“...and my great-grandfather himself designed the Folly...you can just see it, over there in the trees...” Sir Simon boomed cheerfully on, and Henry realized dismally that the subject of Pete Rawnsley had come and gone, and he wondered if he would ever find a suitable opportunity of introducing it again later on. Simultaneously with his exasperation, Henry was aware of a distinct feeling of guilt. Alastair, Rosemary, even Emmy—they had all begged him to forget the whole affair. The coroner’s verdict had been perfectly straightforward. And yet...there were inconsistencies. Pick up a loose thread of circumstance, follow it through the labyrinth of events—and where would it lead? Perhaps to havoc and misery in the lives of a pleasant group of people. Better to leave it alone. If you can. If you can...
“Luncheon,” announced a pontifical voice, “is served.”
Henry jerked himself back to reality, and turned, expecting to see a vast and ponderous butler in the old tradition. Instead, the owner of the voice turned out to be an excessively thin and lugubrious young man in a white jacket, who went on to add, in a marked Suffolk accent, “And the ’ot plate’s fused again.”
“Oh, dear, Riddle—not again. It’s not fair,” Priscilla said, in a tremulous voice. “Every time we have guests, it happens. And then they don’t come again. Of course they don’t. Why should they?”
Sir Simon walked over to his sister, and put an arm round her shoulders. “Now, now, Prissy,” he said, kindly, “it’s not as bad as all that. Smile and sing under all difficulties, eh?”
“I do try, Simon,” said Priscilla, with the suspicion of a quaver, “but it’s very hard. Ever since—”
“That’s enough of that, now. Come along and have some food.”
After an ample but indifferent lunch, served by the mournful Riddle, Priscilla announced her intention of lying down, and disappeared upstairs. Ensconced comfortably in the Blue Drawing Room once more, Sir Simon said, “You must forgive my sister. It’s this wretched robbery, I’m afraid. She took it very badly. Blames herself, that’s the trouble. And the hard fact is that it was her fault. No getting away from it.”
“What actually happened?” Henry asked.
Sir Simon took a long pull on his pipe. “It was the night of the local Hunt Ball,” he said. “Over at Rooting Manor. Priscilla insisted on getting all her jewellery out of the safe, and wearing most of it. Ridiculous, of course, but it gave her great pleasure to do so. When we got home, Priscilla was...was very tired and overexcited, and she forgot to put the stuff back in the safe. Left it in her dressing room, with a window open at that. Everybody in the district knew she’d been wearing the beastly things—tiara, necklace, bracelets, the lot. Next morning, what do we find? Ladder pinched from the potting-shed and left in the shrubbery. Marks of it in the flower-bed under the dressing-room window. And the jewellery gone. Very sad, but there it is. The only thing left is the rose brooch—you may have noticed my sister wearing it today. It was away having the clasp mended.”
“You think this was the work of somebody local, then?” Henry asked.
“Who knows?” replied Sir Simon heavily. “She’d been chattering to everybody about wearing the full regalia to the Hunt Ball. Somebody local might have had a contact... I don’t know...”
“These big robberies are generally the work of a professional gang,” said Henry. “Apart from anything else, it would be difficult for an amateur to dispose of the stuff afterwards.”
“That’s true,” Sir Simon agreed. “That’s why we haven’t altogether given up hope that the jewels may still turn up. But it’s over a year now, and no sign of them.”
At three o’clock the rain stopped, and a few shafts of watery sunshine began to filter through the dispersing clouds. Henry led the conversation round to the subject of boats, and expressed such interest in Sir Simon’s motor launch that he was very soon being pressed to go down to the boathouse and have a look at it. Emmy and Rosemary decided against trampling through wet grass, so the two men left them by the fire.
Henry was depressed. When he had first seen the Blue Drawing Room, and the magnificent view of Steep Hill Sands from its window, he had had high hopes that Sir Simon might have seen Blue Gull going aground, and watched the subsequent actions of her owner: but from the snatches of conversation which he had overheard before lunch, it seemed that, as luck would have it, this perfect observation post had been unmanned during the vital hours. It was just possible, of course, that Priscilla had seen something, but Henry did not feel very sanguine about the reliability of her memory.
The boathouse was dark and damp. It was a long, low shed made of black-tarred wood, and built right across the little creek that ran from Sir Simon’s grounds through banks of sedge and sand to join the main stream of the Berry at Steep Hill. Coming into the shed from the landward side, Henry followed Sir Simon through a small door, and found himself standing on a wooden landing stage. The seaward end of the shed was open, like the mouth of a tunnel, and through it, framed in darkness, was a vista of sand and sea. The floor of the shed was the water itself.
Two boats were tied up to the landing stage—a small, dilapidated racing dinghy which had once been white, and a very smart, varnished motor launch, which was carefully protected from the ravages of the weather by a waterproof canvas cover. This completely shrouded the cockpit and decking, giving the boat the appearance of being under a dust sheet. Both craft were bobbing gently on the dark water.
“I know,” said Sir Simon, suddenly, “that fellows like Benson and Rawnsley don’t agree with me, but to my way of thinking, Priscilla’s the great beauty in Berrybridge. Not as young as she was, perhaps, but I’d back her against these jazzy modern types any day. Do you agree?”
For one hysterical moment, Henry thought that Sir Simon was talking about his sister. Then, in the nick of time, he saw that the motor launch had the name Priscilla picked out in brass letters on her stern.
“She’s lovely,” he said sincerely.
“I used to be a sailing man myself,” said Sir Simon. “Dinghy racing, mostly. Magnificent sport. Too old for it now. There’s a lot to be said for a reliable engine when you get to my age.” He gave Priscilla a wistful look. “Don’t suppose you’d care for a spin?” he said, almost shyly. “It’s not raining, and in any case there are plenty of oilskins aboard.”
In fact, Henry did not relish the prospect of a cold, damp ride: but he was eager to see for himself the possibilities of reaching Steep Hill Sands from the boathouse, so he accepted.
Instantly, Sir Simon became brisk and businesslike. He unclipped the waterproof cover and folded it away, revealing a snug cockpit upholstered with blue cushions, and, ahead of it, a doghouse which gave shelter to the helmsman as he stood at the wheel. Through the open fo’c’sle door, under the foredeck, Henry could see the usual gear of a small cruising boat—blankets, ropes, fenders, flags, and anchor, oilskins and a Primus stove.
Henry, with one day’s experience on Ariadne behind him, volunteered to help with the business of getting under way, but Sir Simon would have none of it. He insisted that Henry should sit passively in the comfortable, dry cockpit, while he himself bustled about efficiently with boathook, ropes and chain. Since the boat had been moored stern first, casting-off presented no difficulties. As soon as the motor was ticking over, it was only necessary to release the stern mooring warps, haul up the light anchor which held the bows of the boat, and slap her into gear. The engine purred contentedly, and Priscilla moved slowly out of the shelter of the boathouse and down the creek.
The tide was running out fast, and already the creek had assumed its own identity, as more and more patches of sand and sedge were uncovered, leaving the narrow, twisting channel clearly defined.