Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1)

by Victor Bridges

  What sort of figure he would cut as a private detective Heaven alone knew. That he possessed some qualifications must obviously be the opinion of both Captain Greystoke and his late skipper. It was impossible to believe that he would have been selected for a job of this nature without very serious consideration, and fail though he might to achieve anything sensational, he would at least do his utmost to justify their confidence. It was not merely a question of his own future career. By handling the affair successfully he would no doubt increase his chance of being offered further and perhaps more responsible duties, but the principal emotion that dominated his heart and mind was a grim desire to assist in smashing up this gang of spies and traitors whose evil activities seemed to be endangering the very honour and safety of his own beloved Service.

  When he thought of Medlicot his lips tightened. Impossible as it was to feel the slightest sympathy for a man who had betrayed his country, such a sordid ending to what had promised to be a brilliant and valuable life could only be regarded as a pitiful tragedy. It filled him with an unspeakable loathing for Craig and the whole rotten crowd who were playing into the Nazis’ hands. For vermin of that type merciless extermination was the obvious treatment, and the prospect of lending a hand in this desirable and highly patriotic task sent a warm thrill of pleasurable anticipation trickling down to the very depths of his being.

  As to the best way in which to set about his mission, it was too soon as yet to make any exact plans. At present his idea was to drift leisurely down as far as Thames Ferry and establish himself for the week-end somewhere in the neighbourhood of Otter’s Holt. The fishing tackle which he had brought with him would provide a plausible excuse for his presence on the spot, and by frequenting the inn and getting in contact with its regular patrons he would at least stand an excellent chance of familiarising himself with the local gossip.

  For the rest, things must be left more or less to shape themselves. All he could do was to keep his eyes and ears wide open, and if he could detect the smallest likelihood of picking up any useful information be instantly and resolutely prepared to avail himself of the opportunity. Since that had been the whole essence of his training in the Navy the prospect was not quite so formidable as it might otherwise have appeared.

  With this comforting reflection he decided that the most sensible course was to put the problem out of his mind and give himself up to enjoying his journey. It was a long time now since he had experienced the felicity of driving through the English countryside, and once they had turned off the Great West Road and exchanged the monotonous procession of up-to-date factories for green fields and straggling hedgerows, a lazy and restful contentment began to lap him round like an invisible tide. The day was incredibly perfect, one of those warm, still, autumn mornings when the declining year seems to be sitting outside its own front door basking happily in the belated sunshine. A faint scent of burning leaves, the occasional splash of scarlet poppies which had escaped the harvester, the little clusters of midges hovering in the air as though waiting for a breeze to help them on their way, all alike combined to add their own particular touch to the mellow and enchanted atmosphere. That its continued existence should depend upon the whim of an epileptic house-painter appeared at the moment like an unbelievable nightmare.

  A glimpse of a signpost bearing the inscription “Playford 1 mile” was the first indication that he was approaching his goal. Cottages and bungalows began to make their appearance, then a square church tower loomed up in the near distance, and through the open windows of a school came a shrill chorus of children’s voices. Slowing down as it approached the centre of the village, the car ambled across a sleepy-looking market-place and turned into a narrow, poplar-bordered road that led down to the river. At the bottom of this stood a small, creeper-clad house flanked by a desultory collection of wooden sheds. Moored to the adjoining landing-stage were a number of punts and skiffs, the only living creature in sight being a large and distinctly surly-faced bull terrier, who was evidently keeping a watchful eye upon his master’s property.

  As the car pulled up, however, an elderly man with a short, grizzled beard sauntered out into the open. His costume consisted of a shirt and a pair of very ancient grey flannel trousers, and to judge by the towel which he was still carrying he had apparently been interrupted in the process of washing his hands. Paying off the driver and lifting out his equipment, Owen stepped hopefully forward.

  “Are you Mr. Martin?”

  The old man nodded.

  “Good. My name’s Bradwell. You remember I rang up yesterday and mentioned that I should be coming along.”

  “That’s right. Said something about bringing a letter from Mr. Anstey.”

  “Here it is. Just a line to say that I can borrow one of his punts. It’s the big one I want—going to make a week-end of it, and see if I can catch a few fish.”

  Very deliberately Mr. Martin read through the note, and then, nodding again as though satisfied with its authenticity, turned round in the direction of an adjacent shed.

  “You there, ’Erbert?” he bellowed.

  A tousle-haired youth poked his head through the doorway.

  “Fetch out that there punt o’ Mr. Anstey’s, the one with the cover to it. Put the canvas in ’er, and see that the ’oops are all right. Git a move on, now, ’cause the gentleman’s waitin’.”

  “Oh, I’m in no hurry.” Owen smiled reassuringly and seated himself on an upturned canoe. “I’ve come down for a quiet holiday, and I am going to take things as easily as possible. It’s the only way on the river if you really want to enjoy yourself.”

  “I’ve heard a lot more foolish remarks than that.” Mr. Martin tilted back his cap and dabbed his forehead with the towel. “Pity more people don’t think the same,” he added. “If they did maybe trade would be a shade brisker.”

  “Had a poor season?”

  “Shockin’. Cold as winter most o’ the time, and rainin’ hard pretty near every week-end. ’Tisn’t so much the weather as I’m meanin’, though—wouldn’t alter things greatly no matter how fine it were. Dead an’ done for, the boat business, if you ask me; and what’s more, it ain’t never likely to pick up again. Played clean out, the same as ’orses an’ the music-’alls.”

  “Bad as that, eh? How do you account for it? There must be some explanation.”

  “Too slow for ’em, I reckon. Want to be on the move all the time nowadays. Like to ’op into a car and chase off to one o’ them road-’ouses where they can dance ’alf the night and fill ’emselves up with gin. No use for lyin’ about in a punt. Why, if they feels like a bit o’ courtin’ all they gotter do is to turn off the road and pull up behind a hedge.”

  “Sounds a bit cramped and uncomfortable, but perhaps I’m old-fashioned.” Owen lit a cigarette and offered one to his companion. “You see, I have been out of England for a couple of years, and no doubt there have been all sorts of fresh developments. Do people still fish, or is that considered too Victorian?”

  “We get a few at the week-end—furriners mostly. Find more o’ them down Thames Ferry way.”

  “That’s where I’m thinking of laying up. Mr. Anstey says that the most likely place is just below the weir, the farther side of the island. Tells me there’s a pub somewhere close by where one can drop in for a pint in the evening.”

  “He’ll be meanin’ the Red Lion up the backwater. Aye, you couldn’t do much better than stay around there. Old friend o’ mine Ted Mellon, the landlord. Just you mention my name, and if there’s anything you want he’ll fix you up proper.”

  There was a sudden splashing sound in the direction of the river, and glancing round over his shoulder, Owen saw the nose of a punt emerging from the big shed at the end of the landing-stage. It was being piloted by ’Erbert.

  “How about the island?” he inquired. “Do you happen to know who’s living there now?”

  “Party o’
the name o’ Craig. Bought it a couple o’ years ago when the old General died. Can’t tell you much about him ’cept that he’s a Londoner.”

  “What sort of a chap is he? Had any dealings with him?”

  Mr. Martin shook his head. “No, nor no one else neither. Don’t suppose he’s spent a tenner in the place not since he’s been here. One of the kind that comes down for the week-end and brings his own stuff with him.”

  “Hardly the way to make himself popular.”

  “You’ve said it.” The speaker removed his pipe and spat disgustedly.

  “Anyone in the house the rest of the time, or does he just leave it empty?”

  “There’s the gardener or odd man, or whatever he calls himself. I’ve seen ’im messin’ around when I been going past. Big, hefty-looking bloke with as ugly a clock as I’ve ever clapped me eyes on. Folks about ’ere say he’s a dago and can’t even talk proper English.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose he’ll interfere with my fishing.” Owen laughed carelessly and hoisted himself up. “Anyhow, I intend to hang about off the island, and if he doesn’t like it he can go to hell.”

  With a grim chuckle Mr. Martin stooped down and picked up the handbag.

  “Now that’s what I calls talkin’, ” he observed approvingly.

  ***

  Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed out the hour of seven. Its sound was just audible above the splashing of the weir, and rousing himself from his half-recumbent position, Owen sat up and began to reel in his line. The sun, now low down in the west, had already disappeared behind the trees on the opposite bank. A faint cooling breeze drifted across the river and sent little eddies and ripples chasing each other over its surface.

  As he slowly dismantled his rod his eyes kept on wandering upstream to where the half-hidden chimneys of Otter’s Holt peered out through their surrounding foliage. The island, which was perhaps a quarter of an acre in extent, lay about a hundred yards above the spot where he was moored. On one side of it was the weir, while on the other, broken by the narrow entrance to a small backwater, the main stream flowed past in a wide curving sweep. Slightly above this point stood a solitary wooden building with the words “Boats on Hire” painted along its roof.

  It was from here, apparently, that a visitor wishing to cross over would be most likely to embark, but during the four hours which had slipped by since his arrival on the scene no such encouraging incident had occurred to break the monotony. Indeed, for all the traces of life it exhibited the island might have been deserted. In spite of the fact that he had been keeping it under careful and consistent observation he had learned absolutely nothing. Even the unprepossessing “gardener,” to whom Mr. Martin had alluded, had obstinately declined to put in an appearance.

  Feeling a shade disappointed at the negative results of his opening vigil, he uprooted the two poles which had been keeping him in position and began to punt across slowly in the direction of the backwater. He felt that his activities as a fisherman had already lasted long enough, and that for the time being it would be wiser to retire from the immediate neighbourhood. For all he knew, unseen eyes might be secretly observing his proceedings. To continue hanging around after dusk would be bound to arouse suspicion; and since he had no desire to attract more attention to himself than he could possibly avoid, a change of tactics appeared eminently desirable. Besides, regarding it purely from a personal point of view, he was badly in need of a drink. The thought of sitting in a bar with a large tankard of beer in front of him appealed strongly to his imagination, while it also possessed the additional advantage of being part and parcel of his prearranged campaign. After all, the sooner he got in touch with the local gossip the more likely he was to overhear something useful. For the moment, duty and inclination seemed to be pointing towards the same goal; a comforting and convenient arrangement that is too often foreign to their custom.

  Passing into the backwater under a small iron bridge, he pushed his way along its winding course, ducking his head now and then to avoid one of the numerous overhanging branches. For about a couple of hundred yards the banks on either side were lined by a thick growth of bushes and willows, and then, as he rounded a bend into a slightly broader stretch, the back garden of the Red Lion made its sudden and welcome appearance.

  It consisted of a narrow strip of lawn with an ancient cedar tree in the centre and a few weather-stained chairs and tables dotted about at discreet intervals. The borders were filled with a ragged array of dahlias and chrysanthemums, and at this late hour in the season the whole place presented a forlorn and somewhat neglected-looking aspect. Such encouragement as it offered to prospective customers was contained in the almost illegible notice affixed to a rustic arch which surmounted the landing-stage. So far as it could be deciphered it ran as follows:

  YE OLD RED LYON INNE

  Fully licensed

  Teas Lunches Dinners First-Class Accommodation

  There were several boats lying off the steps, and steering neatly in amongst them, Owen hitched up his punt and scrambled ashore. As he did so a small boy, who had emerged from some private hiding-place, came hurrying towards him with an air of hopeful expectancy.

  “Look after your things, sir?”

  “Who are you?” inquired Owen.

  “Ernie Giles, sir. I lives ’ere. My Dad,’e works for Mr. Mellon.”

  “Very well, here’s sixpence. I’m going inside to have a drink and a bite of grub. If everything’s safe and sound when I come back I’ll make it a bob.”

  “Thankye, sir.” Ernie pocketed the coin and squared his shoulders. “Don’t you worry yerself, sir,” he added confidently. “No one won’t pinch nothin’, not with me around.”

  Leaving his new-found friend in charge, Owen lit a cigar-ette and strolled leisurely up the lawn. The back of the inn was screened by a long, creeper-covered veranda, at one end of which was a partly open door with the word “Saloon” engraved upon its glass panel. Stepping through, he found himself in a small, snug, low-ceilinged bar, where a stout, rubicund-faced man who was standing behind the counter polishing a tankard looked up with a genial smile.

  “Ah, good evenin’, sir. Must ’ave come in through the backwater, didn’t you? Thought I heard young Ernie speakin’ to someone.”

  “Been fishing down below the weir,” explained Owen. “Suddenly discovered it was seven o’clock and thought I’d slip across for a drink.” He seated himself on a tall stool in the corner. “You’re Mr. Mellon, I take it? If that’s right, Mr. Martin, of Playford, told me to look you up and mention his name.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Anyone Tom Martin sends along is more than welcome at the Red Lion.” The landlord put down his tankard. “Now what’s it to be? You’re having this one on the house.”

  “That’s very kind of you—a little loose beer, I think.” Owen produced a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “Thirsty job sitting in the sun, specially when the fish are as sulky as they were this afternoon.”

  “No luck, eh? Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.” Mr. Mellon filled up a large pewter pot and pushed it across. “Not but what there’s fish about there, you take my word for it. Why, only last week Mr. Nelson, down at The Moorings, he pulled out a three-and-a-half-pounder.”

  “That’s encouraging news.” Owen took a long, refreshing draught and sighed contentedly. “Shows that one needn’t give up hope, anyhow. I’ll make an effort to get up early to-morrow, and perhaps—”

  “Hullo, hullo—hope I’m not intrudin’!” The other door of the bar swung open, admitting a breezy-looking, loud-voiced individual who bore the unmistakable stamp of a successful commercial traveller. For a moment he stood posed theatrically in the entrance, and then, striding forward to the counter, thrust out his hand. “Why, Ted, you old scoundrel, you don’t look a day older than when I was in here last.”

  “Cor-love-my-soul, if it ain’t Bert Summ
ers!” The landlord hastened along to where the newcomer was standing, and the two of them exchanged grips! “Well, well, well, now—talk about the graves givin’ up their dead—”

  “Bit of a surprise, what?” Mr. Summers chuckled richly. “Told me you was still here, and as I was passing pretty close by I thought I’d switch off and pay you a call. Can’t stop more ’n a few minutes, though—on me way to Reading.”

  “Well, well, well,” repeated Mr. Mellon. “Couldn’t believe me eyes, not when you walked in. Let’s see now, must be gettin’ on for five years since we last had a drink together.”

  “All o’ that,” assented the other. “And talkin’ o’ drinks, how about a couple o’ nice doubles? Maybe this gentleman will do me the honour of joining us?”

  “Oh, I’m all right, thanks,” protested Owen. “Just got a whole pint of beer which I haven’t started yet.”

  “What are you doin’ in these parts, Bert?” demanded Mr. Mellon as he splashed out the soda. “Bit outer yer reg’ler beat, ain’t it? Thought you was up in the Midlands somewhere—Wolvr’ampton way, if I remember rightly.”

  “So I was till a couple o’ months ago. Had a stroke o’ luck then, as you might put it. Bloke who was representin’ us in London went and hopped it, and who should drop in for the job but your old pal Bert. Was I glad to get it—oh, boy!”

  “Didn’t you hit it off with the folks up there, then?”

  Mr. Summers shook his head. “No use for ’em,” he replied darkly. “Wolvr’ampton by name and Wolvr’ampton by nature.”