The Sunken Sailor

by Patricia Moyes

  “No,” said Henry.

  “A remarkable man. A great friend of mine. One of the few people round here one could really trust. A gentleman.”

  “A very good sailor, too, I understand,” said Henry.

  “First class. Nobody to touch him in this river.”

  “It seems extraordinary,” said Henry, carefully, “that such an experienced yachtsman should be killed like that, by his own boom.”

  Sir Simon took his eyes off the horizon for a moment, to give Henry a sharp look. “Not at all,” he said. “I can tell you’re not a man of the sea, or you wouldn’t say such things. Could happen to anybody. Look at Slocum.”

  “Nobody knows what happened to him,” Henry pointed out. “He just disappeared, didn’t he, with his boat?”

  “Exactly.” Sir Simon spoke with dogmatic emphasis. “Could have been run down by a steamer, certainly. Or it could have been an accident just like Pete’s—knocked out by his own boom.”

  There was a pause, noisy with the throb of the engine and the pounding of the waves on the hull. Then Henry said, “I suppose you’re right. But it interests me, just the same. It’s a pity you weren’t on the spot—you might have been able to do something.”

  “I doubt it,” said Sir Simon. “The whole thing happened in fog, you know. Quite impossible to see Steep Hill from the house, and only a fool would have taken a boat out in weather like that. Anyhow, as it happened, I was in Ipswich all day—didn’t get back till evening, when it was all over. I’d intended to come home for lunch, but when the fog came down, I decided it was a mug’s game to try driving in it. So I had lunch in Ipswich and went to the cinema.” He steered in silence for a moment, and then said, “Ah, well—no sense in brooding on it. Nothing we can do now.”

  “I understand that your man Riddle was very helpful,” said Henry.

  “Yes, he’s a good lad. A bit slapdash about the house sometimes, but I suppose that’s not to be wondered at, when you think of his background. He’s the son of old Sam Riddle, you know—the fisherman. The boy wanted to better himself—and, give him credit, he’s succeeded... Yes—Riddle and Herbert and Benson among them did all that could be done for poor old Pete, but it wasn’t much. The poor chap was dead by the time they found him.”

  “I wonder,” said Henry, “what Herbert was doing there?”

  Sir Simon looked strangely grim. “I have asked myself that question,” he said. And then, “Better set course for home. The ladies will be waiting tea for us.”

  Henry was glad to get back into the warm cheerfulness of the Blue Drawing Room. Priscilla had reappeared. Her rest had apparently refreshed her, for her eyes were bright, and she was chattering away merrily to Rosemary and Emmy.

  “Here we are, then.” Sir Simon rubbed his big, red hands together before the crackling fire. “Took the boat out for a spin. Wonderful afternoon. Ring for tea, will you, Prissy?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Tea. Of course.” Priscilla seemed flustered. She jumped up and ran clumsily over towards the bell. Then, suddenly, she stumbled, put out a hand to steady herself, and grasped the edge of a small table. It rocked, stood poised for an eternal instant on one leg, and crashed to the ground, taking with it a very beautiful small urn in Wedgwood black jasper. Simultaneously with the crash of wood on wood came the sound of splintering porcelain.

  Sir Simon let out a roar of anguished fury. “Priscilla!” he shouted.

  Priscilla looked stupidly at the debris at her feet, and began to giggle. Two bright spots of colour had appeared in her cheeks.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, helpless with incoherent laughter. “What have I done? Oh dear.”

  In two strides, Sir Simon was beside her and down on his knees, gathering up the precious fragments.

  “I suppose you realize what you’ve broken,” he said in a voice of cold fury. “Papa’s favourite piece. The antique Wedgwood.”

  Priscilla laughed again, a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “Poor Papa,” she said. “Naughty Priscilla.”

  Sir Simon looked up sharply, then got to his feet and took his sister’s arm. “You’d better go and lie down,” he said. He turned to the others. “Please forgive us.” With that, he led Priscilla out of the room.

  There was an embarrassed silence. Then Rosemary said, “Oh, dear. The cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it? I was hoping you wouldn’t need to find out.”

  “She’s drunk, isn’t she?” said Henry.

  Rosemary nodded. “I was afraid there might be trouble when she said she was going to rest after lunch,” she said. “That’s always a bad sign. Poor Sir Simon.”

  “I suppose that means,” said Henry, “that on the night of the robbery—”

  “Pickled as a newt,” said Rosemary succinctly. “The Hunt Ball was altogether too much for her, and she fairly let rip when Sir Simon wasn’t looking. She practically had to be carried out. It was rather awful—to happen in front of everybody like that. They’d kept it very well hushed-up, before. And as luck would have it, Herbert was there, helping behind the bar. He adores functions. So of course it was all round Berrybridge in no time. But most people think it was just a solitary lapse. They don’t realize that—”

  The door opened, and Sir Simon came in. “I must apologize,” he said, red-faced. “My sister hasn’t been at all well lately. It’s her nerves.” He went over to the fallen table, set it upright, and began to pick up the pieces of broken pottery. “I suppose they may be able to mend this,” he said, “but of course it will never be the same. My father’s favourite piece.” He straightened, and gave his guests a somewhat grim smile. “And now,” he said, “perhaps we can have our tea in peace.”

  After tea, Rosemary and the Tibbetts drove back to Berrybridge Haven. The sky was clearing fast, and the declining sun was touching the clouds with pink—the prelude to a hearteningly red sunset, with its promise of fine weather to come.

  They reached the hard just in time to see Tideway coming upriver to her moorings. Two tall, oil-skinned figures moved about on her deck, while Anne sat at the helm: but as the boat approached the bobbing red and white mooring buoy, Henry noticed that Hamish went aft and took the tiller himself. Alastair grabbed the buoy and made the chain fast. Anne clambered up on deck and waved energetically.

  Rosemary glanced at her watch. “Half past six,” she said. “Another half hour to opening time, it being Sunday. But I’m sure Bob won’t mind us going in and waiting. The others are bound to be ashore in a minute.”

  They walked back up the hard to The Berry Bush. Outside the pub, in the yard, stood a sleek red Aston-Martin. “Bob’s back,” Rosemary remarked, when she saw the car.

  “That’s a very handsome vehicle for a country publican,” said Emmy.

  Rosemary smiled. “It’s Bob’s pride and joy,” she said. “Heaven knows how he affords to run it.”

  They went into the bar, where a fire was already blazing. A small man with a sharp-featured face and very bright blue eyes was busying himself behind the bar.

  “Hello, Bob,” said Rosemary. “D’you mind if we sit by the fire till opening time?”

  “Course not, Mrs. Benson, make yerself at ’ome,” said the landlord kindly, in a marked Cockney accent. “Just got in meself, and glad to be in the warm, I can tell you, out of—” He suddenly stopped, and looked at Henry. There was a moment of dead silence.

  “How are you, Bob?” said Henry. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Bob came out from behind the bar, hand outstretched. “Well, well, well,” he said. “It’s a small world, I always say. And ’ow are you, Inspector?”

  “Very fit, thank you.”

  “What brings you ’ere, then?” There was the faintest note of anxiety in Bob’s voice. “Expectin’ a crime wave in Berrybridge?”

  Henry smiled. “No, no, this isn’t a business trip,” he said. “We’re sailing with Mr. and Mrs. Benson.”

  “Sailin’, eh? Been out today?”

  “No,” said Henry. “We’ve been over at Ber
ry Hall.”

  For a moment, a wary look crept into Bob’s blue eyes. Then he said, “Well, well, well. ’Ave a seat by the fire, then. Lucky I didn’t suggest servin’ you with a drink before hours, eh? I’d ’ave bin in trouble, and no mistake.”

  Henry grinned. “I know how honest you are, Bob,” he said.

  Bob shot him a suspicious glance, but all he said was, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gents, I’ve got work to do.” He disappeared through the door behind the bar.

  “You know Bob, Henry?” Rosemary asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” said Henry. “He’s an old friend. Used to keep a pub in Soho.”

  “What’s his surname?” Emmy asked.

  “Calloway,” said Rosemary.

  “Bob Calloway?” Emmy turned to Henry, and frowned slightly in an effort at recollection. “Wasn’t that the man who—”

  Henry gave her a reproving look. “He’s the man who used to keep the Duck and Doorknob in Bear Street,” he said. “An old haunt of mine.”

  “I see,” said Emmy. But she looked thoughtful.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A LITTLE LATER, Henry said to Rosemary, “I believe there’s a telephone here, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” said Rosemary. “Out of that door and down the passage. Next to the gents.”

  “I’ve just remembered some loose ends at the office,” Henry explained apologetically, “and I don’t want to hold up the sailing programme by coming ashore to phone tomorrow. Thank goodness the law never sleeps. There should be somebody reasonably intelligent to take a message even on Sunday evening.”

  He armed himself with the requisite small change for a call to London, and stepped out into the corridor. The telephone was at the far end of the gloomy, unlit passage, and somebody was already using it. As the shaft of light from the bar doorway fell across the red-tiled passage, there was a tinkle as the receiver was replaced, and a small, nimble shadow disappeared through a door near the telephone. This door remained slightly ajar, but no light came from behind it.

  Henry walked down the corridor and into the cloakroom. When he came out, the door was still not closed. He sighed, and went back up the passage to the outside door, and out of The Berry Bush into the crisp evening air. It was ten minutes’ brisk walk, uphill all the way, to the main road: but Henry could remember having seen a public telephone box on the corner. It was half an hour later when he rejoined the others at the bar.

  Promptly at seven, as the bar opened, the intrepid mariners from Tideway came in. Hamish and Alastair were both unusually silent, exchanging a few, sparse remarks on the day’s sail, but for the most part brooding with apparent contentment on remembered exhilaration. Anne, however, was garrulous and excited.

  “We went all the way up to the Deben and back,” she said, a trifle breathlessly, “and the seas were huge. Honestly, Rosemary, huge. And it was raining and spray was breaking all over the boat and we got soaked and it was wonderful.”

  “It sounds horrid,” said Rosemary drily.

  Anne looked at her reproachfully. “Oh, no—it was just marvellous. But we were all absolutely wet through. We’ve just been up to Hamish’s house and had a gorgeous whisky to warm us up.”

  “Mean brutes,” said Rosemary. “You might have called in here for us on the way.”

  There was a tiny, awkward silence, and then Anne went on quickly, “The deck was so slippery, Hamish made me wear a lifeline when I went forward to help change the jib. We rolled down two reefs and set the storm trysail off Berry Head, so that’ll show you how rough it was.”

  “You shouldn’t have been on deck at all,” said Hamish. “You weren’t strong enough to be useful. You were just in the way.”

  “What a vile thing to say.”

  “She wasn’t in the way,” said Alastair. “She was a great help. I think it was very plucky of her to come out at all.”

  Anne rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “Darling Alastair,” she said. “I do love being appreciated.” She turned to Henry. “And what have you been doing all day? Cooped up in a stuffy cabin drinking gin, I suppose.”

  “On the contrary,” said Henry, “I’ve been out on the river.”

  “In a boat?”

  “Of course. What else?”

  “I don’t believe you. Which boat?”

  Henry told her about his trip with Sir Simon. Anne was scornful. “Oh, motoring,” she said, wrinkling her minute nose. “That’s quite different. Still, you can bear me out about how bad the weather was.”

  “I think the wind must have moderated by the time we went out,” said Henry. “It didn’t seem too terrible to me.”

  “It wasn’t at all terrible,” said Hamish. “Anne always exaggerates.”

  Anne grinned. “It’s all very well to take that attitude now that you’re snug in a pub,” she said. “You know very well you had some nasty moments out there.”

  “Rubbish,” said Hamish, and relapsed into a moody silence.

  It was not long before Sir Simon arrived in the rapidly filling bar. He came straight over to Henry and Emmy, and began to talk in a friendly way. He did not mention his sister.

  After a polite but somewhat aimless speculation as to the possibilities of improved weather, Sir Simon said, “I’ve been thinking over what you said about Pete Rawnsley, Mr. Tibbett.”

  Henry said nothing, but waited hopefully. After a moment, Sir Simon went on, “It’s perfectly clear what happened. I saw him go aground, you know, before I left the house. About nine o’clock, it must have been.”

  “Did you?” Henry was deeply interested.

  “Yes. I remember it distinctly. I saw the boat go ashore, and I couldn’t believe it was Pete. There are several Dragon-class boats in the river, so I took a look through the glasses to make sure which one it was. But it was Pete all right—I could even make out the Royal Harwich burgee. I could hardly believe my eyes.”

  “Did you watch him to see what he did?”

  “What should he do? Just the ordinary things. Got the sails off her, and so on. I didn’t watch him for long—I had to get to Ipswich. It did occur to me, though, that he might be feeling a bit under the weather. I mean, it was so unlike the man...broad daylight, and he knew the river like the back of his hand.”

  “I suppose it’s inconceivable,” said Henry, “that he should have run aground on purpose?”

  To his surprise, Sir Simon did not immediately refute this idea. He looked thoughtful. “Funny you should say that,” he said. “I almost wondered myself... But it’s a preposterous idea. Why ever should he do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck abstractedly. “By the way, did Priscilla go out that day?”

  Sir Simon looked surprised. “Go out?” he repeated. “I think it’s highly unlikely. We don’t lead much of a social life these days, you know, and my sister isn’t—”

  Henry grinned. “I meant the boat,” he said.

  “Oh, you mean Priscilla. Good heavens, no.” Sir Simon was emphatic. “In the fog? It would have been madness.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Of course I’m sure. The only other person who handles her besides myself is Riddle, and he’s not a lunatic. He’d never have managed the channel in bad visibility.”

  “I suppose, though, that some unauthorized person could have—”

  “My dear Tibbett, what on earth are you suggesting?” Sir Simon was at once amused and slightly nettled. “In any case, what does it matter whether she went out or not?”

  “It probably doesn’t,” said Henry. “I’m sorry.”

  David and Colin came ashore at half past seven, and Henry found himself standing next to David at the bar, waiting for Bob to replenish the beer mugs. The landlord was as sprightly as a sparrow, darting about his business among the big, dark barrels. When he saw Henry, he came over at once.

  “What can I get you then, Inspector?” he asked pertly. “Always see the law gets served first, that’
s my motto. Never know when you’ll need a p’liceman.”

  “Two pints of bitter, please, Bob,” said Henry.

  David had turned to look at Henry. “Are you a policeman?” he asked.

  “Yes. When I’m on duty.”

  David said nothing, but his face had grown grave.

  “What’s that you say, Tibbett? A policeman?” Sir Simon’s voice came resoundingly from behind Henry’s left ear. “A great sleuth from Scotland Yard, eh? Who’d have thought it. We’d all better mind our Ps and Qs, what?”

  “I’m trying to forget my job at the moment,” said Henry. “I’m on holiday.”

  “Had a lot of your chaps nosing round after the burglary,” Sir Simon went on. “Not that they did any good. Waste of the taxpayer’s money. Fellow got clean away.”

  “Still, I wouldn’t give up all hope of getting your property back,” said Henry. “The case isn’t by any means closed, you know.”

  Sir Simon snorted. “After nearly two years—”

  “All the same,” said Henry, “you never know. Excuse me—my wife is waiting for her drink.”

  He made his way back to the inglenook where he had left Emmy, and found her in conversation with Herbert. To be more accurate, Herbert was carrying on a monologue, which—through the mists and mazes of his rolling Suffolk accent, aided and abetted by several missing teeth—was virtually incomprehensible. The gist of it seemed to be a dark tale of the disasters which had overtaken various boats unlucky enough to fall into the hands of Bill Hawkes, but the details were far from clear. Fortunately, however, Emmy’s encouraging nods and appreciative monosyllables seemed to satisfy the Harbour Master. Only once did he show disapproval: he had reached an exquisitely comic highlight in an anecdote, and broke suddenly into a delighted cackle of laughter, in which Emmy, who had been taken by surprise, failed to join. Herbert gave her a cryptic look.

  “There’s them as ’as a sense o’ ’umour and them as don’t,” he remarked, severely. “Take Mrs. ’Ole.”

  Quickly, Emmy diverted the conversation to the ever-absorbing topic of Mrs. Hole’s feet: but she felt considerably relieved to see Henry making his way back to the table with his cargo of glasses.