“I suppose so.”
“Well, he rescued Mrs. Tibbett, didn’t he?” Proudie pointed out, somewhat aggrieved.
“Yes,” said Henry, “he did. Thank God.”
“But now that poor Miss Priscilla—”
“It’s tragic,” said Henry, “but from our point of view, her death isn’t such a complete disaster. I’m pretty sure now that I know what her evidence would have been.” As Proudie broke into an excited spate of questions, he added. “Give me another half hour or so, will you, and then come up? I can’t talk over the phone.”
Henry rang off, and walked down the dark passage. As he passed the brightly lit bar, he saw Bob Calloway busy serving beer. Hamish and Anne were sitting in an inglenook: David was talking to Rosemary and Alastair: Herbert and Sam Riddle were playing darts, while George Riddle chalked: Bill Hawkes and Old Ephraim were engaged in a discussion in a corner. It should have been a typical, jolly Sunday evening in an English country pub. But the voices were subdued, the faces strained. Berrybridge Haven was in the grip of a nightmare, faced with facts which it did not understand, and there was terror abroad. Henry, his heart filled with anger and compassion, made his way slowly upstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
INSPECTOR PROUDIE walked, heavy-footed, into the bedroom, and greeted Henry and Emmy sadly, a load of distress weighing on his broad shoulders and clouding his normally merry face. In fact, the only ray of hope that he could see in the situation was that Chief Inspector Tibbett seemed to have recovered his usual brisk grasp of affairs, and Proudie charitably ascribed his earlier vagueness to acute anxiety over his wife. The latter’s escape from the murderer’s clutches was also gratifying, but somewhat outweighed by the tragic business of Priscilla’s death.
Proudie sighed deeply, and, at Henry’s invitation, sat down on the other side of Emmy’s bed. “Well, sir,” he said, ponderously, “I’m glad you’ve been getting on faster than I have. This is a nasty business, and I don’t like it.” He spoke with an air of personal affront, with which Henry sympathized. He realized that uppermost in the inspector’s mind was the inescapable fact that here in Berrybridge, among his own friends and acquaintances, was a coldblooded murderer who was by now so deeply committed as to be striking with lunatic ruthlessness against anyone and everyone who constituted a possible threat of betrayal.
“Before we compare notes,” said Henry, “I’d like to hear how you got on. By the way, did your men have a look at Sir Simon’s boat?”
“They did, sir. Nothing helpful. Mrs. Tibbett had been tied up with spare rope from the fo’c’sle, and gagged with an old white racing flag. No prints on the boat except Sir Simon’s, Riddle’s and Mr. Crowther’s.”
“So you’ve fingerprinted everyone already, have you, Inspector?” Emmy asked. “That’s quick work.”
“Voluntary, of course,” said Proudie. “We needed the prints, and—well, I think myself it was a good move. There’s nothing makes people take a case seriously like having their prints taken.”
“I think,” said Henry sombrely, “that everybody is taking this case pretty seriously by now. Well, let’s get on.”
Proudie pulled a thick notebook out of his pocket, and began thumbing through the pages.
“I saw everybody concerned,” he said, “with the exception of Mr. Crowther, who only came ashore from his boat an hour or so ago. I took his prints, which seemed to upset him, and he said he wanted to talk to you. So I let him be for the moment. He’s downstairs now.”
“I’ll see him later,” said Henry. “Go on.”
“Well,” said Proudie, “after you rang, I started straight away by locating Mr. Rawnsley and Miss Petrie. That wasn’t difficult. They were both back at Mr. Rawnsley’s cottage. Just got in.”
“Where had they been?”
Proudie shook his head in a sort of angry despair. “Berry Hall,” he said.
Henry looked up sharply. “Berry Hall? When? What for?”
Proudie consulted his notes. “They left here about a quarter to two,” he began. “Miss Petrie was feeling better and—”
Henry interrupted him. “Inspector,” he said, “I’m sorry, but would you mind very much if I got these people to tell me their own stories? In any case, it might be interesting to see if they check with what they told you.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Proudie, without rancour.
“I’ll go down and talk to them,” said Henry. “Would you mind staying up here with my wife. She’s had rather a shattering experience today, and she—”
“A pleasure.” Proudie beamed. “So long as you explain it to my wife.”
They all laughed with a polite pretence at roguishness, and Henry went downstairs and into the bar.
A sudden, uneasy silence greeted his entrance. David made as if to get up, but sat down again when he saw Henry making his way over to Hamish and Anne.
Henry said, “Would you two mind coming into the lounge and talking to me for a bit? This is official.”
Anne stood up at once. She was solemn and very calm, like an overawed child. “Of course, we’ll do anything we can to help,” she said.
Hamish got up more slowly. He looked at Anne with some concern, and then said to Henry, “I don’t think it’s right that Anne should be worried by any more interviews. We’ve already had the inspector...”
“I’m really sorry,” said Henry. “It must be done.”
“I’m perfectly all right,” said Anne, and walked composedly out of the bar.
The lounge was small and dingy, but unoccupied. The three of them sat at a small circular table, from which Henry removed a drooping green plant in a brass pot. Then he brought out his notebook and said, “Let’s start with this afternoon. Inspector Proudie tells me you went to Berry Hall.”
There was a tiny silence, and then Hamish said, “That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I—” began Anne, but Hamish stopped her.
“Let me tell this,” he said. “There’s nothing to it, anyway. I was feeling pretty bloody about what happened last night. Colin, I mean.” He glanced surreptitiously at Anne, but she seemed quite unmoved. “I felt,” Hamish went on, in a rush, “that it was all my fault. It was I who got angry with Herbert and provoked Colin into that ridiculous display, which got him overexcited, and when he’s—when he was excited he always got drunk. I don’t suppose all this sounds very logical, but I wanted to—to confess, as it were, and take the blame. There didn’t seem to be anybody to apologise to, except Sir Simon. He’s the person one tends to go to in these parts when there’s any trouble. So I decided to go and see him and tell him it was my fault. I suppose I wanted an excuse to get out of Berrybridge, too. I’m afraid my motives aren’t very clear, but—”
“All right,” said Henry. “Never mind. Just go on. What happened?”
“I went upstairs to see Anne and tell her where I was going and why. We talked for a bit, and then she—”
“I insisted on going with him,” Anne broke in. “I didn’t want to be left alone, and I—”
“What time was this?”
Hamish frowned. “About a quarter to two, or a bit after, I suppose,” he said. “Anyway, we set out in the car for Berry Hall.”
“Did you,” Henry asked, “meet anybody on the way? Think hard. It’s very important.”
Quickly, Hamish said, “We saw George Riddle.”
“Where?”
“About a mile from the Hall. He was on a bicycle, riding towards Berrybridge, but as we came up to him he turned down the lane that leads to Woodbridge.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Henry. “Anybody else?”
There was a pause. Then Anne said, “We saw Old George, too, in his taxi.”
“Did we?” Hamish sounded genuinely astonished.
“I did,” said Anne. “You were probably too busy driving. He was coming down the lane into Berrybridge as we went up it.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not that I
can remember,” said Hamish. He looked interrogatively at Anne. She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think we passed another car at all.”
“And what happened then?”
“Nothing,” said Hamish. “We drove up to Berry Hall, but it was completely deserted. We knocked and rang, but got no reply. So we came away again.”
“You didn’t go in?”
There was a silence.
“No,” said Hamish.
“Neither of you?”
“Well...”
“I went in,” said Anne. She turned to Hamish. “There’s no sense in lying to Henry. I can’t see that it’s important but I went in. Not for long. I just walked into the hall, and called, because the front door was open.”
“And you saw nothing and nobody?”
“Not a thing.” Anne was quite definite.
“You didn’t go into the Blue Drawing Room and look out over the river?”
“No. I walked about a bit on the terrace outside. So did Hamish.”
“I see.” Henry made a note. “And then?”
“Then we came away,” said Hamish.
“And you got to Berrybridge—when?”
Anne and Hamish exchanged the smallest of glances. Then Hamish said, “About half past four.”
“What were you doing in the meantime?”
“Just driving.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t know. I just drove. Anywhere.”
Henry looked at the two of them for a moment. They both seemed to be holding their breaths. Then he said, cheerfully, “Oh, well, that seems to cover the afternoon.”
There was a perceptible relaxation. Henry went on, “Now I want to talk about something else. The day Pete Rawnsley was killed.”
Instantly, the tension tightened again. Anne said, quickly, “Henry, I thought we’d—”
Henry said, “Everything has changed now, Anne. Colin’s dead.”
“Yes,” said Anne. It was a whisper.
“First of all,” said Henry to Hamish, “I’d like to know whether your uncle had made any night trips by himself in his boat shortly before he died.”
Hamish looked very surprised indeed. “Why do you ask that?”
“That’s my business,” said Henry. “Had he?”
“No.” Hamish was definite. “I’m certain he hadn’t. I’d have known if he had.”
“Right,” said Henry. He made a note. Then turned to Anne. “Now,” he went on, “I have two conflicting accounts of what happened after you and David rowed ashore that day. One from him and one from you. I want to know which is true.”
Hamish looked at Henry with a sort of horror. “Anne wasn’t on Steep Hill Sands that day.”
“Oh, yes, I was,” said Anne. A flush had come into her cheeks.
“It’s not true.”
“I was.” Anne leant forward. “I told Henry. I went ashore and I spoke to Pete and he—”
“She’s lying,” said Hamish calmly. He squared his shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to make a clean breast of it. I was the only person who went ashore and spoke to Pete.”
“No!” Anne cried. There was a suspicion of hysteria in her voice. “It’s not true, Henry! It was me!”
Henry said to Hamish, “What time did you go ashore?”
“Ten o’clock,” said Hamish. “I looked at the time before I went, because I wanted to be sure not to miss the weather forecast.”
“You shared a house with your uncle,” said Henry. “You could have spoken to him whenever you wanted to. Why couldn’t you talk to him quietly in your own drawing room?”
“That’s what I mean,” Anne broke in. “It’s so silly. Of course Hamish didn’t go ashore. He’s only—”
“Go on, Hamish,” said Henry. “Why did you have to see him so urgently? It was about money, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Hamish. There was a long pause. Then he went on, “I can’t expect you to understand. You’re not a sailing man...”
“Tell me, anyway.”
“Pete and I,” said Hamish slowly, “inherited quite a bit of money two years ago. My parents are dead, you see, and Pete was like a father to me. A pretty heavy-handed father sometimes, too. This money was inherited jointly, but he had absolute control of it until his death, or until I reached the age of thirty-five, whichever was the sooner.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“That meant ten years to wait for your new boat, unless Pete—”
“You’re very quick,” said Hamish ironically.
“Thank you,” said Henry gravely. “Go on.”
“I was sure I’d be able to talk him round,” said Hamish. “So sure that I’d already had the designs made without telling him, and work had started on the boat. That morning, I had a letter from the builders saying they must have their advance deposit, or... Well, Pete was off for a week’s racing, and he’d already set sail when the letter arrived. I just had to talk to him.”
“So when you saw him go aground, and the fog came down, you took the opportunity to—”
“Of course,” said Hamish brusquely.
“And what did your uncle say?”
Before Hamish could answer, Anne cried, “Tell him the truth, Hamish. It’s the only way. Tell him the truth.”
“All right,” said Hamish. “I was going to anyhow. Pete refused. We had a quarrel.”
Henry said, “I’m glad you told me that.”
“And so of course,” Hamish went on, with rich sarcasm, “I killed him so that I could inherit. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“It’s a tempting theory, you will agree,” said Henry.
Anne, her green eyes shining with tears, said, “Oh, Henry... Henry, you must believe me... Hamish—”
“I am not,” said Henry, “quite as silly as you think.”
Anne suddenly straightened her back. “What do you mean by that?”
Henry sighed. “You’ve fooled all of us, Miss Anne Petrie,” he said. “Me included. I hope you won’t do it any more. It’s a dangerous game. You run the risk of being disbelieved even when you’re telling the truth.”
Hamish stood up, his face dark with anger. “There’s no need to be offensive to Anne,” he said. “Say what you like to me. I’ve got broad shoulders.” He looked like a young bull, standing there in the cramped little parlour.
“I’m sorry,” said Henry. He suddenly realized that he was very tired, and middle-aged. “Just one more question, Anne? Where did you stow the sleeping bags on Mary Jane?”
“In the forepeak, of course,” said Anne, at once. “What has that got to do with it?”
“Nothing much,” said Henry. “You can both go now. Would you mind asking David to come and have a word with me?”
***
David Crowther came quickly and nervously into the room, lit a cigarette, and said, “How’s Emmy?”
“All right,” said Henry, “thanks to you. I’ll never be able to tell you how much—”
“It was nothing.” David sat down. “Just t-terribly lucky that I happened...that I was there.”
“It seems the worst sort of ingratitude to start asking you awkward questions just now,” said Henry, with some diffidence, “but I’m afraid I must. For instance—just what were you doing in Sir Simon’s boathouse this afternoon?”
David gave the ghost of a grin. “That’s not an awkward question,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to tell you about it.”
“About what?”
Instead of answering, David put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a small object and laid it on the table in front of Henry. It was a drop earring made in diamonds and emeralds. The two men looked at it in silence for a moment. Finally Henry said, “So you found it.”
“Yes,” said David. “I found it.”
“By accident?”
“Good God, no.”
“Please,” said Henry, “tell me all about it, fro
m the beginning.”
“There’s no beginning,” said David, with a trace of nervous irritation. “Not until yesterday evening. I don’t know what you mean, from the beginning.”
“Very well,” said Henry. “Tell me about it from yesterday evening.”
David took a long pull at his cigarette. “Anne and I,” he said, “went back to Pocahontas after that ghastly party. We had a drink and talked. About...about C-Colin.”
“Of course.”
“I was intrigued. I haven’t got Colin’s brains, and I never will have. J-just good old reliable David. But Anne told me that Colin had been reading Voss, and had made a cryptic remark to you about it when you were all in Walton Backwaters. And of course, we all heard what he said at dinner. So even my f-feeble intelligence began to click. After I’d ferried Anne to Ariadne, I went back and took a look at my own copy of the Venturesome Voyages, and of course it became obvious. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “But I was even slower than you were, if it’s any consolation. Now, to get back to last night. You and Anne talked for a long time on Pocahontas. What else did you talk about, besides Colin?”
David studied the tip of his cigarette. “I d-don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“I’m afraid it is. I may as well tell you at once that it’s perfectly obvious to everybody that you’re in love with Anne.”
David flushed. “That’s my affair,” he said.
“Colin and Anne had just had a big row,” Henry went on relentlessly. “It must have been an ideal moment for you to—to put your point of view.”
David said nothing. “I presume,” Henry added, “that she turned you down yet again. She probably told you that the only two men she’d ever cared about were Pete Rawnsley and Colin Street. Pete was dead. Colin was still alive.”
Slowly, David said, “If you’re implying what I think you are, it’s m-monstrous.”
“Perhaps Anne drew some withering comparisons between Colin’s mental ability and your own, so you determined to beat him at his own game.”
The Sunken Sailor Page 20
