“What does it matter now what Pete would have said?” said David. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“He must have been a remarkable character by all accounts,” said Henry. “I wish I’d known him.”
“Pete was a strange mixture,” said David. He spoke quietly, as if to himself. “So bloody high-minded in some ways and absolutely unprincipled in others. It’s all very well to talk about responsibility to the community, but—” He looked straight at Henry. “Which do you think is the worse sin?” he demanded. “To run a harmless racket just a shade outside the law, or to play fast and loose with the life of another human being?”
Henry considered. “It depends how harmless the racket is,” he said at length.
“Absolutely harmless,” said David without hesitation. “Just making a few bob on the side. That was a deadly sin to Pete. The authorities must be informed. No chance of an appeal. And yet, when it came to his private life...” There was a pause, and then he added, “I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for Pete Rawnsley. I think there’s such a thing as loyalty.”
Feeling his way carefully, Henry said, “He must have been very fond of Hamish.”
“Hamish.” David brooded for a moment. “Yes, I suppose he was, in his own way. Tried to drum a sense of proportion into him. If Pete had been alive, Hamish wouldn’t have had this new boat, I can tell you.”
“Well, I suppose he’s only able to afford it now that he’s inherited—”
“Even if he’d had the money.” David lit a cigarette. “You know what he plans to do, don’t you? Throw up his job—everything. Take his boat round the world, picking up a bit here and there by chartering and odd jobs. He wouldn’t have dared to do that if Pete had been alive. Pete was the only person Hamish was afraid of.” He paused, and then went on, “I’m not saying I approve of what Hamish is doing. I think he’s a bloody fool. But I’ll defend to my last breath his right to do it if he wants to.”
“I didn’t realize,” said Henry, “that sailing could get such a hold on people.”
David smiled, a secret smile. “It’s a disease,” he said. “Usually fatal. I haven’t caught it myself. I love my boat—she’s an escape, a safety valve. And there’s so much beauty... I don’t do very much sailing, actually. I suppose they told you that. I’m quite content to sit in harbour, and potter about the boat and be alone. Hamish and Alastair are only really happy if they’re soaked to the skin in the middle of the North Sea with a gale blowing and the lee rail awash. That’s not my idea of fun.”
“You said today,” said Henry, gently, “that there wasn’t enough wind for your liking.”
David looked at him, and smiled ruefully. “One plays the game according to the rules,” he said. “I suppose they all see through me. I don’t much care.”
“David, darling, are you going to buy me a beer?” Anne’s husky voice broke the silence that had fallen, and David jumped up.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Sit down. Bitter?”
“Please.” Anne sat down astride the bench on the other side of the table, and smiled ravishingly. “A pint, David. None of your mingy halves.”
“I don’t know where you put it,” said David. “A pint for you, Henry?”
“Half will do me, thanks.”
David departed to the bar, and Anne said, “Coward.” Her green eyes glistened across the table at Henry. “You can’t come into our pub and drink halves.”
“I drink what I like,” said Henry, good-humouredly. “I’m quite old enough to make up my own mind on such matters, worse luck.”
Anne eyed him appraisingly. “Yes, you are older than most of us,” she said. “Almost as old as Pete.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifty-one,” said Anne promptly.
“And you loved him?” asked Henry gravely.
Anne wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I did. In a funny way. I’ve never met anyone else quite like him. He was such an exciting man. And so wise.”
“Just as a matter of interest,” said Henry, “how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“So Pete was more than old enough to be your father.”
Anne sat up very straight, her small mouth hardened into an angry line. “For heaven’s sake, don’t you start,” she said. “I’m sick and tired of hearing people say that—especially Colin. Well, he’s had his revenge. Pete’s dead. I hope he’s happy.”
“You don’t mean that Colin...?”
All the anger had gone out of Anne’s face, and she looked like a small, bewildered child. “I don’t know what I mean,” she said quietly. “It’s just something I feel. Like the feeling that Steep Hill is haunted.” She was silent for a moment, her dark head bent. Then she looked up and smiled at Henry. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she said. “I’ve had too much beer. It always makes me talk nonsense.”
“Anne,” said Henry very seriously, “forgive me for asking you this—but it inter
ests me very much. Besides yourself, who else really liked Pete Rawnsley? It’s obvious that Colin hated him, and David doesn’t seem—”
Before Henry could finish, Anne burst out, “Nobody! Nobody at all! Except Hamish, of course. But all the others—they pretended to like him, but they loathed him!”
“Why?”
For a moment Anne didn’t answer. When she did, it was in an entirely different voice—a voice of deliberate seduction. “They were jealous,” she said.
“Jealous of what?”
Anne gave him a slow look from her slanting green eyes.
“Guess,” she said.
Then David came back with the beer, and Anne began to recount the gist of her recent conversation with Herbert, which seemed to centre round the latter’s chances of being elected Mayor of Berrybridge Haven when the unofficial voting took place the following week.
“Herbert’s a three to one chance,” Anne confided, “according to Sam Riddle, who’s making the book. Bill Hawkes is fancied in some quarters, but the more conservative element say he’s too young and hasn’t lived in the borough long enough. He’s four to one. Old Ephraim, the sitting mayor, is odds-on favourite for re-election, but Herbert says to his face that he’s too old to know a chain from a cocked hat. I mean a mayoral chain, of course,” she added demurely. “Herbert’s also accusing Bill Hawkes of bribing the electorate and providing an illicit bicycle to convey voters to the polls. But that’s only to be expected. And talking of illegal transport—the gossip is that if Mrs. Hole’s feet are too bad, Herbert intends to trundle her down to the booths in a wheelbarrow. He can’t afford to lose a vote—not with four candidates and a voting population of forty-seven.”
“Who’s the fourth candidate?” Henry asked.
“Sam Riddle,” said Anne. “The big fisherman over there. Father of George Riddle, who works at the hall. He’s not much fancied. He’s giving six to one against himself.”
“What a pity we can’t vote,” said Henry.
“I’m just as glad,” David remarked. “I couldn’t stand Herbert’s canvassing. Anyway, we’re all invited to the inauguration ceremony next weekend, so we get the best of both worlds.”
“What happens?” Henry asked.
“Beer is drunk,” said David, “in unbelievable quantities, both before and after a rather splendid cold collation donated by Bob, the landlord. The newly elected mayor is robed and invested by Sir Simon, and they both make speeches. Then we all sing the Berrybridge anthem. Then more beer is drunk. By about ten o’clock, the mayor is generally unrobed again, and most of the aldermen are under the table. Those who can still stand are all making speeches. It’s all very foolish and great fun. There’s seldom any fighting, and not more than three or four civic dignitaries are sick. A charming piece of old English folklore.”