“I remember it,” said Bredon. “That was where the Burtells had dinner, the same evening on which they reached Millington Bridge. You remember it, don’t you, Angela?”
“Yes; we speculated, if you remember, what they could possibly have got to eat there, at such an hour.”
“Did the man in the punt call there?” asked Bredon.
“He did, and he actually called for letters. There were no letters here, only a telegram, which he read. It was addressed to somebody of the name of Wallace—that was the same name he’d given to the people who hired him the punt at Oxford. An alias, I imagine. As soon as he had read the telegram, he asked for a railway guide and a bus timetable. He had tea, and during tea he started asking the same set of questions about the Burtells—did they dine together? Did they go off together? and so on. After tea he got into the punt and started off downstream.”
“So you came down again?”
“No, I went up to the next lock to make sure. The man there was quite positive that no punt had come up at the time mentioned. The news of Burtell’s disappearance had been telegraphed through by that time, and he came downstream himself to help in the search. His wife, who looked after the lock in his absence, never had to open it all the time he was away. And, what’s more, he didn’t pass any punt of the type described on his way down to Shipcote. Burgess is equally clear that the punt never came back through Shipcote; that is easy to determine; for, if it had, the man would have shown his ticket. So, you see, the man in the punt seems to have vanished between Shipcote and the next lock above it, and taken his punt with him.”
“Folds his punt like the Arabs, and silently fades away,” suggested Angela. “But you looked for it, I suppose?”
“Very much so. I hired a boat and a waterman, and we rowed all the way down to Shipcote. We looked under the trees where they overhung the river; we went through all the craft at Millington Bridge; we did everything to find the beastly punt except dive for it. One thing’s quite certain—I’m going to have that upper reach dragged, even if I lose the last shred of my reputation for sanity.”
“What about the man’s looks?” suggested Bredon. “Did anybody give you a decent description of him?”
“They were pretty clear about that. All agreed that he looked a very muscular man; that he was clean-shaven, and had rather shiny hair, black; that he was rather above the average height—nothing much that was positive (there never is) but enough to rule out plenty of candidates. Naturally, I also made a point of finding out for certain whether he was alone—did he travel, for example, with the awnings of the punt up, so that there might have been a second person concealed in it? All my authorities seemed to agree, as far as they remembered the circumstances, that he was alone; Burgess, indeed, is quite positive about that.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake let’s try to get the crazy thing reconstructed. Angela, we’ve been making some advances in our business since you left, so you mustn’t interrupt us.”
“I will be as silent as a mouse. By the way, when you’ve finished, remind me to tell you what John said about the perambulator; it was really rather smart. But for the present, have it your own silly way.”
“Well, then,” said Leyland, “we’d better start by assuming that Nigel and the unknown—let’s call him Wallace, as it’s the name he seems to travel by—that Nigel and Wallace were in collusion. On Monday morning, after occupying two rooms and paying his bill as if he were two people, Nigel leaves the inn at Millington Bridge. Somewhere he picks up his cousin, who is by that time probably dead, or at least drugged. He paddles down to Shipcote Lock, and just above the lock he passes, no doubt without pretending to recognize, his accomplice.”
“Steady one moment,” said Bredon. “Had they arranged to meet just there, or was it accidental?”
“I think it must have been by arrangement. Nigel obviously had the nine-fourteen train in view, so there’s no reason why they should not have arranged a definite time of meeting. And, from what followed, it seems as if they knew their ground all right. Nigel, as we know, left the lock for the station, probably giving the canoe a shove before he left, so as to push it out into the fairway. Here, for the time being, his job ended. Wallace, meanwhile, had tied his punt up somewhere, just above the lock, and came down along the bank to intercept the drifting canoe. Now, which bank did he take? The western bank, surely, on the side away from the weir. That would save him swimming the weir stream. Not much danger in passing Burgess’ house, while Burgess was busy working the lock.”
“Yes, but if he did that, why were the footprints at the island side of the bridge? Why not on the mainland side? That’s where he’d want to climb up, if your account is right.
“You forget—he had to have his base on the island, so as to dispose of the body. He came down the western bank, crossed the iron bridge, and then behaved precisely as we made Nigel behave. He took off his clothes, climbed the bridge with his feet wet from the grass, took a photograph (Number Five) of his own footprints by mistake; took another photograph, Number Six, of Derek’s body floating in the canoe—on purpose. Then he climbed down, put the camera on
