Swing, Swing Together

by Peter Lovesey

  “Eggs and bacon,” said Cribb.

  “That’ll be nice,” said Thackeray, perking up.

  “Yes, there’s a couple of hard-boiled eggs in the hamper and a slice of porkpie you can divide between you.”

  If Cribb was expecting a chorus of outrage at this, he did not get it. He got a silence that lasted until they reached Shiplake, as though Thackeray and Hardy had agreed to let the remark stand in isolation, parading its meanness. Even at Shiplake they said not a word, and there was a hint of contrition in Cribb’s, “Streatley as soon as you can tomorrow, then,” as he stepped ashore and marched away to look for a cab. Hardy stood in the boat, keeping it against the landing stage with an oar until Cribb’s footsteps had receded. Then he doffed his boater ironically in the same direction and pushed powerfully against the oar. The skiff cruised back into the deeper water.

  They had not been rowing long when it occurred to Hardy that in Cribb’s absence they need not be encumbered with rank. “My name’s Roger,” he announced.

  “Ted,” said Thackeray.

  “And Miss Shaw’s, I learned not long ago, is Harriet,” Hardy volunteered for her.

  She blushed, remembering the circumstances.

  “That’s nice,” said Thackeray. “You answered the sergeant beautiful, if I might say so, Harriet. He’s not an easy man to mix words with.”

  “I reckon we got the better of him, between us,” said Hardy. “By Shiplake he was lookin’ a sight less corky than he was at Marsh. He was so quick to step ashore that he left his book behind, did you notice? It’s on the seat beside you, Harriet.”

  He used her name with a familiarity that disturbed her. The embarrassment would certainly show unless she made a determined effort to overcome it. She reminded herself that he was still a policeman and that his boating costume was just another kind of uniform. She would find it easier to accept if he conducted himself like a policeman, without staring in such a familiar way.

  “You’re a keen-eyed young fellow, Roger,” said Thackeray. “I’m sure I didn’t notice whether he’d got the book with him. A man of your talents ought to be taking up detective work. Have you never thought of coming to London? There’s room at the Yard for anyone who can exercise his optics to good effect.”

  “I’ve no ambition to work for the likes of Sergeant Cribb,” said Hardy.

  “Cribb isn’t quite so obnoxious when you know him,” Thackeray said for his superior. “I dare say there’s one or two that would run him close here in the Thames Valley. If you’re thinking of going into plain clothes I wouldn’t let a liverish cove like him put you off.”

  “Truth of the matter is that I’m quite content being a country copper,” said Hardy. “Watchin’ out for poachers doesn’t have the glamour of stalkin’ Jack the Ripper, I know, but it suits me well. I’d rather walk to work through a river mist than a London peasouper, because I know that when that mist clears, Buckinghamshire is the grandest place to pound a beat in the world.”

  “Hold on a bit,” said Thackeray. “You’ll have me asking for a transfer.”

  “Ah, but it’s true. Close your eyes for a moment, Ted. Listen to the bird song and the water lappin’ at the side of the boat and the breeze rustlin’ through the beeches. What have you got within five miles of Scotland Yard to compare with it? And that’s just the sounds. The sights along the river are a study in themselves, wouldn’t you agree, Harriet?”

  If it was not calculated to offend, it was an ill-chosen remark, but Harriet took the view that it was blatant provocation. Instead of blushing as she had before, she blanched with fury at the boorishness of this man determined to extract the last ounce of advantage from an incident any gentleman would have banished from his conversation, even if it lingered in his thoughts.

  She snapped her parasol shut. “I may be your prisoner in this rowing boat, Constable, but that does not give you the right to address me in familiar terms and taunt me with innuendoes. Kindly address me as Miss Shaw if you speak to me again and make certain if you do that you have something civilized to say.” It sounded very like Miss Plummer speaking. Harriet had never reprimanded anyone before, nor realized she could find the words to do it, but Constable Roger Hardy needed to be left in no doubt that he had overstepped the mark. To say that she was disappointed in him was less than the truth. The gallant officer who had lent her his coat on Tuesday night and this buffoon in boating costume were different men. Different men.

  The colour had risen to Hardy’s cheeks this time. “I don’t see the offence in what I said, Miss Shaw, though I’m sorry if it was there. I was simply invitin’ you to confirm that our stretch of the Thames offers finer natural sights than any other. Oh, my Lord!”—Hardy’s oars plunged deeply into the water, jerking his arms straight—“I see it all now, miss—I mean—that is to say—I do ask you to forgive me.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  An extra passenger—Interlude on an island—Pious Jim

  THERE WAS NO NEED, as it turned out, for Harriet to consider whether she would forgive Constable Hardy, because they had reached Shiplake Lock and the gates were being held open for them. Four or five other small craft were inside and it required total concentration on everyone’s part to steer the skiff among them without the rending of wood. Standing up like a gondolier, Hardy paddled them expertly towards the left-hand wall, reached up and fastened the line to a chain. The lockkeeper was already thrusting his back against the beam of the gate behind them to close it. A young man in a yellow blazer was doing the same on the right. When the gates were closed, each man moved to the opposite end and began turning the handles to raise the paddles and fill the lock. Spouts of silver water gushed in, gurgling under the boats as they steadily ascended the gleaming walls.

  “How much, Lockkeeper?” Thackeray called when the moment came to pay the toll.

  “Threepence, sir, but I’ll not charge you anything if you’ll do me a good turn.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take my young friend aboard and put him off at Phillimore’s Island half a mile upstream.”

  Thackeray scrutinized the young man in the yellow blazer. “Would you mind, Miss Shaw? He’ll have to share your seat.”

  “I have no objection,” Harriet answered. He looked a clean young man, for all his work on the lock gates. He had a neat little beard the shape of Tasmania at the base of his chin.

  “I’ll hop in, then,” he said. “Much obliged to you, young lady. Bustard’s the name, spelt with a ‘u,’ like the bird. Just as far as Phillimore’s, if you’d be so kind, gentlemen. I’m in camp there for the night with a friend of mine, Jim Hackett.”

  Harriet drew her skirt across to make room for Mr. Bustard and introduced her companions, taking care to prefix “Mr.” to their names.

  “Going far?” he inquired.

  “We’re hoping to reach Reading by this evening,” answered Thackeray. Hardy had lapsed into silence now.

  “Not a pretty place to stop,” said Mr. Bustard. “Gasworks and factories. You’d be better off on an island, like us.”

  “We intend to pull up as far as Tilehurst,” Thackeray explained. “Miss Shaw has a room at the Roebuck.”

  “You’ll be in clover there, my dear,” said Mr. Bustard. “Better than a night under canvas, what? Somebody has a care for your comfort, I can see. If you bear to the right of the island, gentlemen, you’ll find I’m moored under a willow. Jim Hackett should be boiling a kettle for tea. That’s what I went to Shiplake for.” He tapped his blazer pocket. “Can’t survive without my Indian brew. I cadged a lift on a steam launch that had taken a mooring on the island. Filthy way to travel—I’m not in favour of steam at all—but beggars can’t be choosers, what?” He turned to smile at Harriet and displayed an immaculate set of white teeth. “This is my ideal—a seat beside a pretty girl and two strapping fellows to do the rowing for us.”

  The ends of Hardy’s mouth had turned down in a perfect miniature of the central arch of Henley Bri
dge. And the ends of his moustache curled in precisely the opposite direction. Harriet could not suppress a smile. To avoid embarrassment, she turned it on Mr. Bustard. “How long have you been on the island?” she asked.

  “Since yesterday. We’re doing the Thames by easy stages. Don’t know how far we’ll get in a fortnight, but the exercise does you good, what?”

  Thackeray said, “I can think of better ways of getting it. I’ve got a blister the size of half a crown on each hand.”

  “Then it’s ten to one you’re not one of the labouring class,” said Mr. Bustard. “Delicate skin, unused to manual work. Don’t tell me. I’ll guess. Stockbroker’s clerk. No, I don’t see you at a desk. Behind a counter, possibly. Grocer. Yes, I’d buy a dozen eggs from you. I’ll go for grocer. Am I right?”

  “How did you guess?” said Thackeray, with the resource born of long experience.

  “Training,” said Mr. Bustard proudly. “I’m a tallyman myself. You need to be quick on the uptake in my profession.”

  “I’m sure,” Thackeray agreed. “I don’t suppose you miss a thing. Come to mention it, I was wondering if you might have noticed a party on the river a few hours ahead of us. Some people we were hoping to come across. Three men in a skiff like this, with a dog.”

  “Three men in a boat? You wouldn’t be pulling my leg, by any chance, because I wouldn’t buy any more eggs from you if you were?” Mr. Bustard winked at Harriet.

  “No, I’m serious,” said Thackeray.

  Mr. Bustard trailed his hand thoughtfully in the water. “Would one be built like Dr. Grace, the cricketer—bearded, with a large size in belts?”

  “That’s right!” said Thackeray.

  “And are his two companions smaller men, with spectacles?”

  “Absolutely correct!” said Harriet, clapping her hands.

  “Small white dog?”

  “The very same!” said Thackeray.

  “Haven’t seen ’em,” said Mr. Bustard.

  There was a pause. Thackeray was the first to say, “But how the devil did you know—”

  “Jim Hackett met ’em this morning when I was cooking breakfast and told me about ’em. Straight out of Jerome K. Jerome, I said. We had a laugh about it. You must meet Jim. You’ve time for a cup of tea on the island, haven’t you?”

  As duty obviously required that they meet Jim Hackett, they made the skiff fast beside the one already under the willow, and stepped ashore. They found him squatting beside a small fire not far from the bank, cooking a sausage on the end of a toasting fork. He got quickly to his feet, putting fork and sausage guiltily behind his back, which looked quaint, because he was built like a barge horse, with massive shoulders and three inches of height to spare over Thackeray.

  “What’s this, Jim?” said Mr. Bustard. “This ain’t supper-time, you know.”

  “How right you are, Percy,” said Jim Hackett. “ ‘Be sure your sin will find you out.’ Numbers, Chapter 32, Verse 23.”

  “He’s very knowledgeable about the Good Book,” explained Mr. Bustard. “Never mind, Jim. You can eat it cold at the proper time. Has the kettle boiled? That’s the question. We’ve got visitors, as you can see. Miss Shaw, this is Jim Hackett. I wouldn’t shake his hand—it’s thick with sausage grease. This is Mr. Thackeray, Jim, who is escorting Miss Shaw and her young man, Mr. Hardy, up to Tilehurst. They rowed me up from the lock.”

  “Kettle just boiled,” said Jim Hackett, picking it up and thrusting it into the fire. Harriet was relieved not to shake his hand. Besides being very large, it was calloused and, from the slowness of his movement with the kettle, insensitive to heat.

  “Do you prepare all your meals like this?” she asked.

  “Lord no, my dear,” said Mr. Bustard. “When we have the chance we buy our creature comforts from riverside inns such as the one you’re making for. It’s boiling, Jim. We got a very good veal and ham pie from the George and Dragon at Wargrave on Tuesday evening. Very welcome, veal and ham.”

  “Dog and Badger,” said Jim Hackett, removing the kettle from the flames.

  “Eh?”

  “Dog and Badger, not George and Dragon.”

  “If you insist, Jim, old boy, if you insist.”

  “There’s a Dog and Badger at Medmenham,” said Hardy. “It’s my local pub.”

  “It was a spanking pie, wherever it came from,” said Mr. Bustard. “Milk and sugar, Miss Shaw?”

  “I believe you spoke this morning to some people we were looking for,” Thackeray said to Jim Hackett. “Three men in a boat—not to mention a dog.”

  “That’s right. Helped push them out. Was they mates of yours?”

  “Not exactly,” said Thackeray, who must have seen a glint of menace in Jim Hackett’s eye. “We was told they was ahead of us on the river and we want to find them if we can.”

  “They wasn’t your sort. Swells, they was. Threw me a tanner piece after I gave ’em a shove.”

  “I wonder if we’re talking about the same three,” said Thackeray artfully. “Was one of them a large, bearded cove? Not large by your standard, but just as tall as I am and a sight heavier?”

  “One of ’em, yes.”

  “And the others?” chipped in Constable Hardy.

  “Half-pints. Dressed and talked like they owned the river, but couldn’t even push their own bleeding boat out.”

  “Language, Jim,” protested Mr. Bustard.

  “God, I’m sorry, lady,” Jim Hackett told Harriet. “‘Every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.’ St. Matthew, Chapter 12, Verse 36.”

  “He should have gone into the Church,” said Mr. Bustard.

  “Did these men say where they was going, by any chance?” Thackeray asked.

  “Streatley,” said Jim Hackett. “They was making for Streatley.”

  “They didn’t mention where they came from?”

  “They’d been three days on the river. Spent the first night at Runnymede and the second in the Crown at Marlow.”

  Later in the afternoon, when they set off again, with Thackeray ostentatiously pushing the skiff away from the bank without assistance, Harriet opened Three Men in a Boat. If Jim Hackett’s memory of the movements of the suspects was reliable, they were scrupulously faithful to the itinerary of George, Harris and Mr. Jerome K. Jerome.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Night thoughts in the Roebuck—Murder and Mr. Jerome—Nude with fern

  THAT NIGHT, AS THE rain trickled down the eaves into the guttering of the Roebuck, Harriet returned to Three Men in a Boat. Once or twice she laughed until the bed shook. Men stood so much on their dignity; it was comical to think of them out of their element doing ridiculous things. She would have laughed even more if she had not been reading for a serious purpose. She wanted to decide for herself whether there was anything in the book suggestive of murder, as Sergeant Cribb apparently supposed. The more she read, the more difficult it was to conceive of it as a manual for assassins. George, Harris and J making their inexpert way up the Thames with the dog Montmorency were anything but sinister.

  The place-names were there, of course—Hurley Weir, Medmenham Abbey, the Backwater to Wargrave and the islands at Shiplake—so recent events impinged a little on her thoughts, even if they seemed remote from the book. The three mysterious men whose arrival on the scene had created such havoc among the bathers on Tuesday night were not so alarming in retrospect, not now she had got to know Mr. Jerome’s good-humoured trio. To think of them as brutal murderers, callously killing a helpless old tramp and then continuing upriver as if nothing had happened, was difficult in the extreme. Obviously Sergeant Cribb thought otherwise. He had fastened on them as his suspects from the beginning, and the lockkeeper’s information that they were following the route in the book had not discouraged him; it had sent him haring off to Streatley to make an arrest.

  Tomorrow he would want her to identify them. She shrank from the business, not because she doubted her a
bility to recognize them, but because of the significance Cribb put upon it. He made no bones about it; identification was tantamount to guilt. If they did not admit it at once, he would beat them with a truncheon, or whatever policemen did to extract confessions. He was not a man for refinements; that was obvious from the way he treated his subordinates.

  If she had witnessed the murder itself, seen the tramp held under the water until the last bubble of breath had risen to the surface, she would not have hesitated to identify the killers. But all she had seen was three men and a dog in a boat moving serenely towards Hurley, unaware of the confusion in the water. Suppose they were not the murderers; suppose somebody else had killed the unfortunate tramp further up the river. Suppose her testimony sent three innocent men to the gallows. It would always be on her conscience.

  Too ridiculous; she was getting morbid. This was not the time to lose a sense of proportion. She returned to her book, to Chapter 16, describing, topically enough, the stretch between Reading and Streatley. Her eyes drifted down the page without the fullest concentration until she came to that “something black floating in the water” that George noticed and drew back from “with a cry and a blanched face”: the dead body of a woman.

  Harriet drew the sheet closer round her and read, with wide eyes, how the corpse was consigned without fuss to some men on the bank and how the three in the boat paddled on to Streatley and there lunched at the Bull, their appetites seemingly unimpaired by the experience. She shuddered and closed the book, putting it face down on the table beside the bed. It was not, after all, wholly unsuggestive of sudden death.

  She pulled the sheet aside, got out of bed and for a second time checked that the door was bolted from the inside. She took a hairbrush from her travelling case and sat at the dressing table, tugging at her hair with short, agitated strokes. For a moment, for just a moment, she wished she were in the boat with the two constables. As company they left something to be desired—more than that, in Hardy’s case—but at least she had the measure of them now. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, as Jim Hackett might have said in the circumstances, probably adding chapter and verse as well.