“I’m sorry,” said Henry apologetically.
Alastair grinned. “Not your fault,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Half past eight. We’d better get ashore.”
For the first time, Rosemary seemed worried. “For heaven’s sake, be careful,” she said. “I hate the idea of your going.”
“I promise you, Rosemary, that—” Henry began, but Rosemary cut him short. “I’m not worried about your wretched murderer,” she said. “I’m worried about taking the dinghy ashore in these seas.”
Alastair put his arm round her shoulders. “I’ll be careful, I promise, darling,” he said. “This has to be done.”
“Yes,” said Rosemary. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
Henry and Alastair climbed up on deck again and surveyed the scene. Ariadne was anchored, according to plan, as close inshore as she could safely go, under the line of dark, close-set trees that hid the eastern elevation of Berry Hall from the open sea. As they looked southwards, they could still just distinguish how the trees thinned out and eventually disappeared altogether at the point where Steep Hill Sands ran out into the river. That afternoon, at their planning conference, there had been some argument as to what to do with the dinghy. Clearly, the ideal solution was to beach it under the shelter of the trees and to walk out over the sands: but both Henry and Alastair were uncomfortably aware that if they had to wait any length of time, the tide would come in and leave them stranded on the sands, out of reach of their boat. In the end, Henry had managed to convince Alastair that the latter should stay with the dinghy, while he himself walked ashore. At a given signal, Alastair would row out and pick Henry up from Steep Hill. It was a haphazard and unsatisfactory arrangement, but it would have to do. Each man carried a shrill whistle, of the kind used for fog signals, and a powerful electric torch.
Now, as they stood on Ariadne’s heaving deck, the whole idea seemed much less attractive than it had in the shelter of Berrybridge Haven. Between the boat and the shore, angry white crests of foam broke incessantly, and the rain drove steadily in their faces. Ariadne herself bucked and tossed restlessly at her anchor, grinding the chain against her bows with each convulsive movement.
“I can’t row broadside on to these seas,” said Alastair. “Too dangerous. We’ll have to run more or less with the wind until we’re in more sheltered water, and then turn up.”
Getting into the dinghy was a feat in itself. The cockleshell boat plunged from crest to trough of the waves like a demented creature, as she lay tethered alongside her parent vessel. Alastair climbed in first, with infinite care, and was able to steady the little craft somewhat for Henry.
“Whatever you do, step in the middle,” he said. “Hold on to my shoulders. O.K. Now!” Somehow, Henry tumbled clumsily into the dinghy. It rocked alarmingly, but remained the right way up.
“Now,” said Alastair. “Sit in the middle and don’t move. Don’t shift your weight an inch, or you’ll
have us over. Right. We’re away.”
After the comparative stability of Ariadne, the dinghy was a nightmare. Sitting so low on the water, Henry had the impression that every wave was going to swamp them. Grimly, he held on with both hands to the thwart, and concentrated on not moving. After a seeming eternity of travelling in the wrong direction, nearer and nearer to the open sandspit—though edging always closer and closer to the shore—the seas grew calmer, and Alastair said, “Hang on to your hat. We’re turning up-wind.”
If Henry had imagined that the first part of the journey was hazardous, he had had, mercifully, no conception of what the second part was to be like. As the dinghy turned her nose against the wind, the curling, icy waves began to break over the bows in great arcs of spitting spray, drenching the two men. The boat itself was tossed like a shuttlecock in the foaming water. Alastair, grim-faced, rowed with careful, dogged determination. Inch by painful inch, they crept inshore and nearer to the sheltering shadow of the trees. At long last, after what seemed an eternity, there was a crunching sound and a sharp lurch.
“Here we are,” said Alastair. “It means wading ashore, I’m afraid.”
Henry was only too pleased to be free of the dinghy and to have his feet on firm ground again—even if it meant standing knee-deep in swirling, bitterly cold water. Together they dragged the boat up the beach until it was safely hidden in dark shadows.
“Well, this is where we part company,” said Alastair, and added, after a pause, “Good luck. And for God’s sake, don’t let’s have any heroics.”
“Heroics?” Henry laughed, ruefully. “Do I look like a hero?”
He didn’t. He looked like a small, chilled, forlorn figure in oilskins several sizes too large, shivering wretchedly as his bare feet sank into the clammy sand, and his wet jeans flapped about his thin legs.
“All the same,” said Alastair, “I know you.”
Henry put on his sopping plimsolls. “Well,” he said, “goodbye for now. And thanks.”
He left Alastair perched on the edge of the dinghy, and made his way cautiously in the direction of Steep Hill Sands, keeping always under the protective darkness of the trees. It was while he was still engulfed by their reassuring shade that he heard the unmistakable chugging of a motorboat.
Henry stopped, stock still, and then edged his way cautiously forward. What with the rapidly falling darkness and the silver screen of the rain, visibility was very poor, and he had only the vaguest idea of the direction from which the engine noise was coming: but, beyond all doubt, somebody was nearing Steep Hill Sands. A few more steps, and Henry had reached the limit of the trees’ protective cover. He strained his eyes to see ahead, but the sands only glimmered faintly, dusky and unrevealing. The sound of the motor grew louder. There was nothing for it but to step out onto the exposed expanse of the sandbank.
Henry moved forward, silently as a cat. Suddenly he froze again, as the engine of the motorboat cut out. Somewhere ahead of him, somebody had beached the boat. Now only the thin screen of the wind and rain broke the silence. Henry began to move forward again. One thing he realized only too welclass="underline" on that bleak stretch of sand, neither he nor his adversary had any advantage of cover. They would see each other at the same moment—unless, of course, the other was too occupied in what he was doing to notice Henry’s approach.
The sound of a shovel, scraping delicately at the sand, came as a shock. It was surprisingly close. Henry held his breath, and could hear someone else breathing heavily. Then he saw the faint outline of a motorboat. Beyond it, somebody was digging for treasure, as Captain Voss had dug in the Cocos Islands nearly a century ago.
Henry took a deep breath. Then he stepped out from behind the beached boat, and shone the searching beam of his torch directly onto the crouched figure. Abruptly, a face turned towards the source of light—and in an endless moment of silence, the cruel torchlight played mercilessly on the haggard features of Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby.
“It’s Henry Tibbett, Sir Simon,” said Henry. He was not feeling heroic, nor was he enjoying himself.
“By God.” Sir Simon scrambled to his feet. “What in hell’s name are you doing here?”
“I’m arresting you,” said Henry, “for the wilful murder of Pete Rawnsley. The cases of Colin Street, your sister Priscilla and my wife, we can discuss later.”
Sir Simon gave a short laugh in which there was more than a trace of hysteria. “Have you gone mad?” he demanded.
“No,” said Henry, reasonably.
“I’ve never heard such appalling nonsense in all my—”
“For a start,” said Henry, “we might get on with the job in hand. I see that I interrupted you in the process of unearthing a boxful of jewellery, the property of the Mutual and General Insurance Company of Lombard Street.”