“I will,” said Henry.
***
The barman of The Berry Bush was calling “Time” when Henry went upstairs again to Emmy’s room. He found her engaged in a fierce game of demon patience with Proudie, who showed an exceptional quickness of mind and hand.
Henry sat down wearily and said, “Bob Calloway’s hopped it.”
“That’s bad,” said Proudie. “Should we...?”
“I’ve done all I can,” said Henry. “Now it’s time to sort out all the threads and put the case in order. I know the answer, and I’ve got no proof.”
Proudie looked profoundly worried. “If you know the answer,” he said, “then we’d surely better arrest the fellow right away. We’ve had more than enough trouble already.”
“I can’t,” said Henry. “I told you, I’ve got no proof—nothing that would stand up in a court of law. We’ve got to set a trap, and I’m damned if I know just how to bait it.”
“Well, let’s have it.” Proudie swept up his patience cards. “Whodunit, as they say?”
Henry said, “It’ll take some time to explain, and we’ll need all these...” He waved a hand at the pile of notebooks, almanacks and dossiers. “I hope I can convince you that I’m right.”
“The main thing,” said Proudie doggedly, “is this. Is anyone else in danger of being killed? I’m not prepared to risk—”
“No,” said Henry. “Not at the moment, in any case.” Surprisingly, he added, “We’re not dealing with a violent murderer.”
“Not...?” Proudie was speechless.
“Basically a gentle person,” said Henry sadly. “But violence breeds violence, and one stupid action leads to another, until... Oh, well, let’s get on with it. This is what I think happened...”
***
When Henry had finished, Proudie said, “It’s a funny case, all right, but I believe you’ve got the truth of it.”
“But no proof,” said Henry. “And Bob Calloway has bolted.”
“So the only thing to do—”
“This particular drama,” said Henry, “will end, appropriately enough, where it began—on Steep Hill Sands.” He thought for a while, and then said, “Is there a typewriter in Bob’s office?”
“Yes,” said Proudie.
“I’m going to borrow it,” said Henry. “I’m going to write a note and hope for the best.”
He was in the small, cluttered office, and the bar clock had ticked past midnight, when the phone rang shrilly, scattering the dark silence. It was the sergeant from Ipswich. The Aston Martin had been found, neatly parked in a municipal car park outside Colchester. Of Bob Calloway there was no sign whatsoever.
“Never mind,” said Henry. “It’s just as well.”
“But—”
“Call off the search,” said Henry. “And if anybody does spot him, tail him but don’t arrest him. Let him have all the rope he wants.”
Cutting short the sergeant’s protests, he rang off and went back to the typewriter.
“You know who this is from,” he spelt out, laboriously. “Bring in the rest of the goods tomorrow evening. I’ll be waiting. H.T. knows quite a bit, but he’s nowhere near the truth. I fooled him nicely today. Good luck.”
He put the note in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a conspicuous position behind the bar. Then he went upstairs to bed.
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.
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