“A number?”
“Eleven.” Emmy opened her eyes, excited. “That was it. Eleven.”
“What about eleven?”
“Before eleven.”
“Ten, you mean?”
“No. That was what she said. Before eleven.”
“What was?”
“That’s what I asked her. And before she could answer—”
“Before eleven.” Henry got up. “Something happened before eleven. And if only we knew what it was... Well, there’s only one thing to do now. Something I should have done long ago.”
“Henry...”
“Yes, darling?”
“Henry, I know I’
m a fool, but after this—well, honestly, I’m frightened. Whatever it is you have to do, can’t you do it here?”
Henry grinned at her. “Yes, my sweet,” he said. “I can. Right here in this room. I’m going to make a complete, detailed report of everything that’s happened and everything we’ve been told about, properly tabulated. I’ll need Reid’s Nautical Almanack, Proudie’s reports and mainly my tired old memory. I hope to God I can do it.”
“And you think that’ll give you the answer?”
“I’m pretty close to the answer already,” said Henry. “I want proof. Something to go on, at any rate. And I hope to find out what happened before eleven, and why it’s important.”
“Poor Priscilla,” said Emmy. “She’s such a lonely person.” She closed her eyes.
It was nine o’clock that night when Henry finished his report. The small, chintzy bedroom was littered with notebooks and files. Emmy dozed peacefully. Henry chain-smoked, wrote and studied what he had written. Occasionally he underlined certain words and put a big cross in the margin against them.
“What does that mean?” Emmy asked, sleepily.
“An inconsistency,” said Henry. “A lie.”
Twice, he called Alastair up from the bar, checked on a point, and nodded, gravely and sadly. At five past nine, Henry was called to the phone again. It was Proudie.
“Well, sir,” said the latter heavily, “I’m afraid we’ll never get any evidence from Miss Priscilla now.”
“She’s dead?”
“Ten minutes ago. My man Trouncer just phoned from Berry Hall.”
“Poor old girl,” said Henry. And then, “How’s Sir Simon taking it?”
“Hard, sir. Very hard. Trouncer says the poor gentleman is quite distraught. Of course, it’s understandable. There were just the two of them.”
“I know,” said Henry. “And how have you been getting on?”
“I’ve got statements from everybody about their movements this afternoon,” said Proudie gloomily. “And a more unpromising lot you’ve never seen. Seems everybody remotely connected with the case was hanging round Berry Hall sometime this afternoon. I’ll bring the transcripts up for you to see. And, incidentally, I’ve got everybody here in Berrybridge in case you want to see them. As far as I can make out,” Proudie ended, “the only person we can put in the clear is Mr. Crowther.”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, he rescued Mrs. Tibbett, didn’t he?” Proudie pointed out, somewhat aggrieved.
“Yes,” said Henry, “he did. Thank God.”
“But now that poor Miss Priscilla—”
“It’s tragic,” said Henry, “but from our point of view, her death isn’t such a complete disaster. I’m pretty sure now that I know what her evidence would have been.” As Proudie broke into an excited spate of questions, he added. “Give me another half hour or so, will you, and then come up? I can’t talk over the phone.”
Henry rang off, and walked down the dark passage. As he passed the brightly lit bar, he saw Bob Calloway busy serving beer. Hamish and Anne were sitting in an inglenook: David was talking to Rosemary and Alastair: Herbert and Sam Riddle were playing darts, while George Riddle chalked: Bill Hawkes and Old Ephraim were engaged in a discussion in a corner. It should have been a typical, jolly Sunday evening in an English country pub. But the voices were subdued, the faces strained. Berrybridge Haven was in the grip of a nightmare, faced with facts which it did not understand, and there was terror abroad. Henry, his heart filled with anger and compassion, made his way slowly upstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
INSPECTOR PROUDIE walked, heavy-footed, into the bedroom, and greeted Henry and Emmy sadly, a load of distress weighing on his broad shoulders and clouding his normally merry face. In fact, the only ray of hope that he could see in the situation was that Chief Inspector Tibbett seemed to have recovered his usual brisk grasp of affairs, and Proudie charitably ascribed his earlier vagueness to acute anxiety over his wife. The latter’s escape from the murderer’s clutches was also gratifying, but somewhat outweighed by the tragic business of Priscilla’s death.
Proudie sighed deeply, and, at Henry’s invitation, sat down on the other side of Emmy’s bed. “Well, sir,” he said, ponderously, “I’m glad you’ve been getting on faster than I have. This is a nasty business, and I don’t like it.” He spoke with an air of personal affront, with which Henry sympathized. He realized that uppermost in the inspector’s mind was the inescapable fact that here in Berrybridge, among his own friends and acquaintances, was a coldblooded murderer who was by now so deeply committed as to be striking with lunatic ruthlessness against anyone and everyone who constituted a possible threat of betrayal.
“Before we compare notes,” said Henry, “I’d like to hear how you got on. By the way, did your men have a look at Sir Simon’s boat?”
“They did, sir. Nothing helpful. Mrs. Tibbett had been tied up with spare rope from the fo’c’sle, and gagged with an old white racing flag. No prints on the boat except Sir Simon’s, Riddle’s and Mr. Crowther’s.”
“So you’ve fingerprinted everyone already, have you, Inspector?” Emmy asked. “That’s quick work.”
“Voluntary, of course,” said Proudie. “We needed the prints, and—well, I think myself it was a good move. There’s nothing makes people take a case seriously like having their prints taken.”
“I think,” said Henry sombrely, “that everybody is taking this case pretty seriously by now. Well, let’s get on.”
Proudie pulled a thick notebook out of his pocket, and began thumbing through the pages.
“I saw everybody concerned,” he said, “with the exception of Mr. Crowther, who only came ashore from his boat an hour or so ago. I took his prints, which seemed to upset him, and he said he wanted to talk to you. So I let him be for the moment. He’s downstairs now.”
“I’ll see him later,” said Henry. “Go on.”
“Well,” said Proudie, “after you rang, I started straight away by locating Mr. Rawnsley and Miss Petrie. That wasn’t difficult. They were both back at Mr. Rawnsley’s cottage. Just got in.”
“Where had they been?”
Proudie shook his head in a sort of angry despair. “Berry Hall,” he said.
Henry looked up sharply. “Berry Hall? When? What for?”
Proudie consulted his notes. “They left here about a quarter to two,” he began. “Miss Petrie was feeling better and—”
Henry interrupted him. “Inspector,” he said, “I’m sorry, but would you mind very much if I got these people to tell me their own stories? In any case, it might be interesting to see if they check with what they told you.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Proudie, without rancour.
“I’ll go down and talk to them,” said Henry. “Would you mind staying up here with my wife. She’s had rather a shattering experience today, and she—”
“A pleasure.” Proudie beamed. “So long as you explain it to my wife.”
They all laughed with a polite pretence at roguishness, and Henry went downstairs and into the bar.