Trouble on the Thames (8 page)

It was from here, apparently, that a visitor wishing to cross over would be most likely to embark, but during the four hours which had slipped by since his arrival on the scene no such encouraging incident had occurred to break the monotony. Indeed, for all the traces of life it exhibited the island might have been deserted. In spite of the fact that he had been keeping it under careful and consistent observation he had learned absolutely nothing. Even the unprepossessing “gardener,” to whom Mr. Martin had alluded, had obstinately declined to put in an appearance.

Feeling a shade disappointed at the negative results of his opening vigil, he uprooted the two poles which had been keeping him in position and began to punt across slowly in the direction of the backwater. He felt that his activities as a fisherman had already lasted long enough, and that for the time being it would be wiser to retire from the immediate neighbourhood. For all he knew, unseen eyes might be secretly observing his proceedings. To continue hanging around after dusk would be bound to arouse suspicion; and since he had no desire to attract more attention to himself than he could possibly avoid, a change of tactics appeared eminently desirable. Besides, regarding it purely from a personal point of view, he was badly in need of a drink. The thought of sitting in a bar with a large tankard of beer in front of him appealed strongly to his imagination, while it also possessed the additional advantage of being part and parcel of his prearranged campaign. After all, the sooner he got in touch with the local gossip the more likely he was to overhear something useful. For the moment, duty and inclination seemed to be pointing towards the same goal; a comforting and convenient arrangement that is too often foreign to their custom.

Passing into the backwater under a small iron bridge, he pushed his way along its winding course, ducking his head now and then to avoid one of the numerous overhanging branches. For about a couple of hundred yards the banks on either side were lined by a thick growth of bushes and willows, and then, as he rounded a bend into a slightly broader stretch, the back garden of the Red Lion made its sudden and welcome appearance.

It consisted of a narrow strip of lawn with an ancient cedar tree in the centre and a few weather-stained chairs and tables dotted about at discreet intervals. The borders were filled with a ragged array of dahlias and chrysanthemums, and at this late hour in the season the whole place presented a forlorn and somewhat neglected-looking aspect. Such encouragement as it offered to prospective customers was contained in the almost illegible notice affixed to a rustic arch which surmounted the landing-stage. So far as it could be deciphered it ran as follows:

YE OLD RED LYON INNE
Fully licensed
Teas Lunches Dinners First-Class Accommodation

There were several boats lying off the steps, and steering neatly in amongst them, Owen hitched up his punt and scrambled ashore. As he did so a small boy, who had emerged from some private hiding-place, came hurrying towards him with an air of hopeful expectancy.

“Look after your things, sir?”

“Who are you?” inquired Owen.

“Ernie Giles, sir. I lives 'ere. My Dad,'e works for Mr. Mellon.”

“Very well, here's sixpence. I'm going inside to have a drink and a bite of grub. If everything's safe and sound when I come back I'll make it a bob.”

“Thankye, sir.” Ernie pocketed the coin and squared his shoulders. “Don't you worry yerself, sir,” he added confidently. “No one won't pinch nothin', not with me around.”

Leaving his new-found friend in charge, Owen lit a cigar-ette and strolled leisurely up the lawn. The back of the inn was screened by a long, creeper-covered veranda, at one end of which was a partly open door with the word “Saloon” engraved upon its glass panel. Stepping through, he found himself in a small, snug, low-ceilinged bar, where a stout, rubicund-faced man who was standing behind the counter polishing a tankard looked up with a genial smile.

“Ah, good evenin', sir. Must 'ave come in through the backwater, didn't you? Thought I heard young Ernie speakin' to someone.”

“Been fishing down below the weir,” explained Owen. “Suddenly discovered it was seven o'clock and thought I'd slip across for a drink.” He seated himself on a tall stool in the corner. “You're Mr. Mellon, I take it? If that's right, Mr. Martin, of Playford, told me to look you up and mention his name.”

“Pleased to meet you. Anyone Tom Martin sends along is more than welcome at the Red Lion.” The landlord put down his tankard. “Now what's it to be? You're having this one on the house.”

“That's very kind of you—a little loose beer, I think.” Owen produced a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “Thirsty job sitting in the sun, specially when the fish are as sulky as they were this afternoon.”

“No luck, eh? Well, that's the way it goes sometimes.” Mr. Mellon filled up a large pewter pot and pushed it across. “Not but what there's fish about there, you take my word for it. Why, only last week Mr. Nelson, down at The Moorings, he pulled out a three-and-a-half-pounder.”

“That's encouraging news.” Owen took a long, refreshing draught and sighed contentedly. “Shows that one needn't give up hope, anyhow. I'll make an effort to get up early to-morrow, and perhaps—”

“Hullo, hullo—hope I'm not intrudin'!” The other door of the bar swung open, admitting a breezy-looking, loud-voiced individual who bore the unmistakable stamp of a successful commercial traveller. For a moment he stood posed theatrically in the entrance, and then, striding forward to the counter, thrust out his hand. “Why, Ted, you old scoundrel, you don't look a day older than when I was in here last.”

“Cor-love-my-soul, if it ain't Bert Summers!” The landlord hastened along to where the newcomer was standing, and the two of them exchanged grips! “Well, well, well, now—talk about the graves givin' up their dead—”

“Bit of a surprise, what?” Mr. Summers chuckled richly. “Told me you was still here, and as I was passing pretty close by I thought I'd switch off and pay you a call. Can't stop more 'n a few minutes, though—on me way to Reading.”

“Well, well, well,” repeated Mr. Mellon. “Couldn't believe me eyes, not when you walked in. Let's see now, must be gettin' on for five years since we last had a drink together.”

“All o' that,” assented the other. “And talkin' o' drinks, how about a couple o' nice doubles? Maybe this gentleman will do me the honour of joining us?”

“Oh, I'm all right, thanks,” protested Owen. “Just got a whole pint of beer which I haven't started yet.”

“What are you doin' in these parts, Bert?” demanded Mr. Mellon as he splashed out the soda. “Bit outer yer reg'ler beat, ain't it? Thought you was up in the Midlands somewhere—Wolvr'ampton way, if I remember rightly.”

“So I was till a couple o' months ago. Had a stroke o' luck then, as you might put it. Bloke who was representin' us in London went and hopped it, and who should drop in for the job but your old pal Bert. Was I glad to get it—oh, boy!”

“Didn't you hit it off with the folks up there, then?”

Mr. Summers shook his head. “No use for 'em,” he replied darkly. “Wolvr'ampton by name and Wolvr'ampton by nature.”

“That so, eh?”

“Take it from me.” The speaker raised his glass. “Here's all the best, Ted, and how goes it with you? What about those two pretty kids o' yours—Gladys and Maysie? Come to think of it, they must be grown up by now.”

“Grown up and married, both of 'em.”

“You don't say!”

“That's a fact. Done well for 'erself, Gladys has. Got hitched up with a chap in the engineerin' line. Smart young feller and earnin' good money. Took 'er to Paris for the 'oneymoon and stayed at one o' them posh 'otels. Must 'ave run 'im in for a packet.”

Mr. Summers clicked his tongue. “Going some, that is.”

“You're right.”

“Maysie picked a winner, too?”

“Well, in a manner o' speakin'. Leastways 'e's a gentleman. Son of a judge in India or somethin', and went to school at 'Arrer and Oxford. Mind yer, 'e ain't got any brass, not at present.”

“How do they get along, then?”

“Managed to fix up with the Brewery to put 'em into a house at Windsor. Nice little place, but no trade worth talkin' of.”

‘Bit of a climb down for a toff like him.”

‘No gettin' away from that. Why, on'y the other day he was tellin' me that if six of 'is relations was to go up in an airyplane and that airyplane was to crash and they was all killed, '
e'd be a Duke
.”

‘Go on!”

“Gospel truth!” Mr. Mellon paused. “And between you and me,” he added wistfully, “it wouldn't be such a bad thing if they did, 'cause 'e's no bleedin' use as a publican.”

“Can't have it all ways, not in this world.” With a shake of his head Mr. Summers glanced at the clock, and then, raising his tumbler, gulped down the remainder of its contents.

“You ain't goin' just yet?” protested the landlord.

“Got to, I'm afraid. Promised to look in at a meetin' of the Buffs to-night, and I'll be late as it is, if I don't hurry.” Once more he thrust out his hand. “Well, cheerio, Ted—treat to see you lookin' so frisky. I'll be droppin' round again one o' these days, and with any luck we'll have time for a proper yarn.”

Cocking his hat at a jaunty angle and bestowing a farewell salute on Owen, Mr. Bert Summers moved briskly to the door. In another minute the spluttering throb of a car engine started up outside, and as though suddenly recalled to a sense of his duties as a host, the landlord picked up his glass and moved back along the counter.

“Old friend o' mine,” he explained apologetically. “Used to see a lot of 'im at one time.”

“Cheery sort of cove.” Owen nodded. “Wonder why he's got such a down on the Midlands.”

“Too refined for 'em, I reckon. Don't take no stock in good manners up there. Think you're puttin' on airs if you speak civil.”

“Well, the best thing we can do is to have another drink. Short one for me this time—gin and orange, please. Any chance of your being able to fix me up with something to eat?”

“Why, certainly. Plenty o' cold stuff in the dining-room. Nice bit o' chicken and 'am, if you fancy that.”

“Do me fine.”

“Goin' back to Playford for the night, I s'pose?”

Owen shook his head. “I'm sleeping in the punt. It's such grand weather I felt I must have a last week out in the open.” He tossed a half-crown across the bar, and took a sip from the small glass in front of him. “I think I'll try fishing a little farther up in the morning, rather closer to the island. By the way, is there anyone living there now?”

“Party o' the name o' Craig. Runs a club in the West End so I've heard tell.”

“See much of him?”

“Next to nothin'. Stand-offish sort of cove—too high an' mighty to mix with the likes of us.” Mr. Mellon shrugged scornfully. “Wouldn't even know 'e was 'ere, not if 'e 'adn't sent over a message this mornin'. Got a friend comin' down by the last train and wants my man Jim to take 'im across.”

Owen's heart gave a sudden jump. “The last train!” he repeated. “Rather a late job, eh?”

“Won't be through till after eleven. Can't be 'elped, though! All part o' the day's work. You see, that's my boat-'ouse opposite the island, and if I started refusin' custom as like as not I'd 'ave trouble over the licence. 'Sides, Jim don't mind, not so long as he gets a good tip.”

“Hope he does: he certainly deserves one.” Stretching out his arms with a lazy yawn, Owen slid down off his stool. “Well,” he demanded, “how about that chicken and ham? Think it will be ready if I drop in now?”

“That'll be O.K., sir. Just step across the passage and you'll find the dining-room right opposite. See you again afterwards per'aps, that's to say, if you ain't in no special 'urry to get off.”

A contented smile flickered across Owen's face.

“I'm in no hurry at all,” he declared truthfully.

II

Outside the stars were twinkling bravely, but under the thick trees that fringed the entrance to the backwater the darkness was intense. Once within its shelter anyone who was anxious to avoid observation could rest assured that he had achieved his purpose.

Sitting motionless in the punt and steadying himself with the aid of an overhanging branch, Owen stared across in the direction of the island. All he could see was the small, white-painted landing-stage with the black, uncertain bulk of the house looming up behind it. Both above and below the weir the river seemed to be deserted. Except for the steady splashing of the water and an occasional rustling sigh among the tree-tops everything was uncannily still. Even the two stately swans, who had been cruising up and down all the afternoon, appeared to have abandoned their activities and retired to rest.

A glance at the illuminated dial of his watch showed him that it was exactly ten-thirty. Before leaving the inn he had taken the precaution of consulting a time-table; and since, according to Mr. Bradshaw, the last train reached Thames Ferry at seventeen minutes past, it should not be long now before the belated visitor made his appearance. Somehow or other, he had a queer feeling that his luck was in. Though there was no real ground for the assumption, he found himself taking it almost for granted that the stranger would turn out to be von Manstein, that sinister and highly dangerous gentleman in whom the Admiralty were so acutely interested. Mere guesswork though it might be, the prospect of actually witnessing the German's arrival and being able to pass on the information to Greystoke filled him with elation; and registering a vow to make all the use he could of such a Heaven-sent opportunity, he edged in a shade closer to the bank and patiently resumed his vigil.