Blueprint for Murder Page 14

  “For heaven’s sake!” said Pamela hastily. “You would have fun, wouldn’t you? Look, Geoffrey, there’s a bridge. What do I do?”

  “Don’t panic – we’re at least five minutes away. Starboard a little. Good, now keep her steady. Don’t move the wheel backwards and forwards as though you’d got St. Vitus’ dance. It irritates the rudder. Okay – I’m going to open her up.” Both engines suddenly roared, and the big propellors bit hard into the water. Truant seemed to give a great leap forward, and a very presentable bow wave curved away on either side.

  “Are you quite sure I’m all right?” asked Pamela, hanging on grimly. “It seems terribly fast.”

  “That’s just an illusion – we’re actually doing about nine knots, not as fast as a bicycle. We’d better slow for those boats at moorings – there might be someone else having tea aboard, and it’s darned annoying to get the wash of another boat and pour boiling water into your shoe instead of the teapot.”

  Pamela smiled. “She slows down very quickly, doesn’t she? I’m beginning to get the feel of her now. What would happen if the engines suddenly stopped?”

  “They’re not both likely to stop at once. If they did we should just anchor. There’s a forty-pound C.Q.R. – that’s a sort of patent anchor – rather good. You can see it forrard there, by the windlass. I think she carries fifty fathoms of chain, so she should hold almost anywhere. There’s a spare anchor in the stern locker, and a smaller one in the locker by your feet. That’s in case we should ever have to kedge off.”

  “Oh, I do hope we never have to kedge off,” said Pamela, teasing. “It’s fascinating – but there’s so much to learn. Honestly, it’s worse than medicine.”

  “I’ll buy you a nice easy book to read,” said Geoffrey. “You can swot up your nautical terms in the operating theatre. You’ll soon make a sailor. I say, we’d better be going back or we shan’t be able to spot the mooring buoys.”

  “Oh, dear, there’s a ship coming.”

  Geoffrey guffawed. “If it’s the Queen Mary, give her a wide berth.”

  “I think you have a horrible laugh,” said Pamela. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Just take it easy – it’s only a string of barges. Keep over to starboard – no, starboard – that’s better. Think of it as tibia major or something! Open her up a bit – you’ve plenty of time. Easy. Now you’re all right. Don’t go too near the bank or we’ll run aground and be stuck there all night. Then you’ll say I planned it that way.”

  Pamela was concentrating and ignored the remark. The tug chugged by, twenty yards away. “Now swing her round to port,” said Geoffrey. “A nice steady sweep – she’ll turn almost in her own length but there’s no point in laying her on her beam ends. Round she goes! Open her up again now, and pass the tug on the outside. Cold?”

  “Not a bit,” said Pamela. “It’s exciting – it keeps me warm.” But as they approached the mooring she began to get nervous again. “What about stopping her?”

  “Easy as pie, my dear. Just shut down both engines – no, don’t switch off, just close the throttles and let them idle. That’s right. We’re against the tide and she’ll soon lose way. She’s all set to run in. Gently does it – there’s plenty of time. Never hurry anything in a boat unless you have to. There’s a reverse gear, of course, but there’s no point in using it if you can do without. There, she’s just right. You’re a born helmsman!”

  “Blarney,” said Pamela.

  Geoffrey grinned. “I’m going to leave you now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m only going forrard to moor her. Keep her straight for the buoy. I’ll show you how to moor another time. It’s a bit tricky in a bad light.” He walked swiftly along the deck and soon had her tied up. “Switch off now,” he called. The engines died, and the river was quiet again except for the wind and the water.

  He clambered back and joined her in the cockpit. She was flushed, wind-blown but triumphant. “Well?” he asked.

  “You’re not a bad teacher.”

  “I know a lot more things—”

  “But you’re not very well behaved. What about some tea?”

  “Go ahead,” said Geoffrey. “I’ll watch. You’ll find cups, plates, knives, spoons, teapot and milk jug where I showed you. Condensed milk in the port locker – sorry, that’s the best I can offer today. You’ll have to get used to hardships afloat! I believe there’s a tablecloth under the starboard berth. A place for everything and everything in its place – we hope. I’ll light the primus.”

  He fiddled happily with methylated spirits and filled the kettle from the fresh-water pump. Out of a parcel that he had brought from the car he took bread, butter, jam, and a tin of crab. “I hope you like crab,” he said. “I pinched it from Mrs. Armstrong, so you’d better.”

  “I’m ravenous,” said Pamela. “If you’ll hand me the loaf and butter I’ll cut some nice thick slices. Can I light the lamps?”

  “I think I’d better,” said Geoffrey. “They’re rather messy, and the chimneys crack very easily.”

  “You’re a bit bossy, aren’t you?” said Pamela.

  “Aboard ship someone has to be bossy, ma’am. If you give any trouble I can clap you in irons.” He fixed the lamps, sprawled out on the berth, and watched her cutting bread.

  “I shall cut myself,” said Pamela.

  “You’re lovely,” said Geoffrey. “There was a film star who was something like you, but I’ve forgotten her name. Same red hair, same shaped mouth, same high cheek-bones. I saw her in technicolor on Okinawa. The boys all went, ‘Phwee – phweeoo.’ Like this.” He whistled vulgarly.

  “The kettle’s boiling, Lieutenant-Commander. Don’t forget to warm the pot in the excitement of your reminiscences.”

  “I always warm the pot,” said Geoffrey. “I’m really very domesticated.” He made the tea and turned out the primus.

  They ate like children at a party. When they had finished they stretched out on their berths on either side of the table. Pamela had a cigarette and Geoffrey was filling his pipe.

  “Perfect peace,” said Geoffrey. He gave a sigh of deep contentment. “You know, next time I think we ought to go down to the Nore.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Why not? The weather will soon pick up, and we’ve got plenty of fuel. Of course, we’d need a whole day. And we’d have to sleep on board.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Geoffrey.”

  “Well, we’d have to get married first, of course,” said Geoffrey, unabashed. “No, seriously, I’d just love to spend some time with you in the Estuary. It’s a fascinating place. If you like it busy there are ships and wharves, and if you want to be alone there are hundreds of quiet creeks and wind-swept islands behind seawalls. It isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, I suppose – grey grass on the saltings, and miles of mud flats, and wild ducks from the marshes, and gulls and curlews. But there’s a wide sky and wonderful sunsets, and no one to push you around. It can be very exciting, too – actually the approaches to the Thames are just about the most dangerous in the world. It’s a miracle there should be a port of London at all.”

  “I know something’s always happening on the Goodwins. Twice last week I heard wireless reports about a ship aground there.”

  “That’s farther south. They do say that on one occasion a ship went aground on the Goodwins in a gale and when the sandbanks dried out at low water people on the cliffs could see the crew walking about on the sand. They were alive and well, and yet they were as good as dead, because the seas were so rough that no boat could live in them. The next high tide washed them all away.”

  “What a ghastly story!”

  “Pretty grim. Probably untrue. But there’s always something getting into trouble on those shoals. The Estuary is littered with old wrecks – there are bits of ships sticking up out of the water at low tide that have been there fifty years or more. But the shoals are fun when you know them and when the weather’s good. There’s one sandbank I kn
ow, five miles off shore, where you can stand at low water and watch ships passing in the deep channel just like trains past a platform. But you need a shallow-draught boat to explore – I dare say we could get one down at Leigh or Benfleet.”

  “You know,” said Pamela, “I never thought of the Estuary as full of sandbanks. It looks just plain blue sea on the map.”

  “My dear girl, let me show you – it’s just like the land, all hills and valleys. Where’s the chart?” He took a book down from the shelf over his head, enthusiastic as a boy. He went over and sat beside her. “This isn’t a real chart but it gives an idea. Look – these long, shaded strips are banks. See how they point to London like fingers. Most of them dry out at low water – anyway, they haven’t enough water over them for anything big. These are the channels in between – deep and safe – they’re the arterial roads. The large ships usually keep to these lanes here – the Barrow Deep, the Prince’s and the Edinburgh. Up and down, up and down, like clockwork. There are buoys and lights everywhere, of course – it’s a world all on its own. I explored all over it in the old days. The Swin, here, is used mainly by coastal sailing barges and small tramps. These others – Middle Deep, Black Deep and Knock Deep – are pretty deserted.”

  “What fun for weekends!” said Pamela, bent over the book. “What happens if you do get stuck on a bank? I mean in a small boat. Is it all right?”

  “It depends on the wind and the tide and the weather. If the tide’s rising, you can probably float off all right. If it’s falling, there’s a very good chance of being marooned for a few hours. If the weather’s bad, and there’s a very high sea, the waves pick the grounded boat up on their crests and keep on dashing it down on the hard sand, and before long it begins to break up. It’s a horrible sound.”

  “Has it happened to you?”

  “I’ve never had a boat actually break up under me – I probably wouldn’t be here – but I’ve been very close to it.”

  “And that’s the sort of place you want to take me to!”

  “Ah, my dear, when you’re there the sun will always be shining, the tide will always be rising, and the sea will always be smooth and blue!”

  “We’d better do the washing up,” said Pamela, closing the book. “You can tell me more about the Thames Estuary another day. There’s enough hot water in the kettle.”

  “I hate to move,” said Geoffrey lazily. “It’s so comfortable, and I like the way the lamplight shines on your hair. But I suppose it is getting rather late.”

  “What happens here when the tide goes down?” asked Pamela. “And where do these tea leaves go?”

  “Overboard. Oh, she floats all the time. That’s the whole point of the moorings and the dinghy – you can get away in any state of the tide.”

  “Does Mr. Cross use the boat much?”

  “Now and again. He’s not really very keen – he’s a landsman. I think he’s only been aboard once or twice in the past six months. But there’s not the same attraction in winter. Funny thing, I don’t know who she belongs to, now. I suppose we’ll have to decide. Damn! – now we’re back on the old subject. This is the first time for three hours that I’ve remembered it.”

  “It’ll be different when the inquest’s over,” said Pamela. “Please go on being gay.”

  But the spell was broken. Geoffrey was quiet and serious as he went around the boat putting everything shipshape and closing up the ports. Soon he was fastening the cover and climbing down into the dinghy. He helped Pamela down, holding her tightly. She made an unwise show of independence and came down beside him with a bang in the stern of the dinghy.

  “All right?” he asked anxiously.

  “Perfectly,” she said, composing herself. It was dark; her face beside him was a pale glow. He ached to have her close against him. “Darling!” he said softly. The wind blew her hair against his face. In a moment he was holding her, kissing her mouth. At first she didn’t resist, but presently she wriggled and he let her go. She said nothing, and he went into the bows, a little blindly, and began to row. He could still feel the softness of her lips. She was silent as he helped her out; silent as he dragged the dinghy up the hard and tied it to a stake.

  “You’re not angry?” he asked her, full of concern, as they walked up to the car.

  She drew her scarf more tightly round her blowing hair.

  “Did you say anything?” asked Geoffrey.

  “No,” said Pamela, out of the darkness. “I just shook my head.”

  CHAPTER XI

  The inquest on Charles Hollison drew a big crowd of acquaintances and sightseers, and the report of its proceedings was prominently displayed in all the newspapers of the district. It was not merely that Hollison had been a well-known and respected local figure; what aroused so much interest was that he should have been so brutally murdered – he, of all people – and that there should be no clue pointing to a murderer.

  The coroner knew his business, and the inquiry was completed with dispatch. All the facts that were known were given in evidence by Pamela, Geoffrey, Cross and Mrs. Armstrong; no new facts of the least significance were added by the police, who had to admit, in response to a sharp question, that they had not really made very much progress with the case yet. The inevitable verdict was returned of ‘wilful murder against a person or persons unknown’, and the coroner formally expressed his sympathy with the son and nephew in their tragic loss. The reporters went off to write up their copy and the public dispersed for an enjoyable gossip.

  Cross, after a few sober words with Geoffrey and Pamela, thought it best that he should return to the Works for the rest of the day. Geoffrey drove Mrs. Armstrong and Pamela home in the Morris. Geoffrey was grim, and Pamela subdued. Mrs. Armstrong was indignant.

  “I don’t know what the law’s coming to, I’m sure,” said the housekeeper. “It seems to me we’re none of us safe in our beds these days. I’ll be afraid to stay in the house alone, I really will. If a gentle peaceable citizen can’t answer his own front door without being hit on the head by a murdering villain, it’s a fine look-out. I don’t know what the police think they’re doing. That old Inspector, with his kind face and his ‘I-know-more-than-I’m-telling-you’ look! – why, I could have done as well myself. Don’t you think so, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “It must be very difficult. I imagine we all know pretty well as much as the Inspector, and we’ve none of us any idea who did it.”

  “Well, it’s a shame, that’s what I say.” Mrs. Armstrong had her views and could not be easily turned from them. “They’re paid to find murderers and they ought to find them.”

  “Look at that evidence we’ve just heard,” said Geoffrey. “Listening to that, the only logical conclusion I could come to – being in my position – was that the murder never really happened. I could have done it, but I know I didn’t; Arthur couldn’t have done it because he wasn’t there; you couldn’t have done it, Mrs. Armstrong, because you were at Ealing—”

  “I should think not, indeed!” cried Mrs. Armstrong.

  “... and Pamela here couldn’t have done it because she isn’t strong enough. There’s no one else in the picture. A stranger couldn’t have done it for about a million reasons.”

  “And yet there the poor man was lying dead,” said Mrs. Armstrong. “It’s a wicked, wicked shame. If there’s a God in heaven, he’ll punish that man. He’ll find him and punish him, you mark my words.” And Mrs. Armstrong eased herself out of the car and went indoors to take off her Sunday clothes and get back into her Monday ones.

  Geoffrey drove Pamela on round the corner and stopped the car and the engine outside her house. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “Pretty foul, wasn’t it?”

  Pamela nodded. “I think it’s very heartless to ask the next-of-kin to identify the body. Almost anyone would have done.”

  “I suppose it was my job. That thing in the box didn’t seem like him, anyway.” He leaned heavily on the wheel. “If only they could have found t
he man who did it! I don’t see how the case is ever going to be tidied up. We’ve all been over the ground so many times. I don’t see how there can be any new evidence now. The whole thing gnaws at me.”

  “You mustn’t dwell on it, Geoffrey. You really mustn’t.”

  “I – oh, it’s so easy to say that. I’ll never quite get over the feeling that I’m not cleared. I suppose it was my imagination, but when the coroner offered his sympathy I couldn’t help thinking one of the jurymen was looking at me with an odd expression, as much as to say, ‘It’s all very well, mister, but you could have done it, you know.’ I bet at least half the people who were there today are now doing a simple problem in elimination.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Four ‘possibles’. For various reasons three of them are ruled out. The fourth is therefore the man. It stands to reason.”

  “Oh, Geoffrey. ...” Pamela looked very unhappy. “I’m sure you’re wrong. If I’d been an ordinary member of the public I’d have been much more likely to suspect Mr. Cross if I’d suspected anybody.”

  “Against all the evidence? That wouldn’t do for the lab!”

  “Well, I didn’t like him much. I’m sorry, but I just didn’t. He looked me up and down with those flinty eyes of his as though he was wondering whether I’d make a good pick-up.”

  “Flinty? I’ve never noticed.”

  “You wouldn’t. Now if he’d been a boat ...! Anyway, I didn’t like him. I thought he seemed all knotted up inside, and flabby outside.”

  “Sheer female prejudice. Oh well, I suppose I’d better drift along to the Admiralty. Funeral tomorrow, and then we’ll try to forget.”

  “Let’s go somewhere Thursday evening,” said Pamela. “A show, or something. We must keep you occupied.”

  “All right,” said Geoffrey. “You’re an angel, and I’m a misery. Good-bye.” He pressed her fingers and let her go.