“Sir Simon’s a friend of mine,” said Herbert. “He doesn’t grudge me a few oysters now and then. You ask him.”
“I will,” said Henry.
The barman of The Berry Bush was calling “Time” when Henry went upstairs again to Emmy’s room. He found her engaged in a fierce game of demon patience with Proudie, who showed an exceptional quickness of mind and hand.
Henry sat down wearily and said, “Bob Calloway’s hopped it.”
“That’s bad,” said Proudie. “Should we...?”
“I’ve done all I can,” said Henry. “Now it’s time to sort out all the threads and put the case in order. I know the answer, and I’ve got no proof.”
Proudie looked profoundly worried. “If you know the answer,” he said, “then we’d surely better arrest the fellow right away. We’ve had more than enough trouble already.”
“I can’t,” said Henry. “I told you, I’ve got no proof—nothing that would stand up in a court of law. We’ve got to set a trap, and I’m damned if I know just how to bait it.”
“Well, let’s have it.” Proudie swept up his patience cards. “Whodunit, as they say?”
Henry said, “It’ll take some time to explain, and we’ll need all these...” He waved a hand at the pile of notebooks, almanacks and dossiers. “I hope I can convince you that I’m right.”
“The main thing,” said Proudie doggedly, “is this. Is anyone else in danger of being killed? I’m not prepared to risk—”
“No,” said Henry. “Not at the moment, in any case.” Surprisingly, he added, “We’re not dealing with a violent murderer.”
“Not...?” Proudie was speechless.
“Basically a gentle person,” said Henry sadly. “But violence breeds violence, and one stupid action leads to another, until... Oh, well, let’s get on with it. This is what I think happened...”
When Henry had finished, Proudie said, “It’s a funny case, all right, but I believe you’ve got the truth of it.”
“But no proof,” said Henry. “And Bob Calloway has bolted.”
“So the only thing to do—”
“This particular drama,” said Henry, “will end, appropriately enough, where it began—on Steep Hill Sands.” He thought for a while, and then said, “Is there a typewriter in Bob’s office?”
“Yes,” said Proudie.
“I’m going to borrow it,” said Henry. “I’m going to write a note and hope for the best.”
He was in the small, cluttered office, and the bar clock had ticked past midnight, when the phone rang shrilly, scattering the dark silence. It was the sergeant from Ipswich. The Aston Martin had been found, neatly parked in a municipal car park outside Colchester. Of Bob Calloway there was no sign whatsoever.
“Never mind,” said Henry. “It’s just as well.”
“But—”
“Call off the search,” said Henry. “And if anybody does spot him, tail him but don’t arrest him. Let him have all the rope he wants.”
Cutting short the sergeant’s protests, he rang off and went back to the typewriter.
“You know who this is from,” he spelt out, laboriously. “Bring in the rest of the goods tomorrow evening. I’ll be waiting. H.T. knows quite a bit, but he’s nowhere near the truth. I fooled him nicely today. Good luck.”
He put the note in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a conspicuous position behind the bar. Then he went upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE NEXT DAY passed with interminable slowness. It was cloudy and overcast, with a sharp little breeze from the north which had a tang of autumn in it. Henry and Emmy stayed in bed until ten, and then, at Henry’s suggestion, went for a walk along the foreshore. The church bell, monotonous and mournful, tolled unemotionally the passing of the lady of the manor. With anger and pity, Henry visualized the announcement in the Times. “Suddenly, at Berry Hall, Suffolk, in her 61st year, Priscilla Trigg-Willoughby, beloved sister of...” The curtains of polite behaviour and social usage pulled quickly together to hide that pathetic, raddled corpse.
Henry and Emmy walked in silence. He was in the grip of that most trying form of depression—the melancholy of enforced inaction.
At noon, they returned to The Berry Bush. The bar was already crowded, but the usual genial atmosphere was noticeably lacking, as was the familiar and integral figure of Sir Simon. The sole representative of Berry Hall was George Riddle, who sat with his father in one of the inglenooks, looking thinner and more lugubrious than ever.
The Fleet—Anne, Rosemary, Hamish, Alastair and David—occupied the large table in the window, where they sat gazing out over the grey river in depressed silence. Bill Hawkes stood stolidly at the bar, exchanging an occasional morose word with the barman. Only Herbert seemed in macabre high spirits, as he regaled two serious-faced young men in blue jeans with a preposterous story of how he had once salvaged a yacht single-handed in a Force 9 gale. From the conversation, it became clear that these two strangers were prospective buyers for one of the boats which Herbert had to sell, and the latter was evidently not going to let a small matter like murder come between him and his commission. He was, in fact, putting up a very good performance—only occasionally darting venomous glances at the other occupants of the bar, who, he clearly felt, were letting down the reputation of Berrybridge as a colourful and picturesque anchorage. For the first time, Henry realized just how much of the popularity of the place depended upon Herbert and his outrageous, quotable conversation.
As he and Emmy made their way over to the window table, Henry glanced briefly at the bar, and was gratified to see that his note had disappeared. So far, so good. He thought of it now, crumpled hastily into somebody’s pocket, and permitted himself a small, grim smile.
The arrival of the Tibbetts lightened the atmosphere a little. Everybody enquired tenderly about Emmy’s state of health, and professed pleasure at her recovery. Everybody remarked on the dismal weather. Nobody mentioned Colin.
At a quarter to one, Hamish said to Anne, “What about that joint we left in the oven? Shouldn’t we be getting back?” To the others, he added, “Anne’s a very fair cook, you know. She even baked an apple pie this morning.”
Anne smiled wanly, and Emmy warmed to Hamish. It showed, she thought, understanding and consideration of a high degree to have appreciated that what Anne needed most at the moment was to be kept occupied at something she did well.
Hamish went on. “I’d have liked to have asked you all back to lunch, but I’m afraid the cottage is just too damned small. Anyhow, I reckoned that Rosemary would have something splendid laid on aboard Ariadne, knowing her. But you’ll come, won’t you, David? I know your bachelor meals on Pocahontas—half a tin of cold baked beans and a bun.”
David, who had been gazing out of the window, turned his head and looked straight at Hamish. In the moment of silence which followed, many things were said. Then David gave a tired half-smile, and said, aloud, “Thanks, Hamish. By the way,” he added, turning to Henry, “I really ought to get back to town. But I don’t know if—”
“That’s all right,” said Henry. “Go back this afternoon if you want to.”
The three of them went out together, Anne’s tiny figure seeming to link the two men, as she walked between them as surely and beautifully as a small cat. Alastair watched them go with a curious expression on his face, half regret and half relief, as though he were seeing a part of his life disappear through the black-framed doorway. Then he turned to Rosemary, and said, with great gentleness, “Have you got something splendid waiting aboard Ariadne?”
Rosemary gave him a grave look from her blue eyes for a moment before she answered lightly, “Not all that splendid, darling. Hot baked beans—and a bun.”