Ngaio Marsh - Clutch of Constables

-5-

Troy thought: “Tomorrow we step back into time.” The return journey had taken on something of the character of a recurrent dream: spires, fens, individual trees, locks; even a clod of tufted earth that had fallen away from a bank and was half drowned or a broken branch that dipped into the stream and moved with its flow: these were familiar landmarks that they might have passed, not once, but many times before.

At four in the afternoon the Zodiac entered the straight reach of The River below Ramsdyke Lock. Already, drifts of detergent foam had begun to float past her. Wisps of it melted on her deck. Ahead of her the passengers could see an unbroken whiteness that veiled The River like an imponderable counterpane. They could hear the voice of Ramsdyke weir and see a foaming pother where the corrupted fall met the lower reach.

Troy leant on the starboard taffrail and watched their entry into this frothy region. She remembered how she and Dr Natouche and Caley Bard and Hazel Rickerby-Carrick had discussed reality and beauty. Fragments of conversation drifted across her recollection. She could almost re-hear the voices.

“—in the Eye of the Beholder—”

“—a fish tin with a red label. Was it the less beautiful—”

“—if a dead something popped up through that foam—”

“—a dead something—”

“—a dead something—”

“—a fish-a cat—”

“—through that foam—”

“—a dead something—”

Hazel Rickerby-Carrick’s face, idiotically bloated, looked up: not at Troy, not at anything. Her mouth, drawn into an outlandish rictus, grinned through discoloured froth. She bobbed and bumped against the starboard side. And what terrible disaster had corrupted her riverweed hair and distended her blown cheeks?

The taffrail shot upwards and the trees with it. The voice of the weir exploded with a crack in Troy’s head and nothing whatever followed it. Nothing.

“From this point,” Alleyn said, “the several elements, if I can put it like that, converge.

“The discovery of this woman’s body suddenly threw a complex of apparently unrelated incidents into an integrated whole. You grind away at routine, you collect a vast amount of data ninety-per-cent of which is useless and then—something happens and Bingo—the other ten-per-cent sits up like Jacky and Bob’s your uncle.”

He paused, having astonished himself by this intemperate excursion into jokeyness. He met broad grins from his audience and a startled glance from the man in the second row.

“ ‘O God, your only jig-maker’,” thought Alleyn and resumed in a more orthodox style.

“It struck me that there might be some interest—possibly some value—in putting this case before you as it appeared to my wife and as she put it to the county police and in her letters to me. And I wonder if at this juncture you feel you could sort out the evidential wheat from the chaff.

“What, in fact, do you think we ought to have concentrated upon when Inspector Fox and I finally arrived on the scene?”

Alleyn fancied he could detect a certain resentment in the rest of the class when the man in the second row put up his hand.

-1-

Troy could hear an enormous unlocalised voice in an echo chamber. It approached and enveloped her. It was unalarming.

She emerged with a sickening upward lurch from somewhere that had been like death and for an unappreciable interval was flooded by a delicious surge of recovery. She felt grateful and opened her eyes.

A black face and white teeth were close before her. A recognisable arm supported her.

“You fainted. You are all right. Don’t worry.”

“I never faint.”

“No?”

Fingers on her wrist.

“Why did it happen, I wonder,” said Dr Natouche. “When you feel more like yourself we will make you comfortable. Will you try a little water?”

Her head was supported. A rim of cold glass pressed her underlip.

“Here are Miss Hewson and Mrs Tretheway, to help you.”

Their faces swam towards her and steadied.

Everything had steadied. The passengers stared at her with the greatest concern. Six faces behind Dr Natouche and Mrs Tretheway: Miss Hewson with the look of a startled bun, her brother with his hearing-aid and slanted head, Mr Lazenby’s black glasses, Mr Pollock’s ophthalmic stare, like close-ups in a suspense film. And beyond them the Skipper at the wheel.

“Feeling better, honey?” asked Miss Hewson, and then: “Don’t look that way, dear. What is it? What’s happened?”

“She’s frightened,” said Mrs Tretheway.

“Oh God, God, God!” Troy said and her voice sounded in her own ears like that of a stranger. “Oh God, I’ve remembered.”

She turned and clung to Dr Natouche, “They must stop,” she stammered. “Stop. Make them stop. It’s Hazel Rickerby-Carrick. There. Back there. In The River.”

They broke into commotion. Caley Bard shouted: “You heard what she said. Skipper!”

The Zodiac stopped.

Caley Bard knelt beside her. “All right, my dear!” he said. “We’ve stopped. Don’t be frightened. Don’t worry. We’ll attend to it.” And to Dr Natouche: “Can’t we take her down?”

“I think so. Mrs Alleyn, if we help you, do you think you can manage the stairs? It will be best. We will take it very steadily.”

“I’m all right,” Troy said. “Please don’t worry. I’m perfectly all right. It’s not me. Didn’t you hear what I said? Back there—in The River.”

“Yes, yes. The Captain is attending to it!”

“Attending to it!” An ungainly laugh bubbled in Troy’s throat. “To that! I should hope so! Look, don’t fuss about me. I’m all right.”

But when they helped her to her feet she was very shaky. Dr Natouche went backwards before her down the companionway and Caley Bard came behind. The two women followed making horrified comments.

In the passage her knees gave way. Dr Natouche carried her into her cabin and put her on her bunk as deftly as if she was a child. The others crowded in the doorway.

“I’m all right,” she kept repeating. “It’s ridiculous, all this, No—please.”

He covered her with the cherry red blanket and said to Mrs Tretheway: “A hot-water bottle and tea would not be amiss.”

The ladies bustled away in confusion. He stooped his great body over Troy: “You’re shocked, Mrs Alleyn. I hope you will let me advise you.”

Troy began to tell them what she had seen. She took a firm hold of herself and spoke lucidly and slowly as if they were stupid men.

“You must tell the police,” Troy said. “At once. At once.”

Caley Bard said: “Yes, of course. I’m sure the Skipper will know what to do.”

“Tell him. It mustn’t be—lost—it mustn’t be—” she clenched her hands under the blanket. “Superintendent Tillottson at Tollardwark. Tell the Skipper.”

“I’ll tell him,” Dr Natouche offered and Caley Bard said: “There now! Don’t fuss. And do, like a good girl, stop bossing.”

Troy caught the familiar bantering tone and was comforted by it. She and Bard exchanged pallid grins.

“I’ll be off,” he said.

Dr Natouche said: “And I. I may be wanted. I think you should stay where you are, Mrs Alleyn.”

He had moved away when Troy, to her own astonishment, heard herself say. “Dr Natouche!” and when he turned with his calmly polite air, “I—I should like to consult you, please, when you are free. Professionally.”

“Of course,” he said. “In the meantime these ladies will take care of you.”

They did. They ministered with hot-water bottles and with scalding tea. Troy only now realised that she was shivering like a puppy.