“Honest, sir, I don’t know. Miss Priscilla. Must have been.” Riddle was an unprepossessing picture of abject misery. “Every so often, when I was in here, Bob used to tip me the wink. ‘Got another consignment for the ’All, George,’ ’e’d say. And I’d collect the case and take it up. The first time, he explained what I ’ad to do. ‘It goes straight in the lady’s wardrobe,’ ’e says. ‘Don’t let anyone else see, least of all Sir Simon. It’s all paid for proper. And remind the lady as ’ow it comes from ’er Dad, and she’s not to tell ’er brother about it. She might, see, bein’ forgetful.’”
“You didn’t see anything wrong in what you did?” Henry asked drily.
Riddle licked his lips. “It didn’t seem right to me, at first,” he said uneasily, “but Bob said, ‘The pore lady wants it and why shouldn’t she ’ave it? It’s ’er only pleasure.’ Well, when ’e put it like that...”
“And I suppose you got a nice tip each time?”
“Only a bit for me trouble, sir, like anyone might. All the same, I didn’t like doin’ it. I said at the time—”
“Skip that,” said Henry briefly. “Let’s go back a bit. What happened before Bob got here? Miss Priscilla was drinking pretty heavily even before then, wasn’t she? At the time of the robbery, for instance?”
“I don’t know nothing about that,” said Riddle desperately. “I swear I don’t. I ’ave my suspicions, though,” he added, suddenly sly.
“What suspicions?”
“Well, the old man left a goodish cellar when ’e died, so they say. I reckon Miss Priscilla went through that, or most of it. Sir Simon, now, ’e ’ardly touches a drop, except for the odd pint in ’ere. ’E never went near the cellar, and the key was ’anging in the kitchen for anyone to take. Then one day—soon after Bob came, it was—Sir Simon goes down there for something, and ’e comes up all angry and worried-like, and ’e says to me, ‘George,’ ’e says, ‘I’m keepin’ this key meself from now on, and nobody’s to be allowed down there but me. If you ’ave occasion to want something, you arsk me.’ Well, I mean, it all adds up, don’t it?” George sniggered unattractively.
“Maybe,” said Henry. “Maybe not. That’s all for the moment, but don’t leave the pub.”
Henry followed Riddle out into the bar. There was no sign of Bob Calloway, and the barman hazarded that he must be in his private quarters, and went to investigate. A few minutes later, he was back, with a puzzled expression.
“Not there, sir,” he said. “That’s funny. He was here—well, say half an hour ago, that I’m sure. Better see—”
“I’ll go,” said Henry, and ran out into the yard. The garage was empty. Bob Calloway and the red Aston Martin had both disappeared.
Cursing himself for an inefficient fool, Henry hurried to the telephone and rang the Ipswich police, telling them to stop and apprehend the car and its occupant at the earliest possible moment. Then he went into the bar and collared Herbert.
The Harbour Master was still smarting under his humiliation of the previous night. Not even the kudos which surrounded him as the discoverer of Colin’s body could dissipate his rage and gloom.
Henry steered him into the lounge and into a chair, and said, “Now, Herbert, I’ve a few questions to ask you, and I want straight answers. This is a murder investigation.”
“Hay?” said Herbert truculently.
“Murder,” shouted Henry.
“Ar,” said Herbert. “Deserved it,” he added.
“Who did?”
“Both on ’em. Mr. Bloody Interferin’ Rawnsley and Mr. Bloody Interferin’ Street.” Herbert sniffed.
“Why,” Henry asked, “did you dislike Mr. Pete Rawnsley so much?”
Herbert cackled without humour. “Why?” he echoed. “Ingratitood, that’s why. Takin’ his boat to—”
“That’s not the real reason, and you know it,” said Henry.
“Hay?”
“Do you want me to shout at the top of my voice so that the whole pub can hear?” Henry asked conversationally. He filled his lungs, and began in a stentorian bellow, “Mr. Pete Rawnsley found out that—”
“’Ere.” Herbert’s voice was urgent and concerned. “No need to shout. I’m not deaf.”
Henry suppressed a grin. “Good,” he said. “Then we can proceed. Mr. Pete Rawnsley found out that you’d been dishonest over—”
Herbert was really worried now. “It was nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing as could matter. Taking a few bob over the odds for a few mingy moorings. Threatenin’ to do a man out of ’is livelihood, wot ’e’s worked at, man and boy, for—”
“I see,” said Henry, trying to sound more severe than he felt. “So Mr. Rawnsley found out that you were accepting bribes to allot people moorings which are the property of the Council, and should be given in strict rotation. Quite enough to lose your job. A fine Mayor of Berrybridge you’d have made.”
Herbert, reduced at last to silence, sat twisting his rough hands unhappily, and darting furtive glances at Henry out of his rheumy blue eyes.
“However,” said Henry, “we’ll say no more about that if you’ll tell me one thing. What were you doing near Steep Hill Sands in the fog the day Mr. Rawnsley died?”
Herbert’s face cleared. He chuckled. “Poachin’,” he said.
The frankness of this reply took Henry by surprise, so that he merely repeated, “Poaching?”
“Oysters,” said Herbert richly, savouring the word. “Berrybridge Natives. Sir Simon’s got a couple of nice beds in under the point. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” said Henry weakly.
“Fog,” added Herbert succi
nctly. “I know this ’ere river like me own...well, lived ’ere sixty-five year, man and boy, since I was born, you might say. Nothin’ like a bit of fog for poppin’ out and gettin’ a few—”
“It was out of season,” said Henry indignantly.
Herbert grinned. “All the more reason,” he said informatively. “Big prices they pay, Lunnon way, in May.”
“London?” said Henry. “I suppose Bob disposed of them for you?”
“Arsk no questions,” said Herbert, with a prodigious wink. He was rapidly recovering his customary bounce.
“So,” said Henry, “you went out as soon as the fog came down. Where are the oyster beds? Which side of Steep Hill?”
“Beyond it. Under the point.”
“You didn’t hear any other boats coming or going?”
“Too far orf,” said Herbert briefly.
“And you were on your way back, after the fog lifted, when you saw—”
“Didn’t see nothin’, only Blue Gull riding to ’er anchor, as sweet as you please. I went up Steep ’Ill Creek to see young George and get a cuppa in the kitchen. Cold and wet I was, with everything in the boat clammy from the fog, and a long run ’ome. ‘Herbert,’ I says to meself, ‘Young George’ll give you a cuppa at the ’All.’ So I—”
“You actually took your boat into Sir Simon’s shed with a load of his own oysters?” Henry asked incredulous. Herbert looked at him pityingly.
“’Course not,” he said. “Those I’d netted and buoyed to pick up arter dark. I can see,” he added patronizingly, “as you’ve never done no poachin’.”
“Supposing Sir Simon had been at home?” Henry asked.
Herbert sniffed. “Wouldn’t ’ave mattered,” he said defiantly. “Not that he was. Young George told me the night before as Sir Simon was going to be in Ipswich all morning. ’Ad an appointment at nine, ’e said. So I knew the coast ’ud be clear.”
“Has it struck you,” Henry said, “that poaching is an offence against the law?”
Herbert looked indignant. “I’ve told you the truth,” he said virtuously, “because you asked. I thought you said this was murder.”
“It is indeed,” said Henry, “but—”