‘It isn’t on the list, but we’d better give it a whirl.’
‘You’ll have covered the lot then, sir,’ returned Dutt, with the merest tinge of bitterness.
Halford Quay was a popular spot. There were yachts and cruisers moored two deep all along its not-very-great expanse. At one end it was blocked by the gardens of a brightly-lit hotel, at the other chopped off by the cut-in of a boat-yard. Into this Dutt directed the launch. As they came alongside the staithe an elderly, bearded man in navy cap and sweater ambled across to them.
‘Now don’t yew know this is private properta… or dew yew think yew can buy petrol at this time of night?’
Gently shrugged and tossed him the painter.
‘We shan’t worry you long… and maybe you can tell us what we want to know.’
‘Ah… maybe I can an’ maybe I can’t.’
He weighed up the launch with a professional eye, then cast a shrewd glance at the occupants.
‘Tha’s old Slola’s boat, now, i’nt’t? And I reckon I can guess who yew are without strainin m’self.’
Gently nodded briefly and climbed out on to the staithe.
‘I was wonderin how long yew’d be gettin round here… thought that’d be a rummun dew yew missed me out!’
‘You know why we’re here then?’
‘Blast yes — I can read the paper.’
‘And you’ve something to tell us?’
‘W’either I dew, or else yew don’t hear it.’
Gently considered this ambiguous reply for a moment.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Me! I’m Ole Sid Crow — Ole Sid’ll dew round here.’
‘You work at the yard here?’
‘I dew, when I aren’t idle.’
‘Go on then — what’ve you got to tell us?’
Sid Crow came a little closer, as though afraid that a precious word might go astray.
‘He dropped her here — tha’s what I’ve got to tell yew. Now say I’m a blodda liar an’ don’t know what I’m talkin’ about!’
He did know what he was talking about. He proved that up to the hilt. Of all the interviewees they had tackled on that trip, Sid Crow was the single one who knew Lammas by sight — he had worked at the Yacht Club on Wrackstead Broad and seen Lammas pull in there on his half-decker. And he could describe the clothes Lammas was wearing. And also Linda Brent.
The Harrier, it appeared, had moored at Halford Quay at tea-time on the Friday. The quay had been crowded then as it was now and she had tied up on the public side of the cut-in, right under Sid’s nose. The two occupants had then proceeded to get tea. They had had it in the well, without any attempt at concealment. After tea they had smoked a leisurely cigarette, washed and put away the dishes, and a little later had gone ashore, Lammas carrying two suitcases and Linda Brent her handbag and plastic raincoat. They went in the direction of the bus stop. About ten minutes later Lammas returned alone. Without any hurry he made the yacht ship-shape, checked his petrol and then quanted her over to Sid’s side for a fill-up. And then he had set off upstream; time, about twenty to seven.
‘You’re sure it was to the bus stop they went?’ queried Gently.
‘W’no.’ Sid Crow gave a deprecating twist with his shoulders. ‘But tha’s the way they went and there was a bus just about due.’
‘What bus was that?’
‘There’s one go into Narshter at twenta past six, weekdas.’
‘And what time would it get in at Norchester?’
‘Bout seven — yew’d better ask them what go on it.’
Gently caught Dutt’s eye with a meaningful look in it.
‘There aren’t any other buses round about then?’
‘Nothin more till eight o’clock.’
‘Thank you, Mr Crow. That’s a useful piece of information.’
He paused a moment, puffing blue smoke into the tepid, misty air.
‘Of course, when you heard what had happened to Mr Lammas you mentioned what you had seen to one or two people…?’
Sid Crow was disgusted.
‘I’m old enough t’know when t’keep m’mouth shut — specialla when I knew that parta wa’nt his missus!’
‘Then you didn’t mention it to anyone?’
‘Not the bit about the female.’
‘But the bit about his being here on the Harrier?’
‘W’yes — I told his missus.’
‘You told who?’
‘I told his missus — though mind yew, I woon’t have done dew I ha’nt thought she knew about’t alreada.’
Gently coughed over his sparking pipe. It was quite a few seconds before he got round to his next question…
‘And when did you tell his missus?’
‘Why, that verra same evenin’?’
She had driven up in her car at about a quarter past seven and parked it opposite the quay. Sid, alerted by what he had seen previously, had watched her with interest as she walked along the quay, obviously looking for the departed yacht. When she came to the end of the quay she had beckoned Sid across. She didn’t know he recognized her.
‘I’m looking for Mr Lammas on board the yacht Harrier. Have you seen him by any chance?’
Sid told her he had supplied the Harrier with petrol.
‘His — er — wife, was she on board with him?’
‘No mum. He was alone when he pulled in here.’
‘He was on his way to Wrackstead, I suppose?’
‘He certainla went off in that direction.’
Mrs Lammas had given Sid half a crown, gone back to her car and driven off again directly.
Gently sighed deeply at the end of this narration.
‘And you weren’t going to tell me this if I hadn’t squeezed it out of you?’
Sid’s weathered features wrinkled into a wink.
‘Well, yew got to remember, ole partna… it was her what give me the half-crown.’
‘Ahem!’ coughed Dutt, ‘don’t you think we ought to take a statement, sir?’
It was dark when Gently sent the Wolseley bumbling down the lane to the cottage, but there were lights enough on the river bank. Besides the glimmer of lamps through houseboat windows there were two or three hurricanes placed at strategic points and in the space so illuminated an animated scene was enacting. As Gently switched off the engine the rollicking music of a concertina could be heard.
‘Looks like they’re having a spree, sir!’ exclaimed Dutt, his cockney eyes brightening.
‘And that bloke can really play a concertina,’ mused Gently as he slammed his door.
Within the circle of light two grotesque figures were hopping and gyrating. Ponderous, massive, yet with a sort of elfin agility, they gave the impression of something non-human, of mindless animals caught in a bewitched pattern.
‘It’s Ted Thatcher and Cheerful Annie doing a hornpipe, sir!’
On the roof of the wherry sat Pedro, Pedro the Fisherman. It was Pedro who was swinging and twirling the concertina. Never a false note trilled and cascaded from his long, tip-flattened forgers, never a pause interrupted the ecstatic rhythm. Like a Pied Piper of Upper Wrackstead he wove his spell and the corpulent couple had to obey him, though sweat trickled down their none-too-clean faces.
‘Go it, Annie! Keep it up, Tedda bor!’
All around the boat-dwellers sat or squatted, clapping in time and shouting encouragement. Some visitors moored along the bank sat on their cabin roofs laughing and applauding. And there was no end to that lilting music. It frolicked on and on with rapturous and infinite variation. The very soul of music seemed to have settled in Pedro’s concertina, seemed to be releasing itself through his runaway fingers.
Gently moved over to the magic circle of lamp-light.
‘Cor… couldn’t we half do with this bloke down at the “Chequers”!’
‘Come an join us!’ panted the dripping Thatcher, catching sight of Gently. ‘Dew I can dance the Starmth Hornpipe, there i’nt no reason why yew shoont!’
But Gently was more interested in the slim figure perched on the wherry’s cabin roof.
For a moment, as he regarded it, the curly hair, angelic eyes and shy smile faded into stolid East Anglian countenance beneath a peaked chauffeur’s cap.
Then he shook his head and turned away.