Henry read on doggedly to the end of this uninspiring and already yellowing document. When at last he had finished, he said to Proudie, “Well, Inspector, off the record and unofficially, what’s your private opinion of this case?”
“Nothing private about it,” said Proudie promptly. “Clear as mud. A very slick professional job, almost certainly the work of a lone operator. The way I see it, it went like this. Our man, whoever he was, turns up at the Hunt Ball in the guise of a hired chauffeur. He knows that a lot of valuable stuff is going to be flaunted around that night. He’s already cased Berry Hall, of course, along with several other big houses in the neighbourhood. Well, Miss Priscilla and her jewels and her...em...overindulgence...are the talk of the evening in the servants’ hall. We know that from Herbert and Sam and all the others who were there. The chap doesn’t have to open his mouth. He just listens. He knows when the Trigg-Willoughbys go home. All he has to do is give them time to get to bed and to sleep and—there you are. Too easy.”
“How would he know where to find the ladder and the boots?”
“He’d have marked them down when he cased the place. They were always kept there.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Henry, “but who was this mysterious chap? Surely all the local chauffeurs know each other. They’d have noticed a stranger.”
“I doubt it,” said Proudie. “Quite a lot of the guests used chauffeur-driven cars from hire firms. The Mr. Rawnsleys for example. Mr. Pete and Mr. Hamish took a young lady to the dance, and Mr. Pete’s M.G. wasn’t big enough for the three of them. No, there were enough strange faces in the servants’ hall that night. One more or less wouldn’t have caused any comment.”
“You don’t happen to know,” Henry asked, “which young lady Mr. Rawnsley took to the ball?”
“Not off-hand,” said Proudie, “but I expect it’s here somewhere. Let’s have a look.”
He flipped expertly through the file. “Here we are,” he said. “ ‘...drove over with my nephew Hamish and Miss Anne Petrie...’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, it does.”
There was a silence. Then Proudie shifted his large bulk in the straight-backed chair, and said, “Tragic affair that was, about the elder Mr. Rawnsley. I’ve got the reports on that, too, as you asked.”
There was unmistakable curiosity in the inspector’s voice, but Henry ignored it. He didn’t even open the dossier containing the report of the inquest, which Proudie pushed across the table toward him. Instead, he lit a cigarette, and gave one to Proudie.
Proudie picked up a pencil, put it down again, and then said, “To be frank, sir, I had thought you might be coming to see me over something rather different. What I mean is—rumours get about pretty fast in the country, you know. One of my constables is from Berrybridge—Sam Riddle’s nephew—and, well...not to mince matters...there’s talk, sir. No denying it, there’s talk.”
“What about?” said Henry, as casually as he could. Mentally, he cursed Colin for his tactless remarks in The Berry Bush the previous evening.
Proudie hesitated. “Of course, there was talk at the time, too, sir. And then when you asked for the reports of the inquest...”
Suddenly, Henry grinned. “Inspector Proudie,” he said, “could you arrange for a rumour to be circulated for me?”
“A rumour, sir?”
“A well-founded rumour,” said Henry, “that Chief Inspector Tibbett has thoroughly investigated his suspicions about Mr. Pete Rawnsley’s death, and come to the conclusion that the coroner’s verdict was absolutely correct, and that the whole thing was an unfortunate accident.”
A slow smile spread over the inspector’s cherubic countenance. “That’s easily arranged, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Henry.
CHAPTER NINE
ELEVEN A.M., Wednesday. High tide and a shining day, with a moderate easterly breeze.
“Let her go,” called Alastair.
Emmy threw the red and white buoy overboard with a splash: Henry hardened in the jib sheet, then released it again as Ariadne turned downstream. Rosemary sat on the slightly tilting deck, munching an apple. The business of setting sails, of dropping and picking up moorings, had by now become a smoothly efficient routine, and Henry and Emmy felt justifiably proud of themselves. When Alastair shouted “Back the jib,” or “Free the mainsheet,” or “Oh, hell, the burgee halyard’s snarled up again,” they not only knew what he was talking about, but could even take appropriate action.
Since his interview with Proudie, Henry had resolutely cleared his mind of all thought of work, and had settled down to enjoy himself. Freed from Anne’s conscious witchery, from Colin’s dark irony and David’s frenetic unease, the atmosphere on board Ariadne had become calm and idyllic. If Alastair was still obsessed by Dorinda and her blackguard boy, he managed not to show it. Rosemary was apparently her old, happy self again, singing tunelessly as she sat on the edge of the deck. Even the menace of Steep Hill Sands was obliterated, for the high tide had temporarily submerged the treacherous bank under a dazzle of blue water.
They passed Herbert, chugging in from seaward in his old grey launch, and they were overtaken by Sam Riddle’s battered black fishing boat, which was rattling its noisy way out to the fishing grounds off Harwich, with old Ephraim steering, while Sam prepared the nets. Otherwise the river and, beyond it, the sea were theirs alone—clean and clear and empty.
They rounded Steep Hill Point and hardened in sheets as the nose of the boat swung to windward. Ariadne leant into the breeze and sped out to sea. A couple of miles out, they came about, freed sheets, and set a course on the starboard tack, headed north for the entrance to the River Deben.
So began a four-day cruise which included all the ordinary delights, hazards and small misfortunes which add up to the sport of boating. From the detection point of view, the four days were a dead loss. From every other standpoint, however, they were an unqualified success. Henry and Emmy got burnt brown with sun and salt water, soaked to the skin in the one heavy downpour, badly frightened in the one severe wind, and ridiculously elated at their own progress as mariners. They ate like lions and slept like logs, and Henry gave up shaving.
***
Ariadne’s return to Berrybridge was planned for Saturday afternoon, in view of the mayoral celebrations taking place that day. It was not an easy sail, nor a particularly pleasant one. The sky was overcast, and a fresh nor’easterly breeze, running counter to the tide, had whipped the sea up into short, angry waves. It was a dead beat into the wind all the way, and Ariadne, wearing her smallest jib, butted and tossed and leant over at a tipsy angle, burying her nose in the lead-grey water and throwing back great fountains of icy spray. Every time they came about, the sails thrashed deafeningly, and the jib sheet developed a frightening habit of snarling itself round a cleat on the mast, which necessitated a hazardous journey forward over the steep, slippery deck before it could be freed.
Lunch was impossible, but Rosemary managed somehow to produce mugs of hot soup, which improved morale considerably. Although the boat was never in the slightest danger, it was nevertheless a cold, exhausting and exacting business: but, as is the way of life, these hardships brought their own rewards. The blessed, joyful moment when Ariadne turned upriver, into the comparatively sheltered water inside Steep Hill Point: the serenity of the quiet Suffolk fields flanking the river: the final peace as Ariadne rode quietly at her own mooring at last: the immense solace of a huge, untimely meal of eggs and bacon and tea in the warm cabin.
Relaxing luxuriously against soft cushions, Henry suddenly remembered some lines he had heard somewhere, long ago.
“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,
Ease after war, death after life does greatly please...”
Maybe he hadn’t got the words quite right, but for the first time he knew what they meant. Port after stormy seas...death after life... Not death in battle, not murder...death crowning a serene old age...no
, that wasn’t right. The whole point was the abrupt contrast between storm and calm, like rounding Steep Hill. Suicide, then, perhaps. But that was taking a gloomy view: after all, stormy seas were stimulating and exhilarating and even pleasurable. It was just that one couldn’t live at that pitch for ever. After the gale, the calm. After life, death...does greatly please...
“I do believe he’s asleep,” said Emmy.
Henry opened his eyes with a jerk. “I’m not,” he said. “I was thinking. Can I have some more tea?”
***
At half past six they went ashore. In honour of the occasion, they had all changed into their cleanest and most respectable clothes, and the men—after some debate—had actually shaved. As they pulled for the hard, speculation ran high as to the identity of the new mayor of Berrybridge. The polling booth was due to close at a quarter to seven, but they suspected that the result was already known, or at least that counting was by now taking place.
Rosemary came out strongly for Old Ephraim, but Alastair would have none of it. “It’ll be new blood this time,” he said. “You’ll see. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Bill Hawkes got in.”
“Well, I’m for Herbert,” Emmy said. “He’d be so thrilled.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Alastair. “He’d be even more impossible than ever.”
“Of course, we mustn’t forget Sam,” Rosemary put in. “Remember, he’s got connections with the Hall. I think we’ve been underestimating Sam.”
The waterfront of Berrybridge Haven presented a bizarre aspect as they came ashore. Herbert’s ramshackle, black-tarred shed had virtually disappeared under a thicket of posters. These were written in bold but shaky scarlet letters on white paper: most of them read, simply, VOTE FOR HOLE, but the writer had evidently tired of his repetitive task, for occasionally he had substituted HOLE FOR MAYOR, and in one case, in an excess of personal loyalty, UP WITH HERBERT.
On the other side of The Berry Bush, Bill Hawkes’s smart, newly built boathouse had also been subjected to electioneering zeal. He—as befitted the youngest and most go-ahead candidate—had hit on the revolutionary and eye-catching notion of writing his slogans in pale blue paint on black paper. And the slogans themselves provided additional evidence that an imaginative mind had been at work. WHO, demanded one poster, GOT THE NEW SLIP BUILT?: WHO, echoed another, CLEANED UP THE FORESHORE?: WHO, persisted a third, PAINTED THE NOTICES NEW? To these superbly rhetorical questions, there was but one answer. Along the front of the shed, a series of sheets of black paper, each bearing a single letter in blue, spelt out BILL HA KES. On the shore, a further sheet inscribed with the letter “W” was being chewed systematically to pulp by a fat, thoughtful-looking black spaniel.
The other two candidates had, Henry surmised, been taken unawares by this high-powered campaigning, for their attempts at retaliation bore all the marks of hasty improvisation. Also, Ephraim and Sam lacked the advantage of the splendid display areas afforded by the professional establishments of Messrs. Hawkes and Hole. However, to do them justice, they had tried. A grimy piece of paper, tacked onto a tree, bore the scribbled retort EPHRAIM BUILT THE BRIDGE, DIDN’T HE?, while the black hull of Sam’s boat, which was hauled well up onto the foreshore, was adorned with two sheets of newspaper, on which had been written, in enormous letters of black tar, HONEST RIDDLE.
The foreshore was deserted. If the shore was deserted, however, the pub was packed to suffocation, and an excited babble of voices drifted out into the yard. As Ariadne’s crew pushed their way into the bar, a sudden silence fell. Standing on tiptoe, Henry just managed to catch a glimpse of what was going on, over the shoulder of a very stout, grey-haired woman in a flowered rayon dress. A space had been cleared around the table in the window, at which Sir Simon and Bob Calloway were ensconced in official dignity. On the table stood five biscuit tins. Four of them were labelled, respectively, HERBERT, RIDDLE, HAWKES, and EPHRAIM, and each of these contained some small pieces of paper. The fifth was empty. Sir Simon, who had evidently just completed his count of the votes, was writing some figures on a piece of paper. Then he looked up, and rose to his feet. The crowded bar held its breath.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of Berrybridge Haven,” began Sir Simon, pontifically, “I have much pleasure in announcing to you the name of your new mayor. After a secret ballot, held in the highest traditions of British democracy,” Sir Simon went on, prolonging the agony, “I am delighted to be able to tell you that this borough has elected as its mayor for the coming year none other than that fine citizen and good friend to us all...” He paused for breath, looked at his paper again to make sure, and finally came out with it. “Our popular and esteemed Harbour Master, Mr. Herbert Hole.”
Instantly, uproar broke loose. There were cheers and boos and stampings of feet and shouts of congratulation and defamation, and, above all, urgent pleas for beer. Herbert himself was persuaded to climb onto the table, whence he surveyed his constituents with—Henry was surprised to see—tears in his faded blue eyes. For once in his life, Herbert seemed to be at a loss for words.
He was given a chance to recover from his emotion, however, for Sir Simon—appealing for quiet in a stentorian bellow—was insisting on reading out the details of the voting. Through the cries of “Good old Herbert!”, “Speech!” and “Pint o’ mild, Bob!”, he struggled to fulfill his duty to the electorate.
“Herbert Hole, sixteen votes,” yelled Sir Simon. “Bill Hawkes—do you mind being quiet over there?—Bill Hawkes, fourteen votes. Ephraim Sykes—can you hear me at the back?—twelve votes. Sam Riddle, eight votes. Which means,” he added, after a swift calculation, “that one hundred and six percent of the electorate registered their votes. Very creditable.”
This got an enormous cheer, and there were renewed shouts of “Speech, Herbert!” By this time, Herbert had recovered his normal composure. He raised his hands in a strangely dignified gesture, and silence fell. Henry, glancing round, saw David, Colin and Anne standing together near the window. Hamish was beside the bar, behind which Henry was somewhat surprised to see, in addition to the barman, Miss Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby and George Riddle. He presumed, correctly, that Sir Simon had insisted on Priscilla being relegated to this comparatively calm vantage point, and that George was keeping some sort of discreet check on her consumption of alcohol.
Herbert began to speak. “Friends,” he said. Everybody cheered again. “Citizens of Berrybridge, I thank you. On behalf of me and Mrs. ’Ole.”
Amid acclamation, the large lady who had been obstructing Henry’s view was propelled somehow through the mob, and a short delay occurred while several of Herbert’s more ardent supporters tried to hoist her onto the table beside her husband. The Lady Mayoress herself, however, soon put a stop to this procedure.
“You take your ’ands off of me, Jim Sykes,” she remarked tartly to an athletic-looking youth who had clasped her round the knees as a preliminary to heaving her upwards to join Herbert. “And mind me pore feet, if you please.”
This rebuke went home. Jim Sykes retreated into the crowd again, and Mrs. Hole favoured the company with a brief simper and a murmured “Delighted, I’m sure,” before saying to her husband, in a fierce whisper, “Get on with it, then.”
Herbert got on with it. “Twenty year,” he said, solemnly. “Twenty year I bin ’Arbour Master of Berrybridge. Twenty year ’Arbour Master and never Mayor, not till now. And if I ’adn’t ’ave got in this time, I’d ’ave known ’oo to blame.”
This lapse into customary vindictiveness was not well received by the electorate. There were several cries of “Come orf it, Herbert,” and “Wot you grumblin’ at now?”
“Hay?” said Herbert loudly, clapping a hand to his ear.
“You ’eard,” said a loud, rude voice, which was immediately followed by a thin, cracked one, which said, “Let ’im be, Bill, lad.”
Herbert cleared his throat. “I seen changes in Berrybridge,” he went on, with a disapproving snort. “I seen new folks come and I se
en the sort of ways they bring with them. I’m not talking about the old folk—Sir Simon and Ephraim and Sam and the like,” he added, unnecessarily. “But there’s others.” His eye fell malevolently on Bill Hawkes, then roved around until it came to rest on Bob Calloway. “Some is generous and some isn’t. Some play fair and some don’t. Some is gentlemen and some isn’t.” Here his beady stare fixed itself on Hamish. “And some ’as come and gone again, one way and another, and I say good riddance.”
Hamish put his tankard down on the counter with a thump, and turned an angry red. Herbert was certainly pulling no punches. Henry guessed that he had been looking forward to this moment for months.
“Then there’s boats,” said Herbert. “When I come here, it were all working barges and fishermen, and not more’n a couple of bloody yachts between ’ere and Woodbridge.”
“Language, Herbert,” said the Lady Mayoress loudly. Herbert paid no attention.
“Look at it now.” He gestured towards the window. “’Ole bloody river full of ’em. Lunnon men, mostly, as we all know. Well, what I say is, it takes all sorts,” he added, rather hastily. Even in his state of exaltation, he had not quite forgotten that the London men were his best clients.
“So,” he went on, with splendid inconsequence, “what I say is jolly good luck to one and all, and a vote of thanks to Bob ’ere for the blow-out what we all know is waiting upstairs.”
The Sunken Sailor Page 13
