The Sunken Sailor

by Patricia Moyes

  “I wish I knew,” she said. “We’ve often wondered ourselves. But of course, it’s entirely their business. They keep on having the most monumental fights, and every time we expect to hear that the whole thing is off. But a couple of days later they’re together again. I suspect that it’s always Colin who climbs down and apologises.”

  “What does Colin do?” Henry asked.

  “He’s a barrister,” said Rosemary, “and absolutely brilliant, by all accounts. Of course, he’s young yet, but everybody is convinced he’s going right to the top. Sir Colin Street, Q.C., without a doubt. I sometimes wonder if that’s why Anne—” She stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m being bitchy. I don’t really mean that at all.”

  The bar door swung open, and the burly figure of Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby came in. He greeted Rosemary warmly.

  “Nice to see you, Mrs. Benson,” he boomed. “Pity you don’t spend more time down here. Priscilla was saying only the other day that we never see you up at the Hall.”

  Rosemary introduced Henry and Emmy, and then said, “It’s so difficult when we’re only here for weekends, Sir Simon. But this time we’re on holiday—two whole weeks. So we’d love to come and see you while we’re here.”

  “You do that, Mrs. Benson. Priscilla will be delighted. She doesn’t get out much, y’know. Does her good to see some young faces about the place. Come whenever you like, and bring these good people with you. Any time. Any time at all.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Rosemary.

  “Nonsense. A great pleasure. Of course,” added Sir Simon, with a smile, “I know you sailing folk. Never waste a good day ashore. We’ll expect you the first time it rains. You’ll have to come when the sun’s shining, though, if you want to see the way the west terrace has been repaired. A beautiful job. And the Adam Room is completely restored now. Only got rid of the workmen last week.”

  “Oh, yes—I’m longing to see that.” Rosemary turned to Henry and Emmy. “The Adam Room is marvellous—one of the finest in England. Sir Simon’s just had a lot of work done on it.”

  “Well, Mrs. Benson, the invitation’s open. Come soon.”

  Sir Simon made his way over to the bar, obviously not ill-pleased by the gratifying number of raised caps and tugged forelocks that accompanied his progress. Emmy and Rosemary became engrossed in a discussion on eighteenth-century architecture. Anne was talking to Herbert and Old Ephraim—a process which evoked much cackling and thumping of mugs on the table from the two old men. Colin had joined Hamish and Alastair, and the plans were out of their envelope again. Henry spotted David Crowther sitting by himself on one of the high-backed wooden settles, and made his way over.

  “This new boat of Hamish’s seems to be causing quite a stir,” he remarked as he sat down. “Alastair seems very critical of it.”

  David looked up and said, “It’s Hamish’s business what he does with his own money.”

  “Of course it is,” said Henry, embarrassed at being misunderstood. “And I’m sure that his uncle—”

  “What does it matter now what Pete would have said?” said David. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “He must have been a remarkable character by all accounts,” said Henry. “I wish I’d known him.”

  “Pete was a strange mixture,” said David. He spoke quietly, as if to himself. “So bloody high-minded in some ways and absolutely unprincipled in others. It’s all very well to talk about responsibility to the community, but—” He looked straight at Henry. “Which do you think is the worse sin?” he demanded. “To run a harmless racket just a shade outside the law, or to play fast and loose with the life of another human being?”

  Henry considered. “It depends how harmless the racket is,” he said at length.

  “Absolutely harmless,” said David without hesitation. “Just making a few bob on the side. That was a deadly sin to Pete. The authorities must be informed. No chance of an appeal. And yet, when it came to his private life...” There was a pause, and then he added, “I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for Pete Rawnsley. I think there’s such a thing as loyalty.”

  Feeling his way carefully, Henry said, “He must have been very fond of Hamish.”

  “Hamish.” David brooded for a moment. “Yes, I suppose he was, in his own way. Tried to drum a sense of proportion into him. If Pete had been alive, Hamish wouldn’t have had this new boat, I can tell you.”

  “Well, I suppose he’s only able to afford it now that he’s inherited—”

  “Even if he’d had the money.” David lit a cigarette. “You know what he plans to do, don’t you? Throw up his job—everything. Take his boat round the world, picking up a bit here and there by chartering and odd jobs. He wouldn’t have dared to do that if Pete had been alive. Pete was the only person Hamish was afraid of.” He paused, and then went on, “I’m not saying I approve of what Hamish is doing. I think he’s a bloody fool. But I’ll defend to my last breath his right to do it if he wants to.”

  “I didn’t realize,” said Henry, “that sailing could get such a hold on people.”

  David smiled, a secret smile. “It’s a disease,” he said. “Usually fatal. I haven’t caught it myself. I love my boat—she’s an escape, a safety valve. And there’s so much beauty... I don’t do very much sailing, actually. I suppose they told you that. I’m quite content to sit in harbour, and potter about the boat and be alone. Hamish and Alastair are only really happy if they’re soaked to the skin in the middle of the North Sea with a gale blowing and the lee rail awash. That’s not my idea of fun.”

  “You said today,” said Henry, gently, “that there wasn’t enough wind for your liking.”

  David looked at him, and smiled ruefully. “One plays the game according to the rules,” he said. “I suppose they all see through me. I don’t much care.”

  “David, darling, are you going to buy me a beer?” Anne’s husky voice broke the silence that had fallen, and David jumped up.

  “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Sit down. Bitter?”

  “Please.” Anne sat down astride the bench on the other side of the table, and smiled ravishingly. “A pint, David. None of your mingy halves.”

  “I don’t know where you put it,” said David. “A pint for you, Henry?”

  “Half will do me, thanks.”

  David departed to the bar, and Anne said, “Coward.” Her green eyes glistened across the table at Henry. “You can’t come into our pub and drink halves.”

  “I drink what I like,” said Henry, good-humouredly. “I’m quite old enough to make up my own mind on such matters, worse luck.”

  Anne eyed him appraisingly. “Yes, you are older than most of us,” she said. “Almost as old as Pete.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Fifty-one,” said Anne promptly.

  “And you loved him?” asked Henry gravely.

  Anne wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I did. In a funny way. I’ve never met anyone else quite like him. He was such an exciting man. And so wise.”

  “Just as a matter of interest,” said Henry, “how old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “So Pete was more than old enough to be your father.”

  Anne sat up very straight, her small mouth hardened into an angry line. “For heaven’s sake, don’t you start,” she said. “I’m sick and tired of hearing people say that—especially Colin. Well, he’s had his revenge. Pete’s dead. I hope he’s happy.”

  “You don’t mean that Colin...?”

  All the anger had gone out of Anne’s face, and she looked like a small, bewildered child. “I don’t know what I mean,” she said quietly. “It’s just something I feel. Like the feeling that Steep Hill is haunted.” She was silent for a moment, her dark head bent. Then she looked up and smiled at Henry. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she said. “I’ve had too much beer. It always makes me talk nonsense.”

  “Anne,” said Henry very seriously, “forgive me for asking you this—but it inter
ests me very much. Besides yourself, who else really liked Pete Rawnsley? It’s obvious that Colin hated him, and David doesn’t seem—”

  Before Henry could finish, Anne burst out, “Nobody! Nobody at all! Except Hamish, of course. But all the others—they pretended to like him, but they loathed him!”

  “Why?”

  For a moment Anne didn’t answer. When she did, it was in an entirely different voice—a voice of deliberate seduction. “They were jealous,” she said.

  “Jealous of what?”

  Anne gave him a slow look from her slanting green eyes.

  “Guess,” she said.

  Then David came back with the beer, and Anne began to recount the gist of her recent conversation with Herbert, which seemed to centre round the latter’s chances of being elected Mayor of Berrybridge Haven when the unofficial voting took place the following week.

  “Herbert’s a three to one chance,” Anne confided, “according to Sam Riddle, who’s making the book. Bill Hawkes is fancied in some quarters, but the more conservative element say he’s too young and hasn’t lived in the borough long enough. He’s four to one. Old Ephraim, the sitting mayor, is odds-on favourite for re-election, but Herbert says to his face that he’s too old to know a chain from a cocked hat. I mean a mayoral chain, of course,” she added demurely. “Herbert’s also accusing Bill Hawkes of bribing the electorate and providing an illicit bicycle to convey voters to the polls. But that’s only to be expected. And talking of illegal transport—the gossip is that if Mrs. Hole’s feet are too bad, Herbert intends to trundle her down to the booths in a wheelbarrow. He can’t afford to lose a vote—not with four candidates and a voting population of forty-seven.”

  “Who’s the fourth candidate?” Henry asked.

  “Sam Riddle,” said Anne. “The big fisherman over there. Father of George Riddle, who works at the hall. He’s not much fancied. He’s giving six to one against himself.”

  “What a pity we can’t vote,” said Henry.

  “I’m just as glad,” David remarked. “I couldn’t stand Herbert’s canvassing. Anyway, we’re all invited to the inauguration ceremony next weekend, so we get the best of both worlds.”

  “What happens?” Henry asked.

  “Beer is drunk,” said David, “in unbelievable quantities, both before and after a rather splendid cold collation donated by Bob, the landlord. The newly elected mayor is robed and invested by Sir Simon, and they both make speeches. Then we all sing the Berrybridge anthem. Then more beer is drunk. By about ten o’clock, the mayor is generally unrobed again, and most of the aldermen are under the table. Those who can still stand are all making speeches. It’s all very foolish and great fun. There’s seldom any fighting, and not more than three or four civic dignitaries are sick. A charming piece of old English folklore.”

  “How long has this tradition been going on?” Henry asked.

  “Its origins,” Anne replied solemnly, “are lost in the mists of time. About six years, actually, but don’t tell anybody. The landlord who had The Berry Bush before Bob heard about the election of the Mayor of Pin Mill, and decided to imitate it. Of course, Pin Mill is quite different. Much more dignified and ancient. Anyhow, Bob has kept it on here to boost the sale of bitter.”

  “Which is Bob?” Henry asked, surveying the three or four figures who scurried busily on the far side of the bar.

  “He’s away for the weekend,” said David. “You’ll meet him when he comes back tomorrow. He’s quite a character.”

  “You seem to go in for characters in this part of the world.”

  “All part of the show,” said Anne pertly. “Give the customers what they want. It’s amazing how a few local eccentrics can stimulate trade in the public bar.”

  “You’re a horrible little cynic,” said David, fondly. Anne rewarded him with a sidelong grin. “I don’t hold much brief for Herbert,” David went on, “but I do believe he’s genuine.”

  “Oh, Herbert’s a genuine character all right,” said Anne. “But not quite in the way that people think.”

  David looked at her sharply, but said nothing.

  “If you knew what I know about Herbert,” added Anne, “you’d be amazed.” She gave Henry a provocative look.

  “Go on, then,” said Henry obediently. “Tell us. What do you know?”

  “It’s a secret,” Anne said virtuously. “I can’t possibly tell you.”

  “You’re dying to tell me,” said Henry. “You may as well get it over.”

  Anne grinned, like a street urchin. “O.K.,” she said. “Well, the fact is that Herbert—”

  “Anne,” said David suddenly, “you’ve got a smut on your nose.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have. Take a look.”

  Anne pulled a tiny powder compact out of her pocket, and studied her face with loving care.

  “You liar,” she said, at length. “I haven’t.” All the same, she began to dab at her nose energetically with a small pink puff.

  David turned to Henry and demanded a full account of the day’s misfortunes on Steep Hill Sands. The secret life of Herbert Hole was forgotten. Henry made a mental note to return to the subject at a more propitious moment. Meanwhile he gave himself up to the undeniable pleasure of relating his experiences to an enthralled audience, and to the stimulus of Anne’s company.

  At nine o’clock, Rosemary announced that whatever the rest of the party might want to do, she personally was going back to the boat for supper. So they all went.

  In a ridiculously short time, a delicious meal emerged, steaming, from the galley. While Emmy and Rosemary washed up, Alastair and Henry smoked a last cigarette in the cockpit under the clear night sky.

  Henry said, “Anne’s a fascinating girl.”

  Alastair did not take his eyes off the particular star which he was studying. “Do you think so?” he said.

  “Don’t you?”

  There was a silence, and then, softly, Alastair quoted,

  “Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyesUnited cast too fierce a light,

  Which blazes high, but quickly dies,

  Pains not the heart, but burns the sight.

  Love is a calmer, gentler joy,Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace.

  Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,That runs his link full in your face.”

  There was a moment of absolute silence under the stars. Then Alastair smiled shyly. “Learned it at school,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’ve always remembered it. It reminds me of Anne.”

  Henry looked steadily at Alastair’s thin, handsome profile. He heard Rosemary’s soft laughter from the cabin, and vividly, he remembered the expression in Anne’s slanting green eyes as she said the one word—“Guess.”

  I wonder, thought Henry. I wonder very much.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NEXT DAY IT RAINED. Unaccountably, from nowhere, black clouds had massed over the horizon in the small hours of the morning, and Ariadne’s crew woke to the dismal sound of rain pattering on the cabin-top, interspersed by spasmodic swearing from Alastair, who had found out—by the only known method of discovering such things—that there was a small leak in the deck immediately above his left ear. Otherwise, however, the boat was warm and dry, and breakfast a cheerful enough meal.

  When it was over, Alastair put his head out into the dripping cockpit, and said, “Hamish is going out. He’s getting his sails on.”

  “Well, don’t let it give you ideas,” said Rosemary, “because we’re staying exactly where we are.”

  “It’s going to be pretty dreary, sitting in here all day,” said Alastair wistfully. “After all, we’ve got oilskins. And there’s a nice breeze.”

  “I can hear it,” said Rosemary, with a shudder. Then she added, “If you want to go, darling, why don’t you join Hamish? I’m sure he’d be glad of company.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Alastair was like a boy out of school. “It really is a marvellous day.”

  “I don�
��t mind anything so long as I don’t have to come with you,” said Rosemary. “Come on, I’ll row you over. And for heaven’s sake take care of yourselves.”

  She and Alastair embarked in the dinghy, arrayed in copious yellow oilskins and sou’wester hats, while Henry and Emmy washed up. As she washed the mugs, Emmy said, tentatively, “Henry, do you really think that man was murdered?”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I’m pretty sure of it.” And then he said, “I wish I didn’t.”

  “Can’t you forget it, darling?” Emmy’s voice was really worried. “I mean—these people are friends. It would be so terrible if...” She trailed off into unhappy silence.

  Henry looked at her seriously. “I have to know,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I have to. Trust me to be as tactful as I can.”

  “Oh dear,” said Emmy. Then she smiled at him.

  Henry kissed her across the washing-up bowl. “I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, darling,” said Emmy.

  When Rosemary came back, she looked upset, and there was a thin edge of bitterness in her voice as she said, “Well, I hope the three of them enjoy themselves.”

  “The three of them?” Emmy said. “I thought—”

  “That little fool Anne has gone with them,” said Rosemary, shortly. “She’ll only be in the way.”

  “What about Colin?” Henry asked.

  “He and David are spending the day on Mary Jane, doing odd jobs,” said Rosemary. “They’ve got a bit more sense.”

  There was a short pause, and then Emmy said, “I don’t suppose we could take Sir Simon at his word, could we? I mean, about going over to Berry Hall. I’m just longing to see that house.”

  Rosemary brightened at once. “What a splendid idea,” she said. “We’ll go ashore, and ring him from The Berry Bush. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

  The trip to the quayside was damply unpleasant. The dinghy butted and rolled dangerously as the driving wind whipped up the grey river into sizable waves. It was with a distinct sensation of relief that they felt their feet on dry land—if such a term can be used to describe the wet, slippery hard.