The cheers came, warmly. But Herbert was not to be consoled.
“I’m goin’ ’ome,” he announced darkly, before the last hurrah had died away. “I’m not stayin’ to be insulted. Me and Mrs. ’Ole, we’re goin’ ’ome.” He rounded on Colin. “And as for you and your bloody boat, you can take it to Bill Hawkes and welcome. If you’re still ’ere, which I doubt.”
With which parting shot, he and Mrs. Hole walked out of the room. There was a movement to go after them and persuade them back, but Old Ephraim said, “Let ’im be. ’E’s ’ad a shock, poor lad. Let ’im be.”
It was only when Bill Hawkes had been duly and ceremoniously robed and chained that Priscilla, losing interest in her food for a moment, looked up and said in a bewildered voice, “Where’s Herbert gone?”
“Home, dear,” said Sir Simon hastily. “Don’t you worry.”
“But...” Priscilla’s voice trembled. “But Herbert’s the new mayor, Simon. He can’t have gone home.”
Sir Simon gave his sister a sharp look. Then he said heartily, “And home’s the place for you, too, eh Prissy? You know you never like to stay out late. Riddle...”
George was at Priscilla’s side in an instant. Unprotesting, she allowed him to help her to her feet and lead her out of the room, to a respectful chorus of “Good night, Miss Priscilla.”
The door closed behind them. Sir Simon said loudly, “Well, after all that, I think we need a drink.”
The evening proceeded with traditional merriment, only slightly dimmed by these unfortunate events. Everybody ate and drank heartily. Bill Hawkes made a somewhat unsteady speech, assuring the residents of the borough that their future was in good hands. Sir Simon paid a short tribute to the sportsmanlike qualities of British democracy, and told a couple of not-very-funny stories, at which everyone laughed politely. Ephraim, as the retiring mayor, rambled on at some length about handing over to young blood, and eventually sat down, befuddled, in the middle of a sentence. Then they all sang the Berrybridge anthem, the words of which had been written many years ago by Ephraim, and which fitted more or less to the Londonderry Air.
“Oh, Berrybridge,
Sweet haven on the Riverber—RY,
Oh, Berrybridge,
The home we long to see.
Oh, Berrybridge...”
And so on, through an interminable number of verses. At the conclusion of the anthem, as was the custom, the ladies of the village went home. Rosemary and Emmy felt that, as a matter of etiquette, they should do likewise, but Anne was determined to stay to the end. Finally, they all stayed, and apparently nobody minded. London people were expected to behave oddly.
Soon after this, George Riddle came back. He spoke briefly to Sir Simon, and then settled down to the consumption of a modest half pint. Everybody else, however, drank deeply. The party began to split up into smallish groups. Sir Simon came down the table and joined the Fleet, while on the opposite side of the table Sam a
nd George Riddle, with Ephraim and Bob, formed the soberest of the village groups, discussing fishing with some passion.
It was shortly before Bob called “Time!” that Colin dropped his second bombshell of the evening. He and Anne had been fighting quietly, but with venom, ever since the Herbert Hole episode. Anne remarked, acidly, that she had found it neither clever nor funny to humiliate Herbert in such a sadistic way. Colin retorted that he had merely been upholding the principles of his profession by seeking out the truth. Anne made a short, sharp remark about his profession which prompted Colin, who had had rather too many drinks, to reply briskly that at least it wasn’t as old as hers. At this, Anne grew really angry, and declared roundly that if that was all he thought of her, there didn’t seem much point in being engaged. David at once leapt hotly to Anne’s defence. Hamish remained silent. The Bensons and the Tibbetts, by common consent, tried to ignore the bickering: but Rosemary whispered to Emmy, “I suppose this means that we’ll have Anne sleeping on board again, blast her.”
Matters appeared to have reached an uneasy deadlock, when Colin suddenly leant across to Henry and said, “My charming fiancée may not think much of my mental ability, but I’ll tell you one thing. I know all about Pete. I’m right and you’re wrong.”
“Colin—” Anne began, but Colin was not to be stopped.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Pete was murdered. I know. And I intend to prove it.” He was more than half tipsy, and his eyes blazed with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to beat the police at their own game, and now I’m going to do it, by God.”
Henry said, uncomfortably, “You’re making a big mistake, Colin. Leave it alone.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Colin. “You don’t get anything out of me. But you wait. No good this weekend. Tide’s all wrong. Next weekend.”
“Oh, well,” said Henry, much more lightly than he felt, “that at least gives me a week to prove that you’re talking nonsense.”
“The best thing you can do this week,” said Colin, slurring his words slightly, “is to relax an’ read a good book. Don’t tire out that precious brain of yours. May need it sometime.”
“Rosemary,” said Anne, very clearly, “may I sleep on board Ariadne tonight?”
“Of course,” said Alastair.
“If you like,” said Rosemary, with less enthusiasm.
Then Bob called “Time!” and they all clattered downstairs and out into the yard.
CHAPTER TEN
BY TEN PAST ELEVEN, all the revellers were out of the pub, with the exception of George Riddle, who had stayed behind to give Bob a hand with the dirty glasses. The locals swayed happily homewards, and Sir Simon walked across to his ancient Daimler.
“Goodnight to you all,” he called. “I’ll just get the old girl warmed up while I wait for Riddle.”
He climbed into the car as the others made their way down the hard, glad of the assistance of Alastair’s powerful torch in the moonless blackness. The atmosphere was uncomfortably stormy. The Bensons and the Tibbetts walked together, and tried to keep up a semblance of light-hearted chatter. Behind them came David and Anne, arm in arm; Hamish followed, moodily. Colin, somewhat unsteady on his feet, brought up the rear. At the water’s edge, Colin said loudly, “Anne, my beautiful, there’s a complication that may have escaped you. Alastair’s dinghy only takes four people.”
Anne received this remark in a dangerous silence.
“By all means refuse to talk to me if it amuses you,” Colin went on. “I am merely making a chivalrous gesture. I am prepared to row you to Mary Jane, pick up your sleeping bag, and return you and it to Ariadne. In the process, you may speak to me or not, as you wish. Personally, I find silence very restful.”
“You’re drunk,” said Anne, clearly and bitterly. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in your dinghy.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, go with Colin,” said Rosemary irritably. “We can’t possibly take five.”
“I’m sorry,” said Anne, obstinately.
Eventually, as always, David came to the rescue, and suggested that he should do the ferrying: demanding as his reward that Anne should take a nightcap with him on Pocahontas, before returning to Mary Jane to get the sleeping bag. He would then, he said, deposit Anne on board Ariadne for the night. This seemed an excellent idea to everybody except Colin, who was rapidly reaching a stage of morbid self-pity. When Anne and David had disappeared into the darkness, and Hamish had said “Goodnight” and made off to his cottage, Colin sat down firmly on the damp hard, and announced his intention of staying there all night. It was with some difficulty that Rosemary and Alastair at last persuaded him to get into his dinghy, and he had still not cast off the painter when Ariadne’s crew were ready to leave.