Swing, Swing Together by Peter Lovesey Read Free Book Online

flannels and straw hats and asking for glasses of water and things I wouldn’t care to mention in present company. I don’t know what they think a lock house is. I shan’t stand it much longer. My wife’s threatening to leave. I can tell you, when she goes, so shall I, and they can go over the blooming weir to Henley for all I care.”
    â€œI wasn’t talking about the book,” said Cribb, keeping his copy tactfully out of sight behind his back. “I simply wanted to know if you remembered letting three men through your lock. The book has nothing to do with it.”
    There was a pause while the lockkeeper considered whether such an unlikely claim could have an iota of truth in it. He looked along the river and said, “It’s novices that cause the trouble. They read the book and before they’ve finished a couple of chapters they’re down at Kingston hiring a skiff. They throw in a tent and some meat pies and away they go just like them three duffers in the book. If they survive the first night at Runnymede, they spend the second in the Crown at Marlow—them that can get in—and next morning they come through here looking for the backwater to Wargrave. ‘There shouldn’t be a lock here,’ they say. ‘What’s this lock doing in our way? It isn’t in the book.’ ‘Yes it is,’ I say. ‘Marsh Lock. Page 220.’ The book is generally open on their knees, so they pick it up and frown into it and sure enough they find it mentioned. The reason why they never see it is that the backwater is mentioned first, even though it’s half a mile upriver from here. And do you think they’re grateful when I point it out? Not a bit of it. ‘Well, if we must go through the beastly lock,’ they say, ‘you’d better get the gates open or we’ll never make Shiplake before dark. When you’ve done that, be good enough to fetch us some fresh water while we’re waiting. Rowing is devilish thirsty work.’ ‘So is managing a blooming lock,’ I tell ’em. ‘You get out and work the paddles for me, and I’ll get you your blooming water.’ That shuts ’em up.”
    â€œI’m sure!” said Cribb. “But we haven’t come to ask for water. Just tell me when you last had three men together through your lock.”
    â€œWith a dog,” added Harriet, and realized as she said it that Cribb had not mentioned this because it seemed too much like provocation. She wished she had drunk lemonade instead of beer.
    â€œThree men and a dog,” said the lockkeeper slowly. “You’re asking me, are you?”
    â€œI am indeed,” confirmed Cribb, chinking the coins in his pocket to show good faith.
    â€œThree men and a dog. Three men is quite common,” said the lockkeeper. “Dogs is not so common. Only your real fanaticals actually go so far as to take a dog along with ’em.”
    â€œBut it isn’t unknown?”
    â€œLast time were yesterday, towards teatime. Small white dog, it was, but don’t ask me the breed. I don’t know a bulldog from a beagle.”
    â€œThere were three men, though? Do you remember them?”
    â€œI don’t recall things that easy, sir.”
    â€œSixpence apiece?” offered Cribb.
    â€œFor a florin I might remember the name of the boat as well.”
    â€œDone.”
    â€œIt were the Lucrecia. Neat little skiff built not above a year, I’d say. The wood were light in colour, without many varnishings. Fine set of cushions, too, dark red plush.”
    â€œAnd the men?”
    â€œYou do have that florin with you?”
    The exchange took place.
    â€œI reckon the one at stroke weighed all of fifteen stone. Bearded he was, and red-faced. Turned fifty, I’d say, but able to pull a powerful oar just the same. His hair was sandy-coloured and he had bright yellow braces. He were talking plenty, and