“I know, I know. Mrs. Tibbett. Very worrying.” Sir Simon turned to Henry. “Have you notified the police?”
“No,” said Henry. “I am the police.”
A depressed silence greeted this remark.
“All the same...search parties and so on... Inspector Proudie should surely be told.” Sir Simon settled down happily into control of the situation. “Where’s Riddle?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anybody here,” said Rosemary.
“What’s today?” Sir Simon asked. “Ah, yes. Sunday. Of course. Riddle’s afternoon off. And my sister’s sleeping upstairs. In any case, she wouldn’t be able to help. Mrs. Tibbett told me she didn’t intend to go up and disturb her. Well, I suggest we ring The Berry Bush first, just to make sure that she hasn’t got back, and then alert the good inspector and his men.”
There was no doubt from his tone that Sir Simon reckoned the inspector and his men to be of considerably more practical value in a crisis than Henry. To Rosemary and Alastair, sanity seemed to be returning fast. Henry’s melodramatic behaviour now appeared ridiculous. If Emmy really had disappeared, this was surely the sensible, businesslike way to deal with the emergency.
The telephone calls brought little comfort. Bob Calloway was still out, but the barman—having looked in both bars and on the hard outside—confirmed that there was no sign of Emmy. Inspector Proudie was taking a late lunch at The Berry Bush. He listened respectfully to Sir Simon, and then asked to speak to Henry. The latter seemed to him distraught and unhelpful.
“No, she’s not at Mr. Rawnsley’s house. I’ve just come from there. The best thing is to issue a description and circulate it, sir. What was the lady wearing?”
“Blue jeans and a white shirt, with a navy blue sweater,” said Henry. “It’s very kind of you, Inspector. I expect I’m worrying over nothing.”
“Not at all, sir, not at all,” said Proudie soothingly. “After all, things are serious, as we know. But there, she’ll turn up all right. Anything special you’d like me to do?”
“No, no,” said Henry. “I’m sorry to bother you. Everything is quite all right, really. It’s just that one worries, you understand. Just locate Mr. Rawnsley and Miss Petrie, if you can. They went off at lunchtime in the black M.G. In fact, round up everybody concerned, as far as you can...see what they’ve been doing since noon. It may be important... I really don’t know.”
“Yes, sir,” said Proudie. Privately, he thought, Funny sort of Chief Inspector from the Yard. Lost his grip. Happens sometimes. Aloud he said, “Well, if that’s all, sir...”
“That’s all,” said Henry. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.” He rang off.
“Well, now,” said Sir Simon soothingly, “it’s late, and I’m prepared to bet you people haven’t had any lunch. If you’d like to come into the kitchen, we’ll see what Riddle has in the larder. Can’t promise much, but there’s sure to be something... This way...”
It seemed to Emmy that hours, days and weeks passed in dark silence, broken only by the lapping of water. She knew where she was, at least. In the fo’c’sle of Priscilla, in Sir Simon’s boathouse. Ever since the reassuring voices of her husband and Sir Simon had faded into unintelligible murmurs, and she had heard the car start up and drive away, she had lain in a stupor of pain, misery and apprehension. She cursed the malignant workings of fate. Henry had had the sense to look for her. Sir Simon had mercifully come down to work on Priscilla’s engine...had, in fact, been in the boat earlier, while she lay unconscious. Either one of them, left to himself, would surely have found her. In silence, she would surely have been able to make enough noise to draw attention to herself. As it was, they had met, and their voices had drowned her frantic efforts to create a noise... She stirred herself into some sort of life again. There couldn’t be much time left. Must try to get to that anchor again. If only she could get the gag off, or her hands free... She began the slow, dolorous process of movement again. Inch by inch, she squirmed her way across the fo’c’sle floor. After what seemed a year, she was touching the damp coldness of the anchor. She rolled over, so that her bound wrists could reach a fluke. If only she could free her hands, she wouldn’t be helpless...
It was at that moment that her ears, sharply attuned to silence, caught the sound of oars. Somebody was rowing into the boatshed from the seaward side.
Oh, God, thought Emmy. This is it. Well, he knows I’m here. What does it matter if I make a noise? If I could get my hands free...
The sound of oars grew louder. Then there was the scraping of a dinghy alongside the concrete landing stage, the clatter of oars being unshipped and laid in the boat. Emmy made a tremendous effort. She rolled herself sideways, and, as she did so, knocked over a Primus stove. It fell with an echoing crash. If only I’d been able to do that before...she thought, in despair.
For a moment, there was dead silence. Then somebody boarded Priscilla. The Primus was leaking, filling the constricted space with the stench of paraffin. Emmy took another reckless lurch sideways. And the door of the fo’c’sle opened.
Dim light poured in for a moment, and was immediately blocked again. Against the light, Emmy could just make out the silhouette of a man’s figure crouching in the hatchway. His hands groped blindly in the darkness and then brushed against Emmy’s foot. For a moment, he did not move, but she could hear his fast, nervous breathing. Then the strong hands found her foot again. A moment later, the man’s arms grasped her legs, and Emmy was dragged unceremoniously out into the cockpit.
Even in the shadows of the boathouse, there was no doubt about who it was. Above the gag, Emmy’s frightened brown eyes were staring up into David Crowther’s face. She could not make out his expression against the light. For perhaps half a minute they looked at each other in silence. Then David said, “Emmy...” in a strange, apologetic sort of voice, and abruptly turned his back on her and began rummaging in the after locker. When he came back, he held an open knife in his hand.
Emmy closed her eyes, and tried not to faint. As he rolled her over onto her face, she made a great effort to pray—but all the time she was wondering, idiotically, how he proposed to kill her, and if it would hurt very much, and whether Henry would catch him in the end.
And then, suddenly, her hands were free, and the gag fell away from her mouth, and David was saying, “Emmy, what happened? Who did it? How did you get here?”
She managed to murmur, “David...” into a coil of rope, and then everything went black, and she fainted properly, and with great relief.
The party at Berry Hall had just finished a morose and scrappy meal of cold beef and undressed lettuce in the kitchen, when they heard David’s voice calling from the hall, “Anybody here?”
Henry jumped up and ran along the flagged corridor, closely followed by the others. David was standing in the centre of the white marble hall, with Emmy in his arms. Sharply defined by the filtered sunlight, her dark head lay limply against his white shirt, and her left arm swung lifelessly, like the pendulum of a clock that is running down.
David said, “It’s Emmy. I f-found her.”
Instinctively, Rosemary, Alastair and Sir Simon stopped dead, while Henry went forward. Sir Simon had gone as pale as his ruddy complexion would allow, and Rosemary grabbed Alastair’s hand.
Hardly daring to trust his voice, Henry said, “Is she...” and when David said exhaustedly, “She’s O.K. She’s fainted,” Henry just stood there. For a long moment, the sudden relaxation of unbearable anxiety robbed him of the power to move or speak. At last he stepped forward and took Emmy’s limp hand in his.
Emmy opened her eyes. Momentarily, black terror returned. Then she saw Henry, and smiled tremulously. “I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered. “Fool that I am...so much trouble...”