“Berry View” was a charming little house. Three years before, it had been nothing more than a pair of derelict cottages, once occupied by fishermen. Hamish had converted them without in any way destroying the charm and simplicity of the original. No wrought-iron whimsies or refurbished carriage lamps marred its clean, well-proportioned exterior, no lattice-work discouraged the sunlight from penetrating its neat, rectangular windows: instead of a phony and insanitary thatch, Hamish had re-roofed the house with large grey slates of pleasing irregularity. The solid front door of unvarnished oak opened directly into the main living room, which, with the kitchen and bathroom, occupied the entire ground floor. Here, black and white handwoven mats made a cool contrast to the warm glow of the ancient red tiles which still paved the floor. The furniture was sparse, good-looking and comfortable. At one end of the long room, a huge sofa and two armchairs, upholstered in dark blue whipcord, faced a simple, square fireplace: at the other end stood a plain oak dining table and four ladder-back chairs. On either side of the front door, the whitewashed wall was almost entirely covered with well-filled bookcases. A small oak coffee table, several early Picasso and Lautrec lithographs, two brass oil lamps and an assortment of ashtrays completed the furniture. Henry’s first impression, as he stepped inside and looked around him, was of uncompromising masculinity.
Hamish was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring moodily at the empty fireplace, with a glass in his hand and a decanter on the table at his elbow. He looked somewhat taken aback to see Proudie, but greeted him civilly enough, reminding the Inspector that they had met before during the investigations into the Trigg-Willoughby robbery: he then proffered the decanter all round. Proudie looked shocked, and everybody declined politely, if with some regret.
“Now,” said Henry, “where is everyone and how is Anne?”
“She’s upstairs asleep,” said Hamish. “Rosemary’s with her. The doctor came and gave her some sort of dope. He says she’s suffering from shock. David’s still out in his boat. Nobody’s seen him all day. Since it’s after twelve, I imagine that Herbert and Sam and the rest of the locals are in the pub. I haven’t seen Emmy.”
“That’s all right,” said Henry. “She’s over at Berry Hall. Well, I suppose we’d better make a start. Would you like to come first and get it over with, Hamish? It’s just a question of getting some facts for the coroner. Inspector Proudie is in charge of the investigations, of course, but since I was involved, the Chief Constable agreed—”
“Of course,” said Hamish, sourly and somewhat enigmatically.
So Alastair wandered out onto the flagged terrace that overlooked the muddy, reedy bank where Colin had been found. He watched a fleet of sailing dinghies drifting idly, their white racing burgees flapping sadly in the windless air, and reflected bitterly on the general bloodiness of life: in the drawing room, the police shorthand writer who had been brought from Ipswich settled himself at the dining table: Henry sat morosely in an armchair, while Inspector Proudie took Hamish quickly and accurately through the events of the preceding evening.
Emmy had been surprised and not a little dismayed when, immediately after the discovery of the body, Henry had told her to call for Berrybridge’s only taxi, and drive over to Berry Hall to break the news to Sir Simon.
“Why not telephone him?” she demanded. “Then he can drive over here.”
“Two reasons,” said Henry. “One, I want you to observe very carefully the effect of the news on the various members of the Berry Hall ménage. And secondly, I think you may find that there’s something wrong with Sir Simon’s car.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I heard him trying to start her when we were walking down the hard last night,” said Henry. “He didn’t seem to be succeeding. I thought nothing of it then, but now it occurs to me that a man without a car is immobilized and therefore can’t be in places where he shouldn’t be or see things that he shouldn’t see.”
Emmy looked more and more mystified. “You think somebody deliberately put the car out of action?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry, “but somebody might have found it useful. In any case, I want you to bring Sir Simon and George Riddle back here, either in Sir Simon’s own car or in the taxi, by about half past twelve.”
In view of this conversation, Emmy was considerably impressed when, as she clambered into the venerable Lanchester which served as a taxi, the driver—a grizzled character referred to in the pub as Old George—remarked acidly, “Berry ’All. Berry ’All. Nothin’ but Berry Bloody ’All.”
“Why do you say that?” Emmy asked.
“Larst night,” said Old George, “arter the binge. Drove Sir Simon ’ome. Ar parst eleven. Didn’t get back till midnight.”
“What happened to his own car, then?”
“Broke,” said Old George succinctly. “Left Young George tinkerin’ with ’er insides. No good. Garage towed ’er away first thing this morning.”
“When you say Young George, you mean George Riddle?”
“That’s right,” admitted Old George grudgingly.
“So he didn’t go back to Berry Hall last night?”
“No. Kipped at ’is Dad’s place, I reckon.”
“I see,” said Emmy, in a small, thoughtful voice. She spent the rest of the drive trying to avoid discussing the subject of Colin’s death with Old George, and finally left him in the drive of Berry Hall, sitting on the step of the Lanchester smoking a small, noiso
me cigar, with instructions to wait for her.
With some trepidation, Emmy walked up to the imposing, pedimented front door. Before she had mustered enough courage to pull the graceful iron doorbell, however, she was startled to hear the sharp rattle of a window sash being thrown up, and a shrill voice above her head cried, “Who is it? What do you want?”
Emmy took a step backwards and looked up. A first-floor window to the left of the front door was open, and from it, like a snail emerging from its shell, protruded the stout torso of Miss Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby. Her head bristled with chromium hair curlers, which glinted like a helmet in the sunshine.
“Who is it?” Priscilla demanded again, and added, “Why don’t you ring the bell?”
“I was just going to,” said Emmy, hastily.
“What’s that? Speak up!”
“I was just going to,” Emmy shouted. “It’s Mrs. Tibbett. I wanted to—”
Priscilla’s attention had suddenly focused itself on the Lanchester. “George!” she remarked, majestically. Old George jumped guiltily to his feet and stamped out his cigar. “Why are you still here, George? You were engaged to drive my brother home. That gives you no right to prowl around the house all night and smoke your horrible cigars in my garden. Go home at once!”
“I think I can explain, Miss Trigg-Willoughby,” Emmy yelled hastily. “George hasn’t been here all night. He’s just driven me over from Berrybridge.”
Priscilla’s domineering mood crumbled suddenly into pathos. “Thank you, Mrs. Hibbert,” she said humbly, with a trace of tears. “You explain things so clearly. Nobody else explains things to me. That’s why I imagine things, you see. It’s very difficult when nobody will explain.”
Emmy felt a sudden surge of excitement—an instinctive feeling that she was about to learn something important, if only she played her cards right. Cursing the fact that this most delicate conversation had to take place at the top of her voice, she shouted, “What won’t they explain to you? Perhaps I could help?”
Priscilla leant dangerously far out of the window, and spoke in a travesty of a stage whisper. “Mrs. Tappitt,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something. You see, I happen to know that—”