Alan Hunter: Gently Down the Stream

‘Woon’t know him if I did.’

‘He was on the yacht Harrier as you probably know.’

‘Nor I di’nt see that neether, so there yew are, ole partna.’

Gently sighed, and felt in his pocket for a peppermint cream. He was obviously pushing his luck too hard at Upper Wrackstead.

‘And what did it buy you?’ jeered Hansom, as they got back into the Wolseley.

‘Tingere barbam non potes,’ murmured Gently oracularly.

‘Eh?’ gaped Hansom.

‘Never mind — it’s a classical tag I picked up somewhere. We’ll leave Mr Thatcher with one of his secrets, shall we?’

Sloley’s boatyard lay at the end of a long, low cinder-track, a track which was crowded at each side with yards and bungalows. It consisted of several dry and wet boat-sheds clustered round a cut-in from the river and, on a Sunday afternoon, was deserted by both boats and men. The office was open, however, and Old Man Sloley sat at his desk, a silent figure in frock-coat and peaked cap, his white beard straggling down on the blotter in front of him. He rose stiffly as the three policemen entered.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen… I was expecting a call from you. Have you made any progress in this shocking business yet?’

He indicated one of the more lurid Sunday papers, which was lying on his desk. ‘ BODY IN BROADS BURN-OUT ’ was the punch-line on page one.

Hansom introduced Gently and the old man shook hands. There was an unexpected fragility about him, as though a gust of wind would have blown him away.

‘Mr Sloley is ninety-two…’ murmured Hansom in an aside.

Old Man Sloley nodded, as though to warn them of his perfect hearing.

‘This has been a grave shock to me, gentlemen, a very grave shock. This firm has never had a breath of scandal attached to its name before.’

Gently assured him that no blame could be placed to the account of Sloley amp; Son, but Old Man Sloley would not be convinced.

‘It’s kind of you, Mr Inspector, but you haven’t read the papers; there are cruel insinuations being made. And I assure you, that except for my son I would have refused this let. I was not imposed upon by the gentleman describing the young lady as his daughter.’

‘You knew it was not Miss Lammas, sir?’

‘No, Mr Inspector, I have not the pleasure of Miss Lammas’ acquaintance. Neither did I know Lammas personally… the people over the river come mostly from Norchester, you know, they are very rarely seen in the village. But it seemed most peculiar to me that these two people should hire what was veritably a single-cabined yacht, and when I saw them I had the strongest misgivings.’

‘When did the actual hiring take place, sir?’ asked Gently.

‘On the twenty-third of March,’ replied Old Man Sloley, with unpausing precision.

‘In March! Is it usual to book so early?’

‘That is not early, Mr Inspector, it is late. We are usually fully booked by that date.’

‘Was it a personal application?’

‘No sir, it was not. Mr Lammas rang this office and inquired what we could offer him for the week in question. As it happened I had a cancellation for the Harrier and he agreed to take it. When I understood that his daughter would accompany him I pointed out that complete privacy could not be had on such a small boat, but he brushed the objection aside. The booking was confirmed by a letter from his business address and a cheque for the deposit.’

‘You will have that letter, sir…?’

The old man opened a drawer and took out a manilla envelope.

‘I had it ready, Mr Inspector… I felt it might be helpful to you. Here is also our copy of the booking form, together with a plan of the Harrier and some photographs of her. Please tell me if you need anything else.’

‘Thank you, sir. It isn’t often we get such thoughtful co-operation.’ Gently tucked the envelope away in his breast pocket. ‘I’d like to know the approximate time at which the yacht was taken over.’

‘Yes, sir. It was at 9 p.m.’

‘You were in the office?’

‘No, it was my son who received Mr Lammas. But I saw them shortly afterwards, when they came down to the yacht.’

‘And you suspected there was no relationship between Mr Lammas and his companion?’

‘I did, Mr Inspector. There was not a scrap of resemblance between them.’

‘Could you describe the lady?’

‘I could, sir. She was above the middle height, a little obvious in her figure and had black, straight hair, worn somewhat longer than is usual in these days. Her complexion was pale and she had a delicate chin. She spoke quickly in what I may call a rather high-pitched voice.’

Gently nodded to Hansom, who produced his photograph. ‘Would this be her, sir…?’

The old man took it in his knotty hand and examined it attentively.

‘Yes, sir, I think it would. But you must understand she was dressed with greater propriety when I saw her.’

‘Well, that’s settled the identity problem,’ observed Hansom as they went down to the quay, where Rushm’quick awaited them in the yard-launch.

‘Rattled it off like a portrait-parley, he did,’ put in Dutt admiringly. ‘Who’d’ve thought the old gent had a memory like that?’

‘But why did she go off with the chauffeur?’ mused Gently from the back of beyond.

‘Why did she go off with him?’ echoed Hansom.

‘Yes — she didn’t have to, did she? Lammas himself was obviously planning to skip with her.’

‘They might have quarrelled, or she might have preferred a younger man…’

Gently shook his head in the irritating way he had.

Rushm’quick cast off and turned the launch downstream. The river was flocking with pleasure-craft of every kind, drifting yachts, busy motor-cruisers, skiffs, launches and majestic trip-boats. On the south bank were the bungalows. Timber-and-plaster surmounted by deep reed thatch, they nestled under downy willows and behind great velvet lawns. No Moorings, said the little white noticeboards at their quay-heads, No Moorings, No Moorings. There were no moorings anywhere on that bank.

A mile further down the last bungalow hedged off its lawns from the wilderness, and a tangle of impenetrable alder and willow carr succeeded.

‘Lammas’ place is the other side of that lot,’ remarked Hansom, by way of commentary. ‘Do you want to see them today?’

‘Not today… we’ll let them have Sunday in peace.’

Hansom snorted at such an unpoliceman-like sentiment.

They saw the bungalow, however, when they turned into the broad. It stood far back at the top end, looking tiny and lost in the surrounding carrs and reed-islands. Like most of the outlying bungalows it was high-built on black-painted timber piles, the space beneath being utilized as a wet boat-house.

‘Are there any boats in there?’ asked Gently.

‘There’s a launch and a half-decker — maybe a couple of dinghies.’

‘Lammas do much sailing?’

Hansom extended his two hands. ‘I didn’t get round to his hobbies.’

They throbbed away down the broad and out into the river again.

Now it was continuous, the wilderness, breaking only to disclose reed-choked waterways. Once they passed a headland of firm ground falling down to a little sand beach, but the rest was all carr or shaking reedways. But there was nothing lonely about it. Not on a fine Sunday at the end of June. Rushm’quick, with three policemen on board, had a tense time of it sticking strictly to the rules in the handbook.

‘Here we are,’ he jerked at last with relief. ‘That’s the entrance to Ollby Dyke… down there at the end of the reach.’

It was necessary to point it out. The inexpert eye would have seen nothing just there except tangled carr and ferocious brambles. But an inlet there was, using a bit of force-work, and on the far side one caught a glimpse of a narrow dyke disappearing into the fastness of the carrs.