‘Then you know the other residents…?’
‘Every last one of them.’
‘You’d know, for instance, if there were any newcomers in the colony?’
‘You bet I would — Pedro here come last.’
‘Pedro?’
Gently turned to inspect a shrinking figure which tried to hide itself behind the other bystanders.
‘Here — come on, Pedro!’ exclaimed the fat woman. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you. He’s an Eyetie, mister, ex-prisoner of war he is. Sort of lives on the old Muriel with me while me old man’s in the country.’
Pedro grinned sheepishly in acknowledgement. He was something over thirty, tall but rather slight, with curly dark hair and frank grey eyes.
‘Don’t speak a sight of English now,’ added the fat woman maternally, ‘but he’s a good boy, all the same.’
‘And when did he arrive?’
‘’Bout Easter. I’d say.’
‘And there’s been nobody since?’
‘There’s Ted over there — Ted Thatcher, he come here about the same time.’
‘Nobody recently — yesterday, say, or late Friday night…?’
The fat woman paused, a gleam of intelligence dawning in her small black eyes.
‘Now I’m with you, mister… it’s Joe Hicks the shoofer you’re after, i’nt it?’
‘You know Hicks?’ enquired Gently in surprise.
‘Know him? Course I know him! I’nt it his aunt there you just been calling on?’
‘You mean Mrs Grey?’
‘Who else’d I mean?’
Gently cast an interrogative glance at Hansom, who simply shrugged and looked owlish.
‘And this Joe Hicks, when did you last see him?’
She wrinkled her shiny brow. ‘Wednesday was his day… yes, that was it. He dropped in and brought his aunt some vegetables — don’t ask me where he got ’em — and afterwards we had a sing-song. Pedro here is a master-boy with a concertina.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
‘W’ yes — you don’t think he’d come back here after what happened, do you?’
‘He has to be somewhere…’ Gently brooded. ‘Who else was at the sing-song?’
‘Just us lot and Joe.’
‘Anybody who wasn’t there?’
‘Don’t think so, mister… not apart from old Ted Thatcher, of course.’ She gave Gently another of her winks and dropped her voice confidentially. ‘He’s got a widder, has Ted… he’s away most of the time. Would you think it now, looking at him? What some women’ll fall for!’
With an inclination of her head she indicated a paunchy, disreputable-looking figure who was hopefully daubing paint on an equally disreputable houseboat, a few yards away.
‘There you are… some of the old’ns have got more go than the youn’uns now!’
‘And he was the only one who wasn’t at the sing-song?’ persisted Gently.
‘As far as I know.’
Gently made as though to stroll over to him, then paused.
‘When did he come back?’
‘What, Ted? Well there you’ve got me… he’s a sly ole bird. He just come creeping in in that ole dinghy of his, and go creeping out again… I reckon you’d better ask him, mister.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gently, ‘I will.’
There was an impatient snort from Hansom, but it was disregarded. Gently went across to the decrepit houseboat and stood admiring it as though houseboats were a grand passion in his life…
‘Brightening it up a bit?’ he inquired unhurriedly.
The painter dipped his brush and scrubbed some more paint into a weathered strake before replying.
‘Ah…’ he said indifferently.
‘She hasn’t had a lick lately, I’d say.’
‘No more she ha’nt, bor, no more she ha’nt.’
‘They tell me you were away on Wednesday,’ pursued Gently, propping himself up against the cabin.
Ted Thatcher paused and turned about to look at his interrogater. He was a picturesque figure. A man in his sixties, plump, stooped a little, there was still a vitality in his bearing that promised many summers yet. He wore a shapeless brown jacket over a greasy waistcoat that wrinkled over his paunch and some sack-like trousers were stuffed into the tops of much-patched rubber boots. His face was ruddy and broad-featured. He had several days’ growth of grizzled beard, but very little grey seemed to have touched his untidy hair.
‘An’ who,’ he asked with heavy sarcasm, ‘are they, bor, if that i’nt too much of a secret?’
‘Oh… Mrs Packer could be the lady’s name.’
‘That blodda ole whure! I mighta guessed it.’
He spat contemptuously into the Dyke.
‘Well… were you away?’
Thatcher looked at him sharply.
‘Woss it got to dew wi’ yew?’
‘I don’t know yet… I was wondering if you could tell me.’
There was a pause while Thatcher stirred about in a nearly-empty paint-can. Then his eyes jumped up suddenly under strangely bald brows.
‘Yew’r a blodda ole copper, aren’t yew, bor?’ he asked gruffly.
Gently grinned. ‘I blodda am, tew…’
‘Blast!’ exclaimed Thatcher in amazement. ‘Yew aren’t agorn to tell me yew come from these parts?’
‘I don’t, but I’ve been around them quite a bit.’
Thatcher’s broad features relaxed a little and then he grinned too.
‘Verra well, my man… dew yew think tha’s gorna help yew. I’ve been away above a week, an’ come back Frida. Woss the nex’ question?’
‘Have you been very far?’
‘Jus’ a little trip in my dingha.’
‘Would it be indiscrete to ask where?’
‘That would,’ retorted Thatcher stoutly. ‘So yew might as well not ask m’.’
‘Let’s put it another way. Was where you were coming from the other side of Ollby Dyke?’
‘W’in a general sorta way, yes, it was.’
‘And you passed Ollby Dyke on the Friday?’
‘I woon’t ha’ got here dew I ha’nt.’
‘About what time did you pass it?’
‘Oh, I dunno… six or seven o’clock time, woon’t s’prise me.’
‘You couldn’t make it about nine, could you?’ broke in Hansom sardonically from behind.
‘No, I blodda couldn’t — not for yew nor a dozen like yew!’
‘Were there,’ continued Gently patiently, ‘many boats about when you went by?’
‘W’ yes… tha’s pretta busy this time of year.’
‘Do you remember any of them?’
‘Can’t say I dew.’
‘Were there any in Ollby Dyke?’
‘Not enna yew could see — tha’s tew growed-up.’
‘You didn’t see Mr Lammas, for instance.’
‘Woon’t know him if I did.’
‘He was on the yacht Harrier as you probably know.’
‘Nor I di’nt see that neether, so there yew are, ole partna.’
Gently sighed, and felt in his pocket for a peppermint cream. He was obviously pushing his luck too hard at Upper Wrackstead.
‘And what did it buy you?’ jeered Hansom, as they got back into the Wolseley.
‘Tingere barbam non potes,’ murmured Gently oracularly.
‘Eh?’ gaped Hansom.
‘Never mind — it’s a classical tag I picked up somewhere. We’ll leave Mr Thatcher with one of his secrets, shall we?’
CHAPTER THREE
Sloley’s boatyard lay at the end of a long, low cinder-track, a track which was crowded at each side with yards and bungalows. It consisted of several dry and wet boat-sheds clustered round a cut-in from the river and, on a Sunday afternoon, was deserted by both boats and men. The office was open, however, and Old Man Sloley sat at his desk, a silent figure in frock-coat and peaked cap, his white beard straggling down on the blotter in front of him. He rose stiffly as the three policemen entered.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen… I was expecting a call from you. Have you made any progress in this shocking business yet?’
He indicated one of the more lurid Sunday papers, which was lying on his desk. ‘ BODY IN BROADS BURN-OUT ’ was the punch-line on page one.
Hansom introduced Gently and the old man shook hands. There was an unexpected fragility about him, as though a gust of wind would have blown him away.
‘Mr Sloley is ninety-two…’ murmured Hansom in an aside.