An April Shroud. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
For the second time that day, the three men got soaking wet. Papworth seemed impervious to the rain as he propelled the gun-punt over the water with strong economical strokes, but Dalziel was concerned about the old man who had rejected all attempts to make him stay ashore. His clothes were clinging to his body, accentuating its frailty, and the skin of his face seemed to have shrunk in the downpour and be clinging almost transparently to his patrician skull.
Dalziel himself drew comfort from the thought that this time at least it was not his own clothes that were getting wet. There was a philosophy in there somewhere if he had the time or energy to winkle it out. Or a rule of life at least. He was dimly aware that his blacker moments were often survived only because he had certain usually unspecified and often arbitrary rules of life to cling on to, though whether these added up to the weight and dignity of something called a philosophy he did not know. Duty was one of them, or at least the notion that a man got out of bed and went to his work no matter what he felt like, and saw the job through if he could manage it without collapsing. It had proved a useful and necessary rule in recent weeks.
The rowing-boat was drifting with one oar missing and the other trailing from the rowlock. The island referred to by Papworth was, Dalziel realized, a real island in the real lake, with water lapping shallowly at the roots of the trees growing there. It would be possible to land here still at the expense only of getting your feet wet, and he scanned the trees closely. They were willows mainly, packed tight together as though drawing back from the threatening waters, but the total area of the island couldn’t have been more than a quarter-acre and he felt pretty certain that Nigel was not lurking there, watching them pass.
Nor was the boy in the boat. Papworth had asserted it was empty from the start, but Dalziel had not been so positive. You could lie in the bottom of a boat and not be seen from the shore, he suspected. But the boy was not in it and suddenly the dimensions of the problem had changed.
Papworth jumped lightly into the boat and pulled the trailing oar inboard. From the punt Dalziel examined the rowing-bench closely, looking for he did not know what.
‘Where’s it come from?’ he demanded.
‘God knows,’ said Papworth with a shrug.
‘Can’t you tell?’ said Dalziel.
‘They don’t leave tracks,’ said Papworth. ‘And there’s no regular currents, tides, that sort of thing here. No, the wind’d move it most, and you tell me which quarter that’s in.’
He was right. What wind there was gusted fitfully from no constant direction.
Old Fielding who had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since they had left the shore now said, ‘There’s an oar missing. Surely if we can find that, it will give us a clue.’
‘Mebbe,’ said Papworth laconically. ‘But to what?’
‘Listen,’ said Dalziel, glowering at the impassive boatman. ‘There’s three things. The boat could have drifted back from wherever Nigel got off; or it could just have drifted away from the landing-stage in the first place and the boy’s on the road; or if he did have a spot of trouble he could be stranded on a tree or on top of a hedge or something. He can swim, can’t he?’
‘Like a fish,’ said Fielding.
‘Right then,’ said Dalziel, standing so that the punt rocked dangerously. He ignored the movement and scanned the waters. It was pretty obvious where the lake proper ended and the floods began. A line of trees and half-submerged undergrowth delineated the sweep of the farther bank and, beyond this, the geometric outlines of fields were marked where their hedges broke the surface of the water.
‘OK,’ said Dalziel. ‘Shout.’
‘What?’
‘Shout,’ he said. ‘If he is stuck somewhere, he’ll answer.’
They started to shout, sometimes separately and sometimes with Fielding’s reedy tenor, Papworth’s strong baritone and Dalziel’s totally unmusical bellow blending into a single dreadful cry. The damp air absorbed all their effort with indifferent ease and returned nothing.
‘Let’s try a bit farther out,’ said Dalziel finally, reaching for the punt pole. But as he did so, he realized their yellings had not gone entirely unheard. Standing in the garden near the flooded landing-stage were the rest of the Fieldings and Tillotson. He guessed what anxieties were swarming through Bonnie’s mind and spoke to Papworth.
‘We’d best let Mrs Fielding know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Can you scout a bit farther in that thing while I take the punt back?’
‘If you like,’ said Papworth. He removed the oar from the thole-pin and using it as a rather cumbersome paddle began to move away.
‘Where’s that fellow going?’ demanded Fielding. He looked to be in the extremities of distress, both physical and mental. Even without his daughter-in-law’s right to an explanation, it would have been necessary to get him back to the house soon.
‘He’s going to search,’ said Dalziel, wielding the pole inexpertly and for the first time feeling some sympathy for Tillotson. ‘We’d better get back to the house and organize things there.’
Mrs Fielding remained controlled when she heard what Dalziel had to say, but he sensed a strong underlying concern.
‘Let’s get inside,’ she said. ‘Herrie, you’re soaking! What possessed you to go out in only your jacket?’
She gave a half-accusing glance at Dalziel. She had the kind of solid, bold-eyed face much admired by the Edwardians and which had still stared provocatively at an adolescent Dalziel from Scarborough What-the-Butler-Saw machines a couple of decades later. He felt an in the circumstances incongruous urge to wink invitingly.
Surprisingly in the light of her earlier indifference, Louisa was outwardly the most agitated.
‘We can’t just hang about, doing nothing,’ she cried. ‘Let’s get something organized.’
Her urgency seemed to infect the others and her mother and brother began to move back to the house at an accelerated pace almost beyond the means of the old man who hung on to his daughter-in-law with the stoic look of one who is ready at a moment’s notice to make his final exit.
Dalziel followed, eager to get out of the rain but without any feeling of urgency. He doubted whether speed was going to contribute much to Nigel Fielding’s safety now. Either the lad was safe or his body was waiting to be grappled from the water by a boat-hook. But the illusion of great activity was a useful anodyne.
The Uniffs who had had enough sense to stay out of the wet met them at the door and received explanations in the hall.
Mavis displayed the same calm competence as before and even Hank made conventional soothing noises, putting his arm round Louisa’s thin shoulders and pressing his University of Love T-shirt (the same one? or did he have duplicates?) against her soaking sweater whose new skin-clinging properties managed the merest hint of a female figure.
‘We must ring the police,’ she said. Dalziel sighed and prepared to step forward to reveal himself. It would be unprofessional to let this short-tempered girl give her unstructured and semi-hysterical account of the situation to the local bobby when he could get things moving in half the time.
‘Perhaps,’ he began. And the telephone rang. For a moment they all froze. It was Bonnie Fielding who was quickest off the mark, heading for the room which old Fielding claimed as his own.
They heard her pick up the phone.
‘Nigel!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes,’