The Sunken Sailor

by Patricia Moyes

  Rosemary went off to telephone, and came back a few minutes later with the news that Sir Simon would be only too pleased to see them, and insisted that they should lunch at Berry Hall.

  Driving through the sodden, dripping lanes, Rosemary said, “I’d better warn you about Priscilla.”

  “What about her?” asked Henry.

  “Well, she’s very sweet really, but a bit bats. They both are, in a way, but it’s more obvious in her case.”

  “Sir Simon struck me as being very much all there,” said Emmy.

  “Oh, I don’t mean they’re actually crazy,” Rosemary amended, hastily. “It’s just this fetish they’ve got about the family. It takes them in different ways. With Sir Simon, it’s the house. With Priscilla, it’s the family jewels. That’s what’s really the matter with her. I believe she went almost out of her mind after the robbery and she’s still distinctly odd. It’s better to keep off the subject if you can, but it’s not easy.”

  “They were insured, weren’t they?” said Henry.

  “Oh, yes, but it’s not jewellery as such that she cares about. Just The Jewels. I don’t believe she’s attempted to replace them. She’s convinced the originals will turn up sooner or later. Some hope... I suppose they’re all broken up and sold by now, aren’t they?”

  “You never can tell,” said Henry. “Professional thieves are sometimes prepared to hide the stuff for years until the hue and cry dies down. What were the jewels worth, do you know?”

  “Oh, thousands,” said Rosemary vaguely. “There were some famous pieces amongst them—the tiara in particular. They should have been kept in the bank, but Priscilla...ah, here we are.”

  The station wagon turned right, and passed between a magnificent pair of wrought-iron gates flanked by stone lions. Ahead, a gravelled drive wound upwards between green fields and dripping trees.

  “I’m sorry you’re seeing it on such a bad day,” said Rosemary. “The view of the house from here is rather spectacular.”

  The car swung round a right-handed corner, and they saw Berry Hall—through a fine mist of rain, but still in undeniable glory. Slender, pale grey columns paced out a stately, motionless pavane across the terrace, from which a flight of shallow steps led down to a sweep of lawns. Above, a Palladian pediment reared in geometric perfection. For a great country house, Berry Hall was not large: but it had a perfectly proportioned quality of elegance and lightness that gave it the air of a filigree crown set on the head of the green hill.

  “It’s beautiful,” murmured Emmy, reverently.

  Sir Simon greeted them warmly, and insisted on taking them for an immediate tour of the house, with special emphasis on the newly restored portions. They saw the famous Adam Room, with its two magnificent fireplaces and delicately intricate ceiling: they admired the colonnade, the orangery and the mirrored ballroom. Sir Simon, delighted to find that Emmy shared his passion for neo-classical architecture, was an enthusiastic and enthralling guide.

  The tour ended in the Blue Drawing Room—a large and exquisitely proportioned room whose long windows looked out over a vista of grass and trees to the open water of the North Sea. As they came in, a small, stout woman jumped up from one of the big armchairs by the fire, as disconcertingly as a jack-in-the-box. Her grey hair was grotesquely crimped into a mass of tight curls on her forehead, and an untidy snowdrift of very white powder gave a clownlike quality to her soft, plump face. She wore a shapeless brown tweed skirt, and a mauve jumper knitted out of a limp, silky thread. At her throat, a crumpled yellow silk scarf was held in place by a superb diamond brooch, shaped like a rose.

  “My sister Priscilla,” said Sir Simon, without enthusiasm. “Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett. Mrs. Benson you know.”

  “Oh, yes.” Priscilla’s stubby hands fluttered in greeting. “Dear Mrs. Benson. So kind of you to come. Nobody ever comes to see us these days, you know. Nobody. I keep telling Simon—”

  “A glass of sherry, Mrs. Tibbett?” said Sir Simon loudly. Henry and Emmy expressed their willingness to take a drink.

  “Of course,” Priscilla went on, mournfully, “I suppose we are very dull. Very dull indeed, for young people like you. In the old days, we used to have so many visitors. People used to come quite a long way, just to see my beautiful jewels. But since...since...”

  “Prissy,” said Sir Simon sharply. Priscilla’s inane, tragic face seemed to be on the verge of breaking up into a clumsy pattern of weeping, but she pulled herself together, and said, “I’m sorry. I brood too much, that’s what it is. That’s what Simon tells me. One has a duty to be happy, don’t you think?” She added, inconsequentially, to Emmy, “A duty. One owes it to other people.”

  Sir Simon, who had been busying himself with decanter and glasses, saved Emmy from the embarrassment of replying by handing round drinks. The sherry was sweet and not very good. Henry noticed that Sir Simon did not offer a glass to his sister. While the others drank, she sat, quiet and watchful, in her big armchair, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands, and glancing from face to face as though trying to follow a conversation in a foreign language.

  “You must take a good look at this view,” Sir Simon was saying. “Best in the house, to my way of thinking. Pity about the rain.”

  He shepherded Emmy and Rosemary over to the window. Henry rose to follow them, but Priscilla stopped him. With a glance at her brother’s retreating back, she laid a hand on Henry’s arm, and said, with curious urgency, “It’s so kind of you to come here, Mr. Babbitt.”

  “It’s a very great pleasure,” said Henry staunchly.

  “Tide’s on the way out now.” Sir Simon’s voice was fruity and authoritative. “You can see the creek, and Steep Hill Sands, just down there.”

  “Do you ever,” Priscilla asked, earnestly, “imagine things, Mr. Hackett?”

  “Frequently,” said Henry, hoping that his desire to join the group at the window was not too obvious. “It’s one of my principal amusements.”

  “Amusements?” Priscilla sounded bewildered. “Oh, I wouldn’t ever call it an amusement. It’s just that things happen and you know they’ve happened and then they haven’t.” She paused, and then added, “It’s a wonderful thing, imagination, isn’t it?”

  “Fascinating,” Henry agreed. He could hear that Sir Simon had broached the subject of Pete Rawnsley, and it was agonizing not to be able to catch all that was said. Disjointed phrases drifted across the room. “Terrible tragedy...my greatest friend...if only I’d been here...”

  “I see you’re admiring my brooch, Mr. Hibbert.” Priscilla simpered at Henry with a sort of monstrous coyness. Reluctantly, he wrenched his attention from Sir Simon’s conversation.

  “All that remains of my lovely, lovely jewellery. The only piece. It was away being repaired that night. That terrible night. I lock it up in the safe every evening, you know.”

  “Very wise of you.”

  “...had to go into Ipswich to see my solicitor...there all morning...and then of course the fog...but Riddle tells me that Herbert...”

  “I always lock my jewelry up,” said Priscilla, virtuously. “Always. Papa insisted upon it. And he was right. Dear Papa was always right. And so thoughtful.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “That’s why it’s so unfair, what people say.” There was a distinct tremble of tears in Priscilla’s voice. “So terribly unfair. But what can you do, if it’s imagination? Nobody knows the things I imagine. It’s so hard to talk to people. Of course, dear Simon was wonderfully helpful. He said everything was all right, and I wasn’t to worry. But it wasn’t all right, you see. He was just trying to comfort me. Now Mr. Rawnsley—”

  The name caught Henry’s wandering attention. “Pete Rawnsley was a friend of yours, was he?” he asked with interest.

  Priscilla gave him a reproachful look. “Oh, dear me, no,” she said. “Mr. Hamish Rawnsley. Such a charming young man. He comes here sometimes, and talks to me...that is, he used to, before...a really delightful young man. So
unlike many of the modern generation. Full of enterprise. Dear Papa always said a man should have enterprise.”

  “...and my great-grandfather himself designed the Folly...you can just see it, over there in the trees...” Sir Simon boomed cheerfully on, and Henry realized dismally that the subject of Pete Rawnsley had come and gone, and he wondered if he would ever find a suitable opportunity of introducing it again later on. Simultaneously with his exasperation, Henry was aware of a distinct feeling of guilt. Alastair, Rosemary, even Emmy—they had all begged him to forget the whole affair. The coroner’s verdict had been perfectly straightforward. And yet...there were inconsistencies. Pick up a loose thread of circumstance, follow it through the labyrinth of events—and where would it lead? Perhaps to havoc and misery in the lives of a pleasant group of people. Better to leave it alone. If you can. If you can...

  “Luncheon,” announced a pontifical voice, “is served.”

  Henry jerked himself back to reality, and turned, expecting to see a vast and ponderous butler in the old tradition. Instead, the owner of the voice turned out to be an excessively thin and lugubrious young man in a white jacket, who went on to add, in a marked Suffolk accent, “And the ’ot plate’s fused again.”

  “Oh, dear, Riddle—not again. It’s not fair,” Priscilla said, in a tremulous voice. “Every time we have guests, it happens. And then they don’t come again. Of course they don’t. Why should they?”

  Sir Simon walked over to his sister, and put an arm round her shoulders. “Now, now, Prissy,” he said, kindly, “it’s not as bad as all that. Smile and sing under all difficulties, eh?”

  “I do try, Simon,” said Priscilla, with the suspicion of a quaver, “but it’s very hard. Ever since—”

  “That’s enough of that, now. Come along and have some food.”

  After an ample but indifferent lunch, served by the mournful Riddle, Priscilla announced her intention of lying down, and disappeared upstairs. Ensconced comfortably in the Blue Drawing Room once more, Sir Simon said, “You must forgive my sister. It’s this wretched robbery, I’m afraid. She took it very badly. Blames herself, that’s the trouble. And the hard fact is that it was her fault. No getting away from it.”

  “What actually happened?” Henry asked.

  Sir Simon took a long pull on his pipe. “It was the night of the local Hunt Ball,” he said. “Over at Rooting Manor. Priscilla insisted on getting all her jewellery out of the safe, and wearing most of it. Ridiculous, of course, but it gave her great pleasure to do so. When we got home, Priscilla was...was very tired and overexcited, and she forgot to put the stuff back in the safe. Left it in her dressing room, with a window open at that. Everybody in the district knew she’d been wearing the beastly things—tiara, necklace, bracelets, the lot. Next morning, what do we find? Ladder pinched from the potting-shed and left in the shrubbery. Marks of it in the flower-bed under the dressing-room window. And the jewellery gone. Very sad, but there it is. The only thing left is the rose brooch—you may have noticed my sister wearing it today. It was away having the clasp mended.”

  “You think this was the work of somebody local, then?” Henry asked.

  “Who knows?” replied Sir Simon heavily. “She’d been chattering to everybody about wearing the full regalia to the Hunt Ball. Somebody local might have had a contact... I don’t know...”

  “These big robberies are generally the work of a professional gang,” said Henry. “Apart from anything else, it would be difficult for an amateur to dispose of the stuff afterwards.”

  “That’s true,” Sir Simon agreed. “That’s why we haven’t altogether given up hope that the jewels may still turn up. But it’s over a year now, and no sign of them.”

  At three o’clock the rain stopped, and a few shafts of watery sunshine began to filter through the dispersing clouds. Henry led the conversation round to the subject of boats, and expressed such interest in Sir Simon’s motor launch that he was very soon being pressed to go down to the boathouse and have a look at it. Emmy and Rosemary decided against trampling through wet grass, so the two men left them by the fire.

  Henry was depressed. When he had first seen the Blue Drawing Room, and the magnificent view of Steep Hill Sands from its window, he had had high hopes that Sir Simon might have seen Blue Gull going aground, and watched the subsequent actions of her owner: but from the snatches of conversation which he had overheard before lunch, it seemed that, as luck would have it, this perfect observation post had been unmanned during the vital hours. It was just possible, of course, that Priscilla had seen something, but Henry did not feel very sanguine about the reliability of her memory.

  The boathouse was dark and damp. It was a long, low shed made of black-tarred wood, and built right across the little creek that ran from Sir Simon’s grounds through banks of sedge and sand to join the main stream of the Berry at Steep Hill. Coming into the shed from the landward side, Henry followed Sir Simon through a small door, and found himself standing on a wooden landing stage. The seaward end of the shed was open, like the mouth of a tunnel, and through it, framed in darkness, was a vista of sand and sea. The floor of the shed was the water itself.

  Two boats were tied up to the landing stage—a small, dilapidated racing dinghy which had once been white, and a very smart, varnished motor launch, which was carefully protected from the ravages of the weather by a waterproof canvas cover. This completely shrouded the cockpit and decking, giving the boat the appearance of being under a dust sheet. Both craft were bobbing gently on the dark water.

  “I know,” said Sir Simon, suddenly, “that fellows like Benson and Rawnsley don’t agree with me, but to my way of thinking, Priscilla’s the great beauty in Berrybridge. Not as young as she was, perhaps, but I’d back her against these jazzy modern types any day. Do you agree?”

  For one hysterical moment, Henry thought that Sir Simon was talking about his sister. Then, in the nick of time, he saw that the motor launch had the name Priscilla picked out in brass letters on her stern.

  “She’s lovely,” he said sincerely.

  “I used to be a sailing man myself,” said Sir Simon. “Dinghy racing, mostly. Magnificent sport. Too old for it now. There’s a lot to be said for a reliable engine when you get to my age.” He gave Priscilla a wistful look. “Don’t suppose you’d care for a spin?” he said, almost shyly. “It’s not raining, and in any case there are plenty of oilskins aboard.”

  In fact, Henry did not relish the prospect of a cold, damp ride: but he was eager to see for himself the possibilities of reaching Steep Hill Sands from the boathouse, so he accepted.

  Instantly, Sir Simon became brisk and businesslike. He unclipped the waterproof cover and folded it away, revealing a snug cockpit upholstered with blue cushions, and, ahead of it, a doghouse which gave shelter to the helmsman as he stood at the wheel. Through the open fo’c’sle door, under the foredeck, Henry could see the usual gear of a small cruising boat—blankets, ropes, fenders, flags, and anchor, oilskins and a Primus stove.

  Henry, with one day’s experience on Ariadne behind him, volunteered to help with the business of getting under way, but Sir Simon would have none of it. He insisted that Henry should sit passively in the comfortable, dry cockpit, while he himself bustled about efficiently with boathook, ropes and chain. Since the boat had been moored stern first, casting-off presented no difficulties. As soon as the motor was ticking over, it was only necessary to release the stern mooring warps, haul up the light anchor which held the bows of the boat, and slap her into gear. The engine purred contentedly, and Priscilla moved slowly out of the shelter of the boathouse and down the creek.

  The tide was running out fast, and already the creek had assumed its own identity, as more and more patches of sand and sedge were uncovered, leaving the narrow, twisting channel clearly defined.

  “Want to take her?” asked Sir Simon.

  “I’d be terrified,” said Henry. “I’d hate to run you aground on a falling tide.”

  “Nonsen
se. Just like driving a car. All you do is follow the stream.”

  Gingerly, Henry took the wheel, and steered an erratic course down the creek. Every so often, Sir Simon would put out a hand and gently correct Henry’s wildly fluctuating steering. After five minutes, Henry had developed a crick in his neck from the strain of concentrating on the convolutions of the channel. He had also discovered that he tended to move the wheel much too violently, whereas in fact the merest touch was enough to swing the boat onto a new course.

  “You’d better take over again now,” he said. “It’s only by the grace of God that I’ve got this far without disaster. I don’t believe in tempting fate.”

  “Just as you like.” Sir Simon took the wheel again, and Henry marvelled to see that he hardly bothered to glance at the stream ahead. The boat seemed to steer herself.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Henry said admiringly.

  Sir Simon smiled. “Local knowledge, that’s all,” he said. “If you’d done this run as often as I have, you’d be just the same. I reckon I know every blade of sedge and every grain of sand by now. Ought to, after all these years. The only other person who knows this creek as well as I do is Herbert. But young Riddle is getting pretty good at it, I admit.”

  Ten minutes later, they were rounding the pale, inhospitable expanse of Steep Hill Sands, and the open water of the River Berry stretched out in front of them. Outside the sheltering banks of the creek, the boat began to pitch and buck, as she felt the choppy seas under her hull. Every so often, a larger-than-usual wave would break over the bows in a scatter of spray, and in spite of the shelter of the doghouse, Henry was glad of the warmth and dryness of his thick black oilskin coat.

  Looking back over his shoulder at Steep Hill Sands, Henry said, “We went aground there yesterday—at just about the same spot as poor Pete Rawnsley.”

  Sir Simon, his hand on the wheel and his eyes on the horizon, said, “That was a great tragedy. Did you know him?”