Ngaio Marsh - Clutch of Constables

By this time the policemen on the pub side of the river had become alerted and started to cross the bridge.

Cape and the Skipper went through the cabins and searched the craft. All available lights were switched on but were not much help on deck where the fog was now of the pea-soup variety.

Caley Bard and Dr Natouche bore a hand and the Skipper had evidently behaved very sensibly. When it was certain that Miss Hewson was not in the Zodiac , Cape got himself ashore and blew his whistle. He and his colleague now met, poked uselessly about in the fog and settled that while Cape got through to Tollardwark his mate should alert by walkie-talkie the other men on duty in the vicinity.

Alleyn said: “Very well. Where’s the Zodiac ?”

“The boat, sir?” Cape ejaculated. “I beg pardon, sir?”

“Where’s the bloody lock , for pity’s sake.”

“The lock, sir?”

“Find the lockhouse and stay by it, all of you.”

Alleyn inched along the tow-path. A lighted window loomed up on his left. The lockhouse. He faced right, stood still, listened and peered down into a blanket.

“Hallo? Zodiac ?” he said very quietly.

“Hallo,” said a muted voice below his feet.

“Skipper?”

“That’s right.”

“Show a light, can you?”

A yellow globe swam into being far below.

“You did it, then? You and Tom?”

“And the Lock himself. Talk about stable-doors! It was a job in this muck but here we are.”

“All present?”

“Except for her.”

“Sure?”

“Dead sure.”

“No idea, of course, which way she went?”

“No idea.

“And Mrs Tretheway’s sleeping at the lockhouse?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’re very quiet down there.”

“They’ve gone to bed. I waited for it.”

“Do they know where they are?”

“Not when I saw them. They will.”

“They could scramble up and out, of course.”

“They’re in their cabins and they can’t get ashore from there. Have to come up on deck and young Tom and I are keeping watch.”

“Splendid. Stay put till you hear from us, won’t you?”

“Don’t make it too long,” the voice murmured.

“Do our best. Good night.”

Alleyn returned to the lockhouse. He and the other six men were admitted by the keeper and crowded into the parlour.

“Well,” Alleyn said. “Search we must. Any chance of this lifting?”

Not before dawn, most likely, said the lock-keeper but you never knew. If a wind got up, she’d shift.

“It’s essentially a river mist, isn’t it?” Alleyn said. “Miss Hewson may still be milling round in it or lying doggo. If she managed to get above it she’ll be on the move. All we can do is follow the usual procedure.” He looked at the Tollardwark constable. “You’d better keep within hailing distance of Mr Tillottson, Mr Fox and me. You’ve got radar and we haven’t. We’re going to find our way up to the wapentake. Br’er Fox, would you work out to my right. Bert, if you’d keep going beyond that and take the driver out on your own right wing. Bailey and Thompson, you take the left wing. Near the roadside hedge if you could see it. She may be anywhere: under the hedge in the Wapentake Pot or a quarter of a mile away. As little noise and talk as possible. The rest of this unspeakable terrain we leave to the men already alerted.”

He looked at the wretched Cape.

“Oh, yes. You,” he said. “You move up the hill on my left.” And to the two remaining men: “And you watch the Zodiac . She’s in the lock and the lock’s at its lowest. Nobody can leap ashore in seconds but that doesn’t say they can’t make it.”

Tillottson said: “The Zodiac ? In the lock?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. He looked at the keeper who was grinning. “By arrangement. Like it or lump it with any luck and a good watch they’re there till we want them. Come on.”

-3-

Seven hours ago he and Fox had climbed this hill and Troy, a little later, had come to them in the wapentake. Four days ago Troy and the other passengers had met there and Troy had sat in the Wapentake Pot and talked with Dr Natouche.

Alleyn tried to recall the lie of the land. This was the first grassy slope under his feet, now, and ahead of him must be the tufted embankment below the wapentake field. He had begun to think he must have veered and now walked parallel with the embankment when it rose at his feet. He climbed it and could hear the others breathe and the soft thud of their feet. They used torches to show their whereabouts. The insignificant yellow discs floated and bobbed, giving an occasional glimpse of a leg or coat or a few inches of earth and grass.

The ascent felt steeper and more uneven under these blind-fold conditions than it had in the afternoon. They had only climbed a few paces when, suddenly and inconsequently there was less mist. It drifted and eddied and thinned out and now they waded rather than swam through it and appeared to each other as familiar phantoms.

“Clearing,” Fox murmured.

Alleyn sniffed. “Rum!” he said, “I seem to smell dust.”

The hillside was before them, living its own life under the stars. A blackness vaguely defined the wapentake itself. Alleyn moved his torchlight slowly across to his right and gave a stifled exclamation.

“Come in on this, all of you,” he said.

Their lights met at a dishevelment of earth, gravel and pieces of half-buried timber.

“It’s that old digging,” Fox exclaimed. “I said it wasn’t safe. It’s caved in.”

“Come in, all of you.”

The seven men collected round him and used their torch-lights. The crazy structure had collapsed. A fang of broken timber stuck out of the rubble and the edge of an old door that had supported an overhanging roof of earth now showed beneath a landslide of earth and gravel.

Alleyn said: “And there’s still a smell of dust in the air. Don’t go nearer, any of you. Stay where you are. Give me all the light you can raise. Here.”

Their lights concentrated round his on a patch of ground near his feet and came to a halt again at the edge of the rubble.

“Bailey,” Alleyn said.

Bailey and he knelt together, their heads bowed devotedly over slurs, indentations and flattened grass.

“Here’s a good one. A patch of bare soil. Take a look at this,” Alleyn said. Bailey took a long hard look.

“Fair enough,” he said. “She was wearing them and there’s another pair in her cabin.”

“American type, low-heeled walking jobs.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Good Gawd!” Tillottson loudly exclaimed. “She went in there to hide and—Good Gawd!”

But Alleyn and Bailey paid no attention to Tillottson and Fox said: “Wait on, Bert.”

The wapentake field had turned towards a rising moon and was illuminated. The mist had now retired upon its source and wound like a cottonwool snake between the river banks. The landscape had changed and lightened.

Alleyn had thrown off his overcoat and was working at the rubble with his gloved hands.

“Bear a hand,” he said. “We’re too late but bear a hand.”

The other men joined him. They mounted their torches where they shone on the rubble and went hard to work.

“Very painstaking,” Alleyn grunted. “But not quite painstaking enough. Something—a stone, a bit of broken wood from the rubble—something—has been scuffed over the ground. Prints of the woman’s shoes have been left. Right up to where the rubble has lapped over them and pointing towards the excavation. But the surrounding patches of soil have been scuffed. We are meant to think what you thought, Bert.”

Superintendent Tillottson peered sideways at PC Cape as if longing for a better view.