“And what will you—”
“I’m going to investigate the boathouse. And anywhere else that might make a hiding place. I’ll meet you at the same spot where you dropped me off. Wait for me.”
“I suppose you know what you’re doing, Henry.” Alastair’s voice sounded disapproving.
“I wish to God,” said Henry bitterly, “that I did. On second thoughts, if I don’t turn up by half past four, go to the nearest public telephone and get on to Inspector Proudie. Tell him to come to Berry Hall with a squad of strong men and a search warrant.”
“Good heavens,” said Rosemary. “I can’t think what Sir Simon will—”
“I can’t help that,” said Henry. “Emmy was alone there this morning, apart from Priscilla, who doesn’t count. Anybody could have gone in and—”
“This,” said Alastair, “is just like a rather improbable thriller. I don’t believe a word of it.”
“I daresay Pete Rawnsley and Colin found it pretty unlikely, too,” said Henry. “Right. I’ll get off here. Good luck, and thanks a lot.”
He watched the station wagon as it drove off down the lane and into the gates of Berry Hall. Then he pushed his way uncomfortably through a prickly hedge and headed towards the river.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN EMMY OPENED her eyes, she was lying on her back in darkness, aware only of the sound of lapping water and a splitting pain in her head. For a moment, she imagined that she must be in the fo’c’sle of Ariadne: then, as consciousness returned and she tried to move, she realized with a pang of horror that she was efficiently gagged with some soft material, and that her wrists and ankles were bound. Memory came flooding back. She had been at Berry Hall...and Priscilla...had just been going to say something important. And then, without warning, there had been a sickening, thudding crash: she recalled a glimpse of Priscilla’s vacuous face expressing a mild surprise, and, after that, darkness.
Now, with returning lucidity, Emmy strained her eyes in the gloom to take in her surroundings. She had not been so far mistaken in her first impression. She was indeed in the fo’c’sle of a boat, and the uncomfortably lumpy surface on which she was lying was a coil of rope. She wriggled desperately, but found that she could not move more than a few, painful inches. As her eyes grew slowly more accustomed to the gloom, she turned her head agonizingly from side to side in an effort to locate anything sharp-edged against which she might be able to chafe the rope round her wrists. The only possible object seemed to be a muddy CQR anchor on her right, but its flukes looked depressingly blunt.
Still, thought Emmy, fighting back panic, it’s better than nothing. She began to edge her way towards it. The situation had a ridiculous, nightmare quality. One came sailing with friends to Berrybridge Haven. One met charming people and grew to love a quiet, secluded corner of England. And then... Colin. Suddenly she remembered Colin. Colin was dead. Nice, intelligent Colin with his dangerous sense of humour—Colin had been murdered. Pete Rawnsley had been murdered. And she was in the process of being murdered, too. Hysteria rose from her throat and threatened to suffocate her. Somebody had knocked her out and tied her up and thrown her into the bows of a boat. Soon somebody would be back to finish the job. Soon...
Simultaneously, came noise and movement. The boat rocked violently, and there was the unmistakable sound of a footfall on deck. Somebody had come aboard. Emmy froze into immobility. She heard the noise, immeasurably magnified by the echo chamber of the fo’c’sle, as somebody moved about the boat. There was the dull ring of metal on metal. And then she heard a voice, and tears of relief and joy came into her eyes. For it was Henry’s voice, and it said, in a diffident and embarrassed tone, “Oh, hello...”
“Good heavens, Tibbett,” said Sir Simon. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Henry had reached the boathouse by a devious route through bushes and undergrowth, and was considerably disheveled. Gingerly, and with a nervous glance in the direction of the house, he emerged from the shelter of shrubbery and made a run for it across the few yards of open field that separated him from the black wooden walls of the shed. A moment later, he was in the cool darkness of the boathouse, and looking straight into the startled blue eyes of Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby, who stood in Priscilla’s open cockpit, a bag of tools in his hand. The two men regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then Henry, feeling exceptionally foolish, said, “Oh, hello...”
“Good heavens, Tibbett.” Sir Simon put his tool bag down. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I was...that is, I came over with the Bensons,” said Henry.
“My dear fellow,” said Sir Simon. He climbed out of the boat and on to the concrete landing stage. “You must come up to the house. I was just tinkering with Priscilla’s engine. Something wrong, as I told you this morning. Most annoying.”
Even Sir Simon’s well-bred politeness could not quite disguise the strong undercurrent of curiosity in his voice. Henry felt compelled to give some sort of explanation, and he decided that the least complicated one would be the truth.
“I’ll be frank with you, Sir Simon. I came down here to look for my wife.”
“Your wife? But she left some time ago.”
“That’s just what’s worrying me,” said Henry. “She hasn’t arrived back in Berrybridge, and it’s extremely unlike Emmy to go off on her own without leaving any message for me. I didn’t want to trouble you, but I felt I must look for her. I don’t suppose,” he added, “that she could be anywhere in here?ᾠ
“In here?” Sir Simon was clearly taken aback. “Heavens, no. I’ve been working on Priscilla most of the time since I got back. There’s certainly nobody here.” He climbed out of the boat, and wiped his hands on a filthy rag. “This is very disturbing, Tibbett,” he went on. “I got back about two o’clock, I suppose, and there was no sign of her. Thought it was strange, myself. Still, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Come on up to the house. I’ve got the car down here—just been into Woodbridge to buy some tools I needed. I’ll run you up, and we’ll soon find out what’s happened.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Henry. “I’m sorry if I appear to be panicking unnecessarily, but I may as well tell you that we now have definite proof that Colin Street was murdered. Inspector Proudie is back in Berrybridge, carrying out his investigations. It means that there’s a very unpleasant character loose in the neighbourhood, and—”
“Murdered? My dear chap—” Sir Simon was momentarily speechless. “In that case, the sooner we locate your wife, the better. Come with me. I suggest we start by telephoning...”
The voices faded into silence. In the dark fo’c’sle, Emmy wept.
Rosemary and Alastair were sitting disconsolately side by side on the sunny terrace. They heard the Daimler draw up in the drive, and were more than a little surprised to see Henry getting out of it, in company with Sir Simon. Henry’s passage through the undergrowth had not improved his appearance. His face and hands were scratched with brambles, and his sandy hair stood up like a halo round his thin, worried face. Sir Simon boomed an uneasy welcome.
“Ah, there you are. Henry told me. Council of war, eh?”
Rosemary and Alastair scrambled to their feet. “We just came over—” Alastair began.