“Idiot.”
“I might have known you’d have more sense.”
“I haven’t got much sense,” said Henry.
“Go on,” said Conscience, approvingly. “Tell her now.”
But he didn’t.
They reached the mouth of the Berry at eight o’clock. At ten past eight, Mary Jane passed them, gliding swiftly and beautifully through the still water to the gentle throb of her powerful motor. The chill of the evening had driven Henry and Emmy back to the cockpit, where they sat in enforced silence, since any attempt at speech was drowned under the harsh roar of Ariadne’s faithful but cacophonous engine. They were all glad to see the tall, angular chimney stacks and steep roof of The Berry Bush silhouetted against the sunset. Alastair took Ariadne upstream of her mooring, then swung her round into the tide, and switched off the motor, leaving the boat just enough way on her to carry her down to her buoy. As the engine coughed itself into silence, the full beauty of the evening became apparent for the first time: quietness streamed back over the river like cool rain on parched earth: the fading light turned the trees to black, amorphous shadows and the water to grey satin, shot with reflected pink and green and violet from the western sky.
By common consent, Ariadne’s crew had decided against going ashore, and it was without any great pleasure that, at a quarter to ten, they heard Colin’s voice shouting, “Ariadne ahoy!”
“Oh, blast,” said Alastair, “what does he want?” He got up slowly and went out into the cockpit.
Colin’s dinghy was alongside. Anne sat in the stern.
“Aren’t you people coming ashore for a beer?” Colin called.
“We weren’t,” said Alastair. “Too comfortable where we are. Besides, it’s nearly closing time.”
“Not till eleven, Alastair,” said Anne. “Do come. We’re only going to have one for the road.”
“Wait a minute,” said Alastair. “I’ll sound out the feeling of the meeting.” He went below again, and put the proposition to the others.
“I’m certainly not going,” said Rosemary. “In any case, I have to wash up.”
“Count me out, too,” said Emmy. “I’ll help Rosemary, and then I’m ready for bed. I’m not used to all this fresh air.”
“By all means, you go if you want to, darling,” said Rosemary. Her voice sounded perfectly natural.
“I think perhaps I will, after all,” said Alastair, with a trace of guilt. “What about you, Henry?”
Henry yawned. “Um,” he said. “What a difficult decision. O.K., I’ll come.”
The bar of The Berry Bush on a Monday evening had an
atmosphere which was entirely different from its weekend clamour. Herbert Hole sat in an inglenook, his greasy yachting cap still anchored firmly to his grey head, talking earnestly to Sam Riddle. Bill Hawkes was chatting to Bob at the bar. Hamish, looking unseamanlike in grey flannels and a sports jacket, was playing a desultory game of darts against Sir Simon. Old Ephraim sat by himself near the fireplace, puffing at an ancient and smelly pipe. Otherwise the bar was empty.
The four newcomers settled themselves at the big table in the window, where Sir Simon and Hamish joined them, thereby leaving the dart board free for a contest of deadly seriousness—Bill Hawkes and Bob against Herbert and Sam.
“Had a good day?” Hamish asked.
They told him, enthusiastically, about their trip to Walton Backwaters.
“Walton?” said Hamish. “Funny place to go today. Tide’s all wrong.”
“I wanted to go there,” said Anne. “I love Hamford Water.”
“Typical female reasoning,” said Hamish, “completely devoid of even the most elementary logic. I suppose you had to motor all the way back?”
“So what? It was a heavenly sail down there.”
“You’re a fool,” said Hamish indifferently.
“Yes,” said Anne quietly. “I’m a fool. Colin, darling, I could use another beer.”
Colin took the empty mugs to the bar.
The dart game was proceeding acrimoniously.
“We saw you out in Priscilla,” said Henry to Sir Simon. “A wonderful day for a spin.”
Sir Simon looked surprised. “Me?” he said. “No, I wasn’t out today, worse luck. Couldn’t manage it. Had to take that bit of Wedgwood into Ipswich. They say they can mend it, but I doubt it.”
“Your boat was out, at all events,” said Alastair.
“Was she? Oh, very likely. Riddle went out for a spot of fishing, I dare say.”
“That’s right, Sir Simon,” Bob put in. “Came up past the pub.”
“He had somebody with him,” said Henry.
“Old Ephraim, most like,” said Bob. Lowering his voice, he added, “Knows where the fish are, ’e does. Proper old poacher.”
“Yes, almost certainly. Ephraim.” Sir Simon cleared his throat. “Well, who’s for another drink?”
Colin looked at his watch. “Time we were away, thank you all the same. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.” He stood up. “See you all next weekend, I trust.”
“Of course,” said Alastair. “Saturday’s the big night. The Civic Reception.”
Colin was standing beside the table, putting on his duffel coat. He said, “By the way, Henry, this business of Pete. It may interest you to know that I’m a jump ahead of you.”
A sudden silence fell on the bar. Sam said, “Your throw, Herbert,” but nobody moved.
“I know,” Colin went on, “at least I’m pretty sure I know, why. How, is quite easy. The only question is—who?”
“Don’t be silly, Colin,” said Anne sharply. “Henry wasn’t serious. He’s forgotten the whole thing, haven’t you, Henry?”
She turned her green eyes to Henry. They held a challenge. Unhappily, Henry said, “Yes. I was only fooling. Everyone knows what happened. It was perfectly straightforward.”
Colin looked briefly at Anne. “How very disappointing,” he said. “I had such a nice theory worked out. Never mind. You presumably know best.”
“Time,” said Bob loudly. “Time, gentlemen, if you please.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
EARLY THE NEXT morning, with a troubled conscience, Henry took the bus into Ipswich, leaving the others to go sailing without him. He had, he told himself firmly, every intention of keeping his promise to Anne. He wished heartily that he had held his enquiring mind in check from the beginning. However, he had set certain wheels in motion which could not be stopped immediately: and besides, Inspector Proudie was expecting him.
As the bus lurched along between hedges of wild rose and honeysuckle, Henry reflected that, after all, there was no reason why Anne’s story should not be true. It accounted for everything, except the fact that Pete Rawnsley had apparently lifted the boom out of the gallows himself. Well, why not? He had probably had some good, seamanlike reason for doing so. The fact that David had lied to protect Anne from imagined danger was also perfectly feasible: he was only too clearly demented about the girl, and would have perjured his soul for her. But why had he gone out of his way to slander Hamish? Pure spite? Hardly likely. Certainly, there seemed to be no great amount of love lost between the two men, but that was not an adequate reason for an accusation of murder. But then, of course, David had not intended it to be an accusation of murder, merely a suggestion of accident. A hasty, not very well-thought-out explanation to cover the facts. The product of a vivid and disorderly imagination. Yes, that was logical.
There remained, of course, the matter of the Trigg-Willoughby robbery. Henry turned his thoughts to this with some relief. Here he was on the firm ground of routine crime, and there were no considerations of personal loyalty to confuse the issue. If his half-formed theories were correct, there might still be a chance of restoring to Priscilla at least part of her treasure. He began to look forward to the coming interview with more pleasure.