The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE NEXT DAY passed with interminable slowness. It was cloudy and overcast, with a sharp little breeze from the north which had a tang of autumn in it. Henry and Emmy stayed in bed until ten, and then, at Henry’s suggestion, went for a walk along the foreshore. The church bell, monotonous and mournful, tolled unemotionally the passing of the lady of the manor. With anger and pity, Henry visualized the announcement in the Times. “Suddenly, at Berry Hall, Suffolk, in her 61st year, Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby, beloved sister of...” The curtains of polite behaviour and social usage pulled quickly together to hide that pathetic, raddled corpse.

Henry and Emmy walked in silence. He was in the grip of that most trying form of depression—the melancholy of enforced inaction.

At noon, they returned to The Berry Bush. The bar was already crowded, but the usual genial atmosphere was noticeably lacking, as was the familiar and integral figure of Sir Simon. The sole representative of Berry Hall was George Riddle, who sat with his father in one of the inglenooks, looking thinner and more lugubrious than ever.

The Fleet—Anne, Rosemary, Hamish, Alastair and David—occupied the large table in the window, where they sat gazing out over the grey river in depressed silence. Bill Hawkes stood stolidly at the bar, exchanging an occasional morose word with the barman. Only Herbert seemed in macabre high spirits, as he regaled two serious-faced young men in blue jeans with a preposterous story of how he had once salvaged a yacht single-handed in a Force 9 gale. From the conversation, it became clear that these two strangers were prospective buyers for one of the boats which Herbert had to sell, and the latter was evidently not going to let a small matter like murder come between him and his commission. He was, in fact, putting up a very good performance—only occasionally darting venomous glances at the other occupants of the bar, who, he clearly felt, were letting down the reputation of Berrybridge as a colourful and picturesque anchorage. For the first time, Henry realized just how much of the popularity of the place depended upon Herbert and his outrageous, quotable conversation.

As he and Emmy made their way over to the window table, Henry glanced briefly at the bar, and was gratified to see that his note had disappeared. So far, so good. He thought of it now, crumpled hastily into somebody’s pocket, and permitted himself a small, grim smile.

The arrival of the Tibbetts lightened the atmosphere a little. Everybody enquired tenderly about Emmy’s state of health, and professed pleasure at her recovery. Everybody remarked on the dismal weather. Nobody mentioned Colin.

At a quarter to one, Hamish said to Anne, “What about that joint we left in the oven? Shouldn’t we be getting back?” To the others, he added, “Anne’s a very fair cook, you know. She even baked an apple pie this morning.”

Anne smiled wanly, and Emmy warmed to Hamish. It showed, she thought, understanding and consideration of a high degree to have appreciated that what Anne needed most at the moment was to be kept occupied at something she did well.

Hamish went on. “I’d have liked to have asked you all back to lunch, but I’m afraid the cottage is just too damned small. Anyhow, I reckoned that Rosemary would have something splendid laid on aboard Ariadne, knowing her. But you’ll come, won’t you, David? I know your bachelor meals on Pocahontas—half a tin of cold baked beans and a bun.”

David, who had been gazing out of the window, turned his head and looked straight at Hamish. In the moment of silence which followed, many things were said. Then David gave a tired half-smile, and said, aloud, “Thanks, Hamish. By the way,” he added, turning to Henry, “I really ought to get back to town. But I don’t know if—”

“That’s all right,” said Henry. “Go back this afternoon if you want to.”

The three of them went out together, Anne’s tiny figure seeming to link the two men, as she walked between them as surely and beautifully as a small cat. Alastair watched them go with a curious expression on his face, half regret and half relief, as though he were seeing a part of his life disappear through the black-framed doorway. Then he turned to Rosemary, and said, with great gentleness, “Have you got something splendid waiting aboard Ariadne?”

Rosemary gave him a grave look from her blue eyes for a moment before she answered lightly, “Not all that splendid, darling. Hot baked beans—and a bun.”

They all laughed, and the laughter shattered tensions. Alastair finished his beer, and said to Henry and Emmy, “All right then. Come and see how the poor eat.”

Ariadne’s cabin was warm and snug after the chilly trip in the dinghy. Alastair lit the paraffin stove, while Rosemary busied herself in the galley. The hot baked beans we

re accompanied by poached eggs, bacon and an excellent salad, and proved delicious. When they had all eaten, Alastair stretched his arms above his head, and said, “Well, I don’t know about anybody else, but I don’t propose to go sailing today. It’s cold and miserable and there’s not even enough wind to make it amusing.”

“I’m sorry you feel like that,” said Henry, “because I was going to ask you if we could go out this evening.”

“This evening?” Rosemary’s eyes widened in surprise. “Whatever for? Honestly, Henry—”

“Not you,” said Henry. “Not you or Emmy. Alastair and I can manage the boat alone, can’t we?”

Rosemary’s jaw became stubborn. “I don’t know what this is all about,” she said, “but if Alastair’s going I’m going too.”

“Rosemary—” Emmy began, but before she could get any further, Rosemary went on. “And in any case, you can’t possibly sail Ariadne without me. It’s all very well for you to talk, Henry, tied up snug in harbour, but suppose a gale blew up? It might easily. The glass is dropping. I don’t want to be offensive, but you just don’t know enough about boats. Does he?” She appealed to Alastair, who was looking uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what to think, Henry,” he said. “There’s something in what Rosemary says, you know. Couldn’t we take David or Hamish?”

“I told David he could go back to London this afternoon,” said Henry. “As for Hamish—well, to be frank, I’d rather keep this thing between ourselves, if you don’t mind.”

Emmy sat up very straight, and said, “Look here, Henry. If you’re going to involve Alastair and Rosemary in something dangerous, it’s surely only fair to tell them what it is.”

Henry, who was feeling tired and not a little depressed, said, “Of course. I was going to do that anyway.” He turned to Alastair. “I’m asking you to take Ariadne out to catch a murderer—the person who killed Pete Rawnsley and Colin Street.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” Alastair said grimly.

“It may not be such a pleasure when you realize who it is,” Henry said sadly.

“Who is it, then?”

“I can’t tell you, yet,” said Henry, with genuine regret. “You see, I’ve no proof. I’m morally certain, and I’ve set a trap which I intend to spring this evening on Steep Hill Sands. If the murderer doesn’t take the bait, I’ll have to think of something else. This much, though, I can tell you...”

Rosemary distributed cups of coffee in silence, and then came and sat on her bunk, deeply absorbed, as Henry outlined the story of Colin’s deduction and David’s discovery of the jewels. He said nothing about the note he had written, but ended by remarking, “...and I have reason to believe that the murderer—who is, of course, the same person who stole the jewellery—will go out to Steep Hill Sands again this evening to dig up the rest of the stuff. Our only hope is to be there, on the spot.”

Alastair took his pipe out of his mouth, and said slowly, “That’s a pretty tall order, Henry. Anybody on Steep Hill would see us coming and—”

“So far,” said Henry, “the murderer doesn’t suspect that we know where the jewels are hidden. We’ll go for a perfectly ordinary sail—in fact, we’ll spread it around the Bush early this evening that we’re going out tonight. Where would it be reasonable for us to make for?”

“The Deben,” said Alastair promptly. “We could catch the ebb downriver and turn north.”

“Well, that’s exactly what we’ll do,” said Henry. “Except that in fact we’ll anchor just round the point, and you’ll put me off in the dinghy—”

“Not alone,” said Rosemary quickly.

“Of course not,” said Alastair.

Henry looked at them gratefully. “Perhaps, after all,” he said, “we’d better all go. You three can stay aboard, and—”

“No,” said Alastair, with great firmness. “I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think,” said Henry carefully, “that the murderer will put up much resistance, once it’s established that—”

“Don’t talk rot,” Alastair interrupted brusquely. “We’ll leave the girls on board and you and I will put ashore.”

Henry smiled. “I’m very grateful,” he said. “So be it. I hate letting you in for this, but you understand that if I had Inspector Proudie roaring around in a police launch—”

“We can handle this ourselves,” said Alastair.

“Right,” said Henry. “Now, if you’ve a detailed chart of the river, we can lay our plans...”

They went ashore promptly at six. As they walked up the hard to The Berry Bush, Henry noticed a black police car parked in the yard outside the pub. Sure enough, Proudie was there to meet them.

“I’d like a word with you, sir,” said the inspector, adding somewhat aggrievedly, “Been looking all over the place for you.”

“O.K.,” said Henry. “Sorry, Inspector. You three go on in and order me a beer.”

As the others disappeared into the bar, Proudie said, “We’re on to Bob Calloway.”

“Really?”

“Phone message from London. He’s been spotted in Soho this evening.”

“Very interesting,” said Henry drily. “Who saw him?”

“One of your own chaps,” Proudie replied. “Saw him walking down Old Compton Street as bold as brass. Since you’d given orders not to arrest him”—Proudie could not keep a slight note of resentment out of his voice—“the constable shadowed him as far as the Club Parisienne, where he went inside. They’ve got a tail on him now. I suggest we—”

“We’ll do nothing, for the moment,” said Henry. “Let London look after Bob Calloway. There are things to be done here.”

He spoke quietly to Proudie for a few minutes, and then made his way into the bar.

Henry’s idea of spreading the news of Ariadne’s projected trip seemed doomed, for Alastair, Rosemary and Emmy were The Berry Bush’s only customers. A few minutes later, however, Old George came in with Herbert and Sam Riddle. Alastair took the opportunity of buying the Harbour Master a gin, furnished the others with pints of ale, and began at once to enlarge on the idea of a night sail to the Deben.

Herbert was gloomy. “Bad night,” he said, sticking his long, thin nose sadly into his gin. “Glass fallin’. Wind gettin’ up. Silly, if you arsk me.”

“Ain’t so bad nor that, Herbert,” Old George protested.

“Them as knows what’s good for ’em,” said Herbert cryptically, “’ull stay put at their moorings tonight.”

“Well, we’ve made up our minds,” said Alastair firmly. “Mr. Tibbett here wants to try a bit of night sailing, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“What time you plannin’ on leavin’, then, Cap’n Benson?” Herbert enquired.

Alastair glanced at his watch. “Soon,” he said. “Low water is at a minute past nine. I’ll need at least two hours of ebb to get me down the river and up the coast.”

“You beware of Steep Hill Sands, sir.” From his table, Sam Riddle spoke slowly, and with weight. “’Tisn’t a healthy place, not on a night like this.”

The others nodded, sagely.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be O.K.,” said Alastair cheerfully. “Well, Henry, I reckon we’d better be moving. There’s quite a lot to do on board.”

They drank their beer, and left. Henry suggested that they should drop in on Hamish on the way back, to tell him about the proposed trip.

The cottage was cheerful and warm. Hamish and Anne sat one on each side of the fireplace, where sweet-smelling cherrywood logs were blazing. For all the cosiness, however, Henry sensed an atmosphere of strain as they came in. Anne’s mouth was set in mutinous lines, and she looked as though she had been crying. Hamish seemed larger, darker and more overpowering than ever, and there was no laughter in his eyes.

Both of them got slowly to their feet as the visitors came in. There was a curious air of defiance in their attitude, as if they had been expecting something other than a friendly call.

/> “So there you are,” said Henry, with slightly forced brightness. “We missed you at the Bush and guessed you’d be here.”

Hamish seemed to relax a little. “Come in and have a drink,” he said.

When they were all comfortably seated and furnished with alcohol, Alastair said, “Well, there’s one born every minute, Hamish. Henry wants to try his hand at night sailing, so we’re going up to the Deben tonight.”

Hamish, who had been in the act of raising his glass to his lips, stopped abruptly and sat very still for a moment. Then he took a long drink, and said, “Hardly seems an ideal evening for it.”

“We all want to go,” said Rosemary. “I just want to get away from Berrybridge, myself. I can’t bear sitting here doing nothing, when...” She shivered slightly, although the room was warm.

“I thought we were all suspects, and not supposed to leave the place,” said Anne, in her sweet, husky voice. “But of course, since you’ll have the law itself on board with you, I suppose...”

“I haven’t told anybody not to leave,” said Henry. “Do you want to go back to London? Nobody’s stopping you.”

Hamish and Anne exchanged the briefest of glances. Then Anne said, “Oh, Henry. Don’t take it personally. I’m quite happy where I am.”

“Good,” said Henry. “Well, wish us luck. It’s going to be a cold, clammy trip, but I think it’ll do us all good.”

Suddenly, Hamish said, “Can I come with you?”

“Sorry, old man.” Alastair spoke quickly and definitely. “There’s really not room for more than four.”

“Suppose it blows up into a gale,” said Hamish. He was not asking a question, but stating a fact.

Alastair shrugged. “I don’t think it will,” he said.

“You never know. The wind’s getting up steadily, and the glass is dropping.” Hamish sounded worried.

“It’s not all that far, after all,” said Rosemary. “We should be in the Deben by ten.”

“If we start now.” Alastair downed his drink and stood up. “Come on then. All aboard that’s going aboard.” He turned to Anne, who was nursing her big tumbler thoughtfully. “Goodbye, Anne,” he said.

Anne looked at him steadily for a moment. Then she said gravely, “Goodbye, Alastair.”

Henry and Emmy were already on their feet.

“Shall we see you tomorrow?” Hamish asked.

For a moment, nobody answered. Tomorrow seemed a thousand years away, a new world, not to be reckoned with, not even to be dreamed about. It was Emmy who recovered first, and said, warmly and naturally, “I hope so, Hamish. I expect we’ll be back.”

Hamish came outside with them onto the terrace which overlooked the grey river. Outside, he said, tentatively, “About Colin. What’s—”

“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “It’s all under control.”

Hamish gave him a short, unamused look. “I hope so,” he said. “Well—goodnight. Good luck.”

As they walked along the foreshore back to the dinghy, they could see Hamish’s massive figure silhouetted against the light from the open doorway. They could not see his face.

The breeze from the north had freshened considerably by the time that Ariadne slipped her moorings and began to run downstream. Ashore, Henry could see lighted windows in the gathering dusk, and had the impression of being watched by secret eyes. As they came within sight of Steep Hill Sands, already gleaming whitely as the tide retreated, a single light—a single eye—glowed from the ghostly façade of Berry Hall. Henry had the curious impression of a composite sigh of relief going up from the unhappy landscape. A breathing space. He dismissed this as wishful thinking. Perhaps nothing would happen. Perhaps this whole cold, uncomfortable adventure would end in a dismal and fruitless vigil. Heaven knew, he had made enough mistakes already. If he had been cleverer, Colin might be alive now. Depression set in, with the first drops of chilling rain. Swiftly and silently, Ariadne ploughed her way downstream, her great white sails spread like swans’ wings. Henry glanced miserably at Alastair, and was surprised to see that the latter was smiling.

“Lovely sail,” said Alastair.

Rosemary came up from below with mugs of hot soup. “This is fun,” she said. “I mean, the whole situation is awful, but it is fun all the same. Have some soup, Henry.”

“Thank you,” said Henry, from his heart. Everything suddenly seemed more reasonable and more exhilarating. He realized gratefully that the rain was failing to penetrate the thick black oilskin he was wearing, and the soup brought a reassuring glow.

“Whatever you do, don’t get cold,” Rosemary admonished him. “It’s hellishly difficult to warm up again once you’re chilled through. Put on an extra sweater before you think you need it.”

She grinned, and retreated into the golden-lit haven of the cabin.

The dusk was deepening fast as Ariadne swung round Steep Hill Point. “Harden sheets,” called Alastair. Henry pulled on the jib sheet as the boat swung broadside on to the wind. At once, she heeled over smartly, and tossed up a spurt of spray over her bows, which caught Henry neatly in the back of the neck.

Alastair was watching his course like a hawk. After some time, he said, “We’re out of sight of everyone by now. O.K. to go in and anchor?”

“Fine,” said Henry. The water had trickled down under his oilskin, making his shirt cling clammily to his back, but he was aware of a rising sense of excitement. “Any time you like.”

“Harden in a bit more, then, and watch out down below.”

As Ariadne put her nose to windward, she leant over with a vengeance. From the cabin, Rosemary swore as a badly stowed saucepan fell to the floor with a tinny crash. Lee rail under, Ariadne roared towards the shore. Great sheets of water broke over her bows, but she settled down happily enough on her new course, bucking and buffetting into the powerful breeze and riding the short seas with surprising ease.

“Come and take her, Rosemary,” called Alastair above the scream of the wind. “I’ll let go the anchor.”

Rosemary climbed up from below.

“What shall I do?” yelled Henry, feeling useless.

“Get below and out of the way,” Rosemary called back gaily. “O.K., darling. Got her.”

Obediently, Henry went below. Emmy was doing her best to sit on one of the bunks, which now lurched at a frightening angle. She looked slightly green, but she said bravely, “Isn’t this fun?”

Henry grunted noncommittally. It was, in his view, far from fun.

Then there was a yell from Alastair, a wild thrashing of sails and the boat steadied herself onto an even keel. From outside, the Bensons’ voices came indistinctly. “Down main!” “Wait till I get the gallows up!” “Hurry up, blast you, woman!” “O.K. now. Let her go!” “Smother it, for God’s sake. Where are the tyers?” “Right. Down jib!”

And then, suddenly, a blissful silence except for the singing of the wind in the shrouds. Rosemary and Alastair, drenched and dishevelled, came stumbling down the companionway and into the cabin.

“Well,” said Alastair, “here we are. Safely anchored. But I don’t want to stay here any longer than I must. It’s an exposed position and the wind’s freshening all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Henry apologetically.

Alastair grinned. “Not your fault,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Half past eight. We’d better get ashore.”

For the first time, Rosemary seemed worried. “For heaven’s sake, be careful,” she said. “I hate the idea of your going.”

“I promise you, Rosemary, that—” Henry began, but Rosemary cut him short. “I’m not worried about your wretched murderer,” she said. “I’m worried about taking the dinghy ashore in these seas.”

Alastair put his arm round her shoulders. “I’ll be careful, I promise, darling,” he said. “This has to be done.”

“Yes,” said Rosemary. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Henry and Alastair climbed up on deck again and surveyed the scene. Ariadne was anchored, according to plan, as close inshore as she could safely go, under the line of dark, close-set trees that hid the eastern elevation of Berry Hall from the open sea. As they looked southwards, they could still just distinguish how the trees thinned out and eventually disappeared altogether at the point where Steep Hill Sands ran out into the river. That afternoon, at their planning conference, there had been some argument as to what to do with the dinghy. Clearly, the ideal solution was to beach it under the shelter of the trees and to walk out over the sands: but both Henry and Alastair were uncomfortably aware that if they had to wait any length of time, the tide would come in and leave them stranded on the sands, out of reach of their boat. In the end, Henry had managed to convince Alastair that the latter should stay with the dinghy, while he himself walked ashore. At a given signal, Alastair would row out and pick Henry up from Steep Hill. It was a haphazard and unsatisfactory arrangement, but it would have to do. Each man carried a shrill whistle, of the kind used for fog signals, and a powerful electric torch.

Now, as they stood on Ariadne’s heaving deck, the whole idea seemed much less attractive than it had in the shelter of Berrybridge Haven. Between the boat and the shore, angry white crests of foam broke incessantly, and the rain drove steadily in their faces. Ariadne herself bucked and tossed restlessly at her anchor, grinding the chain against her bows with each convulsive movement.

“I can’t row broadside on to these seas,” said Alastair. “Too dangerous. We’ll have to run more or less with the wind until we’re in more sheltered water, and then turn up.”

Getting into the dinghy was a feat in itself. The cockleshell boat plunged from crest to trough of the waves like a demented creature, as she lay tethered alongside her parent vessel. Alastair climbed in first, with infinite care, and was able to steady the little craft somewhat for Henry.

“Whatever you do, step in the middle,” he said. “Hold on to my shoulders. O.K. Now!” Somehow, Henry tumbled clumsily into the dinghy. It rocked alarmingly, but remained the right way up.

“Now,” said Alastair. “Sit in the middle and don’t move. Don’t shift your weight an inch, or you’ll

have us over. Right. We’re away.”

After the comparative stability of Ariadne, the dinghy was a nightmare. Sitting so low on the water, Henry had the impression that every wave was going to swamp them. Grimly, he held on with both hands to the thwart, and concentrated on not moving. After a seeming eternity of travelling in the wrong direction, nearer and nearer to the open sandspit—though edging always closer and closer to the shore—the seas grew calmer, and Alastair said, “Hang on to your hat. We’re turning up-wind.”

If Henry had imagined that the first part of the journey was hazardous, he had had, mercifully, no conception of what the second part was to be like. As the dinghy turned her nose against the wind, the curling, icy waves began to break over the bows in great arcs of spitting spray, drenching the two men. The boat itself was tossed like a shuttlecock in the foaming water. Alastair, grim-faced, rowed with careful, dogged determination. Inch by painful inch, they crept inshore and nearer to the sheltering shadow of the trees. At long last, after what seemed an eternity, there was a crunching sound and a sharp lurch.

“Here we are,” said Alastair. “It means wading ashore, I’m afraid.”

Henry was only too pleased to be free of the dinghy and to have his feet on firm ground again—even if it meant standing knee-deep in swirling, bitterly cold water. Together they dragged the boat up the beach until it was safely hidden in dark shadows.

“Well, this is where we part company,” said Alastair, and added, after a pause, “Good luck. And for God’s sake, don’t let’s have any heroics.”

“Heroics?” Henry laughed, ruefully. “Do I look like a hero?”

He didn’t. He looked like a small, chilled, forlorn figure in oilskins several sizes too large, shivering wretchedly as his bare feet sank into the clammy sand, and his wet jeans flapped about his thin legs.

“All the same,” said Alastair, “I know you.”

Henry put on his sopping plimsolls. “Well,” he said, “goodbye for now. And thanks.”

He left Alastair perched on the edge of the dinghy, and made his way cautiously in the direction of Steep Hill Sands, keeping always under the protective darkness of the trees. It was while he was still engulfed by their reassuring shade that he heard the unmistakable chugging of a motorboat.

Henry stopped, stock still, and then edged his way cautiously forward. What with the rapidly falling darkness and the silver screen of the rain, visibility was very poor, and he had only the vaguest idea of the direction from which the engine noise was coming: but, beyond all doubt, somebody was nearing Steep Hill Sands. A few more steps, and Henry had reached the limit of the trees’ protective cover. He strained his eyes to see ahead, but the sands only glimmered faintly, dusky and unrevealing. The sound of the motor grew louder. There was nothing for it but to step out onto the exposed expanse of the sandbank.

Henry moved forward, silently as a cat. Suddenly he froze again, as the engine of the motorboat cut out. Somewhere ahead of him, somebody had beached the boat. Now only the thin screen of the wind and rain broke the silence. Henry began to move forward again. One thing he realized only too well: on that bleak stretch of sand, neither he nor his adversary had any advantage of cover. They would see each other at the same moment—unless, of course, the other was too occupied in what he was doing to notice Henry’s approach.

The sound of a shovel, scraping delicately at the sand, came as a shock. It was surprisingly close. Henry held his breath, and could hear someone else breathing heavily. Then he saw the faint outline of a motorboat. Beyond it, somebody was digging for treasure, as Captain Voss had dug in the Cocos Islands nearly a century ago.

Henry took a deep breath. Then he stepped out from behind the beached boat, and shone the searching beam of his torch directly onto the crouched figure. Abruptly, a face turned towards the source of light—and in an endless moment of silence, the cruel torchlight played mercilessly on the haggard features of Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby.

“It’s Henry Tibbett, Sir Simon,” said Henry. He was not feeling heroic, nor was he enjoying himself.

“By God.” Sir Simon scrambled to his feet. “What in hell’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m arresting you,” said Henry, “for the wilful murder of Pete Rawnsley. The cases of Colin Street, your sister Priscilla and my wife, we can discuss later.”

Sir Simon gave a short laugh in which there was more than a trace of hysteria. “Have you gone mad?” he demanded.

“No,” said Henry, reasonably.

“I’ve never heard such appalling nonsense in all my—”

“For a start,” said Henry, “we might get on with the job in hand. I see that I interrupted you in the process of unearthing a boxful of jewellery, the property of the Mutual and General Insurance Company of Lombard Street.”

He directed the beam of the torch downwards. Already, the heavy metal box was half uncovered. There was a movement in the darkness and Henry swung his torch up again. Sir Simon had backed away a couple of paces, and was leaning heavily against the hull of Priscilla.

“Insurance company be damned,” said Sir Simon. His voice was thick and somnambulic. “It’s mine.”

“It was never yours, even in the first place,” said Henry. “It was your sister’s.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Sir Simon began to speak. The fact that he spoke in his usual, robust, bar-side voice merely enhanced the nightmare. “Have you ever considered, Tibbett,” he said, “the toughness of a diamond? They’re almost indestructible, you know. They don’t perish or crumble or get dry rot or need to be repaired or restored. That’s what was so monstrously unfair about it. Father’s will, I mean. Prissy got the imperishables, and I got...” He stopped. Henry said nothing. Sir Simon went on. “I’ve never been married, Tibbett, but you have. Can you imagine what it would feel like to watch your wife slowly dying for want of medical treatment...to watch her growing old and crumbling away? That’s as near as I can put it, in your terms. That’s how I felt about the house. I loved it, you see. At the beginning, I couldn’t see anything wrong in what I did. A man can’t steal his own property, can he?”

“A narrow-minded person,” said Henry, “might say that you robbed first Priscilla and then the insurance company.”

“Narrow-minded,” repeated Sir Simon, thoughtfully. “Yes, that just about sums it up. Priscilla was narrow-minded. I tried to reason with her. No good. All she wanted was gin. Well, I gave it to her. I thought a lot about it, Tibbett. I promise you that. I weighed my sister in the balance, and tried her worth against the house. And what did I find? On the one hand, a selfish and petty old woman. On the other, a thing of lasting grace and beauty. I made the right decision. I never regretted it.”

“You spent the insurance money,” said Henry, “and it wasn’t enough. You needed more. So you started to raid the jewellery, and sell it, bit by bit. That was what you were doing when Pete Rawnsley—”

Sir Simon sighed, loudly. “Poor old Pete,” he said sincerely. “One of the best. One of my only friends. I suppose that was when I began to go mad. How was I to know he’d be here? I told you I saw him go aground: I’m afraid that was a lie.” Sir Simon sounded genuinely apologetic.

“I know it was,” said Henry.

“You know now,” said Sir Simon, with a touch of pique.

“I’ve known for some time,” Henry answered gently. “That was what first gave me an inkling of the truth. And then when I realized that you’d got home from Ipswich before eleven—”

“Ah.” In the torchlight, Sir Simon nodded, slowly and gravely. “She remembered, did she? I never dreamt you’d be clever enough to put two and two together. Ah, well.” He paused. “I’m sorry about young Street, too,” he added. “Really sorry. He had no right to play that cruel trick on Herbert, but he was brilliant. A great career cut tragically short. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’m not just a little mad. It’s a great relief to talk about it.”

“I suppose it was you who rigged the

election?” said Henry. “And you let Herbert poach your oysters. How much did he know?”

“I don’t know. He just hinted...”

“And Riddle. Was he in on all this?” Henry tried to keep his voice light and conversational, above the moaning of the wind. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was very cold and wet indeed.

“Riddle knew nothing,” said Sir Simon sharply. “You don’t imagine I would discuss such a thing with a servant, do you?”

“It was a stroke of luck for you,” said Henry, “finding Bob Calloway.”

“You think so?” Sir Simon laughed dangerously. “On the contrary, it was the greatest possible mistake. I could have managed alone. I should have managed alone. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Tibbett, but the man is a criminal.”

“He deals in stolen goods,” said Henry.

“Precisely. And he is untrustworthy into the bargain. He tried to swindle me,” said Sir Simon, with profound indignation.

“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “He’ll be dealt with.”

“I’m extremely glad to hear it.”

Henry was seized with a sense of wild unreality: and at the same time, with the conviction that this situation, this illogically logical conversation, was a repetition, in essentials, of another conversation that had taken place on this very spot, on a morning in May, under a veil of damp, clinging fog. That time, though, it had been Pete Rawnsley who had stood where he was standing now. And that time, it had ended in...

“Well, Tibbett,” Sir Simon was saying, “mustn’t take up any more of your time. The tide’s rising fast, and—”

There was a quick, convulsive movement in the darkness, as Sir Simon ducked away from the beam of light. A clatter of metal on wood. Henry swung the torch, just in time to see the grotesque figure bearing down on him. In Sir Simon’s hand was a huge, heavy spanner.

In one movement, Henry flung himself down on the sand and put out the torch. He was aware of a sharp, glancing pain as the spanner grazed the back of his head. With numbed fingers, he managed to get his whistle to his mouth, and blew for all he was worth, shattering the night.

Instantly, Sir Simon made for the source of the noise. Henry, hampered by his heavy oilskins, launched himself in a rugger tackle at the other’s knees. They went down onto the sand together, rolling over and over, clenched in a stranglehold of desperation. For seeming hours they wrestled, grimly, in the darkness. Sir Simon, in his agony, was possessed of the legendary strength of a lunatic. Henry concentrated on maintaining his grasp on the deadly right wrist—the wrist of the hand that held the spanner: but he felt his strength ebbing. And as he rolled over yet again on the clammy sand, he became aware of another and even more sinister sensation. The sand was no longer just damp: it was wet. The tide was rising. By the millimetre, the water grew deeper, and Henry realized that his opponent had changed his tactics. No longer was Sir Simon trying to free his right hand to deal a stunning blow: rather, he was using manic force to get a grip on Henry’s throat, to press his face downwards into the rising water.

Henry knew that he could not hold out much longer. Complete unreality took over. There was salt water and sand in his eyes, in his nostrils: there was no air, no breath. Only a choking sensation of darkness and despair. He made one last, superhuman effort at recovery, with the unimagined strength that comes to a man fighting for his life. Slowly, painfully, he pressed his body upwards against the tower of brute force that held him down: but he knew in his heart that it was impossible. The grip on his throat tightened. It was at the very moment when he lost consciousness that he was aware, as in a dream, of a sudden, blinding light. And then everything was dark.

Henry opened his eyes slowly, and with surprise. It even occurred to him to marvel that there was, after all, survival after death. Then he saw that he was in the cabin of Ariadne, and that Emmy and Rosemary were kneeling beside him. Both their faces were wet, though whether with tears or rain Henry never knew, nor did he ask. He tried to speak, but the words would not come from his bruised throat. Gently, Emmy held a cup of cool water to his lips.

Henry mustered all his strength to speak. In a croaking whisper, he managed, “Where are we?”

“On the way home,” said Rosemary.

For the first time, Henry was aware of the throbbing of Ariadne’s faithful motor. Through the hatchway, he could just make out the dark mass which was Alastair, as he stood at the helm.

Once again, he made the effort of speech. “And...and what...did he...?”

“He got away,” said Emmy. “In his boat. When he saw Alastair coming, he panicked and ran for it. Alastair says he was heading out to sea.”

Henry said, “Thank Alastair for me.”

Emmy said, “I’ve already done that.”

Henry smiled at her with difficulty. Then he murmured, “Poor Sir Simon. One can’t help...”

And then he fell asleep.