“That’s nonsense. I—”
“Last night,” said Henry, “when you had delivered Anne to Ariadne, did you go in your dinghy to Mary Jane?”
“Of course I didn’t. If I had, I’d have seen that Colin wasn’t aboard, and—”
“Colin was aboard,” said Henry quietly.
“What?” David was obviously stunned by this piece of news. “But Hamish said—”
“What did he say?”
“Well, I mean, we’ve all been talking about it,” said David defensively. “Hamish told me how Colin’s dinghy had capsized on the way back to the boat and... I never meant... I mean...”
“Why,” asked Henry, “didn’t you tell Sir Simon what you had found on Steep Hill Sands?”
There was a long pause. David passed his hand over his forehead. “Can I go back and tell it my own way?”
“Of course.”
“Well...last night, as I told you, I read Voss and came to the same conclusion as poor Colin had done. If you like, I did want to beat him to it. There’s no harm in that, is there? I wanted to prove that...well, it doesn’t m-matter. Anyway, I decided to go out and look for the jewels at low water this morning. I set sail at six—it was low tide at eight—and I ran the boat aground deliberately at about half past seven. I thought that would look less suspicious than rowing to the sandbank. Actually, I don’t think a soul saw me. Anyhow, the sands were dried out already, so I s-started searching.”
“How did you set about it?” Henry asked.
“I could remember roughly where it was that Pete went aground,” said David, “and it seemed likely that the stuff was s-somewhere near there. But it was much too big an area just to start digging in.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Henry.
“I decided,” said David, “that whoever had hidden the jewels must have marked the spot in some way.” He was speaking strongly and confidently now, with only the merest trace of a stutter. “A cross bearing seemed the obvious thing. It would have to be one that could be checked at night, and the only lighted objects in the neighbourhood are the flashing buoys—one off the sands and the other off the point. I reckoned our man would probably take the easiest and simplest method of marking. I got the compass out, and found there was a spot where I got a reading of due north on one buoy and due east on the other. At that point, I found I was almost standing on one of those biggish grey stones that you get washed up onto the sands at low water. I tried to lift it, and I couldn’t. Then I saw that it had a hole bored through the bottom of it, and a small chain attached which ran down into the sand.”
“So that’s how it was done,” said Henry. “Very ingenious. Nobody’s going to notice if one of those stones is always in the same position. Go on.”
“Well,” said David, “I dug. I didn’t have to go far down. On the other end of the chain was a metal box in a waterproof bag. The box wasn’t even locked. And inside—”
He gestured toward the earring that glittered serenely on the table. “So,” said Henry, “you took just one earring to prove your story. What did you do then?”
“I b-buried the box again, in the same spot,” said David. His voice, which had been calm and strong while telling his story, now trembled again. “I th-thought the police would want to see the box in s-situ, as it were.”
“Quite right,” Henry commented. “What time was it by then?”
“It must have been about half past nine. The water was coming up fast, and Pocahontas was afloat again.”
“And then?”
There was a pause, and David said, “I went for a sail.”
Henry said, mildly, “That seems a slightly eccentric thing to do, in the circumstances.”
“I know.” David lit another cigarette, oblivious to the fact that a half-burnt one was still smouldering in the ashtray. “I knew you’d s-say that. I wanted to think.”
“About Pete Rawnsley.”
“Yes.”
“You wondered, suddenly, if Pete might have run his boat aground on purpose, because he knew very well where the jewels were. Because he had put them there.”
David raised his hands and let them fall again in a vague, helpless gesture. “I didn’t know what to think.”
“Were you at the famous Hunt Ball at Rooting Manor?”
“Y-yes. I went with Rosemary and Alastair.”
“Did you?” said Henry. “That’s very interesting. What time did you leave?”
David considered. “About three in the morning,” he said. “I know I got back to town about six, feeling lousy.”
“You drove back alone?”
“Yes. Rosemary and Alastair were staying the night at the Bush.”
“Right,” said Henry. “Now to get back to this morning. You had plenty to think about. You knew that Hamish had gone ashore and quarreled with his uncle the day he died.”
David managed to grin. “So you believe that now, do you?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Do you want me to go on?”
David said nothing. Henry went on. “You’d had a suspicion all along that Hamish killed Pete, accidentally. Finding the jewels put a much worse complexion on everything. You began to suspect that Hamish and Pete together might have organized the robbery. Hamish’s remarks about money that day on Steep Hill took on a new and sinister significance. What’s more, you knew that Anne was with the two Rawnsleys at the Hunt Ball, and that she stayed the night in their cottage. You may, by then, have known something else about Anne which would have provided an even stronger motive for—”
“I’m not saying anything,” said David stubbornly. “You’re doing the talking, not me.”
“All right, we’ll leave it at that,” said Henry. “You wanted to think. So you went for a sail. What conclusion did you come to?”
“I couldn’t decide what to do. The only certain, ethical part of the whole business seemed to be that the jewellery belonged to Sir Simon—or rather, to Priscilla, but one can’t take her seriously. So finally I made up my m-mind to go and see him before I told the police. I b-beat back up the river to Steep Hill, anchored the boat, and rowed ashore. I got into the b-boathouse, and I was tying up the dinghy when I heard a n-noise in Priscilla’s fo’c’sle. I th-thought perhaps... I don’t know what I thought. Anyway I had a look, and I found Emmy.”
“Yes,” said Henry devoutly.
“I c-carried her up to the house. I was considerably shaken, as you can imagine. And then you told me...about Colin. I realized then that the whole thing was much too serious to fool about with. I f-felt I couldn’t trust anybody. So I decided to say nothing until I could tell you.”
“Quite right,” said Henry.
“And here I am,” David ended rather lamely.
“You behaved very sensibly,” said Henry. “I’m more than grateful to you.”
David said, awkwardly. “I’m glad. I mean, I want to help all I—”
“Just one more thing,” said Henry. “What time did you come back and anchor off Steep Hill?”
David looked surprised. “I don’t know exactly, but you can work it out. It must have taken me about half-an-hour to row ashore, find Emmy and bring her up to the Hall. I got there at a quarter to f-four, didn’t I? So say quarter past three.”
“You didn’t by any chance come back and drop anchor earlier? Say about half past twelve?”
“Of course not.”
“You didn’t row ashore then, and find the Hall deserted, except for—”
“No.”
“You could have,” said Henry thoughtfully.
“I could have,” said David angrily, “but I didn’t.”
Henry picked up the earring. “You haven’t told anybody about this?”
David shook his head.
“Not even Rosemary and Alastair?”
“Not a soul.”
“Good,” said Henry. “Don’t. May I keep it?”
“Of course,” said David, with a kind of disgust. “I don’t want the bloody thin
g.”
“Right,” said Henry. “That’s all. And thank you again.”
At the door, David hesitated. “I know I’ve got no right to ask,” he said, “but...well...how long do you think all this will g-go on? It’s pretty intolerable for...for all of us. Besides, we should all go back to L-London, and I gather that—”
“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “It’ll be over soon. One way or another.”
“Thank God,” said David. He walked out into the dark passage, a tall, disconsolate figure.
When David had gone, Henry sent for George Riddle. The first and most obvious thing that struck him about Sir Simon’s manservant was that he was in a bad state of fright. His thin, white face was twitching with nerves, and his voice, dropping all pretensions at gentility, was unnaturally high-pitched and loud. He started to speak as soon as he was inside the door.
“I didn’t ’ave nothing to do with it,” he said, in a rapid, high-pitched whine. “Honest, sir, I didn’t. I don’t know where she got it from. I left on me dad’s bike as soon as I got the Daimler parked. Never even went inside. It’s my day off, and I went to me sister Lil, what’s married to Johnny Burrows up Woodbridge way. You can ask ’er. I was there all afternoon.”
“You don’t know where who got what?” Henry asked patiently.
“Miss Priscilla. I just ’eard she’s ill...”
“She’s dead,” said Henry flatly. “Sit down.”
“Dead?” repeated Riddle, stupidly. “Gawd.” Sweat broke out on his pale face. He sat down heavily. “It couldn’t ’ave killed ’er,” he said. “It couldn’t ’ave.”
“What couldn’t have?”
“What I... I mean, nothing. I don’t know nothing.”
“You got Miss Priscilla’s gin for her, didn’t you?” said Henry.
Riddle was silent.
“There’s no use denying it,” said Henry. “Bob Calloway has told us.”
This was a shot in the dark, but Henry felt perfectly secure that it would find its target. Sure enough, Riddle gave in at once.
“I was under orders,” he whimpered. “I couldn’t do otherwise. It wasn’t none of my business.”
“Whose orders?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pull yourself together, man,” said Henry a trifle irritably. “If you were under orders, somebody gave them to you.”
“Honest, sir, I don’t know. Miss Priscilla. Must have been.” Riddle was an unprepossessing picture of abject misery. “Every so often, when I was in here, Bob used to tip me the wink. ‘Got another consignment for the ’All, George,’ ’e’d say. And I’d collect the case and take it up. The first time, he explained what I ’ad to do. ‘It goes straight in the lady’s wardrobe,’ ’e says. ‘Don’t let anyone else see, least of all Sir Simon. It’s all paid for proper. And remind the lady as ’ow it comes from ’er Dad, and she’s not to tell ’er brother about it. She might, see, bein’ forgetful.’”
“You didn’t see anything wrong in what you did?” Henry asked drily.
Riddle licked his lips. “It didn’t seem right to me, at first,” he said uneasily, “but Bob said, ‘The pore lady wants it and why shouldn’t she ’ave it? It’s ’er only pleasure.’ Well, when ’e put it like that...”
“And I suppose you got a nice tip each time?”
“Only a bit for me trouble, sir, like anyone might. All the same, I didn’t like doin’ it. I said at the time—”
“Skip that,” said Henry briefly. “Let’s go back a bit. What happened before Bob got here? Miss Priscilla was drinking pretty heavily even before then, wasn’t she? At the time of the robbery, for instance?”
“I don’t know nothing about that,” said Riddle desperately. “I swear I don’t. I ’ave my suspicions, though,” he added, suddenly sly.
“What suspicions?”
“Well, the old man left a goodish cellar when ’e died, so they say. I reckon Miss Priscilla went through that, or most of it. Sir Simon, now, ’e ’ardly touches a drop, except for the odd pint in ’ere. ’E never went near the cellar, and the key was ’anging in the kitchen for anyone to take. Then one day—soon after Bob came, it was—Sir Simon goes down there for something, and ’e comes up all angry and worried-like, and ’e says to me, ‘George,’ ’e says, ‘I’m keepin’ this key meself from now on, and nobody’s to be allowed down there but me. If you ’ave occasion to want something, you arsk me.’ Well, I mean, it all adds up, don’t it?” George sniggered unattractively.
“Maybe,” said Henry. “Maybe not. That’s all for the moment, but don’t leave the pub.”
Henry followed Riddle out into the bar. There was no sign of Bob Calloway, and the barman hazarded that he must be in his private quarters, and went to investigate. A few minutes later, he was back, with a puzzled expression.
“Not there, sir,” he said. “That’s funny. He was here—well, say half an hour ago, that I’m sure. Better see—”
“I’ll go,” said Henry, and ran out into the yard. The garage was empty. Bob Calloway and the red Aston Martin had both disappeared.
Cursing himself for an inefficient fool, Henry hurried to the telephone and rang the Ipswich police, telling them to stop and apprehend the car and its occupant at the earliest possible moment. Then he went into the bar and collared Herbert.
The Harbour Master was still smarting under his humiliation of the previous night. Not even the kudos which surrounded him as the discoverer of Colin’s body could dissipate his rage and gloom.
Henry steered him into the lounge and into a chair, and said, “Now, Herbert, I’ve a few questions to ask you, and I want straight answers. This is a murder investigation.”
“Hay?” said Herbert truculently.
“Murder,” shouted Henry.
“Ar,” said Herbert. “Deserved it,” he added.
“Who did?”
“Both on ’em. Mr. Bloody Interferin’ Rawnsley and Mr. Bloody Interferin’ Street.” Herbert sniffed.
“Why,” Henry asked, “did you dislike Mr. Pete Rawnsley so much?”
Herbert cackled without humour. “Why?” he echoed. “Ingratitood, that’s why. Takin’ his boat to—”
“That’s not the real reason, and you know it,” said Henry.
“Hay?”
“Do you want me to shout at the top of my voice so that the whole pub can hear?” Henry asked conversationally. He filled his lungs, and began in a stentorian bellow, “Mr. Pete Rawnsley found out that—”
“’Ere.” Herbert’s voice was urgent and concerned. “No need to shout. I’m not deaf.”
Henry suppressed a grin. “Good,” he said. “Then we can proceed. Mr. Pete Rawnsley found out that you’d been dishonest over—”
Herbert was really worried now. “It was nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing as could matter. Taking a few bob over the odds for a few mingy moorings. Threatenin’ to do a man out of ’is livelihood, wot ’e’s worked at, man and boy, for—”
“I see,” said Henry, trying to sound more severe than he felt. “So Mr. Rawnsley found out that you were accepting bribes to allot people moorings which are the property of the Council, and should be given in strict rotation. Quite enough to lose your job. A fine Mayor of Berrybridge you’d have made.”
Herbert, reduced at last to silence, sat twisting his rough hands unhappily, and darting furtive glances at Henry out of his rheumy blue eyes.
“However,” said Henry, “we’ll say no more about that if you’ll tell me one thing. What were you doing near Steep Hill Sands in the fog the day Mr. Rawnsley died?”
Herbert’s face cleared. He chuckled. “Poachin’,” he said.
The frankness of this reply took Henry by surprise, so that he merely repeated, “Poaching?”
“Oysters,” said Herbert richly, savouring the word. “Berrybridge Natives. Sir Simon’s got a couple of nice beds in under the point. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” said Henry weakly.
“Fog,” added Herbert succi
nctly. “I know this ’ere river like me own...well, lived ’ere sixty-five year, man and boy, since I was born, you might say. Nothin’ like a bit of fog for poppin’ out and gettin’ a few—”
“It was out of season,” said Henry indignantly.
Herbert grinned. “All the more reason,” he said informatively. “Big prices they pay, Lunnon way, in May.”
“London?” said Henry. “I suppose Bob disposed of them for you?”
“Arsk no questions,” said Herbert, with a prodigious wink. He was rapidly recovering his customary bounce.
“So,” said Henry, “you went out as soon as the fog came down. Where are the oyster beds? Which side of Steep Hill?”
“Beyond it. Under the point.”
“You didn’t hear any other boats coming or going?”
“Too far orf,” said Herbert briefly.
“And you were on your way back, after the fog lifted, when you saw—”
“Didn’t see nothin’, only Blue Gull riding to ’er anchor, as sweet as you please. I went up Steep ’Ill Creek to see young George and get a cuppa in the kitchen. Cold and wet I was, with everything in the boat clammy from the fog, and a long run ’ome. ‘Herbert,’ I says to meself, ‘Young George’ll give you a cuppa at the ’All.’ So I—”
“You actually took your boat into Sir Simon’s shed with a load of his own oysters?” Henry asked incredulous. Herbert looked at him pityingly.
“’Course not,” he said. “Those I’d netted and buoyed to pick up arter dark. I can see,” he added patronizingly, “as you’ve never done no poachin’.”
“Supposing Sir Simon had been at home?” Henry asked.
Herbert sniffed. “Wouldn’t ’ave mattered,” he said defiantly. “Not that he was. Young George told me the night before as Sir Simon was going to be in Ipswich all morning. ’Ad an appointment at nine, ’e said. So I knew the coast ’ud be clear.”
“Has it struck you,” Henry said, “that poaching is an offence against the law?”
Herbert looked indignant. “I’ve told you the truth,” he said virtuously, “because you asked. I thought you said this was murder.”
“It is indeed,” said Henry, “but—”
“Sir Simon’s a friend of mine,” said Herbert. “He doesn’t grudge me a few oysters now and then. You ask him.”
The Sunken Sailor Page 21
