The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER THREE

“PETE RAWNSLEY,” SAID Alastair, “was a wonderful chap. At least, we thought so. I think everybody did. A great big bear of a man, with one of those weather-beaten faces and bright blue eyes. I suppose he was about fifty—he was Hamish’s uncle—but that sort of chap could be anything from forty to sixty. He was as tough as nails, and what he didn’t know about boats could be written on a sixpence—I tell you, he was the finest sailor I ever knew. That’s why it seemed so terrible when...oh, well, I’ll come to that later.

“Anyway, a couple years ago he came into some money and retired down here and bought a beautiful Dragon-class boat called Blue Gull—Hamish is trying to sell her now. Except when he was racing, he nearly always sailed single-handed. Said he knew where he was that way. I must say I see what he meant,” he added, with a glance at Rosemary, who put her tongue out at him.

“Well,” Alastair went on, “we met him down here, and became great friends. He was one of the original group that we call the Fleet.”

“We know about that,” said Emmy. “Rosemary told us.”

“One day a few months ago—in May, it was—Pete was taking Blue Gull up to the Deben for regatta week, picking his crew up there, and we decided to make a Fleet Outing of it and all sail there in company. It was a glorious morning—I remember we had to set sail at seven to catch the tide. We were the first away, then Pete, then the others—they were late getting up, and were some way behind us. Blue Gull is a much faster boat than Ariadne, of course, so we fully expected Pete to overtake us, but somehow we were lucky and caught a bit of breeze that he didn’t, and we managed to keep ahead until we got right down here, near the river mouth. We were pretty pleased about it, as you can imagine, and Pete was determined to pass us. So he thought he’d be a bit clever and cut a corner over the sandbank. He overtook us all right, but the next thing we saw—wham, he was on the putty. Just about here.

“I’m afraid we laughed like a row of buckets. Poor old Pete, flying his racing burgee and all set to cover himself with glory, stuck for the day on Steep Hill. We shouted some fairly derisory remarks about explaining to his racing friends in the Deben just exactly where Blue Gull was. Old Pete was quite imperturbable, though. When we last saw him, he’d snugged the boat down, got the sails off her, and was sitting on the edge of the cockpit, puffing away at his pipe, as serene as you please. I dare say he was thinking up suitable replies to shout at Tideway and Mary Jane and Pocahontas when they came along and saw what had happened.

“Actually, though, none of us got to the Deben that day. We hadn’t been sailing for more than an hour after that when a fog suddenly came down. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced fog at sea, but it’s horrifying. It comes up from nowhere, all in half an hour, and suddenly you’re in a blanket of white cotton wool, with no wind and no visibility. Frankly, I was scared. There’s a fair amount of big shipping round this coast, not to mention sandbanks. I reckoned the safest thing to do was to go as close inshore as I dared and anchor, and then sit on deck blowing the foghorn and beating the bottom of the bucket with the starting handle of the engine. Not a pleasant way of passing a day, believe me. We could hear other boats blowing their horns—it’s the most mournful, eerie sound I know—and the occasional throb of an engine, which we felt certain was going to materialize into a dirty great steamer looming through the mist and crashing into us.

“It seemed like a thousand years before the fog lifted. As a matter of fact, it was about six hours. Round about three o’clock in the afternoon a smart little northerly breeze blew up, the fog dispersed, and all was well again. However, the tide had turned by then, and we decided it was too late to go on to the Deben, so we turned round and headed back to Berrybridge. We reckoned Pete would have the laugh on us after all; he should have floated by about half past three, and been back and moored and having a pint in The Berry Bush by the time we arrived. But when we rounded the point at nearly half past four, there was Blue Gull, well afloat, riding quietly to her anchor and with nobody aboard. At first, we thought Pete must be in the cabin, but we couldn’t understand what he was playing at, staying there. We kept the glasses on her, and when there was still no sign of life, we got worried and decided to investigate.

“We anchored as near the bank as we dared, and rowed over in the dinghy. I’ll never forget it—the empty boat with her big boom swinging from side to side with a faint creaking noise, and not a soul to be seen. When we got there, we beached the dinghy—the top of the sandbank was still dried out—and then we saw Pete. The incoming tide was gradually washing him up onto the dried-out sand. He’d drowned in a few inches of water.”

“Drowned?” Henry repeated. “How on earth did that happen?”

“The boom,” said Alastair. “There was an inquest, of course, and they worked out what must have happened. Pete evidently got out when the boat was high and dry, and walked around on the sand. And somehow the boom caught him a whack over the head and knocked him out. It may even have knocked him right out of the boat. So there he was, lying unconscious on the sand, and when the tide came in—”

“There’s no doubt that that’s what happened?”

“None at all. They found traces of blood and hair on the boom, and a cracking great bruise on the side of Pete’s head. Of course, at the time, we didn’t realize straight away that he was dead: we hoped we’d be able to revive him with artificial respiration. We got the poor chap into our dinghy and rowed him up the creek to Sir Simon’s boathouse. Rosemary went for help, and I tried to do what I could for him. I laid him down on the pontoon and—it’s silly, isn’t it, the things one does at moments like that? I remember being obsessed with the importance of getting dry cushions under him and wrapping him up with rugs, to make him comfortable. I found some rugs in Sir Simon’s motorboat, but there weren’t any dry cushions—everything was soaked from the fog. I remember I was ridiculously worried about it—not that it could have mattered less. The poor man was already dead, as it turned out. Anyway, I did what little I could. I tried artificial respiration, and then old Herbert Hole turned up to help—he’d been chugging round in his motor launch and seen us. Unfortunately, Sir Simon was in Ipswich for the day, so Rosemary had to tell Priscilla, who promptly got hysterics. If it hadn’t been for Riddle—that’s Sir Simon’s man—I don’t know what would have happened. But he was very efficient and called the doctor and—well, that’s all. It was a very nasty experience, I can tell you.”

Alastair’s voice trailed off into silence. Henry said slowly, “Did Blue Gull have a boom gallows?”

“Of course,” said Rosemary quickly. “And now for heaven’s sake let’s talk about something cheerful for a change.”

“Please don’t think I’m being officious,” said Henry apologetically, “but I’m a policeman by profession, and it seems to me that there are some very odd things in the story you’ve just told us.”

“Odd?” said Alastair. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Henry, don’t try to make a mystery out of poor old Pete’s death. It’s perfectly clear what happened.”

“I don’t think it is,” said Henry, with a sort of sad stubbornness. “You told me that when you last saw him, he had taken the sails off the boat and was smoking a pipe.”

“That’s right.”

“Then surely the boom must have been in the gallows.”

“Of course it was,” said Alastair at once.

“Then,” said Henry, “how did it get out again?”

There was a silence. Rosemary said brusquely, “It must have been the wind.” She got up and began to clear up the picnic things.

“The boom was swinging freely when you saw it?” Henry persisted, addressing himself to Alastair.

“Yes. And the gallows were lying flat on deck. I remember. But there was quite a brisk breeze, as I told you.”

“Yes,” said Henry, “but at the time when Pete died—when the water was still low enough for him to be walking about on the sandbank—there was still fog, wasn’t there?”

Alastair began to look worried. “I see what you mean,” he said. “Fog, and no wind. So even if Pete had for some reason taken the boom out of the gallows—which he wouldn’t have—”

“I wish you’d stop this nonsense,” said Rosemary. “Remember that Blue Gull was well heeled over. The boom could have slipped out.”

“Look at Ariadne now,” said Henry. “She’s leaning at a considerable angle, but the boom’s firmly in position. I suppose in a gale it might come loose—but there was no wind.”

“And in any case,” said Alastair, “now I come to think of it, why was the mainsheet free? Because it was—otherwise the boom couldn’t have been swinging the way it was. Pete would never have left his mainsheet loose—he was much too careful a sailor.”

“So,” said Henry, “the boom lifted itself out of the gallows, the mainsheet un

tied itself, and your friend Pete got hit on the head—hard enough to knock him unconscious—all in a fog, without a breath of wind.”

There was a long silence. “I’m sorry,” Henry went on, “but it seems to me that something very strange happened on Steel Hill Sands that day. Without wishing to be melodramatic, I’d say that—” He stopped abruptly.

Emmy shivered. “What a horrible thought,” she said. “You mean, someone might have seen him hit the sandbank, and then waited until the fog came down and—”

“Oh, for God’s sake—” said Rosemary. She had gone very pale, and sounded near tears.

“Do shut up, darling,” said Alastair, very seriously. “I think Henry’s got something.”

“Presumably,” said Henry, “anybody with a dinghy or a flat-bottomed motorboat could get to the sandbank easily enough, either from the main channel of the river or from Sir Simon’s boathouse.”

“From the river, certainly,” said Alastair. “I doubt if it would be possible to get up that creek from the boathouse in fog. At least—”

Surprisingly, Rosemary said, “Oh, yes, it would. I mean, I’ve heard Riddle say...” Again she stopped in mid-sentence.

Alastair scratched his dark head meditatively. “You’ve got me really worried, Henry,” he said. “It was bad enough when... when all this happened, but it never occurred to any of us that it wasn’t just an accident. If someone really did kill Pete, I’d... Well, look here. Why don’t you look into it a bit further while you’re down here? That is, if you don’t mind. It couldn’t do any harm, could it, if it was unofficial?”

“Oh, Henry—not again,” Emmy protested. “Can’t we have a single holiday in peace?”

“I’m only going to meet people and talk to them a bit,” said Henry mildly. “I promise you it won’t spoil our holiday, darling.” He looked at his watch, and then went on, “We still seem to have quite a while to wait here. Tell me more about Pete Rawnsley. Was there any reason why anyone should want to kill him?”

“None,” said Alastair promptly. “Everybody liked him.”

“Except Colin,” said Rosemary.

“Oh, that.” Alastair looked at his wife with displeasure. “That was just silly.”

“What was?”

Alastair said quickly, “Oh, it was just that Anne—Colin’s fiancée—was having a bit of a thing with Pete. He was very attractive to women—the strong, silent type with a wife in every port and really wedded to his boat.”

“Had he?” asked Henry.

“Had he what?”

“A wife in every port.”

Alastair considered. “Pete was a solitary type by nature,” he said at length. “He certainly ran through an impressive list of girl friends, but he used to take fright and be off as soon as any of them looked like getting serious. That’s what made Colin mad—the fact that he knew Pete was bound to let Anne down in the end. Personally, I don’t think Anne ever did take Pete at more than his face value. After all, she knew his reputation well enough. But when Colin found out that Anne had been down here to the cottage on her own to see Pete, there was a hell of a row. It was the night before Pete died. We were all in The Berry Bush, and Herbert let the cat out of the bag. I don’t know whether he did it deliberately or not. It was just as well for Pete that he wasn’t there, because Colin might have—” Alastair stopped, and then said, “I don’t mean that it was really serious. Just one of Colin and Anne’s usual tiffs, and ending in the usual way with Anne refusing to sleep in Mary Jane and spending the night with us, and then sailing with good old reliable David in Pocahontas next day.”

“So Colin was alone in his boat,” said Henry. “What did he do when the fog came down?”

“Anchored, just as we did.”

“Whereabouts?”

There was a pause, and then Alastair said, “Look here, I can see what you’re driving at, and I’m not going to have you getting ideas about Colin. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Meaning,” said Henry, “that Mary Jane was just off the sandbank when the fog came down.”

“Fool,” said Rosemary quietly.

“What if she was?” Alastair retorted, with some heat. “For that matter, so were Pocahontas and Tideway. They all set off at the same time, and they were still in company when the fog came down. Of course, they all saw Pete on the sands, and waved and so on. When the fog lifted, there was no sign of Pete, but as Blue Gull was still aground, they naturally thought he was below in the cabin, so they just upped anchor and sailed back.”

“No sign of him?” said Henry. “Where was he, then? He must have been—”

“That’s one of the most tragic things,” said Alastair. “Pete must have been lying on the landward side of his boat, so that he was hidden by her hull. I know Hamish can’t get over the thought that he might have saved his uncle if only he’d gone ashore to investigate. But nobody could possibly blame him. The coroner said that.”

“If somebody from one of the anchored boats had put off in a dinghy and rowed over during the fog,” said Henry, “do you think the others would have heard anything?”

Alastair thought for a moment. “Possibly,” he said. “It’s very difficult to say. Fog does the most extraordinary things to sound, you know. You can’t tell where a noise is coming from, or how far away it is. But surely, Henry, you can’t seriously think that any of the Fleet would—”

“I don’t think anything yet,” said Henry. “I’m just feeling my way a little. I suppose Hamish got his uncle’s money.”

“Yes,” said Alastair, rather grudgingly.

“Where did the money come from?”

“Inherited, I think,” said Alastair. “I don’t know. Never asked. But I’m damned sure it was honestly come by. If Pete had a fault, it was an exaggerated respect for law and order. He used to be in some police force—Kenya, I think—he spent a lot of his life abroad—and the one thing he wouldn’t tolerate at any price was dishonesty or double-dealing.”

“How long has Hamish lived down here?” Henry asked. “Only since Pete died?”

“No, no. They shared the cottage in Berrybridge. Hamish is an architect, works in Ipswich. He and Peter were extremely popular round here, right from the word go, even though they were outsiders. They just seemed to settle in right away.” Alastair took a puff at his pipe, and then added, “You know, the more I think of it, the sillier it is to imagine Pete could have been murdered. It’s just stupid.”

“Most murders are,” said Henry sombrely. “Stupid and basically simple. In fact, I think it’s true to say that every murderer kills for love or money. I’m talking about the sane ones now—if anyone can be said to be entirely sane at such a moment. Often you find that the murderer has built up a great pyramid of specious reasoning in his own mind, to convince himself why his victim should die: but under it, you’ll always find one thing or the other. Love or money.”

Rosemary said, “Please don’t talk about murder, Henry. Pete is dead, and there’s nothing we can do to bring him back. Can’t you forget it and leave him in peace?”

For a moment, Henry studied Rosemary’s beautiful, clear-cut profile. He was both puzzled and distressed by the agony that he saw there. He lay back on the sun-warmed sand and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Rosemary,” he said. “I’ll try. I really will try.”

At one o’clock, the tide turned. The marooned sailors, perched on the edge of Ariadne’s sharply tilted deck like sparrows on a telephone wire, watched the water creeping back to them inch by inch, at what seemed a snail’s pace by comparison with the indecent haste of its retreat earlier in the day. Soon after three, however, the first wavelets were lapping at the hull: the water grew deeper, climbed the deck rail that lay on the sand, covered it, and swilled along the sloping deck itself.

Henry said, in a voice from which he had not quite succeeded in erasing all traces of alarm, “We don’t appear to be floating, Alastair.”

Alastair grinned br

oadly. “I know just how you feel,” he said. “I’ve been aground umpteen times, and every time, at this particular moment, I get a twinge of panic that she won’t come up—that she’s somehow stuck to the sand and will just lie there until the water covers her completely. But don’t worry—you’ll see.”

Henry glanced down at the deck rail again. “She’s not moving at all yet,” he said.

“Watch the mast,” said Alastair.

Obediently, Henry transferred his gaze to the mast, which lay over at a drunken angle, its blue and white burgee fluttering not far off the sand.

“Watch it against the trees. Can’t you see it moving?”

Henry watched and, with a lightening of heart, saw that the mast was indeed moving—very slowly but steadily it was swinging more and more uptight. In a surprisingly short time Ariadne was on her feet again, even though her keel was still held fast. Then came the moment of glory that every yachtsman knows. The boat, with a graceful, dipping gesture, shook herself clear of the paralysing grip of the sand and curvetted joyfully to the wind—for all the world like a living creature, ecstatic to be in the freedom of her own element again.

Up went the white, trembling sails. Up came the mud-caked anchor. Ariadne took off like a bird, skimming silently out to sea.

“‘As I was a-walking down Paradise Street,’” chanted Alastair Benson, stockbroker of the City of London, as he snugged down the anchor and wiped his muddy hands on the seat of his jeans, “‘Way-hay, blow the man down...’”

And “‘Give us some time to blow the man down,’” sang Henry Tibbett, Chief Inspector of the C.I.D., bracing one bare foot against a varnished thwart to get a better purchase on the jib sheet.

Rosemary, at the tiller, looked at Henry and smiled.

“Thanks for trying, Henry,” she said.

“It’s not tight enough yet, blast it,” said Henry. “‘Way-hay’—I’ll get it in if it kills me—‘blow the man down’...”

“I didn’t mean the jib sheet,” said Rosemary, “I meant—”

“I know you did,” said Henry. Then, lifting his voice, he added ringingly, “‘O-o-oh, give us some time to blow the man down...’”

At five o’clock they turned round and ran before the wind southward down the coast, and back to Steep Hill Point. A small speck which had materialized far out to sea revealed itself on closer inspection to be the green hull and snowy sails of Tideway, and the two boats reached the river mouth almost simultaneously.

Both started to beat upriver against the wind, their zig-zag courses crossing and recrossing.

“Enjoy your day on Steep Hill?” called Hamish, without too much malice, as Ariadne passed within ten feet of Tideway’s bows.

“Wasn’t it awful?” Rosemary yelled back. “All my fault.”

“Get that jib sheet in tighter,” said Alastair. “We can make a better course than this.”

“I think we’re doing beautifully as we are,” said Emmy.

“No, we’re not. Hamish is catching us,” said Alastair shortly. And Henry and Emmy learnt another truth about the people who sail—that it only takes two boats of comparable size and speed, on the same stretch of water and heading in the same direction, to start a race. They could see that Hamish, too, was tending his sheets with extra care, and glancing anxiously up at the burgee to look for the minutest variation in wind direction.

Henry also noticed, with some amusement, that although the two boats were clearly and seriously competing with each other, this fact was never acknowledged in the conversational exchanges that took place whenever they drew close enough together.

“So David didn’t come out today—didn’t think he would,” Alastair called to Hamish, as he edged Ariadne up in an effort to take Tideway’s wind.

“No—trust old David. When I left, he looked as though he was counting his screws again. Probably spent all day sorting them out into little boxes.” Hamish moved his tiller, bearing away for a moment to get out of Ariadne’s lee, and then put his nose up and skimmed off across the river.

At the next encounter—by which time Tideway had gained a yard or so, to Alastair’s chagrin—Hamish said, “See you all in the Bush later on, I dare say.” To which Alastair replied, “Yes, but come on board for a snort first.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Hamish put Tideway about, and sped off towards the far bank of the river.

The two boats battled their way up the broad, quiet stream in a light, summer-evening breeze that threatened every moment to grow lighter still and die on their hands, so that the last yards to the moorings were a matter of drifting rather than of sailing.

To a spectator on the quayside, Henry reflected, the scene must present an appearance of utter tranquillity—the idyllic evening of pink and gold in the sky and on the water, the two swanlike sailing boats drifting dreamily back to harbour. In fact, the atmosphere on board Ariadne was anything but tranquil. Alastair and Hamish, both accomplished helmsmen, were trying every trick they knew with sails, sheets and tiller—each working desperately to turn the drifting match to his own advantage. At last, slowly as a falling leaf, Ariadne nosed her way past the red buoy which marked the start of the line of moorings—some six feet ahead of Tideway. Alastair and Rosemary looked at each other and smiled happily, and Rosemary said, “Well done, darling.” On Tideway, Hamish removed his yachting cap with a flourish and bowed in acknowledgment of defeat.

“Goodness, that was exciting,” said Emmy. “I’m so glad we won. Do you race a lot?”

Alastair looked at her in surprise. “Race?” he said. “Good heavens, no. Never. We don’t enjoy it.”