Instantly, Sir Simon made for the source of the noise. Henry, hampered by his heavy oilskins, launched himself in a rugger tackle at the other’s knees. They went down onto the sand together, rolling over and over, clenched in a stranglehold of desperation. For seeming hours they wrestled, grimly, in the darkness. Sir Simon, in his agony, was possessed of the legendary strength of a lunatic. Henry concentrated on maintaining his grasp on the deadly right wrist—the wrist of the hand that held the spanner: but he felt his strength ebbing. And as he rolled over yet again on the clammy sand, he became aware of another and even more sinister sensation. The sand was no longer just damp: it was wet. The tide was rising. By the millimetre, the water grew deeper, and Henry realized that his opponent had changed his tactics. No longer was Sir Simon trying to free his right hand to deal a stunning blow: rather, he was using manic force to get a grip on Henry’s throat, to press his face downwards into the rising water.
Henry knew that he could not hold out much longer. Complete unreality took over. There was salt water and sand in his eyes, in his nostrils: there was no air, no breath. Only a choking sensation of darkness and despair. He made one last, superhuman effort at recovery, with the unimagined strength that comes to a man fighting for his life. Slowly, painfully, he pressed his body upwards against the tower of brute force that held him down: but he knew in his heart that it was impossible. The grip on his throat tightened. It was at the very moment when he lost consciousness that he was aware, as in a dream, of a sudden, blinding light. And then everything was dark.
***
Henry opened his eyes slowly, and with surprise. It even occurred to him to marvel that there was, after all, survival after death. Then he saw that he was in the cabin of Ariadne, and that Emmy and Rosemary were kneeling beside him. Both their faces were wet, though whether with tears or rain Henry never knew, nor did he ask. He tried to speak, but the words would not come from his bruised throat. Gently, Emmy held a cup of cool water to his lips.
Henry mustered all his strength to speak. In a croaking whisper, he managed, “Where are we?”
“On the way home,” said Rosemary.
For the first time, Henry was aware of the throbbing of Ariadne’s faithful motor. Through the hatchway, he could just make out the dark mass which was Alastair, as he stood at the helm.
Once again, he made the effort of speech. “And...and what...did he...?”
“He got away,” said Emmy. “In his boat. When he saw Alastair coming, he panicked and ran for it. Alastair says he was heading out to sea.”
Henry said, “Thank Alastair for me.”
Emmy said, “I’ve already done that.”
Henry smiled at her with difficulty. Then he murmured, “Poor Sir Simon. One can’t help...”
And then he fell asleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT RATED A SMALL paragraph in most of the national dailies the next morning. “Baronet lost at sea. Tragic mishap to motor yacht.” The local press did better, with large photographs of Sir Simon, of Berry Hall, and of the wreck of Priscilla, which had been washed ashore near the mouth of the Orwell. Current gossip maintained that Sir Simon, in an excess of grief at his sister’s death, had deliberately set out in impossible weather conditions, thus virtually committing suicide. The sadness and sympathy of Berrybridge were sincere.
In Hamish’s cottage, the members of the Fleet were solemnly assembled. Henry, recovered but still shaken, held the place of honour in a large armchair near the fire. Emmy sat at his feet, on the hearthrug. Hamish and Anne occupied the sofa, while Alastair shared the other armchair with Rosemary by the simple expedient of sitting her firmly on his knee.
“I suppose I behaved very foolishly,” said Henry, rubbing the back of his neck with a freckled hand.
There was a chorus of dissent.
“Oh, but I did. It was lunacy, and I bloody nearly got killed, and serve me right, too. If it hadn’t been for Alastair—”
“I only did what you asked me to do,” said Alastair, “and pretty inefficiently at that. I didn’t realize how long it would take me to get to you after I heard your whistle. Thank God I was in time. You were out cold, face downwards in the water. That’s why I let him get away. I felt I had to—”
Henry nodded. “It was just as well,” he said. “Heaven knows if I could have proved anything against him, other than assault and battery against me.”
“But Henry, when did you realize that it was Sir Simon who—” Anne began.
“I’d been growing more and more certain all last week,” said Henry. “I should have tumbled to it sooner. But it was an accumulation of small things that led me to it—and I may say that I wasn’t helped by the deliberately confusing attitude of some members of the Fleet.”
Anne blushed. “Well may you blush, young woman,” Henry went on, severely. He looked at Hamish. “I take it that you two are going to get married.”
“Yes,” said Hamish. He took Anne’s hand in his huge one.
“I should have realized sooner,” said Henry to Anne, “that it’s a matter of common human nature that since every man in sight, bar one, was more or less in love with you, you would automatically fall for that one exception. You’ve been in love with Hamish all along, haven’t you?”
Anne nodded mutely. Hamish looked at her with incredulity. “Is that true?” he demanded.
“Of course it is, you big fool,” said Anne.
“So,” Henry went on, “you behaved very badly. You flirted with every man in sight, in a desperate attempt to make Hamish jealous. In fact, I don’t suppose he even noticed.” Hamish grinned. “You even got yourself engaged to poor Colin, though I’m sure you never had the faintest intention of marrying him. As for Pete—you may have been momentarily infatuated with him, but that soon faded. You carried on your affair with him simply because it gave you an entree to this house, so that you could be near—”
“Henry, can’t you spare us this?” Hamish asked.
“Let him say it,” said Anne quietly. “It’s all true, darling. I’m so ashamed.”
“You’re a minx,” said Henry, not unkindly. “You’re not really ashamed at all. You enjoyed it. But you went through a bad time after Pete was killed. You had insisted on David rowing you ashore that day, because you thought you could use your influence with Pete to make him give Hamish the money for his boat. David went off to look for Pete, and came back and said he hadn’t been able to find him. But he forgot that sound carries strangely in fog. While you were sitting there in the dinghy, you heard what David heard—Hamish and Pete quarrelling. Afterwards, you came to the same conclusion that David did—that Hamish had accidentally killed his uncle. That’s why you lied to me and tried to vamp me and all the rest of it.”
Emmy looked up sharply. She caught Rosemary’s eye, and they both smiled.
“That night on Pocahontas,” Henry continued, “the night Colin was killed, I think you finally confessed to David how you felt about Hamish. That’s why David behaved even more oddly than usual after that. Why he went off sailing by himself and—well, never mind. I’m sorry for David, but I’m glad you told him the truth at last. So much for you.
“Then Rosemary was obstructive, too. David had told her that he was ashore the day of Pete’s death. She knew that David hated Pete, and she was afraid he might have had something to do with his death. So, out of...loyalty...she tried to put me off the scent. As for Hamish, he knew how black things would look for him if anyone suspected foul play. You all knew perfectly well that there was something very strange about the way Pete died—but for one reason or another you all decided not to pry into the matter. All of you except Colin, that is.”
“This still doesn’t explain how you cottoned onto Sir Simon,” said Alastair. “The other night in the Bush, you asked me some questions, and I couldn’t for the life of me see what—”
“I asked you,” said Henry, “two things. I asked you if you were certain that the cushions in Priscilla were damp when yo
u brought Pete’s body into the Berry Hall boathouse. And I asked you if you were prepared to swear that Pete was flying his racing burgee that day.”
“Yes, but—”
“That day I went out in Sir Simon’s boat,” said Henry, “it had been pouring with rain and everything was damp and clammy. But Priscilla had a waterproof cover, and the cushions were perfectly dry. Sir Simon swore that the boat hadn’t been out on the day Pete died. But obviously, she had. That was the first thing that made me suspicious. The first lie. Mind you, at that stage I didn’t suspect Sir Simon. He had allegedly been in Ipswich all day. I merely thought that somebody else had used the boat.
“But then a curious thing happened. Sir Simon had told me that he’d left home early that day, and had seen nothing of any of the Fleet boats—or at least, that was the impression he gave: but later on, in The Berry Bush, he went out of his way to remark that he had seen Pete go aground before the fog came down.”
Anne wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t see,” she said. “Had he or hadn’t he? What was the point of—?”
“He hadn’t seen a thing,” said Henry. “His appointment in Ipswich was at nine, so he would have left home before Pete went aground. But, after we’d been to Berry Hall, he was tipped off on the telephone by Bob Calloway that I was a policeman, and he thought he’d better protect himself by pretending that he had seen Pete on the sandbank. You see, he envisaged the possibility that I might find out how he had stolen his sister’s jewels and where they were hidden. That would have been bad enough for him—and it provided him with a strong motive for murder, once we started considering the possibility that Pete might have stumbled on him digging up his hoard in the fog. But supposing he had seen Pete go aground on that very spot. Then nobody would ever believe that Sir Simon would have been fool enough to go out to Steep Hill and start digging so close to a grounded boat. It let him out of any suspicion of murder. Unfortunately for him, he over-embroidered his story. He told me he had been able to pick out Pete’s Royal Harwich burgee through his binoculars. But Pete was flying his white racing flag that day. It seemed such a strange and unnecessary lie that I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. But then there was Priscilla’s cryptic remark to Emmy about something happening before eleven. It suddenly occurred to me that Sir Simon might have come home before eleven that day. Then everything began to fall into place.”
“Henry,” said Rosemary, “I’m still dreadfully muddled. Can’t you tell us exactly what did happen—over the robbery and everything?”
“Of course,” said Henry. “It’s a pathetic story really, of a smallish crime that snowballed into a series of more and more horrible ones. I don’t suppose there’s ever been a more reluctant murderer than Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby. It all started with the division of property between Sir Simon and Priscilla after their father’s death. The old man knew that Priscilla was mad about the family jewels, while Sir Simon had a positive obsession with the house. So—very sensibly, on the face of it—he left each of his children the thing that they loved most. What he didn’t reckon with was that in these days of inflation and taxation, there would be nothing like enough money to maintain Berry Hall. As Sir Simon said, Priscilla got the imperishables, while he got a load of bills and responsibilities. The obvious solution, to him, was to sell the one to pay for the other. But Priscilla wasn’t having any.
“So, in desperation, Sir Simon resorted to a course which he had convinced himself was justified. He took Priscilla to the Hunt Ball, and allowed her to get thoroughly drunk. He took her home, waited until she was in bed and asleep in an alcoholic stupor—very likely assisted by some sleeping pills. Then he stole the keys from the chain round her neck, unlocked the safe, and abstracted the jewellery, leaving the open boxes in Priscilla’s dressing room, and replacing the keys. He put a ladder up to the window, making it look like a clumsy outside job. He left his own footprints, in his own sea boots, which confused everybody. Then he took the boat out and buried the loot in Steep Hill Sands. He’s a boating man—or he was—and we can be sure he got the idea from Captain Voss.”
“But I thought everyone agreed that Priscilla had left her jewels out that night?” said Rosemary.
“That was what made me suspect an inside rather than an outside job,” said Henry. “I became convinced that Priscilla was telling the truth when she said she had put the jewels in the safe. She was certainly drunk that night, but she was coherent enough to be able to put herself to bed, and even drunken people go through the routines of a lifetime automatically. When I heard that she had even put her hair in curling pins as usual, it was unthinkable that she shouldn’t also have locked up her precious jewellery. Then there was another thing. Everybody knew which was Priscilla’s bedroom window, because she had a habit of shouting to visitors out of it. A thief would surely conclude that the jewellery would be there. Why should he climb in through the window of the next room? How would he know either that it was her dressing room, or that she would leave the jewels in there? From Sir Simon’s point of view, however, there was always the danger that his sister might wake. He preferred to work in the dressing room. The more I read the police reports, the more suspicious I grew. Then there was the question of the gin which was being bootlegged to her by Riddle. Somebody was paying for that—paying to keep the poor woman in a state of semi-stupor so that nobody would believe her rambling about having locked up her jewels. Besides...” Henry paused. “I once said that crimes were committed for love or money. In this case, who got the money? A mythical thief apparently got the jewellery, but was doing nothing about disposing of it. But Sir Simon got the insurance money.”
“It was soon after the robbery that he had the East Wing completely restored,” said Hamish thoughtfully.
“Exactly. He had the ready cash he needed to indulge his obsession, and for some months all went well. But then the inevitable happened! The insurance money ran out. The situation, for him, was maddening. He had the jewels, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to turn them into cash. It was about this time that, by bad luck, Bob Calloway took over The Berry Bush.”
“Bob Calloway?” echoed Alastair, surprised. “Is he...?”
“He’s under arrest,” said Henry, “and this time I’m damned if he’s going to get away with it. He’s been under suspicion as a fence for years, but we’ve never been able to prove anything. We’ll never know, I suppose, how Sir Simon heard of his reputation, but I suspect that it may have been through Herbert, who was indulging in some faintly illegal deals with Calloway himself. Anyway, Bob and Sir Simon got together. It had to be very discreetly done. They would, I imagine, take trips in Priscilla to discuss their business. It must have been Bob we saw in the boat with Sir Simon, the day he seemed so anxious to avoid us, and denied having been out at all. Sir Simon was wise enough not to let Bob into the secret of Steep Hill. He merely brought the jewellery to the pub, piece by piece, to be disposed of. But Bob was taking more than his share of the profit, and the bills were mounting. At the time of Pete’s death, Sir Simon’s financial situation was in a bad way. And the tides were running against him.”
“Henry, you’re getting poetic in your old age,” said Emmy.
“No, I’m not,” said Henry. “I mean that literally. Sir Simon only dared to go out to his buried treasure on a moonless night, when the tide was low in the small hours of the morning. He knew that channel from the boathouse like the back of his hand, and he could easily manage it in the dark. But just then, low tide fell at seven o’clock one day, eight the next, nine the next. Even the following week, when low tide was at two or three in the morning, the moon was full. I’ve looked it all up in Reid’s,” he added, with a modest pride.
“So when the fog came down—” Hamish began.
“Sir Simon was in Ipswich with his solicitor at nine,” said Henry. “He saw the fog come down, and he saw his chance. Instead of hanging round in Ipswich, as he told us, he came hurrying back—driving as fast as he dared, because visib
ility was worsening all the time. By about half past ten, he was home: and Priscilla knew that. She saw him arrive. He went straight down to the boathouse, and after the three of you had been ashore and gone back on board, he took Priscilla out and made for the sandbank.”
“I think I heard his motor,” said Alastair thoughtfully.
“Either his or Herbert’s, or both,” said Henry, with a smile. “Herbert was out on a dubious mission of his own, which doesn’t concern us. Anyhow, Sir Simon beached his boat some way from where the jewels were buried, because the tide was very low by then. He made his way across the sands to the marking stone, and began to dig. Of course, he hadn’t the faintest idea that Pete was there, within a few yards of him. I suppose it must have been the noise of the shovel that attracted Pete’s attention. He walked a few paces from his own boat through the fog—and caught Sir Simon red-handed. And so the comparatively innocuous crime of robbery grew into murder. One can imagine that Pete was probably too puzzled by what he saw to realize his danger. He very likely expected that there was a reasonable explanation. It was foggy, and hard to see. Easy enough for Sir Simon to attack Pete—probably with the shovel—before he knew what was happening. Damn it, he nearly succeeded with me, and I was prepared for him.”
Henry paused, and Emmy took his hand and held it tightly.
“We know what happened then,” Henry went on. “Having knocked Pete out, Sir Simon dislodged Blue Gull’s boom, and hit the unconscious man again with it. A pity for him that he didn’t notice the racing burgee—but he had other things to think about.”
“You could barely see the top of the mast in that fog anyway,” Alastair remarked.
“Anyhow, he left Pete on the sands, with the tide coming up, and made his way back to the house. There, once again, he met Priscilla, and his mistake was to overimpress her not to tell anybody that he had been home before eleven. Priscilla loved secrets—but no woman keeps a secret indefinitely.
The Sunken Sailor Page 24
