Peter Lovesey - Swing, Swing Together

“We will if the lock’s against them,” answered Cribb without turning his head.

By degrees the river itself flashed its presence and they saw the steamer slowing at the approach to the lock. Smaller than the pleasure steamers on London’s water, it had the spruced-up look the steamboat companies annually applied with a coat of white paint on the paddle box, life belts and funnel. The rest was brown in colour and had not been touched for years. Behind the funnel, under a faded green and white striped awning, a dozen or so passengers sat facing each other on what the company would have called the saloon deck, sited above the main cabin. At the level of the main deck a cluster of passengers had gathered at the fore end of the boat to watch the operation of the lock. On the aft deck a couple stood alone, leaning on the rail, studying the water or the river traffic behind. They could not have noticed the panting representatives of Scotland Yard who tottered aboard seconds before the paddles began to power the boat out of the lock, towards Clifton Hampden Bridge.

The captain could not have been more delighted if one of the royal family had patronized his trip. “Detectives, are you? By Jesus, it’s a famous day for the Iffley Queen. Will this be in The Times? We were in the Berkshire Post when Henry rammed Wallingford Bridge last summer, but I’ve had nothing so grand as this. Have you got handcuffs or would you like a length of rope?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” answered Cribb. “I’d like to take a look at the couple first. Should we go on to the top deck?”

“I can show you something more interesting from the saloon,” offered the captain. He beckoned to a deckhand. “Take the wheel, Henry. Centre arch, mind. Hold her steady and you shouldn’t go wrong.” He opened the door of the main cabin of the boat, a carpeted room with seats and windows on either side and at the farther end. “Very cozy on a cold day,” he said. “We sell more beer on the bad days. If you ever thought of bringing your detective department on a day’s excursion, you could do worse than this. You can have a minstrel band for five pounds extra.” He threaded a passage round bentwood chairs and tables to the windows at the end. “What do you say to that, then?” he said, pointing through the glass.

The saloon was sited some four feet lower than the aft deck, which was level with the windows. All that could be seen of the couple who had behaved with such unwonted incivility were their lower halves, the man’s white flannels and his partner’s navy blue serge skirt. “You’ve missed it,” said the captain. “You need a sharp eye. It’s a favourite game with the fast lads, coming down here and looking along the deck for a glimpse of a well-turned ankle. Keep looking. You’ll see something in a moment.”

Thackeray was as partial as anyone to a pretty ankle, but he had not traversed a ploughed field to indulge in this sort of thing. “Sarge, if we want to identify these people, shouldn’t we go upstairs, where we can see them properly?”

“There you are!” said the captain. “How about that?”

“Bless my soul!” said Thackeray.

The wearer of the skirt had changed position, leaning far enough forward to reveal not a shapely calf, not the trimming of a petticoat, but the ends of a pair of white trousers and a very unfeminine pair of boots.

“That’s good enough for me,” said Cribb. “I’m obliged to you, Captain.” He returned upstairs and made his way between the files of interested passengers on the upper deck and down the steps at the end.

The couple turned at the sound of his approach.

“James Hackett,” he said, “I am a police officer, Detective Sergeant Cribb of Scotland Yard. I have reason to believe that the person with you is a man by the name of Percy Bustard. I should like to put some questions to you both in connection with the death of Henry Bonner-Hill.”

“And may the Lord have mercy on our souls,” intoned Jim Hackett.

“It’s all up, then,” said Bustard, pulling off the beret toque which, with the rest of his boating costume, had contrived to make him quite a passable female. “How the devil did you cop us?”

“I reasoned that Jim Hackett was the Persian Gulf and you were the Gulf of Bothnia,” Cribb unhelpfully replied. “What are you doing now, man?”

“Unbuttoning the bodice. You’ve no idea how hot it is in this dress. I’m fully clothed underneath.”

“I know that,” said Cribb, “but they don’t.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the saloon deck. A dozen faces paraded expressions suggesting everything from open lechery to apoplectic shock. “Lord knows what they’re liable to do. Come below and you can take off your dress in private. I want no scenes aboard this boat.”

He might have saved his breath. Not on Bustard’s account, but his companion’s. It was Jim Hackett who chose that moment to shout “Jesus saves!”-and leap over the rail into the river.

“Blasted clown!” said Cribb. “One of us will have to go ashore and pick him up when he reaches the bank. Thackeray, you’d better warn the man at the wheel.”

“I wouldn’t bother with that,” said Bustard.

“Why not?”

“Jim Hackett can’t swim a stroke.”

“Lord help us!” said Cribb. “Take off your boots, Thackeray, and get in after him. Two drownings in a week is quite enough for me.”

Possibly the champagne had something to do with it. When the punt had first glided under the willow’s shade, Harriet had been grateful for the coolness, but in the last quarter of an hour she had become quite as warm as she had been in the sunlight. The collar of her blouse had the clamminess of a poultice.

“I think I should like to take off my jacket.”

“I shall assist you, my dear.”

She sat upright and the willow leaves blurred, and for two or three seconds became swathes of green chiffon, pretty, but disquieting. She blinked twice and brought the leaves sharply into focus again.

She withdrew her arms from the velvet jacket. Fernandez folded it and got up to place it out of range of their feet, which gave her the chance to recline against the cushions instead of his chest. Before he turned, she unfastened the two top buttons of her blouse. The cool air on her skin was blissful. “You don’t mind?” she inquired. “I felt uncomfortably warm, and this seems quite private, under the tree.”

“We shan’t be disturbed,” he assured her. “Won’t you take off your hat as well? It has gone a little askew, if you’ll pardon me for mentioning the fact.”

“Really?” Her hand went to where the hat should have been. She laughed, located it, and handed it to him.

He turned it over in his hand. “It’s a charming hat.”

“Not my favourite. I left that behind. Please take your jacket and boater off, if you wish, John.”

“Would you mind if I unbuttoned my shirt?”

“If that is more comfortable. After all, you are the one who has taken all the exercise. It would be unfair of me to refuse you the liberties I have taken myself.”

Harriet’s words produced a quick response from Fernandez. He returned to his position beside her at the end of the punt, scattering hat, jacket and cravat untidily behind him as he came. “Perhaps it is time I initiated some liberties. What do you say to that, Harriet?”

“I am not entirely clear as to your meaning, John.”

The boatman at Magdalen Bridge listened carefully to the description Hardy and Melanie Bonner-Hill provided. Yes, more than one couple had hired punts that afternoon. He supposed it might run to as many as six. He couldn’t say whether one was a young lady in a white muslin skirt and a blue velvet jacket, because he didn’t usually notice the ladies. The men arranged the hiring. Now if they could remember what the man was wearing, it might jog his memory. Was it a striped blazer, by any chance?