Priscilla leant dangerously far out of the window, and spoke in a travesty of a stage whisper. “Mrs. Tappitt,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something. You see, I happen to know that—”
“Good morning, madam,” said a fruity, P. G. Wodehouse voice loudly. “Was there something?”
Furious, Emmy dropped her gaze to the front door. It was open, and George Riddle stood there, looking like a dentist in his starched white jacket. When she glanced up again, Priscilla’s window was empty.
Biting back her anger, Emmy said, “I want to see Sir Simon, please. It’s very urgent.”
Riddle stood back to allow Emmy to enter the famous, marble-paved circular hall, with its spiral staircase leading to the circular gallery on the first floor. Then he opened the door of the Blue Drawing Room.
“If you will wait in here, madam,” he said, in his carefully cultivated butler’s accent, “I will inform Sir Simon.”
On an impulse, Emmy said, “I’m sorry to hear about Sir Simon’s car. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Riddle looked far from pleased. “I really cannot say, madam. It is in the hands of the garridge.”
“But you worked on it last night, didn’t you?” Emmy persisted. “What was wrong with it?”
“I was not able to locate the trouble, madam,” said Riddle angrily.
Oh, very well, thought Emmy. You’ll have to tell Henry later on. Aloud she said, “You must have made an early start to get back here from Berrybridge this morning. There’s not a bus, is there?”
There was a perceptible pause, and then Riddle said, in his normal voice and very fast, “I come on me Dad’s bike.” Then, quickly recollecting himself, he added, “I will inform Sir Simon of your arrival, madam,” and withdrew.
Emmy gazed out of the window, over the vista of lawns, trees and water, and wondered miserably how she should handle the coming interview. Henry had given her so little to go on. He had told her to watch people’s reactions to the news of Colin’s death. Perhaps she ought to have sprung it on Priscilla and Riddle, instead of trying unsuccessfully to follow her own hunch that they might divulge certain information more readily before they heard the news. She felt that she was making a hash of things, and hoped that Henry was not counting too much on the results of her expedition.
At the back of her mind, with nagging insistence, a tiny conversation she had had that morning with Henry repeated itself like a worn gramophone record.
“Henry,” she had said, “was Colin murdered?”
And Henry had replied, “I think so.”
Emmy was jerked out of her reverie by the sight of Sir Simon. He was dressed in old tweeds and Wellington boots, and he was walking up towards the house from the path that led to the boathouse. Wiping his hands on his dirty trousers, he disappeared round the corner of the house towards the front door. A minute or two later, Emmy heard voices in the hall, and Sir Simon came in.
“My dear Mrs. Tibbett,” he began, “forgive me—can’t shake hands—covered with oil from Priscilla’s engine—didn’t even stop to wash. Felt I had to see you straight away when I heard the news. Tragic business.”
Emmy’s morale sank beneath the load of failure. “You mean—?” she began.
“Young Street, of course. Found drowned. Old George told me just now, in the drive. I suppose that’s why you’re here. Expect your husband sent you.”
Emmy could have cried. “Yes,” she said, inadequately and miserably.
“Lucky you got old George to wait,” Sir Simon went on. “We can get him to drive us both back. Expect you may have heard about my old bus. Most mysterious. Running perfectly earlier in the evening, and then when I came to go home—just wouldn’t start. Plenty in the battery, too. Riddle couldn’t find what was wrong. And to crown it all, Priscilla’s out of action, too. Oil in her plugs, I’m afraid. So we’re well and truly marooned out here. My goodness, I can hardly believe it. Tragic.” Sir Simon paused for breath. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Tibbett, I’ll get some of this grease off my paws and change my trousers, and we’ll be off.”
With that, he bustled out, leaving Emmy to her bitter thoughts, and to the contemplation of the river. A few minutes later he was back, spruce and clean in a faded pair of grey flannels and a hacking jacket. He demurred somewhat when Emmy insisted that they should take George Riddle back to Berrybridge with them.
“Don’t like leaving my sister alone,” he explained uneasily. “Since Mrs. Bradwell left, there’s nobody else in the house. Cooks are hard to come by, these days, and my sister...nervous, you understand...”
It was then that Emmy had her inspiration. “I’m afraid my husband was quite definite about wanting to see both you and Riddle,” she said, “but why shouldn’t I stay here with Miss Trigg-Willoughby? Whoever drives you back here can pick me up.”
Sir Simon looked uncomfortable. “It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Tibbett,” he began, “but I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble of—”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Emmy firmly. “I can have another look at your beautiful house, and I’m longing to see the garden. It was pouring with rain last time I was here, if you remember. I needn’t bother your sister at all, if she’s resting. But I expect you’ll feel happier, just knowing there’s someone in the house.”
“Well...” Sir Simon could not hide the relief in his voice. “It would be most kind of you. I’ll just tell Priscilla.”
Emmy stood at the front door and waved goodbye to the hearselike black Lanchester, as it rolled its stately way down the broad drive. When it was out of sight, she turned and went indoors. Her footsteps echoed across the marble circle of the hall. At the foot of the stairs she paused in a shaft of sunlight, and listened. The beautiful, pale house was enveloped in a veil of bright silence as though crystallized in ice. Slowly, Emmy began to climb the spiral staircase.
***
The sunshine splashed onto the red-tiled floor of Hamish’s drawing room in golden pools, and Inspector Proudie mopped his brow with a very white handkerchief. Hamish and Rosemary had given their accounts of the events of the evening before, and now Alastair was sitting, unhappily, on the edge of one of the big armchairs, trying to recall at what time Anne and David had arrived at Ariadne the previous night.
“It must have been after half past one,” he said, at length. “I had given up waiting and gone to bed soon after midnight. I was dozing off when I heard David’s dinghy alongside. I got up and helped Anne on board. She hadn’t been back to Mary Jane for her sleeping bag after all—thought it was too late—so I gave her mine and made my bunk up with blankets. We tried to make as little noise as possible, and I don’t think any of the others woke up—did you?”
“Not really,” said Henry. “I just heard David’s voice and then I went off to sleep again.”
“I was pretty tired, too,” said Alastair. “I didn’t need any rocking to sleep. I remember hearing David rowing away again, and the next thing I knew, it was morning.”
Henry leant forward. “David?” he said.
“Well, I presume so,” said Alastair. “Nobody else would have been out at that hour. I heard a dinghy, anyway. It was an absolutely still night, and you know how sound carries over the water. I heard the splash of oars and that slight creaking you get from the rowlocks.”
“David delivered Anne to Ariadne,” said Henry. “You and she discussed the matter of the sleeping bag, you remade your bunk, and you both went to bed. How long did all that take?”
“About a quarter of an hour, I suppose. I noticed it was ten to two by the cabin clock when I blew out the lamps.”
“And then,” said Henry, “you heard a dinghy. Meaning either that David had been rowing round in circles for nearly twenty minutes, or that somebody else was out last night.”
“I never thought of that,” said Alastair slowly. “Not that it matters. Poor old Colin must have been dead already by then.”
“By the way,” said Henry, “it’s true, isn�
�t it, that Colin couldn’t swim?”
“Yes,” said Alastair. “I often told him he ought to learn. It’s not safe messing about in boats, unless you can at least keep yourself afloat in an emergency.” He passed a hand over his brow. “It’s hell,” he said. “I ought to have gone after him last night and made sure he was all right. If only I—”
“Now don’t worry about that, sir,” said Proudie soothingly. “You couldn’t possibly know what was going to happen.”
“You see”—Alastair was talking to Henry—“I’ve seen old Colin a bit pickled many times, but he always managed the dinghy without any trouble. That’s why I—”
“Nobody could possibly blame you, Mr. Benson,” said Proudie, more firmly. Alastair gave him a glance in which gratitude and anguish were equally mixed. “And now,” Proudie went on, “I think that’s all for the moment. We needn’t keep you any longer, Mr. Benson.”
In the doorway, Alastair narrowly missed colliding with Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby, who came striding in, bristling with anger. Before either Henry or Proudie could say a word, he barked out, “I have a complaint to make to the police. My car has been tampered with!”
Proudie looked taken aback; Henry, unsurprised, said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Simon. What happened?”
“Last night.” Sir Simon sat down heavily. “Last night, when I wanted to go home. Thing wouldn’t start. Nothing unusual in that, of course, but damned annoying. I took Old George’s taxi home, and left Riddle working on the car. He couldn’t find the trouble—hardly surprising, really. Pitch dark and only a torch to work with. So very sensibly he left it and went home to his father’s place. Early this morning he phoned the local garage to come and tow the car away. I’ve just been in to see them.” Sir Simon paused, and snorted. “Rotary arm,” he went on, outraged. “Deliberately removed. Nothing wrong with the car at all. And what’s more, we found it.”
With that, he produced a small piece of Bakelite triumphantly from his pocket and threw it down on the table.
“Where did you find this?” Henry asked, intrigued.
“Riddle found it, to be accurate,” said Sir Simon. “Under a bush in the pub yard, close to where the car was parked. Disgraceful. Silly childish trick. Don’t see why these damned youngsters should get away with it.”
“What makes you think a youngster did it?” said Henry.
Sir Simon did not answer this directly, but merely remarked with venom on the bad manners and misguided sense of the humour of the younger generation in general, and in particular of...at which point, he went even redder than usual, and stopped.
“You mean you think Colin Street did this?” Henry asked.
“I’m making no accusations,” said Sir Simon quickly. “But he had a macabre sense of fun, poor boy, for all his brilliance. Practical jokes. You know the kind of thing I mean. Not funny, in my opinion.”
Henry picked up the distributor head. “May I keep this?” he asked.
“Must you?”
“It might be important,” said Henry. “The garage has surely supplied a new one.”
Sir Simon grunted his assent. Henry wrapped the small object carefully in his handkerchief, and then said, “By the way, Sir Simon, were you planning to take the car out again last night, or early this morning?”
“I wanted it for this morning,” said Sir Simon. “Priscilla’s motor is out of action, and I wanted to go to Woodbridge for some spares. The whole matter is extremely irritating.”
“Well, you can be sure that Inspector Proudie will investigate your complaint very thoroughly,” said Henry. Proudie looked none too pleased, and suggested a little acidly that they might now get down to the business in hand, asking Sir Simon to run through his recollections of Colin’s last hours: but apart from a positive and caustic assertion that the latter had been drunk and incapable when he left The Berry Bush, Sir Simon had nothing to add to what Henry and Proudie already knew. He gave his answers brusquely and briefly, and seemed glad to escape into the sunshine.
By contrast, George Riddle was inclined to be garrulous.
“Terrible business, sir,” he said earnestly. “Criminal offence, if you ask me.”
“What’s a criminal offense?” Proudie asked sharply.
“Falsifying the vote,” said George Riddle, unctuously. “Disgrace to the borough. Just what you’d expect from Herbert Hole.”
“We’re not talking about that,” said Proudie impatiently. “We’re talking about Mr. Street.”
“Not that he was much better,” said George, with a self-righteous sniff. “Wrecking people’s cars.”
“What makes you so sure that Mr. Street took the distributor head out of the Daimler?” Henry asked.
“Just like him,” said George.
“You didn’t think of looking at the rotor arm last night?”
“Course I didn’t. I thought it was the petrol pump—she’s given trouble before, see.”
“Why,” Henry persisted, “didn’t you go back to Berry Hall with Sir Simon in the taxi?”
“I could have,” admitted George a trifle uneasily, “but I felt sure I could fix her, and Sir Simon didn’t want to wait—doesn’t like leaving Miss Priscilla alone in the house. And I knew he wanted the car first thing in the morning.”
“Tell us,” said Proudie, “what you saw and heard while you were working on the car.”
“Me?” George looked surprised. “Nothing much. The ladies and gents from the boats all went off down the hard. Then Sir Simon went inside the pub with Bob Calloway, and they called Old George. He came round straight away, and took Sir Simon off. After that, Bob locked up The Berry Bush and put the lights out. It was all quiet and dark then.”
“How long did you work?”
“About an hour, I reckon—maybe a bit less. Then I got fed up and packed it in and went to my dad’s cottage.”
“Where’s that?” Henry asked.
George jerked a thumb. “Bit upriver from this one,” he said. “Couple of hundred yards. I did notice the lights were still on in here. Fact, I saw Mr. Rawnsley through the window.”
“What was he doing?”
“Nothing much. Sitting at that table, with a lot of papers and things laid out on it. Didn’t stop to look.”
When George had gone, Henry said to Proudie, “I’m bothered about the place where Colin’s body was found. Why was it so much upstream from the hard?”
“That’s easy,” said Proudie. “Question of tides.”
“How do you mean?”
“High water, four twenty-seven this morning,” said Proudie. “That means, before half past four, Mr. Street’s body—and the capsized dinghy—would have floated upstream. Half past four, dead water. Then, about five, they’d start drifting down again. That’s what the dinghy was doing when Mr. Benson spotted it.”
“So,” said Henry, “we can be absolutely certain that Colin was drowned before half past four.”
“Good lord, yes.” Proudie frowned. “I’d say about two o’clock would be the latest time, judging by where the body was found. But of course you never know for certain. In any case, I’m afraid it’s only too clear what happened.” He glanced through the notes he had taken. “Mr. Street had had too much to drink. Nobody disputes that. Mrs. Benson was worried about leaving him to row back on his own, but her husband was annoyed—and very naturally, if I may say so—at Mr. Street’s behaviour earlier in the evening, and took the attitude of letting him stew in his own juice. I hope Mr. Benson won’t go on reproaching himself. Anyhow, it’s perfectly clear that, in his drunken state, Mr. Street capsized his dinghy. We know that he couldn’t swim, and it’s well-known that bathing with too much alcohol in the system often causes cramp. He must have been too fuddled even to cry out. Just sank like a stone. A very nasty accident.”
Proudie drew a firm line across his notebook. “Q.E.D.” he seemed to be saying.
“I don’t believe it,” said Henry, stubbornly.
“Now, look, sir,” s
aid Proudie, trying not to sound exasperated. “You yourself were on board Mary Jane this morning. You saw for yourself that Mr. Street never reached her last night. His bunk wasn’t made up. Nothing had been touched since he and Miss Petrie left the boat before dinner. You yourself saw Mr. Street just about to set off in his dinghy, at eleven thirty. So it’s clear that he must have met his death while rowing out to his boat—say between eleven thirty and eleven forty-five. Where was everybody then? You and Mrs. Tibbett were on board Ariadne with Mr. and Mrs. Benson. Miss Petrie and Mr. Crowther were together on Pocahontas. Sir Simon was on his way back to Berry Hall in Old George’s taxi. Bob Calloway was clearing up the pub with the barman.”
“George Riddle,” said Henry, “was allegedly tinkering with Sir Simon’s car in the yard of the inn. And Hamish Rawnsley was allegedly here in his cottage, going to bed, although he was still up an hour later, according to George. Neither of them has any proof that he’s telling the truth.”
“I know that,” said Proudie, “but what does it prove? Here’s a perfectly straightforward accident, and you want everybody who knew the dead man to have an unshakeable alibi. It would be unnatural if they did.”
“I suppose so,” said Henry.
It was at that moment that the telephone rang. Proudie picked it up.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, speaking... Yes... Yes...”
There was a long silence. Proudie’s face clouded with worry. “What’s that? Say that again... You’re sure? No mistake at all?... I see... Yes, it does change things... Yes, I’ll tell him.”
He put down the receiver and looked sombrely at Henry. “Looks as though your hunch may have been right after all, sir,” he said slowly. “That was the police doctor. He’s just finished the post mortem.”
“Well?” said Henry.
“Death due to drowning,” said Proudie. “Body had been in the water between five and eight hours, as near as he could say.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“But,” said Proudie, “there’s something else. The skull was cracked by a heavy blow before death. Mr. Street wasn’t just drunk when he fell in the river. He was unconscious, and he might have died anyhow.”
The Sunken Sailor Page 16