Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 9: Clutch of Constables, When in Rome, Tied Up in Tinsel

‘– 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 river-weed 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.

CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_e7aff89b-f403-5527-865e-56b5075fe26d)

Ramsdyke (#ulink_e7aff89b-f403-5527-865e-56b5075fe26d)

‘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-percent of which is useless and then – something happens and Bingo – the other ten-percent 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.

I

Troy could hear an enormous unlocalized 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 recognizable 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 companion-way 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.’