Henry read on doggedly to the end of this uninspiring and already yellowing document. When at last he had finished, he said to Proudie, “Well, Inspector, off the record and unofficially, what’s your private opinion of this case?”
“Nothing private about it,” said Proudie promptly. “Clear as mud. A very slick professional job, almost certainly the work of a lone operator. The way I see it, it went like this. Our man, whoever he was, turns up at the Hunt Ball in the guise of a hired chauffeur. He knows that a lot of valuable stuff is going to be flaunted around that night. He’s already cased Berry Hall, of course, along with several other big houses in the neighbourhood. Well, Miss Priscilla and her jewels and her...em...overindulgence...are the talk of the evening in the servants’ hall. We know that from Herbert and Sam and all the others who were there. The chap doesn’t have to open his mouth. He just listens. He knows when the Trigg-Willoughbys go home. All he has to do is give them time to get to bed and to sleep and—there you are. Too easy.”
“How would he know where to find the ladder and the boots?”
“He’d have marked them down when he cased the place. They were always kept there.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Henry, “but who was this mysterious chap? Surely all the local chauffeurs know each other. They’d have noticed a stranger.”
“I doubt it,” said Proudie. “Quite a lot of the guests used chauffeur-driven cars from hire firms. The Mr. Rawnsleys for example. Mr. Pete and Mr. Hamish took a young lady to the dance, and Mr. Pete’s M.G. wasn’t big enough for the three of them. No, there were enough strange faces in the servants’ hall that night. One more or less wouldn’t have caused any comment.”
“You don’t happen to know,” Henry asked, “which young lady Mr. Rawnsley took to the ball?”
“Not off-hand,” said Proudie, “but I expect it’s here somewhere. Let’s have a look.”
He flipped expertly through the file. “Here we are,” he said. “ ‘...drove over with my nephew Hamish and Miss Anne Petrie...’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, it does.”
There was a silence. Then Proudie shifted his large bulk in the straight-backed chair, and said, “Tragic affair that was, about the elder Mr. Rawnsley. I’ve got the reports on that, too, as you asked.”
There was unmistakable curiosity in the inspector’s voice, but Henry ignored it. He didn’t even open the dossier containing the report of the inquest, which Proudie pushed across the table toward him. Instead, he lit a cigarette, and gave one to Proudie.
Proudie picked up a pencil, put it down again, and then said, “To be frank, sir, I had thought you might be coming to see me over something rather different. What I mean is—rumours get about pretty fast in the country, you know. One of my constables is from Berrybridge—Sam Riddle’s nephew—and, well...not to mince matters...there’s talk, sir. No denying it, there’s talk.”
“What about?” said Henry, as casually as he could. Mentally, he cursed Colin for his tactless remarks in The Berry Bush the previous evening.
Proudie hesitated. “Of course, there was talk at the time, too, sir. And then when you asked for the reports of the inquest...”
Suddenly, Henry grinned. “Inspector Proudie,” he said, “could you arrange for a rumour to be circulated for me?”
“A rumour, sir?”
“A well-founded rumour,” said Henry, “that Chief Inspector Tibbett has thoroughly investigated his suspicions about Mr. Pete Rawnsley’s death, and come to the conclusion that the coroner’s verdict was absolutely correct, and that the whole thing was an unfortunate accident.”
A slow smile spread over the inspector’s cherubic countenance. “That’s easily arranged, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Henry.
CHAPTER NINE
ELEVEN A.M., Wednesday. High tide and a shining day, with a moderate easterly breeze.
“Let her go,” called Alastair.
Emmy threw the red and white buoy overboard with a splash: Henry hardened in the jib sheet, then released it again as Ariadne turned downstream. Rosemary sat on the slightly tilting deck, munching an apple. The business of setting sails, of dropping and picking up moorings, had by now become a smoothly efficient routine, and Henry and Emmy felt justifiably proud of themselves. When Alastair shouted “Back the jib,” or “Free the mainsheet,” or “Oh, hell, the burgee halyard’s snarled up again,” they not only knew what he was talking about, but could even take appropriate action.
Since his interview with Proudie, Henry had resolutely cleared his mind of all thought of work, and had settled down to enjoy himself. Freed from Anne’s conscious witchery, from Colin’s dark irony and David’s frenetic unease, the atmosphere on board Ariadne had become calm and idyllic. If Alastair was still obsessed by Dorinda and her blackguard boy, he managed not to show it. Rosemary was apparently her old, happy self again, singing tunelessly as she sat on the edge of the deck. Even the menace of Steep Hill Sands was obliterated, for the high tide had temporarily submerged the treacherous bank under a dazzle of blue water.
They passed Herbert, chugging in from seaward in his old grey launch, and they were overtaken by Sam Riddle’s battered black fishing boat, which was rattling its noisy way out to the fishing grounds off Harwich, with old Ephraim steering, while Sam prepared the nets. Otherwise the river and, beyond it, the sea were theirs alone—clean and clear and empty.
They rounded Steep Hill Point and hardened in sheets as the nose of the boat swung to windward. Ariadne leant into the breeze and sped out to sea. A couple of miles out, they came about, freed sheets, and set a course on the starboard tack, headed north for the entrance to the River Deben.
So began a four-day cruise which included all the ordinary delights, hazards and small misfortunes which add up to the sport of boating. From the detection point of view, the four days were a dead loss. From every other standpoint, however, they were an unqualified success. Henry and Emmy got burnt brown with sun and salt water, soaked to the skin in the one heavy downpour, badly frightened in the one severe wind, and ridiculously elated at their own progress as mariners. They ate like lions and slept like logs, and Henry gave up shaving.
Ariadne’s return to Berrybridge was planned for Saturday afternoon, in view of the mayoral celebrations taking place that day. It was not an easy sail, nor a particularly pleasant one. The sky was overcast, and a fresh nor’easterly breeze, running counter to the tide, had whipped the sea up into short, angry waves. It was a dead beat into the wind all the way, and Ariadne, wearing her smallest jib, butted and tossed and leant over at a tipsy angle, burying her nose in the lead-grey water and throwing back great fountains of icy spray. Every time they came about, the sails thrashed deafeningly, and the jib sheet developed a frightening habit of snarling itself round a cleat on the mast, which necessitated a hazardous journey forward over the steep, slippery deck before it could be freed.
Lunch was impossible, but Rosemary managed somehow to produce mugs of hot soup, which improved morale considerably. Although the boat was never in the slightest danger, it was nevertheless a cold, exhausting and exacting business: but, as is the way of life, these hardships brought their own rewards. The blessed, joyful moment when Ariadne turned upriver, into the comparatively sheltered water inside Steep Hill Point: the serenity of the quiet Suffolk fields flanking the river: the final peace as Ariadne rode quietly at her own mooring at last: the immense solace of a huge, untimely meal of eggs and bacon and tea in the warm cabin.