Anybody wishing to approach the place without being seen would apparently find it a simple enough business. Somewhere farther back, the lane must obviously join up with the road between Playford and Thames Ferry, and by following it as far as the plantation and then taking cover one could negotiate the remainder of one’s task in complete and comforting security. Compared with the problems presented by Otter’s Holt the thing would be an absolute gift.
Highly satisfied with the result of his preliminary reconnaissance, Owen continued his way leisurely upstream. Now that he was acquainted with the lie of the land there was no point in over-exerting himself. Whatever the object of Craig’s visit might be, it was not to take place until “after dark,” and although it would be advisable to arrive on the scene of action in good time, that would still mean kicking his heels about ashore for the best part of a couple of hours. Though some of this period might be profitably spent in consuming a meal at the village inn, he had no yearning to attract attention by loafing around the neighbourhood any longer than was necessary. His persistent if somewhat unsuccessful efforts as a fisherman might not have passed unobserved by the residents at Otter’s Holt, and if by some unlucky chance the fact of his presence in Playford at this particular juncture should happen to be brought to their notice the coincidence might well strike them as being oddly and unhealthily suggestive. In dealing with gentlemen like Mr. Craig and Count von Manstein it would be suicidal carelessness to neglect the smallest precaution.
As he rounded the last bend and entered the short, straight reach that led up to the boat-house, he caught sight of Mr. Martin leaning forward over the edge of the landing-stage. The old man appeared to be fixing a cover over one of the skiffs, and it was not until the punt was within a few yards that he paused in his operations and lifted an inquiring eye. With a friendly nod of greeting Owen slithered in alongside.
“Oh, so it’s you, sir!” The speaker tilted back his cap. “Hope you got on all right and managed to enjoy yourself.” Catching hold of the painter, he made it fast to an adjacent ring, and having thankfully shipped his pole, Owen stepped up on to the jetty.
“It’s been gorgeous,” he replied cheerfully. “Done me a world of good. I’ve sucked in enough sun and fresh air to last me through the whole winter.”
“Aye, you were lucky in your weather. Just got here in time, though, from the looks of it. Wouldn’t wonder if we had rain to-night, not from the way the glass is falling.”
“That’s a nuisance. I don’t want to turn it in just yet. Only came along to get a bit of exercise and look up some friends of mine. What I thought of doing was to camp here for the night and slip down to Thames Ferry again to-morrow morning.”
“Well, you please yourself, sir. Maybe it won’t come to much, and even if it do you won’t take no harm, not under that canvas o’ yours. If you’re in a hurry to be off I’ll fix it up for you.”
“Thanks very much. Don’t want to trail back in the dark and find everything floating about.”
“How about the fishin’, sir? Did you have any sport down below the weir?”
“Not too bad, taking it all round. Spotted a couple of beauties, but these really big fish take a lot of catching.”
“Cunning as bloomin’ monkeys—that’s what they are.”
“So I’ve been informed.” Owen nodded gravely. “There’s still time, though,” he added. “I’m hoping to have another cut at them before I go back to Town.”
Mr. Martin gave a rumbling chuckle.
“That’s the spirit, sir,” he remarked approvingly.
***
Sally buttoned the collar of her thick, oiled-silk coat, and with a final glance at the drizzling rain outside turned away from the window.
“Well, if I’m to get down there by ten-thirty,” she observed, “I suppose I’d better be making a start. Not much good waiting for it to clear up—seems to have settled in for the night.”
Ruth, who was collecting together the remains of their evening meal, looked up with a frown. “If you take my advice,” she retorted, “you’ll chuck the whole business.”
“But I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair on Sheila. Besides, the rain doesn’t really matter. I shall be quite snug and dry as soon as I’m in the car.”
“I wish you’d change your mind and let me come with you. I simply loathe the idea of your going down there alone.”
Sally shook her head. “We have had all that out, darling, and it’s no use arguing about it again. For one thing, I haven’t got the time. It’s a longish trip, and if I try to drive fast in the dark I always get the jitters.”
“Are you sure you know the way?”
“Oh, yes. Sheila told me in her letter. I take the Thames Ferry road just before I get into Playford and turn up a lane about half a mile farther on. The bungalow is right at the end, facing the river. She says it’s perfectly easy and one can’t possibly make a mistake.”
“She would.” Ruth scowled. “I still think the whole thing’s utterly insane and that I’m a perfect fool to lend you the bus. Until I hear you come in I shall sit here worrying myself stiff.”
“Why not go to bed and get some sleep?” suggested Sally. “I’ll promise to wake you up and tell you all about it.”
Ruth shook her head. “I’m staying put,” she declared stubbornly; “and what’s more, if you aren’t home by one I shall ring up the Playford police and ask them to go round and make sure that you’re all right. I’m not joking; I really mean it.”
“Then I’d better not dawdle about on the road.” With a disarming smile Sally picked up her bag and moved towards the door. “Be good and don’t eat all the chocolates,” she added. “After hobnobbing with Mr. Sutton I shall want something sweet to take away the taste.”
The garage in which Ruth housed her small Morris-Oxford was situated in a blind alley only a short distance from the shop. By the time Sally reached it, however, the rain was already beginning to trickle down her face, so it was hardly surprising that her resentment against the man she was setting out to visit increased steadily with every passing second. Indeed, as she climbed into the driving-seat and started up the engine her feelings attained a point of bitterness which could only find relief in some sort of verbal expression. “Pig!” she muttered to herself with a little half-comical grimace. “I wish someone would walk into your beastly bungalow and jab you in the back with a large, sharp carving-knife.”
Whether it was the effect of this slightly bloodthirsty outburst or the mere fact of having to concentrate her attention upon driving, it was comforting to discover that before she was half-way down the King’s Road a calmer and more business-like frame of mind was already beginning to assert itself. After all, what was the use of getting rabid and venomous about a complete rotter like Sutton? It only confused one’s mind and prevented one from thinking clearly. In order to carry off the interview successfully she would need all the coolness and resolution she had at her command, and now that the critical moment was so rapidly approaching, minor afflictions such as getting a trifle damp must not be permitted to intrude upon the main issue. Eyes on the road and thoughts on the job ahead—that was the correct slogan, beyond any shadow of doubt.
At Hampton Court the rain was easing off, and a faint glimmer of moonlight peeped out from between a rift in the clouds. For a Sunday night there was remarkably little traffic. The customary stream of revellers, who make a habit of running down for a final drink at some riverside inn, had apparently been disheartened by the weather, and freed from the usual procession of blinding headlights, she was able to push along at a considerably faster speed than she would otherwise have attempted. The swift motion seemed to be of help in still further steadying her nerves.
It was exactly twenty-past ten by her wrist-watch when she arrived at the crossroads where Sheila had told her to branch off to the left. With only another half-mile to go this meant that sh
e would be in ample time for the appointment. A vision of Sutton’s face when he opened the door and discovered that she had taken control of negotiations brought a momentary smile to her lips, and swinging round the corner in the direction of Thames Ferry, she began to keep a watchful look-out for anything in the nature of a side turning.
In a few minutes she caught sight of what appeared to be the entrance to a narrow lane, where a weather-stained signboard bearing the words “To the Towpath” was affixed to an adjacent paling. If her instructions were correct, all she had to do now was to follow this track until it brought her to the bungalow; a distance, according to Sheila, of not more than two or three hundred yards.
Driving forward slowly and carefully, she passed a couple of iron gates flanked by stone pillars, alongside of which stood a small, neatly kept lodge. Not far beyond rose a gloomy-looking belt of trees. As she advanced she discovered that they formed part of a railed-in plantation, some of the bigger branches stretching out over the lane like queer, fantastic shadows. In the fitful gleam of the moon the effect was curiously sinister.
It was not, however, until a green fence backed by a low, steeply pitched roof loomed up out of the darkness that the first real sensation of doubt and mistrust suddenly assailed her. If this were Sunny Bank—and it certainly answered to the description—a more cheerless place, and one that looked less like expecting a visitor, it would certainly have been difficult to imagine. There was not a trace of light anywhere, and the only sound that broke the inhospitable silence was the faint, steady ticking of her own engine.
Taking a torch from her bag, she climbed out of the car and walked across towards the wooden gate opposite. From here a short path led up to the front door, on either side of which was a small, square-shaped window. As she advanced the depressing stillness seemed to become even more pronounced.
With a slight quickening of her pulse she raised her hand to the brass knocker and gave a loud rap. To her surprise, the door immediately swung open. It was exactly like some rather uncanny conjuring trick, and so startling was its effect that for a moment she stood staring stupidly into the vague blackness of what appeared to be a goodish-sized sitting-room. Then, somehow or other, she managed to find her voice.
“Is there anyone here?” she demanded.
No answer was forthcoming, and suddenly remembering her torch, she pulled herself together and switched on the light. At the same instant her throat seemed to tighten, and before she could choke it back a cry of horror broke from her lips.
Directly in front of her, stretched full length beside an overturned table, lay the figure of a man. One arm was flung out at a grotesque angle, and sticking up between his shoulder-blades was a white object that looked like the handle of a knife. The carpet around him was saturated with blood, a long, straggling trickle of which had already worked its way almost to her feet. Its sickly, unmistakable smell permeated the whole bungalow.
A wild panic took possession of her, and with an involuntary movement she clutched blindly at the side of the door. For a moment or two her heart thumped at such a pace that she felt scarcely able to breathe. All she was conscious of was a frantic impulse to get back to the car, coupled with a horrible weakness that seemed to keep her feet glued to the floor.
Then, very slowly, her courage began to return. By a tremendous effort she forced herself to release her hold, and avoiding the dark sticky mess into which she had so nearly blundered, she moved shakily forward to where the body was lying.
The head was twisted slightly askew, exposing one side of the face. As she had expected, the features were those of Granville Sutton; and although only an hour before she had been wishing for his death, the sight of that white distorted mask sent a cold chill creeping through her veins. In some unreasoning way she felt as though she were responsible for what had happened.
She was still battling against this unpleasant sensation when a deep groan made her start violently. Once more the instinct to run away almost overcame her, but by sheer will-power she succeeded in thrusting it aside. Straightening up, she swung round the torch in the direction of the sound, and there in the farther corner, leaning back against the wall, was the huddled shape of a dark-haired young man, who had apparently just struggled up into a sitting position. He was nursing his head between his hands, and blinking at the light in what seemed to be a kind of vacant bewilderment.
“Hullo!” he muttered. “Where the devil am I?”
Sally came a step nearer, keeping the torch focused on his face.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“That’s—that’s just what I’m wondering myself.” He made a feeble attempt to sit up a little higher. “All I know is that I’ve got a peach of a head. Feels as if it was going to explode.” A wry smile twisted his lips, and with another involuntary groan he sank back again into the same position.
Sally stood where she was, staring at him silently. As far as looks went he was not in the least like her idea of a murderer. Despite his rain-soaked clothes and a large smear of blood across his forehead, there was something about his appearance which seemed to inspire her with a sudden queer sense of confidence. Anyhow, for some unaccountable reason she no longer felt afraid of him.
“But you must remember your name,” she persisted.
“I was trying to when you shoved on that light. It’s no good, though—can’t think of a damned thing except this foul pain.”
“Have you ever heard of a man called Granville Sutton?”
“Granville Sutton? No—what’s he got to do with it?”
“This is his bungalow. I had an appointment to meet him at ten-thirty.”
The grey eyes stared at her blankly.
“When I got here,” she continued, “I found the door open and the whole place in darkness. The first thing I saw was Sutton’s body. It’s lying on the floor the other side of that table.”
“His body!” With a sudden fumbling movement the stranger reached out towards the chair beside him, and grabbing hold of the arm, dragged himself to his feet. The effort seemed to have exhausted his strength, and for a moment he stood there swaying dizzily.
“You mean—you mean that he’s dead?”
Sally drew in a long breath. “You can see for yourself.”
She turned her torch in the direction of the sprawling figure, and abandoning his grip on the chair, her companion took a step forward. Then, supporting himself by the table, he stood gazing down at the gruesome object in front of him.
“I say, this is a bit grim. Looks as though we’d butted in on a murder.” He raised his head and turned slowly towards Sally. “Are you by any chance under the impression that I did it?”
“I was at first: now I’m not so sure.”
“Thanks.” Another twisted smile flickered across his lips. “Considering everything, that’s uncommonly handsome.”
“But you’re mixed up with it in some way—you must be. What made you come here, and how did you get hurt yourself?”
For a moment he remained silent.
“You can believe me or not, but I haven’t the remotest notion. As I told you, I don’t even know who I am. All I remember is waking up in the dark with what felt like a red-hot gimlet boring into the back of my head. How long I’d been lying there God knows. Somebody must have given me a clout from behind, and it seems to have wiped everything clean out. I suppose my memory will come back, but—” His face suddenly contracted with pain, and groping for the edge of the table, he sat down abruptly.
“Of course it will, but you oughtn’t to try to walk about. I’m sure it’s the worst thing you could do.” Sally moved a pace nearer.
“I must get the hang of what’s been happening here. One can’t just sit still gaping at a corpse. For a start, do you mind telling me exactly where we are?”
“We’re in a bungalow called Sunny Bank, about half a mile from Playford.
It belongs—at least it did belong—to this man Sutton.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“I hardly knew him. I only came to see him on a matter of business.”
“What did he do? I mean, what was his profession?”
“I believe he lived chiefly by blackmailing people.”
The stranger gave a low whistle. “Blackmailing!” he repeated. “Well, well, that seems to clear things up a trifle. Tried it on once too often and somebody turned nasty.”
“I don’t blame anyone for killing him. It’s only what he deserved.” Sally paused. “In fact, if I knew who it was I—I’d do my best to help him escape.”
“Supposing it was me after all?” The speaker had swung round again and was eyeing her curiously. “I don’t feel like the sort of bloke who goes around stabbing people in the back, but how can I possibly tell?”
“You’d know it instinctively.”
“Think so? Well, perhaps you’re right.”
“I’m certain I am. If you’d killed him, you’d have choked him to death or something like that.”
“Sounds more up my street. All the same, one can’t get away from the fact that I was lying here right alongside of him. Going to be a bit awkward when people start asking questions.”
“You’ll have to tell them what you’ve told me.”
“Do you suppose they’ll believe me?”
“Not till you have been examined by a doctor. Besides, there’s another thing you’ve got to think about. If you start trying to explain now you may be landing yourself into some frightful mess. You see—you see, in a way, that’s how it is with me. I can’t tell the truth, because if I did I—I should be letting down a friend.”
Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1) Page 9