“How long has this tradition been going on?” Henry asked.
“Its origins,” Anne replied solemnly, “are lost in the mists of time. About six years, actually, but don’t tell anybody. The landlord who had The Berry Bush before Bob heard about the election of the Mayor of Pin Mill, and decided to imitate it. Of course, Pin Mill is quite different. Much more dignified and ancient. Anyhow, Bob has kept it on here to boost the sale of bitter.”
“Which is Bob?” Henry asked, surveying the three or four figures who scurried busily on the far side of the bar.
“He’s away for the weekend,” said David. “You’ll meet him when he comes back tomorrow. He’s quite a character.”
“You seem to go in for characters in this part of the world.”
“All part of the show,” said Anne pertly. “Give the customers what they want. It’s amazing how a few local eccentrics can stimulate trade in the public bar.”
“You’re a horrible little cynic,” said David, fondly. Anne rewarded him with a sidelong grin. “I don’t hold much brief for Herbert,” David went on, “but I do believe he’s genuine.”
“Oh, Herbert’s a genuine character all right,” said Anne. “But not quite in the way that people think.”
David looked at her sharply, but said nothing.
“If you knew what I know about Herbert,” added Anne, “you’d be amazed.” She gave Henry a provocative look.
“Go on, then,” said Henry obediently. “Tell us. What do you know?”
“It’s a secret,” Anne said virtuously. “I can’t possibly tell you.”
“You’re dying to tell me,” said Henry. “You may as well get it over.”
Anne grinned, like a street urchin. “O.K.,” she said. “Well, the fact is that Herbert—”
“Anne,” said David suddenly, “you’ve got a smut on your nose.”
“I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have. Take a look.”
Anne pulled a tiny powder compact out of her pocket, and studied her face with loving care.
“You liar,” she said, at length. “I haven’t.” All the same, she began to dab at her nose energetically with a small pink puff.
David turned to Henry and demanded a full account of the day’s misfortunes on Steep Hill Sands. The secret life of Herbert Hole was forgotten. Henry made a mental note to return to the subject at a more propitious moment. Meanwhile he gave himself up to the undeniable pleasure of relating his experiences to an enthralled audience, and to the stimulus of Anne’s company.
At nine o’clock, Rosemary announced that whatever the rest of the party might want to do, she personally was going back to the boat for supper. So they all went.
In a ridiculously short time, a delicious meal emerged, steaming, from the galley. While Emmy and Rosemary washed up, Alastair and Henry smoked a last cigarette in the cockpit under the clear night sky.
Henry said, “Anne’s a fascinating girl.”
Alastair did not take his eyes off the particular star which he was studying. “Do you think so?” he said.
“Don’t you?”
There was a silence, and then, softly, Alastair quoted,
“Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyesUnited cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies,
Pains not the heart, but burns the sight.
Love is a calmer, gentler joy,Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace.
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,That runs his link full in your face.”
There was a moment of absolute silence under the stars. Then Alastair smiled shyly. “Learned it at school,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’ve always remembered it. It reminds me of Anne.”
Henry looked steadily at Alastair’s thin, handsome profile. He heard Rosemary’s soft laughter from the cabin, and vividly, he remembered the expression in Anne’s slanting green eyes as she said the one word—“Guess.”
I wonder, thought Henry. I wonder very much.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE NEXT DAY IT RAINED. Unaccountably, from nowhere, black clouds had massed over the horizon in the small hours of the morning, and Ariadne’s crew woke to the dismal sound of rain pattering on the cabin-top, interspersed by spasmodic swearing from Alastair, who had found out—by the only known method of discovering such things—that there was a small leak in the deck immediately above his left ear. Otherwise, however, the boat was warm and dry, and breakfast a cheerful enough meal.
When it was over, Alastair put his head out into the dripping cockpit, and said, “Hamish is going out. He’s getting his sails on.”
“Well, don’t let it give you ideas,” said Rosemary, “because we’re staying exactly where we are.”
“It’s going to be pretty dreary, sitting in here all day,” said Alastair wistfully. “After all, we’ve got oilskins. And there’s a nice breeze.”
“I can hear it,” said Rosemary, with a shudder. Then she added, “If you want to go, darling, why don’t you join Hamish? I’m sure he’d be glad of company.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Alastair was like a boy out of school. “It really is a marvellous day.”
“I donލ
t mind anything so long as I don’t have to come with you,” said Rosemary. “Come on, I’ll row you over. And for heaven’s sake take care of yourselves.”
She and Alastair embarked in the dinghy, arrayed in copious yellow oilskins and sou’wester hats, while Henry and Emmy washed up. As she washed the mugs, Emmy said, tentatively, “Henry, do you really think that man was murdered?”
“Yes,” said Henry, “I’m pretty sure of it.” And then he said, “I wish I didn’t.”
“Can’t you forget it, darling?” Emmy’s voice was really worried. “I mean—these people are friends. It would be so terrible if...” She trailed off into unhappy silence.
Henry looked at her seriously. “I have to know,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I have to. Trust me to be as tactful as I can.”
“Oh dear,” said Emmy. Then she smiled at him.
Henry kissed her across the washing-up bowl. “I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, darling,” said Emmy.
When Rosemary came back, she looked upset, and there was a thin edge of bitterness in her voice as she said, “Well, I hope the three of them enjoy themselves.”
“The three of them?” Emmy said. “I thought—”
“That little fool Anne has gone with them,” said Rosemary, shortly. “She’ll only be in the way.”
“What about Colin?” Henry asked.
“He and David are spending the day on Mary Jane, doing odd jobs,” said Rosemary. “They’ve got a bit more sense.”
There was a short pause, and then Emmy said, “I don’t suppose we could take Sir Simon at his word, could we? I mean, about going over to Berry Hall. I’m just longing to see that house.”
Rosemary brightened at once. “What a splendid idea,” she said. “We’ll go ashore, and ring him from The Berry Bush. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
The trip to the quayside was damply unpleasant. The dinghy butted and rolled dangerously as the driving wind whipped up the grey river into sizable waves. It was with a distinct sensation of relief that they felt their feet on dry land—if such a term can be used to describe the wet, slippery hard.
Rosemary went off to telephone, and came back a few minutes later with the news that Sir Simon would be only too pleased to see them, and insisted that they should lunch at Berry Hall.
Driving through the sodden, dripping lanes, Rosemary said, “I’d better warn you about Priscilla.”
“What about her?” asked Henry.
“Well, she’s very sweet really, but a bit bats. They both are, in a way, but it’s more obvious in her case.”