“Want to take her?” asked Sir Simon.
“I’d be terrified,” said Henry. “I’d hate to run you aground on a falling tide.”
“Nonsen
se. Just like driving a car. All you do is follow the stream.”
Gingerly, Henry took the wheel, and steered an erratic course down the creek. Every so often, Sir Simon would put out a hand and gently correct Henry’s wildly fluctuating steering. After five minutes, Henry had developed a crick in his neck from the strain of concentrating on the convolutions of the channel. He had also discovered that he tended to move the wheel much too violently, whereas in fact the merest touch was enough to swing the boat onto a new course.
“You’d better take over again now,” he said. “It’s only by the grace of God that I’ve got this far without disaster. I don’t believe in tempting fate.”
“Just as you like.” Sir Simon took the wheel again, and Henry marvelled to see that he hardly bothered to glance at the stream ahead. The boat seemed to steer herself.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Henry said admiringly.
Sir Simon smiled. “Local knowledge, that’s all,” he said. “If you’d done this run as often as I have, you’d be just the same. I reckon I know every blade of sedge and every grain of sand by now. Ought to, after all these years. The only other person who knows this creek as well as I do is Herbert. But young Riddle is getting pretty good at it, I admit.”
Ten minutes later, they were rounding the pale, inhospitable expanse of Steep Hill Sands, and the open water of the River Berry stretched out in front of them. Outside the sheltering banks of the creek, the boat began to pitch and buck, as she felt the choppy seas under her hull. Every so often, a larger-than-usual wave would break over the bows in a scatter of spray, and in spite of the shelter of the doghouse, Henry was glad of the warmth and dryness of his thick black oilskin coat.
Looking back over his shoulder at Steep Hill Sands, Henry said, “We went aground there yesterday—at just about the same spot as poor Pete Rawnsley.”
Sir Simon, his hand on the wheel and his eyes on the horizon, said, “That was a great tragedy. Did you know him?”
“No,” said Henry.
“A remarkable man. A great friend of mine. One of the few people round here one could really trust. A gentleman.”
“A very good sailor, too, I understand,” said Henry.
“First class. Nobody to touch him in this river.”
“It seems extraordinary,” said Henry, carefully, “that such an experienced yachtsman should be killed like that, by his own boom.”
Sir Simon took his eyes off the horizon for a moment, to give Henry a sharp look. “Not at all,” he said. “I can tell you’re not a man of the sea, or you wouldn’t say such things. Could happen to anybody. Look at Slocum.”
“Nobody knows what happened to him,” Henry pointed out. “He just disappeared, didn’t he, with his boat?”
“Exactly.” Sir Simon spoke with dogmatic emphasis. “Could have been run down by a steamer, certainly. Or it could have been an accident just like Pete’s—knocked out by his own boom.”
There was a pause, noisy with the throb of the engine and the pounding of the waves on the hull. Then Henry said, “I suppose you’re right. But it interests me, just the same. It’s a pity you weren’t on the spot—you might have been able to do something.”
“I doubt it,” said Sir Simon. “The whole thing happened in fog, you know. Quite impossible to see Steep Hill from the house, and only a fool would have taken a boat out in weather like that. Anyhow, as it happened, I was in Ipswich all day—didn’t get back till evening, when it was all over. I’d intended to come home for lunch, but when the fog came down, I decided it was a mug’s game to try driving in it. So I had lunch in Ipswich and went to the cinema.” He steered in silence for a moment, and then said, “Ah, well—no sense in brooding on it. Nothing we can do now.”
“I understand that your man Riddle was very helpful,” said Henry.
“Yes, he’s a good lad. A bit slapdash about the house sometimes, but I suppose that’s not to be wondered at, when you think of his background. He’s the son of old Sam Riddle, you know—the fisherman. The boy wanted to better himself—and, give him credit, he’s succeeded... Yes—Riddle and Herbert and Benson among them did all that could be done for poor old Pete, but it wasn’t much. The poor chap was dead by the time they found him.”
“I wonder,” said Henry, “what Herbert was doing there?”
Sir Simon looked strangely grim. “I have asked myself that question,” he said. And then, “Better set course for home. The ladies will be waiting tea for us.”
Henry was glad to get back into the warm cheerfulness of the Blue Drawing Room. Priscilla had reappeared. Her rest had apparently refreshed her, for her eyes were bright, and she was chattering away merrily to Rosemary and Emmy.
“Here we are, then.” Sir Simon rubbed his big, red hands together before the crackling fire. “Took the boat out for a spin. Wonderful afternoon. Ring for tea, will you, Prissy?”
“What? Oh, yes. Tea. Of course.” Priscilla seemed flustered. She jumped up and ran clumsily over towards the bell. Then, suddenly, she stumbled, put out a hand to steady herself, and grasped the edge of a small table. It rocked, stood poised for an eternal instant on one leg, and crashed to the ground, taking with it a very beautiful small urn in Wedgwood black jasper. Simultaneously with the crash of wood on wood came the sound of splintering porcelain.
Sir Simon let out a roar of anguished fury. “Priscilla!” he shouted.
Priscilla looked stupidly at the debris at her feet, and began to giggle. Two bright spots of colour had appeared in her cheeks.
“Oh, dear,” she said, helpless with incoherent laughter. “What have I done? Oh dear.”
In two strides, Sir Simon was beside her and down on his knees, gathering up the precious fragments.
“I suppose you realize what you’ve broken,” he said in a voice of cold fury. “Papa’s favourite piece. The antique Wedgwood.”
Priscilla laughed again, a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “Poor Papa,” she said. “Naughty Priscilla.”
Sir Simon looked up sharply, then got to his feet and took his sister’s arm. “You’d better go and lie down,” he said. He turned to the others. “Please forgive us.” With that, he led Priscilla out of the room.
There was an embarrassed silence. Then Rosemary said, “Oh, dear. The cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it? I was hoping you wouldn’t need to find out.”
“She’s drunk, isn’t she?” said Henry.
Rosemary nodded. “I was afraid there might be trouble when she said she was going to rest after lunch,” she said. “That’s always a bad sign. Poor Sir Simon.”
“I suppose that means,” said Henry, “that on the night of the robbery—”
“Pickled as a newt,” said Rosemary succinctly. “The Hunt Ball was altogether too much for her, and she fairly let rip when Sir Simon wasn’t looking. She practically had to be carried out. It was rather awful—to happen in front of everybody like that. They’d kept it very well hushed-up, before. And as luck would have it, Herbert was there, helping behind the bar. He adores functions. So of course it was all round Berrybridge in no time. But most people think it was just a solitary lapse. They don’t realize that—”
The door opened, and Sir Simon came in. “I must apologize,” he said, red-faced. “My sister hasn’t been at all well lately. It’s her nerves.” He went over to the fallen table, set it upright, and began to pick up the pieces of broken pottery. “I suppose they may be able to mend this,” he said, “but of course it will never be the same. My father’s favourite piece.” He straightened, and gave his guests a somewhat grim smile. “And now,” he said, “perhaps we can have our tea in peace.”