‘All around you,’ I said, ‘is the Quillersedge Estate.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said vaguely. Then: ‘Dear God, we go along this road all the time. I mean, everyone in Shellerton goes to Reading this way unless it’s snowing.’
A long stretch of the road was bordered on each side by mixed woodland, dripping now with yesterday’s rain and looking bare-branched and bedraggled in the scrag end of winter. Part of the woodland was thinned and tamed and fenced neatly with posts and wire, policed with ‘no trespassing’ notices: part was wild and open to anyone caring to push through the tangle of trees, saplings and their assorted undergrowth. Five yards into that, I thought, and one would be invisible from the road. Only the strongly motivated, though, would try to go through it: it was no easy afternoon stroll.
‘Anyway,’ Harry said, ‘the Quillersedge Estate goes on for miles. This is just the western end of it. The place where they found Angela was much nearer Bucklebury.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Dammit, it was in the papers. Are you doubting me now?’ He was angered and disconcerted by my question, then shook his head in resignation. ‘That was a Doone question. How do I know? Because the Reading papers printed a map, that’s how. The gamekeeper put his X on the spot.’
‘I don’t doubt you,’ I said. ‘If I doubted you I would doubt my own judgment too, and in your case I don’t.’
‘I suppose that’s a vote of confidence.’
‘Yes.’
We drove a fair way along the roads and through villages unknown to me, going across country to heaven knew where. Harry, however, knew where, and turned down a mostly uninhabited lane, through some broken gateposts into a rutted drive; this led to a large sagging barn, an extensive dump of tangled metal and wood and a smaller barn to one side. Beyond this unprepossessing mess lay a wide expanse of muddy grey water sliding sluggishly by with dark wooded hills on the far side.
‘Where are we?’ I asked, as the car rolled to a stop, the only bright new thing in the general dilapidation.
‘That’s the Thames,’ Harry said. ‘Almost breaking its banks, by the look of things, after all that rain and melted snow. This is Sam’s boatyard, where we are now.’
‘He keeps it this way on purpose,’ Harry confirmed. ‘We all came here for a huge barbecue party he gave to celebrate being champion jockey... eighteen months ago, I suppose. It looked different that night. One of the best parties we’ve been to...’ His voice tailed off, as if his thoughts had moved away from what his mouth was saying; and there was sweat on his forehead.
‘What’s making you nervous?’ I asked.
‘Nothing.’ It was clearly a lie. ‘Come with me,’ he said jerkily. ‘I want someone with me.’
‘All right. Where are we going?’
‘Into the boathouse.’ He pointed to the smaller of the barns. ‘That big place on the left is Sam’s workshop and dock where he works on his boats. The boathouse isn’t used much, I don’t think, though Sam made it into a grotto the night of the party. I’m going to meet someone there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m a bit early. Don’t suppose it will matter.’
‘Who are you going to meet?’
‘Someone,’ he said, and got out of the car. ‘I don’t know who. Look,’ he went on, as I followed him, ‘someone’s going to tell me something which may clear me with Doone. I just... I wanted
‘No.’
‘Come on, then.’
‘I’ll come, but don’t put too much hope on anyone keeping the appointment. People can be pretty spiteful, and you’ve had a rotten press.’
‘You think it’s a hoax?’ The idea bothered him, but he’d obviously considered it.
‘How was the meeting arranged?’
‘On the telephone,’ he said. ‘This morning. I didn’t know the voice. Don’t even know if it was a man or woman. It was low. Sort of careful, I suppose, looking back.’
‘Why here,’ I asked, ‘of all places?’
He frowned. ‘I’ve no idea. But I can’t afford not to listen, if it’s something which will clear me. I can’t, can I?’
‘I guess not.’
‘I don’t really like it either,’ he confessed. ‘That’s why I wanted company.’
‘All right,’ I shrugged. ‘Let’s wait and see.’
With relief he smiled wanly and led the way across some rough ground of stones and gnarled old weeds, joining a path of sorts that ran from the big barn to the boathouse and following that to our destination.
Close to, the boathouse was if anything less attractive than from a distance, though there were carved broken eaves that had once been decorative in an Edwardian way and could have been again, given the will. The construction was mostly of weathered old brick, the long side walls going down to the water’s edge, the whole built on and into the river’s sloping bank.
True to Sam’s philosophy the ramshackle wooden door had no latch, let alone a padlock, and pushed inwards, opening at a touch.
