He directed the beam of the torch downwards. Already, the heavy metal box was half uncovered. There was a movement in the darkness and Henry swung his torch up again. Sir Simon had backed away a couple of paces, and was leaning heavily against the hull of Priscilla.
“Insurance company be damned,” said Sir Simon. His voice was thick and somnambulic. “It’s mine.”
“It was never yours, even in the first place,” said Henry. “It was your sister’s.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Sir Simon began to speak. The fact that he spoke in his usual, robust, bar-side voice merely enhanced the nightmare. “Have you ever considered, Tibbett,” he said, “the toughness of a diamond? They’re almost indestructible, you know. They don’t perish or crumble or get dry rot or need to be repaired or restored. That’s what was so monstrously unfair about it. Father’s will, I mean. Prissy got the imperishables, and I got...” He stopped. Henry said nothing. Sir Simon went on. “I’ve never been married, Tibbett, but you have. Can you imagine what it would feel like to watch your wife slowly dying for want of medical treatment...to watch her growing old and crumbling away? That’s as near as I can put it, in your terms. That’s how I felt about the house. I loved it, you see. At the beginning, I couldn’t see anything wrong in what I did. A man can’t steal his own property, can he?”
“A narrow-minded person,” said Henry, “might say that you robbed first Priscilla and then the insurance company.”
“Narrow-minded,” repeated Sir Simon, thoughtfully. “Yes, that just about sums it up. Priscilla was narrow-minded. I tried to reason with her. No good. All she wanted was gin. Well, I gave it to her. I thought a lot about it, Tibbett. I promise you that. I weighed my sister in the balance, and tried her worth against the house. And what did I find? On the one hand, a selfish and petty old woman. On the other, a thing of lasting grace and beauty. I made the right decision. I never regretted it.”
“You spent the insurance money,” said Henry, “and it wasn’t enough. You needed more. So you started to raid the jewellery, and sell it, bit by bit. That was what you were doing when Pete Rawnsley—”
Sir Simon sighed, loudly. “Poor old Pete,” he said sincerely. “One of the best. One of my only friends. I suppose that was when I began to go mad. How was I to know he’d be here? I told you I saw him go aground: I’m afraid that was a lie.” Sir Simon sounded genuinely apologetic.
“I know it was,” said Henry.
“You know now,” said Sir Simon, with a touch of pique.
“I’ve known for some time,” Henry answered gently. “That was what first gave me an inkling of the truth. And then when I realized that you’d got home from Ipswich before eleven—”
“Ah.” In the torchlight, Sir Simon nodded, slowly and gravely. “She remembered, did she? I never dreamt you’d be clever enough to put two and two together. Ah, well.” He paused. “I’m sorry about young Street, too,” he added. “Really sorry. He had no right to play that cruel trick on Herbert, but he was brilliant. A great career cut tragically short. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’m not just a little mad. It’s a great relief to talk about it.”
“I suppose it was you who rigged the
election?” said Henry. “And you let Herbert poach your oysters. How much did he know?”
“I don’t know. He just hinted...”
“And Riddle. Was he in on all this?” Henry tried to keep his voice light and conversational, above the moaning of the wind. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was very cold and wet indeed.
“Riddle knew nothing,” said Sir Simon sharply. “You don’t imagine I would discuss such a thing with a servant, do you?”
“It was a stroke of luck for you,” said Henry, “finding Bob Calloway.”
“You think so?” Sir Simon laughed dangerously. “On the contrary, it was the greatest possible mistake. I could have managed alone. I should have managed alone. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Tibbett, but the man is a criminal.”
“He deals in stolen goods,” said Henry.
“Precisely. And he is untrustworthy into the bargain. He tried to swindle me,” said Sir Simon, with profound indignation.
“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “He’ll be dealt with.”
“I’m extremely glad to hear it.”
Henry was seized with a sense of wild unreality: and at the same time, with the conviction that this situation, this illogically logical conversation, was a repetition, in essentials, of another conversation that had taken place on this very spot, on a morning in May, under a veil of damp, clinging fog. That time, though, it had been Pete Rawnsley who had stood where he was standing now. And that time, it had ended in...
“Well, Tibbett,” Sir Simon was saying, “mustn’t take up any more of your time. The tide’s rising fast, and—”
There was a quick, convulsive movement in the darkness, as Sir Simon ducked away from the beam of light. A clatter of metal on wood. Henry swung the torch, just in time to see the grotesque figure bearing down on him. In Sir Simon’s hand was a huge, heavy spanner.
In one movement, Henry flung himself down on the sand and put out the torch. He was aware of a sharp, glancing pain as the spanner grazed the back of his head. With numbed fingers, he managed to get his whistle to his mouth, and blew for all he was worth, shattering the night.
Instantly, Sir Simon made for the source of the noise. Henry, hampered by his heavy oilskins, launched himself in a rugger tackle at the other’s knees. They went down onto the sand together, rolling over and over, clenched in a stranglehold of desperation. For seeming hours they wrestled, grimly, in the darkness. Sir Simon, in his agony, was possessed of the legendary strength of a lunatic. Henry concentrated on maintaining his grasp on the deadly right wrist—the wrist of the hand that held the spanner: but he felt his strength ebbing. And as he rolled over yet again on the clammy sand, he became aware of another and even more sinister sensation. The sand was no longer just damp: it was wet. The tide was rising. By the millimetre, the water grew deeper, and Henry realized that his opponent had changed his tactics. No longer was Sir Simon trying to free his right hand to deal a stunning blow: rather, he was using manic force to get a grip on Henry’s throat, to press his face downwards into the rising water.
Henry knew that he could not hold out much longer. Complete unreality took over. There was salt water and sand in his eyes, in his nostrils: there was no air, no breath. Only a choking sensation of darkness and despair. He made one last, superhuman effort at recovery, with the unimagined strength that comes to a man fighting for his life. Slowly, painfully, he pressed his body upwards against the tower of brute force that held him down: but he knew in his heart that it was impossible. The grip on his throat tightened. It was at the very moment when he lost consciousness that he was aware, as in a dream, of a sudden, blinding light. And then everything was dark.
Henry opened his eyes slowly, and with surprise. It even occurred to him to marvel that there was, after all, survival after death. Then he saw that he was in the cabin of Ariadne, and that Emmy and Rosemary were kneeling beside him. Both their faces were wet, though whether with tears or rain Henry never knew, nor did he ask. He tried to speak, but the words would not come from his bruised throat. Gently, Emmy held a cup of cool water to his lips.
Henry mustered all his strength to speak. In a croaking whisper, he managed, “Where are we?”
“On the way home,” said Rosemary.
For the first time, Henry was aware of the throbbing of Ariadne’s faithful motor. Through the hatchway, he could just make out the dark mass which was Alastair, as he stood at the helm.