chain attached which ran down into the sand.”

“So that’s how it was done,” said Henry. “Very ingenious. Nobody’s going to notice if one of those stones is always in the same position. Go on.”

“Well,” said David, “I dug. I didn’t have to go far down. On the other end of the chain was a metal box in a waterproof bag. The box wasn’t even locked. And inside—”

He gestured toward the earring that glittered serenely on the table. “So,” said Henry, “you took just one earring to prove your story. What did you do then?”

“I b-buried the box again, in the same spot,” said David. His voice, which had been calm and strong while telling his story, now trembled again. “I th-thought the police would want to see the box in s-situ, as it were.”

“Quite right,” Henry commented. “What time was it by then?”

“It must have been about half past nine. The water was coming up fast, and Pocahontas was afloat again.”

“And then?”

There was a pause, and David said, “I went for a sail.”

Henry said, mildly, “That seems a slightly eccentric thing to do, in the circumstances.”

“I know.” David lit another cigarette, oblivious to the fact that a half-burnt one was still smouldering in the ashtray. “I knew you’d s-say that. I wanted to think.”

“About Pete Rawnsley.”

“Yes.”

“You wondered, suddenly, if Pete might have run his boat aground on purpose, because he knew very well where the jewels were. Because he had put them there.”

David raised his hands and let them fall again in a vague, helpless gesture. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“Were you at the famous Hunt Ball at Rooting Manor?”

“Y-yes. I went with Rosemary and Alastair.”

“Did you?” said Henry. “That’s very interesting. What time did you leave?”

David considered. “About three in the morning,” he said. “I know I got back to town about six, feeling lousy.”

“You drove back alone?”

“Yes. Rosemary and Alastair were staying the night at the Bush.”

“Right,” said Henry. “Now to get back to this morning. You had plenty to think about. You knew that Hamish had gone ashore and quarreled with his uncle the day he died.”

David managed to grin. “So you believe that now, do you?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “Do you want me to go on?”

David said nothing. Henry went on. “You’d had a suspicion all along that Hamish killed Pete, accidentally. Finding the jewels put a much worse complexion on everything. You began to suspect that Hamish and Pete together might have organized the robbery. Hamish’s remarks about money that day on Steep Hill took on a new and sinister significance. What’s more, you knew that Anne was with the two Rawnsleys at the Hunt Ball, and that she stayed the night in their cottage. You may, by then, have known something else about Anne which would have provided an even stronger motive for—”

“I’m not saying anything,” said David stubbornly. “You’re doing the talking, not me.”

“All right, we’ll leave it at that,” said Henry. “You wanted to think. So you went for a sail. What conclusion did you come to?”

“I couldn’t decide what to do. The only certain, ethical part of the whole business seemed to be that the jewellery belonged to Sir Simon—or rather, to Priscilla, but one can’t take her seriously. So finally I made up my m-mind to go and see him before I told the police. I b-beat back up the river to Steep Hill, anchored the boat, and rowed ashore. I got into the b-boathouse, and I was tying up the dinghy when I heard a n-noise in Priscilla’s fo’c’sle. I th-thought perhaps... I don’t know what I thought. Anyway I had a look, and I found Emmy.”

“Yes,” said Henry devoutly.

“I c-carried her up to the house. I was considerably shaken, as you can imagine. And then you told me...about Colin. I realized then that the whole thing was much too serious to fool about with. I f-felt I couldn’t trust anybody. So I decided to say nothing until I could tell you.”

“Quite right,” said Henry.

“And here I am,” David ended rather lamely.

“You behaved very sensibly,” said Henry. “I’m more than grateful to you.”

David said, awkwardly. “I’m glad. I mean, I want to help all I—”

“Just one more thing,” said Henry. “What time did you come back and anchor off Steep Hill?”

David looked surprised. “I don’t know exactly, but you can work it out. It must have taken me about half-an-hour to row ashore, find Emmy and bring her up to the Hall. I got there at a quarter to f-four, didn’t I? So say quarter past three.”

“You didn’t by any chance come back and drop anchor earlier? Say about half past twelve?”

“Of course not.”

“You didn’t row ashore then, and find the Hall deserted, except for—”

“No.”

“You could have,” said Henry thoughtfully.

“I could have,” said David angrily, “but I didn’t.”

Henry picked up the earring. “You haven’t told anybody about this?”

David shook his head.

“Not even Rosemary and Alastair?”

“Not a soul.”

“Good,” said Henry. “Don’t. May I keep it?”

“Of course,” said David, with a kind of disgust. “I don’t want the bloody thin

g.”

“Right,” said Henry. “That’s all. And thank you again.”

At the door, David hesitated. “I know I’ve got no right to ask,” he said, “but...well...how long do you think all this will g-go on? It’s pretty intolerable for...for all of us. Besides, we should all go back to L-London, and I gather that—”

“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “It’ll be over soon. One way or another.”

“Thank God,” said David. He walked out into the dark passage, a tall, disconsolate figure.

When David had gone, Henry sent for George Riddle. The first and most obvious thing that struck him about Sir Simon’s manservant was that he was in a bad state of fright. His thin, white face was twitching with nerves, and his voice, dropping all pretensions at gentility, was unnaturally high-pitched and loud. He started to speak as soon as he was inside the door.

“I didn’t ’ave nothing to do with it,” he said, in a rapid, high-pitched whine. “Honest, sir, I didn’t. I don’t know where she got it from. I left on me dad’s bike as soon as I got the Daimler parked. Never even went inside. It’s my day off, and I went to me sister Lil, what’s married to Johnny Burrows up Woodbridge way. You can ask ’er. I was there all afternoon.”

“You don’t know where who got what?” Henry asked patiently.

“Miss Priscilla. I just ’eard she’s ill...”

“She’s dead,” said Henry flatly. “Sit down.”

“Dead?” repeated Riddle, stupidly. “Gawd.” Sweat broke out on his pale face. He sat down heavily. “It couldn’t ’ave killed ’er,” he said. “It couldn’t ’ave.”

“What couldn’t have?”

“What I... I mean, nothing. I don’t know nothing.”

“You got Miss Priscilla’s gin for her, didn’t you?” said Henry.

Riddle was silent.

“There’s no use denying it,” said Henry. “Bob Calloway has told us.”

This was a shot in the dark, but Henry felt perfectly secure that it would find its target. Sure enough, Riddle gave in at once.

“I was under orders,” he whimpered. “I couldn’t do otherwise. It wasn’t none of my business.”

“Whose orders?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pull yourself together, man,” said Henry a trifle irritably. “If you were under orders, somebody gave them to you.”

“Honest, sir, I don’t know. Miss Priscilla. Must have been.” Riddle was an unprepossessing picture of abject misery. “Every so often, when I was in here, Bob used to tip me the wink. ‘Got another consignment for the ’All, George,’ ’e’d say. And I’d collect the case and take it up. The first time, he explained what I ’ad to do. ‘It goes straight in the lady’s wardrobe,’ ’e says. ‘Don’t let anyone else see, least of all Sir Simon. It’s all paid for proper. And remind the lady as ’ow it comes from ’er Dad, and she’s not to tell ’er brother about it. She might, see, bein’ forgetful.’”

“You didn’t see anything wrong in what you did?” Henry asked drily.

Riddle licked his lips. “It didn’t seem right to me, at first,” he said uneasily, “but Bob said, ‘The pore lady wants it and why shouldn’t she ’ave it? It’s ’er only pleasure.’ Well, when ’e put it like that...”

“And I suppose you got a nice tip each time?”

“Only a bit for me trouble, sir, like anyone might. All the same, I didn’t like doin’ it. I said at the time—”

“Skip that,” said Henry briefly. “Let’s go back a bit. What happened before Bob got here? Miss Priscilla was drinking pretty heavily even before then, wasn’t she? At the time of the robbery, for instance?”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” said Riddle desperately. “I swear I don’t. I ’ave my suspicions, though,” he added, suddenly sly.

“What suspicions?”

“Well, the old man left a goodish cellar when ’e died, so they say. I reckon Miss Priscilla went through that, or most of it. Sir Simon, now, ’e ’ardly touches a drop, except for the odd pint in ’ere. ’E never went near the cellar, and the key was ’anging in the kitchen for anyone to take. Then one day—soon after Bob came, it was—Sir Simon goes down there for something, and ’e comes up all angry and worried-like, and ’e says to me, ‘George,’ ’e says, ‘I’m keepin’ this key meself from now on, and nobody’s to be allowed down there but me. If you ’ave occasion to want something, you arsk me.’ Well, I mean, it all adds up, don’t it?” George sniggered unattractively.

“Maybe,” said Henry. “Maybe not. That’s all for the moment, but don’t leave the pub.”

Henry followed Riddle out into the bar. There was no sign of Bob Calloway, and the barman hazarded that he must be in his private quarters, and went to investigate. A few minutes later, he was back, with a puzzled expression.

“Not there, sir,” he said. “That’s funny. He was here—well, say half an hour ago, that I’m sure. Better see—”

“I’ll go,” said Henry, and ran out into the yard. The garage was empty. Bob Calloway and the red Aston Martin had both disappeared.

Cursing himself for an inefficient fool, Henry hurried to the telephone and rang the Ipswich police, telling them to stop and apprehend the car and its occupant at the earliest possible moment. Then he went into the bar and collared Herbert.

The Harbour Master was still smarting under his humiliation of the previous night. Not even the kudos which surrounded him as the discoverer of Colin’s body could dissipate his rage and gloom.

Henry steered him into the lounge and into a chair, and said, “Now, Herbert, I’ve a few questions to ask you, and I want straight answers. This is a murder investigation.”

“Hay?” said Herbert truculently.

“Murder,” shouted Henry.

“Ar,” said Herbert. “Deserved it,” he added.

“Who did?”

“Both on ’em. Mr. Bloody Interferin’ Rawnsley and Mr. Bloody Interferin’ Street.” Herbert sniffed.

“Why,” Henry asked, “did you dislike Mr. Pete Rawnsley so much?”

Herbert cackled without humour. “Why?” he echoed. “Ingratitood, that’s why. Takin’ his boat to—”

“That’s not the real reason, and you know it,” said Henry.

“Hay?”

“Do you want me to shout at the top of my voice so that the whole pub can hear?” Henry asked conversationally. He filled his lungs, and began in a stentorian bellow, “Mr. Pete Rawnsley found out that—”

“’Ere.” Herbert’s voice was urgent and concerned. “No need to shout. I’m not deaf.”

Henry suppressed a grin. “Good,” he said. “Then we can proceed. Mr. Pete Rawnsley found out that you’d been dishonest over—”

Herbert was really worried now. “It was nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing as could matter. Taking a few bob over the odds for a few mingy moorings. Threatenin’ to do a man out of ’is livelihood, wot ’e’s worked at, man and boy, for—”

“I see,” said Henry, trying to sound more severe than he felt. “So Mr. Rawnsley found out that you were accepting bribes to allot people moorings which are the property of the Council, and should be given in strict rotation. Quite enough to lose your job. A fine Mayor of Berrybridge you’d have made.”

Herbert, reduced at last to silence, sat twisting his rough hands unhappily, and darting furtive glances at Henry out of his rheumy blue eyes.

“However,” said Henry, “we’ll say no more about that if you’ll tell me one thing. What were you doing near Steep Hill Sands in the fog the day Mr. Rawnsley died?”

Herbert’s face cleared. He chuckled. “Poachin’,” he said.

The frankness of this reply took Henry by surprise, so that he merely repeated, “Poaching?”

“Oysters,” said Herbert richly, savouring the word. “Berrybridge Natives. Sir Simon’s got a couple of nice beds in under the point. Didn’t you know?”

“No,” said Henry weakly.

“Fog,” added Herbert succi

nctly. “I know this ’ere river like me own...well, lived ’ere sixty-five year, man and boy, since I was born, you might say. Nothin’ like a bit of fog for poppin’ out and gettin’ a few—”

“It was out of season,” said Henry indignantly.

Herbert grinned. “All the more reason,” he said informatively. “Big prices they pay, Lunnon way, in May.”

“London?” said Henry. “I suppose Bob disposed of them for you?”

“Arsk no questions,” said Herbert, with a prodigious wink. He was rapidly recovering his customary bounce.

“So,” said Henry, “you went out as soon as the fog came down. Where are the oyster beds? Which side of Steep Hill?”

“Beyond it. Under the point.”

“You didn’t hear any other boats coming or going?”

“Too far orf,” said Herbert briefly.

“And you were on your way back, after the fog lifted, when you saw—”

“Didn’t see nothin’, only Blue Gull riding to ’er anchor, as sweet as you please. I went up Steep ’Ill Creek to see young George and get a cuppa in the kitchen. Cold and wet I was, with everything in the boat clammy from the fog, and a long run ’ome. ‘Herbert,’ I says to meself, ‘Young George’ll give you a cuppa at the ’All.’ So I—”

“You actually took your boat into Sir Simon’s shed with a load of his own oysters?” Henry asked incredulous. Herbert looked at him pityingly.

“’Course not,” he said. “Those I’d netted and buoyed to pick up arter dark. I can see,” he added patronizingly, “as you’ve never done no poachin’.”

“Supposing Sir Simon had been at home?” Henry asked.

Herbert sniffed. “Wouldn’t ’ave mattered,” he said defiantly. “Not that he was. Young George told me the night before as Sir Simon was going to be in Ipswich all morning. ’Ad an appointment at nine, ’e said. So I knew the coast ’ud be clear.”

“Has it struck you,” Henry said, “that poaching is an offence against the law?”

Herbert looked indignant. “I’ve told you the truth,” he said virtuously, “because you asked. I thought you said this was murder.”

“It is indeed,” said Henry, “but—”

“Sir Simon’s a friend of mine,” said Herbert. “He doesn’t grudge me a few oysters now and then. You ask him.”

“I will,” said Henry.

The barman of The Berry Bush was calling “Time” when Henry went upstairs again to Emmy’s room. He found her engaged in a fierce game of demon patience with Proudie, who showed an exceptional quickness of mind and hand.

Henry sat down wearily and said, “Bob Calloway’s hopped it.”

“That’s bad,” said Proudie. “Should we...?”

“I’ve done all I can,” said Henry. “Now it’s time to sort out all the threads and put the case in order. I know the answer, and I’ve got no proof.”

Proudie looked profoundly worried. “If you know the answer,” he said, “then we’d surely better arrest the fellow right away. We’ve had more than enough trouble already.”

“I can’t,” said Henry. “I told you, I’ve got no proof—nothing that would stand up in a court of law. We’ve got to set a trap, and I’m damned if I know just how to bait it.”

“Well, let’s have it.” Proudie swept up his patience cards. “Whodunit, as they say?”

Henry said, “It’ll take some time to explain, and we’ll need all these...” He waved a hand at the pile of notebooks, almanacks and dossiers. “I hope I can convince you that I’m right.”

“The main thing,” said Proudie doggedly, “is this. Is anyone else in danger of being killed? I’m not prepared to risk—”

“No,” said Henry. “Not at the moment, in any case.” Surprisingly, he added, “We’re not dealing with a violent murderer.”

“Not...?” Proudie was speechless.

“Basically a gentle person,” said Henry sadly. “But violence breeds violence, and one stupid action leads to another, until... Oh, well, let’s get on with it. This is what I think happened...”

When Henry had finished, Proudie said, “It’s a funny case, all right, but I believe you’ve got the truth of it.”

“But no proof,” said Henry. “And Bob Calloway has bolted.”

“So the only thing to do—”

“This particular drama,” said Henry, “will end, appropriately enough, where it began—on Steep Hill Sands.” He thought for a while, and then said, “Is there a typewriter in Bob’s office?”

“Yes,” said Proudie.

“I’m going to borrow it,” said Henry. “I’m going to write a note and hope for the best.”

He was in the small, cluttered office, and the bar clock had ticked past midnight, when the phone rang shrilly, scattering the dark silence. It was the sergeant from Ipswich. The Aston Martin had been found, neatly parked in a municipal car park outside Colchester. Of Bob Calloway there was no sign whatsoever.

“Never mind,” said Henry. “It’s just as well.”

“But—”

“Call off the search,” said Henry. “And if anybody does spot him, tail him but don’t arrest him. Let him have all the rope he wants.”

Cutting short the sergeant’s protests, he rang off and went back to the typewriter.

“You know who this is from,” he spelt out, laboriously. “Bring in the rest of the goods tomorrow evening. I’ll be waiting. H.T. knows quite a bit, but he’s nowhere near the truth. I fooled him nicely today. Good luck.”

He put the note in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a conspicuous position behind the bar. Then he went upstairs to bed.