As a rule therefore Horace Boiler only had Saturdays and Sundays in which to pursue the important business of getting rich himself. This accounted for his contentment this day which was neither a Saturday nor a Sunday. Extra money for one trip on a weekday and at the expense of Her Majesty’s Government to boot was a good thing; extra money twice was a cause for rejoicing. Not that anyone would have guessed this from Horace Boiler’s facial expression. His countenance bore its usual surly look and his mind was totally bent on the business of deriving as much financial benefit as he could from this particular expedition—as it was on every other excursion which he undertook.
He gave his starboard oar an expert twist to get the boat properly out into the water and then set about the important business of settling the oars comfortably in the rowlocks. Some weekend sailors, rich and poor, conceded Boiler to himself, also threw their weight about because they knew what they were doing in a boat—but they were few and far between.
He didn’t know for certain yet if his two passengers were sailors or not, although he already had his doubts about the younger man. Both men had distributed themselves carefully about the boat in a seaman-like manner and had actually managed not to rock the boat while clambering into it. They had even accomplished this without getting their feet wet, which was something of an achievement, and was connected, although his passengers did not know this, with the fact that Horace was sure of getting a handsome fee for the outing. Doubtful payers and those who were so misguided as to attempt to undertip the boatman always got their feet wet.
The question of a fee for the journey they were about to undertake was very much on Detective Inspector Sloan’s mind too. The payment—whatever it amounted to—would eventually have to come out of the Berebury Division imprest account. This was guarded by Superintendent Leeyes with a devotion to duty and tenacity of purpose that would have done credit to a Cerberus.
“Take you to where I found the poor man?” Horace nodded his comprehension. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Detective Inspector Sloan, detaching his mind with an effort from an unhappy vision of Superintendent Leeyes standing like a stag at bay over the petty cash at Berebury Police Station. “Can you do that for us?”
“Certainly, gentlemen,” said Horace readily, even though he already knew that they were policemen not gentlemen; Horace’s usage of modes of address was a nicely calculated affair and closely linked with the expectation of future reward. “No trouble at all.”
Sloan settled himself at the bow of the boat, reminding himself that any hassle to come over payment for their trip should take second place to tangling with a murderer. He only hoped Superintendent Leeyes would feel the same.
For the fourth time that day the boatman began to row out into the estuary of the River Calle. Detective Inspector Sloan looked about him with interest. Seeing a map of the estuary with a cross marking the spot where the body had been found was one thing, but it was quite a different matter seeing the spot for oneself. He’d have to trust the boatman that it was the same spot though—he’d tried to rustle up Constable Ridgeford to get him to come with them, but according to Mrs. Ridgeford he’d had to go off on his bicycle to see to something. And so they had had to put to sea without him. Just, thought Sloan to himself, a distant memory stirring, the Owl and the Pussy-cat… except that Boiler’s old boat wasn’t a beautiful pea green…
Horace Boiler had bent to the oars with practised ease and was rowing in a silence designed to save his breath. Then…
“You’re going out to sea,” observed Sloan sharply. “I thought you’d found him ferther up river.”
“Got to get round Billy’s Finger, haven’t I?” responded Boiler resentfully.
“I see…” began Sloan.
“And pick up the tide.” Nobody could be surlier than Boiler when he wanted to be.
“Of course.”
“I’m an old man now,” said Boiler, hunching his shoulders and allowing a whine to creep into his voice. “I can’t go up river like I used to do.”
“Naturally,” said Sloan, crisply, nevertheless taking a good look at his watch. “Let me see now—what time was it exactly when we left?”
“I go by St. Peter’s clock myself,” snapped Boiler. “Always keeps good time, does St. Peter’s.”
“Splendid,” said Sloan warmly. “That’ll make everything easier…” He settled back onto his hard seat. A warning shot fired across the bows never came amiss…
Presently the rowing boat did turn up river. Rowing against the eddies was not such hard work for Horace Boiler as it would have been for most other men because he came of river people and knew every stretch of quiet water that there was. This did not stop him giving an artful pant as he eventually shipped his oars and caught a patch of slack water.
“ ’Bout here it was, gentlemen,” he said, histrionically drooping himself over the oars as if at the end of a fast trip from Putney to Mortlake against another crew.
Detective Inspector Sloan was concentrating on the water. “How far does the tide come up the estuary?”
The boatman wrinkled his eyes. “The sparling—they turn back half-way between Collerton and Edsway no matter what.”
“They do, do they?” responded Sloan vigorously. The habits of sparling were no sort of an answer for a superintendent sitting at a desk in Berebury Police Station.
“Always go to the limit of the salt water, do sparling,” said Boiler.
“Ah,” said Sloan. That was better. Sparling must be biological indicators too.
“Only see them in the summer, of course,” said the boatman.
“Been this year then, have they?” asked Sloan, unconsciously lapsing into the vernacular himself.
“Not yet.” Horace Boiler unshipped an oar to stop the boat drifting too far.
“It’s summer now,” remarked Detective Constable Crosby from the stern.
“Not afore Collerton Fair,” said Horace Boiler flatly. “Sparling come at fair time.”
Detective Inspector Sloan turned his head and regarded the southern shore of the river mouth with close attention. Not far away a heron rose and with an almost contemptuous idleness put the tips of his wing feathers out as spoilers. They’d left Edsway and the open sea well behind but they could now see Collerton Church clearly up river of them. Far inland were urban Berebury and ancient Calleford and what townspeople chose to call civilisation…
“Do smell of cucumber,” rasped the boatman unexpectedly.
“What does?” asked Sloan. They were a long way from land.
“Sparling.”
“An,” said Sloan again, his mind on other things. “Pull the boat round a bit, will you? I want to see the other way.”
The view down river was unrevealing. Edsway itself, though, was clearly visible, as was the headland beyond. Kinnisport and the cliffs at Cranberry Point were just a smudge in the distance.
“That headland behind Marby stands out, doesn’t it?” observed Sloan, surprised. Seen from nearer to, the rise in the land wasn’t quite so apparent.
“That’s the Cat’s Back,” said Boiler. “Proper seamark, that is.”
“Funny,” said Crosby ingenuously, “I never thought you had seamarks like you had landmarks.”
Somewhere not very far away a gull screamed.
“Take us up river now,” commanded Sloan abruptly.