Proudie drew a firm line across his notebook. “Q.E.D.” he seemed to be saying.
“I don’t believe it,” said Henry, stubbornly.
“Now, look, sir,” s
aid Proudie, trying not to sound exasperated. “You yourself were on board Mary Jane this morning. You saw for yourself that Mr. Street never reached her last night. His bunk wasn’t made up. Nothing had been touched since he and Miss Petrie left the boat before dinner. You yourself saw Mr. Street just about to set off in his dinghy, at eleven thirty. So it’s clear that he must have met his death while rowing out to his boat—say between eleven thirty and eleven forty-five. Where was everybody then? You and Mrs. Tibbett were on board Ariadne with Mr. and Mrs. Benson. Miss Petrie and Mr. Crowther were together on Pocahontas. Sir Simon was on his way back to Berry Hall in Old George’s taxi. Bob Calloway was clearing up the pub with the barman.”
“George Riddle,” said Henry, “was allegedly tinkering with Sir Simon’s car in the yard of the inn. And Hamish Rawnsley was allegedly here in his cottage, going to bed, although he was still up an hour later, according to George. Neither of them has any proof that he’s telling the truth.”
“I know that,” said Proudie, “but what does it prove? Here’s a perfectly straightforward accident, and you want everybody who knew the dead man to have an unshakeable alibi. It would be unnatural if they did.”
“I suppose so,” said Henry.
It was at that moment that the telephone rang. Proudie picked it up.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, speaking... Yes... Yes...”
There was a long silence. Proudie’s face clouded with worry. “What’s that? Say that again... You’re sure? No mistake at all?... I see... Yes, it does change things... Yes, I’ll tell him.”
He put down the receiver and looked sombrely at Henry. “Looks as though your hunch may have been right after all, sir,” he said slowly. “That was the police doctor. He’s just finished the post mortem.”
“Well?” said Henry.
“Death due to drowning,” said Proudie. “Body had been in the water between five and eight hours, as near as he could say.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“But,” said Proudie, “there’s something else. The skull was cracked by a heavy blow before death. Mr. Street wasn’t just drunk when he fell in the river. He was unconscious, and he might have died anyhow.”
“Could it—” Henry began.
“He was already sitting in his dinghy when you left him.” Proudie, who knew Berrybridge Haven as well as any man in Suffolk, was visualizing the scene. “He was still tied up to the hard. There’s no obstructions other than moored boats between Mary Jane and the jetty, and if he’d bumped into anything, the dinghy could have taken the force of the collision. It’s just not feasible that he could have dealt himself a blow with one of his own oars, even if he’d been trying. The doctor says it was a powerful crack delivered from directly in front of him, and above. No,” said Proudie heavily, “I’m afraid we’ve got to face it, sir. This is a murder case. And it does strike me that—well, we’ve had another similar sort of accident in these parts lately. Chap hit on the head and then drowned. I mean Mr. Pete Rawnsley.”
“Inspector Proudie,” said Henry, “I don’t know what you propose to do next, but personally I’m going straight out to have another look at Mary Jane.”
“Mr. Street’s boat? What d’you expect to find there?”
“First and foremost,” said Henry, “a book. Secondly, if I’m lucky, fingerprints. Can you get your man out here and send him after me to take prints? I’m going to find Mr. Benson and borrow his dinghy.”
Henry got up and hurried out of the cottage and down to the hard. It did not even occur to him to wonder where Emmy was.
“Please,” said Emmy. “Please try to remember.”
Priscilla looked at her stupidly, and pulled the orange silk kimono more tightly across her flabby bosom. A half-empty bottle of gin stood bleakly on the dressing table.
“We’re all alone in the house,” said Priscilla suddenly, with a little giggle.
“I know,” said Emmy. “That’s why I thought it would be a good opportunity to have a little chat.”
“You have to be careful,” said Priscilla owlishly. “People listen.”
“Not today,” said Emmy firmly. “We’re all alone. Tell me about the night you lost your jewels. You locked them up, didn’t you?”
“Hamish used to come and talk to me,” said Priscilla inconsequentially. “Such a charming young man. Of course, he wanted money. They all do. Everybody wants money. I suppose it’s only natural. How much do you want?”
“I don’t want any money. I—”
“Of course, I can’t give you any,” added Priscilla, with genuine regret. “I’m so sorry. All gone now. Nothing left.”
Emmy seized this lead. “Where has it all gone?” she demanded.
Priscilla waved a plump hand. “Bills,” she said. “We have bills, just like other people. Simon deals with the money. He’s very clever, you know. Very clever indeed.”
“Where?” said Emmy, loudly and clearly, “does your gin come from?”
Priscilla looked startled. Then she lowered her voice, and whispered solemnly, “The wardrobe.” She pointed an unsteady finger.
“Who puts it there?”
“Papa.”
“Miss Priscilla,” said Emmy briskly, “your father has been dead for years. Who brings you your gin?”
“It comes from Papa.” Priscilla’s voice trembled. “Dear Papa. Always so thoughtful. That’s what he says.”
“Who says that?”
“Why, everybody. Everybody loved Papa.” Priscilla lost interest in the subject abruptly, and began to take the curlers out of her hair, unrolling each one with elaborate care.
“This morning,” said Emmy, “you said people wouldn’t explain things to you, and you told me you knew something. What was it?”
“I think,” said Priscilla, “that I will take a little drink now. It’s good for me, you know. It stops me from worrying.”
In silence, she poured a generous measure of gin into a toothmug. Downstairs, a clock struck once with a silvery chime. Emmy tried again.
“You remember Colin Street?”
“The ill-mannered young man,” said Priscilla promptly. “Simon likes him. Simon says he’s clever. I think he’s just rude.” She giggled slightly. “What about Colin Street?”
“He’s dead,” said Emmy, very distinctly.
“Dead, Mrs. Babbitt? How sad.” Priscilla’s voice expressed no more than a travesty of polite concern. “But then, of course, so many people are dead, aren’t they?”
“He may have died,” said Emmy, “because he found out what it is that you know.”
“No, no, that’s not possible,” said Priscilla in a calm, earnest voice. “Nobody knows what I know. I haven’t told anybody.”
“You were going to tell me, this morning.”
“Was I? Oh, I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. Humbert. I mustn’t tell anybody, or Papa will be cross. I promised.” She lifted the toothmug and sipped the neat gin. “In any case,” she added, “it couldn’t be important. That’s what nobody will explain. Why it’s important.”
“You must tell me,” said Emmy desperately. She had so little time.
“We are lucky to have this house,” said Priscilla socially. “Of course, it is an expense, but Simon insists that everything should be of the best. It’s what Papa would have wished.”