The desk sergeant gave a grudging nod.
“In that case,” said Cribb, turning to Harriet, “I shall be compelled to commit you to this officer’s care for a few minutes, Miss Shaw. The constables and I have something to attend to that won’t take long, but can’t be done in the presence of a lady. I suggest you sit behind the door there. You might be offered a cup of tea if there’s enough public money left to pay for it.”
So she sat in the chair Cribb had indicated and listened to the sergeant complaining that if the duty constable hadn’t been redeployed to the perishing riverbank there would be somebody to make the perishing tea. She got a cup nonetheless and the dissent was presently cut short by the entrance of a butcher whose plaster pig had been removed from outside his shop by two small boys. It took the sergeant eleven minutes by the clock over the door to establish the facts and reassure the butcher that as soon as the perishing station was back to strength an investigation would be put in train.
Then Cribb and his two assistants emerged from the door beside Harriet and swept the desk sergeant and his problems from her mind. They had completely changed their clothes. Instead of sober brown suits, Cribb and Thackeray wore striped blazers and white flannels. To match his stripes, Cribb had a red boating cap with a peak that lay low against his forehead. Thackeray’s was more of a fisherman’s hat, white and made of some soft material, with a brim that rested snugly over his whiskers.
The most stunning transformation was Constable Hardy’s. When Harriet saw him, she blushed again for Tuesday night. The blue serge and helmet had lent a reassuring impersonality to that episode which was shattered by his appearance now in a cream-coloured blazer trimmed with red, matching flannels tied with a silk handkerchief, and a straw boater perched nonchalantly on the back of his head. Was this elegant young man, this masher, the policeman she had run into in the dark? It was unendurable.
Between them Thackeray and Hardy carried a large hamper. Cribb had a picnic basket in his left hand and a white parasol in his right which he now presented to Harriet. “Compliments of the Chief Inspector of Henley, miss. It belongs to his daughter. You’ll look a picture on the river.”
Whether the boating costumes also were on loan from members of the Henley police and their families, Harriet did not inquire. Was it possible that the back room contained a property basket filled with boating attire of all sizes for visiting detectives? Was there a similar basket of bowler hats, umbrellas and dark suits at Scotland Yard? She had never heard of such a thing, but she supposed it would be a closely guarded secret. Actually Thackeray’s flannels, now she observed them more closely, ended some inches above his ankles, which looked slightly odd, even for going on the river. But the others could not be faulted.
They set off along the High Street in the direction of the Thames, Cribb accompanying Harriet, and the two constables following with the hamper. She was not in a position to judge whether they walked like policemen, but other people in the street appeared entirely unsuspicious and incurious. Boating parties were not worth a second glance in Henley.
On one matter she was unshakeably resolved: she would not ask Sergeant Cribb the purpose of this charade. If he did not choose to explain his intentions, she did not propose to give him the satisfaction of being asked. She had not known the man long, but he was obviously the sort who gave nothing away unless it suited him, and enjoyed the sensation of power his reticence gave him. He was civil enough, she admitted, and he had got the better of Miss Plummer, which was no mean feat, but that did not give him the right to assume Miss Plummer’s authority over her. If she could have been sure he was correct in his suspicions about the three men she had seen, she might have respected him more, but she was not. Sergeant Cribb would need to find something more remarkable than a dog bite before he convinced Harriet Shaw that she had seen a boatful of murderers.
At the landing stage a brown-skinned man with a peaked cap met them, took the picnic basket from Cribb and led them to where a skiff was tied up. Harriet’s travelling case was already aboard. She had forgotten its existence in all the excitement at the police station and was astonished to see it lying in the boat behind the seat as if it belonged there. It did not require much in the way of deduction to establish how it had got there, but the planning in all this was beginning to impress her.
As the hamper was taken on board, the stern dipped an inch or two lower in the water. Thackeray deposited himself on the seat at the opposite end and restored equilibrium. Hardy was next aboard, taking the position of stroke. Then Cribb stepped down and handed Harriet to her seat while the boatman held the skiff steady with his boat hook.
She had not even put up the parasol when Cribb arrived without warning beside her on the seat, in such inescapable proximity that their hips touched. She gave a small squeak at the contact.
“I didn’t mean to alarm you, miss. It’s the last seat left on the boat. Shall we draw the rug over our knees, or will you be warm enough?”
“Quite warm enough, thank you.”
CHAPTER
9
Lunch overboard—Lockkeeper’s lament—Three men in a boat
THE DAY WAS PERFECT for boating. The Thames stretched ahead like a blue silk ribbon dividing the counties. The skiff cruised through the current at a respectable rate, and if Thackeray’s work with the sculls betrayed some inexperience, the splashes did not often carry as far as Harriet and Cribb. Constable Hardy, plainly a practised oarsman, rowed with his eyes fastened on Harriet, obliging her to take an unflagging interest in the scenery along the bank. Sergeant Cribb, who was supposed to be managing the rudder lines, was deep in Three Men in a Boat, a copy of which he had purchased in Henley. For a second reading it was providing extraordinary amusement.
The agreement was that they would row the mile or so to Marsh Lock and there take lunch. They tied up at one of the posts before the lock gates and Cribb put down his book and began distributing plates with hard-boiled eggs, which proved difficult to control with knife and fork. Two, at least, were lost overboard. The porkpie was more manageable, but the next course, a Dundee cake, by general consent was consigned to the water and sank like a stone. Thackeray commented that it was a wonder the boat had stayed afloat so long. As compensation a stone jar of beer was provided. Cribb made some remark about the rights of a person in custody and poured Harriet a half-pint glass. It was bitter, but it took away the aftertaste of the food.
While Thackeray settled in the bows for a nap and Hardy washed up, Cribb helped Harriet ashore and they approached somebody in shirt sleeves and a white cap who had for some time been eyeing them from a distance.
“Good day to you, lockkeeper,” said Cribb civilly, but with the air of a man who did not have to do his own rowing. “Capital for us, this weather, but busy work for you I dare say.”
“It’s the job I’m paid to do, sir,” the lockkeeper answered. Something in his tone suggested he was not wholly contented in his work, but Cribb ignored it.
“Interesting occupation, I expect, meeting such a variety of people.”
“I get all sorts, it’s true.” The lockkeeper looked Cribb up and down as if he were one of the more remarkable specimens.
“I was wondering whether you might remember a party coming through in a skiff like ours a day or so ago. Three men together.”
This hopeful inquiry elicited a frown.
“People I’d give something to meet,” Cribb explained, putting his hand in his pocket. “I heard they were somewhere along this stretch. Thought you might have seen ’em through your lock, one way or the other.”
Far from the hoped-for flash of recollection in the lockkeeper’s eye, a disconcerting redness was appearing at the edges.
“Name of Harris, I suppose, with George and Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, to say nothing of a dog. No, they haven’t been through, not today, nor last week, nor the week before. They’re people in a book and I spend the greater part of my time now telling folks they don’t exist, no more than Oliver Tw
ist nor Alice in blooming Wonderland. I’d like to meet Mr. Jerome and tell him all the trouble he’s caused in my life. This was a tolerable job before that book of his appeared. I don’t get ten minutes to myself now from one day to the next. It’s doubled the traffic on the river. Doubled it. They come through here in their hundreds, half of ’em not knowing one end of a boat from the other, all decked up in their flannels and straw hats and asking for glasses of water and things I wouldn’t care to mention in present company. I don’t know what they think a lock house is. I shan’t stand it much longer. My wife’s threatening to leave. I can tell you, when she goes, so shall I, and they can go over the blooming weir to Henley for all I care.”
“I wasn’t talking about the book,” said Cribb, keeping his copy tactfully out of sight behind his back. “I simply wanted to know if you remembered letting three men through your lock. The book has nothing to do with it.”
There was a pause while the lockkeeper considered whether such an unlikely claim could have an iota of truth in it. He looked along the river and said, “It’s novices that cause the trouble. They read the book and before they’ve finished a couple of chapters they’re down at Kingston hiring a skiff. They throw in a tent and some meat pies and away they go just like them three duffers in the book. If they survive the first night at Runnymede, they spend the second in the Crown at Marlow—them that can get in—and next morning they come through here looking for the backwater to Wargrave. ‘There shouldn’t be a lock here,’ they say. ‘What’s this lock doing in our way? It isn’t in the book.’ ‘Yes it is,’ I say. ‘Marsh Lock. Page 220.’ The book is generally open on their knees, so they pick it up and frown into it and sure enough they find it mentioned. The reason why they never see it is that the backwater is mentioned first, even though it’s half a mile upriver from here. And do you think they’re grateful when I point it out? Not a bit of it. ‘Well, if we must go through the beastly lock,’ they say, ‘you’d better get the gates open or we’ll never make Shiplake before dark. When you’ve done that, be good enough to fetch us some fresh water while we’re waiting. Rowing is devilish thirsty work.’ ‘So is managing a blooming lock,’ I tell ’em. ‘You get out and work the paddles for me, and I’ll get you your blooming water.’ That shuts ’em up.”
“I’m sure!” said Cribb. “But we haven’t come to ask for water. Just tell me when you last had three men together through your lock.”
“With a dog,” added Harriet, and realized as she said it that Cribb had not mentioned this because it seemed too much like provocation. She wished she had drunk lemonade instead of beer.
“Three men and a dog,” said the lockkeeper slowly. “You’re asking me, are you?”
“I am indeed,” confirmed Cribb, chinking the coins in his pocket to show good faith.
“Three men and a dog. Three men is quite common,” said the lockkeeper. “Dogs is not so common. Only your real fanaticals actually go so far as to take a dog along with ’em.”
“But it isn’t unknown?”
“Last time were yesterday, towards teatime. Small white dog, it was, but don’t ask me the breed. I don’t know a bulldog from a beagle.”
“There were three men, though? Do you remember them?”
“I don’t recall things that easy, sir.”
“Sixpence apiece?” offered Cribb.
“For a florin I might remember the name of the boat as well.”
“Done.”
“It were the Lucrecia. Neat little skiff built not above a year, I’d say. The wood were light in colour, without many varnishings. Fine set of cushions, too, dark red plush.”
“And the men?”
“You do have that florin with you?”
The exchange took place.
“I reckon the one at stroke weighed all of fifteen stone. Bearded he was, and red-faced. Turned fifty, I’d say, but able to pull a powerful oar just the same. His hair was sandy-coloured and he had bright yellow braces. He were talking plenty, and it didn’t seem to matter that the others wasn’t listening. The voice matched his build. He’d have passed for a Viking, that one would, if he’d worn a helmet on his head instead of a boater. Sitting at bow was a smaller man. A queer sight they made rowing that skiff. He was dark-complexioned, the small fellow, Jewish if I can spot ’em, and with arms that barely reached the oars. I don’t know what difference he was making to the movement of the boat, but he couldn’t have got up much of a sweat—begging your pardon, young lady—for he was still wearing his blazer. Oh, and he had pebble glasses so thick you could hardly see his eyes behind ’em.”
“You’ve earned your florin already,” said Cribb. “Do you remember as much about the third man?”
“Most of all, because he was the one that spoke to me as I worked the gates for ’em. A rum cove he was, that one. He didn’t talk natural at all. He might have been standing at a pulpit instead of sitting in a boat. ‘Be good enough to explain, lockkeeper,’ he said, ‘why this lock does not appear in our itinerary, which we faithfully compiled from Mr. Jerome K. Jerome’s celebrated work.’ I gave him my usual answer and the little man at bow turned up page 220 and squinted at it. ‘He’s right,’ he says. ‘It’s here in the book. We went up the backwater to Wargrave. It is a short cut, leading out of the right-hand bank about half a mile above Marsh Lock.’ ‘That,’ says the other, ‘is of no consequence. It is merely a retrospective reference. If there is a lock here as there appears incontrovertibly to be, then Jerome ought to have mentioned its existence at the appropriate point in the book. The omission is inexcusable.’ ”
“What was his appearance?” Cribb asked.
“For the river on a summer afternoon, very odd, very odd indeed. Pin-stripe suit and grey bowler. He was built on slimmer lines than either of the others, round-shouldered and white-faced, with tortoise-shell spectacles and buck teeth. I’d know him again.”
“I can believe you,” said Cribb. “Did you discover by any chance where they were making for?”
“Haven’t I said as much already? They’re doing the book, like everyone else. They’ll have spent last night on one of the Shiplake islands and today they’ll be making for Streatley. They’ve got two days there. If you’re wanting to meet ’em, that’s where you’ll catch ’em, for sure.”
CHAPTER
10
Dropping of the pilot—Familiarity in the ranks—How the colour came to Harriet’s cheeks
AFTER MARSH LOCK THE Berkshire bank rises sheerly in a clifflike formation festooned with ivy and capped with a beech wood. So far Harriet had studied the scenery more from necessity than choice, but momentarily the prospect was so spectacular that she was able to forget Constable Hardy. Then the voice of Sergeant Cribb jolted her out of her reverie.
“You’re pulling to port, Constable. I’m trying to steer an even course and you’re pulling the blasted thing to port.”
Hardy was quick to apologize. “I thought we must be goin’ by way of Hennerton Backwater. It saves nearly half a mile of rowin’. It’s a pleasant way. Plenty of shade.”
Harriet felt obliged to add, “I seem to remember the lockkeeper mentioning a backwater. To Wargrave, wasn’t it? It was the route the characters in the book were supposed to have taken.”
“I can believe that, miss,” said Hardy. “It’s a charmin’ little stream. Just right for a small boat, threadin’ its way through the rushes and under the trees. If I was writin’ a book myself, I’d have a chapter on Hennerton Backwater for sure.”
“Well, you’re not,” Cribb pointed out. “You’re rowing a boat and you’ll take your orders from me.” He gave a tug on the right-hand rudder line to reinforce the point. “We shall follow the main course of the river for another mile and then you can put me ashore at Shiplake. I shall pick up a cab at the station and drive to Streatley, where I expect to find the men we’re looking for. The rest of you will follow by way of the river, keeping a watch for the suspects in case they’re slower than they should be.”
&n
bsp; Making it clear from the measured tone of his voice that he was providing information, not criticism, Hardy said, “It’s a good fifteen miles to Streatley.”
“Glory!” said Thackeray from behind him.
“Shan’t expect to see you there tonight, then,” conceded Cribb. “Report to the police station as soon as you arrive tomorrow.”
“Where shall we pass the night?” Thackeray bleakly asked.
“Bottom of the boat. There are cushions to lie on and you can put up the canvas in case it rains. By the time you’ve rowed a few miles more, you won’t mind where you sleep.”
Harriet heard this with amazement overflowing into indignation. It was alarming enough to be abandoned to the company of Thackeray and Hardy for the rest of the afternoon, but for Sergeant Cribb blandly to assume that she would spend the night with them at the bottom of a boat was insulting in the extreme. “They might not mind, but I most certainly do,” she informed him, dipping the parasol at the same time, so that the others could not see the colour of her cheeks. “I should like to go back to my college, if you will kindly arrange it.”
“Back to Miss Plummer?” said Cribb.
“Miss Plummer may not hold me in very high regard,” said Harriet with dignity, “but I am confident that she will offer me a bed for the night when she knows the alternative.”
“I can’t let you go back to Miss Plummer, miss. You’re still my principal witness and I shall want you to take a look at those men tomorrow. I was about to suggest—before you assumed what you did—that I would book you a room at the Roebuck in Tilehurst. It overlooks the river, so you’ll have no trouble finding it. The constables can moor the boat nearby and you’ll simply have to step ashore and join ’em again tomorrow morning after breakfast. The Roebuck serves a very good breakfast grill, I’m told. Is that acceptable?”
Cribb had either, as he claimed, planned this in the first place, or he was a very agile thinker indeed. Since the outcome was satisfactory, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “But what will the constables have for breakfast?”
Swing, Swing Together Page 4