“Good morning, madam,” said a fruity, P. G. Wodehouse voice loudly. “Was there something?”
Furious, Emmy dropped her gaze to the front door. It was open, and George Riddle stood there, looking like a dentist in his starched white jacket. When she glanced up again, Priscilla’s window was empty.
Biting back her anger, Emmy said, “I want to see Sir Simon, please. It’s very urgent.”
Riddle stood back to allow Emmy to enter the famous, marble-paved circular hall, with its spiral staircase leading to the circular gallery on the first floor. Then he opened the door of the Blue Drawing Room.
“If you will wait in here, madam,” he said, in his carefully cultivated butler’s accent, “I will inform Sir Simon.”
On an impulse, Emmy said, “I’m sorry to hear about Sir Simon’s car. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Riddle looked far from pleased. “I really cannot say, madam. It is in the hands of the garridge.”
“But you worked on it last night, didn’t you?” Emmy persisted. “What was wrong with it?”
“I was not able to locate the trouble, madam,” said Riddle angrily.
Oh, very well, thought Emmy. You’ll have to tell Henry later on. Aloud she said, “You must have made an early start to get back here from Berrybridge this morning. There’s not a bus, is there?”
There was a perceptible pause, and then Riddle said, in his normal voice and very fast, “I come on me Dad’s bike.” Then, quickly recollecting himself, he added, “I will inform Sir Simon of your arrival, madam,” and withdrew.
Emmy gazed out of the window, over the vista of lawns, trees and water, and wondered miserably how she should handle the coming interview. Henry had given her so little to go on. He had told her to watch people’s reactions to the news of Colin’s death. Perhaps she ought to have sprung it on Priscilla and Riddle, instead of trying unsuccessfully to follow her own hunch that they might divulge certain information more readily before they heard the news. She felt that she was making a hash of things, and hoped that Henry was not counting too much on the results of her expedition.
At the back of her mind, with nagging insistence, a tiny conversation she had had that morning with Henry repeated itself like a worn gramophone record.
“Henry,” she had said, “was Colin murdered?”
And Henry had replied, “I think so.”
Emmy was jerked out of her reverie by the sight of Sir Simon. He was dressed in old tweeds and Wellington boots, and he was walking up towards the house from the path that led to the boathouse. Wiping his hands on his dirty trousers, he disappeared round the corner of the house towards the front door. A minute or two later, Emmy heard voices in the hall, and Sir Simon came in.
“My dear Mrs. Tibbett,” he began, “forgive me—can’t shake hands—covered with oil from Priscilla’s engine—didn’t even stop to wash. Felt I had to see you straight away when I heard the news. Tragic business.”
Emmy’s morale sank beneath the load of failure. “You mean—?” she began.
“Young Street, of course. Found drowned. Old George told me just now, in the drive. I suppose that’s why you’re here. Expect your husband sent you.”
Emmy could have cried. “Yes,” she said, inadequately and miserably.
“Lucky you got old George to wait,” Sir Simon went on. “We can get him to drive us both back. Expect you may have heard about my old bus. Most mysterious. Running perfectly earlier in the evening, and then when I came to go home—just wouldn’t start. Plenty in the battery, too. Riddle couldn’t find what was wrong. And to crown it all, Priscilla’s out of action, too. Oil in her plugs, I’m afraid. So we’re well and truly marooned out here. My goodness, I can hardly believe it. Tragic.” Sir Simon paused for breath. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Tibbett, I’ll get some of this grease off my paws and change my trousers, and we’ll be off.”
With that, he bustled out, leaving Emmy to her bitter thoughts, and to the contemplation of the river. A few minutes later he was back, spruce and clean in a faded pair of grey flannels and a hacking jacket. He demurred somewhat when Emmy insisted that they should take George Riddle back to Berrybridge with them.
“Don’t like leaving my sister alone,” he explained uneasily. “Since Mrs. Bradwell left, there’s nobody else in the house. Cooks are hard to come by, these days, and my sister...nervous, you understand...”
It was then that Emmy had her inspiration. “I’m afraid my husband was quite definite about wanting to see both you and Riddle,” she said, “but why shouldn’t I stay here with Miss Trigg-Willoughby? Whoever drives you back here can pick me up.”
Sir Simon looked uncomfortable. “It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Tibbett,” he began, “but I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble of—”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Emmy firmly. “I can have another look at your beautiful house, and I’m longing to see the garden. It was pouring with rain last time I was here, if you remember. I needn’t bother your sister at all, if she’s resting. But I expect you’ll feel happier, just knowing there’s someone in the house.”
“Well...” Sir Simon could not hide the relief in his voice. “It would be most kind of you. I’ll just tell Priscilla.”
Emmy stood at the front door and waved goodbye to the hearselike black Lanchester, as it rolled its stately way down the broad drive. When it was out of sight, she turned and went indoors. Her footsteps echoed across the marble circle of the hall. At the foot of the stairs she paused in a shaft of sunlight, and listened. The beautiful, pale house was enveloped in a veil of bright silence as though crystallized in ice. Slowly, Emmy began to climb the spiral staircase.
The sunshine splashed onto the red-tiled floor of Hamish’s drawing room in golden pools, and Inspector Proudie mopped his brow with a very white handkerchief. Hamish and Rosemary had given their accounts of the events of the evening before, and now Alastair was sitting, unhappily, on the edge of one of the big armchairs, trying to recall at what time Anne and David had arrived at Ariadne the previous night.
“It must have been after half past one,” he said, at length. “I had given up waiting and gone to bed soon after midnight. I was dozing off when I heard David’s dinghy alongside. I got up and helped Anne on board. She hadn’t been back to Mary Jane for her sleeping bag after all—thought it was too late—so I gave her mine and made my bunk up with blankets. We tried to make as little noise as possible, and I don’t think any of the others woke up—did you?”
“Not really,” said Henry. “I just heard David’s voice and then I went off to sleep again.”
“I was pretty tired, too,” said Alastair. “I didn’t need any rocking to sleep. I remember hearing David rowing away again, and the next thing I knew, it was morning.”
Henry leant forward. “David?” he said.
“Well, I presume so,” said Alastair. “Nobody else would have been out at that hour. I heard a dinghy, anyway. It was an absolutely still night, and you know how sound carries over the water. I heard the splash of oars and that slight creaking you get from the rowlocks.”
“David delivered Anne to Ariadne,” said Henry. “You and she discussed the matter of the sleeping bag, you remade your bunk, and you both went to bed. How long did all that take?”
“About a quarter of an hour, I suppose. I noticed it was ten to two by the cabin clock when I blew out the lamps.”
“And then,” said Henry, “you heard a dinghy. Meaning either that David had been rowing round in circles for nearly twenty minutes, or that somebody else was out last night.”