Sir Lionel Falcett rose to his feet and put the same questions that Snetterton had asked me—about the cargo, the holds, Patch. ‘You lived with this man through a desperate forty-eight hours. You shared his fears and his hopes. Surely he must have said something, made some comment?’ And I replied that we had had little opportunity for talking. I told them again of our exhaustion, the fury of the seas, the moment-to-moment fear that the ship would go down under us.
And then suddenly it was over and I walked back across the floor of the court, feeling like a rag that has been squeezed dry. Hal gripped my arm as I sat down. ‘Magnificent!’ he whispered. ‘You’ve damn’ near made a hero of the man. Look at the Press desk.’ And I saw that it was emptying hurriedly.
‘Ian Fraser!’ Holland was on his feet again and Captain Fraser was making his way across the court. It was routine evidence of how he had picked us up, and then he was released and Janet Taggart was called.
She went into the witness box pale as death, but with her head up and her face a tight little defensive mask. Holland explained that he had called her at this stage in order to release her from the painful ordeal of listening to any further statements that might be made by witnesses about her father. He then took her gently through a description of her father as she had known him—his letters, coming unfailingly from every port he visited, his presents, the money to take her on from college to university, his care of her after the death of her mother when she was seven. ‘I never knew how wonderful he had been as a father until these last few years, when I was old enough to understand how he must have scraped and saved and worked to give me the education I’ve had.’ She described him as she had last seen him, and then she read the letter he had written her from Rangoon. She read it in a small, trembling voice, and his love and concern for her were there in every line of it.
It was very painful to hear her, knowing the man was dead, and when she had finished there was a murmur of men clearing their throats and shifting uneasily in their seats.
‘That will be all, Miss Taggart,’ Holland said with that gentleness that he had used with her throughout her evidence. But she didn’t move from the witness box. She had taken a picture postcard from her bag and she stood with it clutched in her hand, looking across at Patch. And the look on her face sent a cold shiver through me, as she said, ‘A few days ago I received a postcard from Aden. It had been delayed in the post.’ She shifted her gaze to Bowen-Lodge. ‘It’s from my father. May I read part of it please?’
He nodded his permission and she went on: ‘My father wrote: “The owner has engaged a man called Patch to be my first officer in place of poor old Adams.”’ She wasn’t reading it. She was staring straight at Bowen-Lodge, the postcard still gripped in her hand. She knew it by heart. ‘“I do not know what will come of this. Rumour has it that he stranded a ship once, deliberately. But whatever happens I promise you it shall not be of my doing. God go with you, Janie, and think of me. If all goes well, I shall keep my promise this time and see you again at the end of the voyage.”’ Her voice broke on a whisper. The court held its breath. She was like a spring coiled too tight and near to breaking.
She held the card out to Holland and he took it. ‘Witness is excused,’ Bowen-Lodge said. But she had turned and was facing Patch across the court. Wildly she accused him of dragging her father’s name in the mud to save himself. She had checked on the loss of the Belle Isle. She knew the truth now and she was going to see that the Court knew it. Bowen-Lodge beat on his desk with his gavel. Holland was at her side, remonstrating with her. But she ignored him, and Patch sat there, white-faced and appalled, as she blamed him for the fires, for the flooded holds, for the whole wreckage of her father’s ship. ‘You’re a monster,’ she sobbed as they dragged her from the witness box. And then she went suddenly limp and allowed herself to be hurried out of the court, her whole body convulsed with the passion of her tears.
The courtroom eased itself a little self-consciously. Nobody looked at Patch. Nobody looked anywhere until Bowen-Lodge’s matter-of-fact voice lifted the tension from the room. ‘Call the next witness.’
‘Donald Masters!’ Holland was in his place again. The court began to get back into its stride. Technical witnesses followed, giving details of the ship and its equipment, passing judgment on its age and condition, with depositions sworn by the surveyor in Yokohama and the Lloyd’s official who had issued her load-line certificate. Another by the Docks Superintendent at Rangoon giving information about the Torre Annunziata and the adjustments to her cargo. And then Holland called ‘Angela Petrie’ and the court, predominantly male, stirred with interest as Mrs Petrie went into the witness box.
She explained that the Dellimare Trading and Shipping Company had been formed as a private limited company in 1947 with Mr Dellimare, a Mr Greenly and herself as directors. It had been entirely a trading concern, specialising in the import-export business, chiefly with India and the Far East. Later Mr Greenly had ceased to be a director and Mr Gundersen, who had operated a similar type of business in Singapore, had joined the board, the capital had been increased and the business considerably expanded. She gave figures, producing them from memory with quiet efficiency.
‘And the position of the Company now?’ Holland asked.
‘It’s in process of being wound-up—a voluntary liquidation.’
‘And that was arranged before Mr Dellimare’s death?’
‘Oh yes, it was decided some months back.’
‘Any particular reason?’
She hesitated, and then said, ‘There were certain tax advantages.’
A little murmur of laughter ran round the court and Holland sat down. Almost immediately Patch’s lawyer was on his feet, a thin, dried-up man with a reedy voice. ‘Mr Learned Chairman, I should like to ask the witness whether she is aware that Mr Dellimare was involved, just before the formation of this Company, in a case of fraudulent conversion?’
Bowen-Lodge frowned. ‘I do not regard that as relevant, Mr Fenton,’ he said acidly.
‘I should like to answer that question.’ Mrs Petrie’s voice was bold and clear and vibrant. ‘He was acquitted. It was a malicious accusation with no shred of evidence to support it.’
Fenton sat down a little hurriedly and Sir Lionel Falcett rose.
‘Mr Learned Chairman, I should like to know from the witness whether any ships were purchased by the Company at the time of its formation?’
Bowen-Lodge put the question and Mrs Petrie answered none.
‘You hadn’t the capital, is that it?’ Sir Lionel asked. And when she agreed, he said, ‘In point of fact, it was quite a small business?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why call it the Dellimare Trading and Shipping Company? Surely it was a rather unnecessarily grandiose title?’
‘Oh, well, you see, Mr Dellimare was always very keen about ships, and being ex-Navy and all that, he hoped one day . . . Anyway,’ she added, with a flash of pride, ‘we did finish up by owning ships.’
‘You had the Mary Deare and the Torre Annunziata. Any others?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Just those two.’
Sir Lionel glanced down at his papers. ‘The purchase of the Mary Deare was completed on June 18 of last year. When was the Torre Annunziata purchased?’
For the first time Mrs Petrie showed a slight hesitation. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘Was it in April of last year?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘But you are a director of the Company and this must have involved a considerable amount of finance. Do you mean to say you have no records of the transactions?’ Sir Lionel’s voice had sharpened slightly.
‘I may have. I don’t know.’ And then she added quickly, ‘We were expanding fast at that time and it was all fixed up at the Singapore end.’
‘And you were not kept fully informed, is that it?’ She nodded and he then asked, ‘At what date did Mr Gundersen join the board?’
‘On Ma
rch 2 of last year.’
‘So that these shipping transactions were a result of his joining the board?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Sir Lionel turned to the Chairman. ‘There is just one more question I should like to put to the witness. As the Court is already aware, the Mary Deare was making just this one voyage and was then being sold for scrap. The Torre Annunziata made only two voyages and then she was sold to the Chinese. I should like to know what the margin of profit was on these transactions.’
Bowen-Lodge put the question, but she shook her head. She didn’t know.
‘What was the cost of acquiring these ships, then?’ Sir Lionel put the question to her direct.
‘No figures have yet been passed across to our office.’
‘And I suppose you have no idea who put up the money?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. It was all arranged at the Singapore end.’
Sir Lionel nodded and sat down. Mrs Petrie was released from the witness box and she walked back across the court. I saw that her eyes were fixed on someone just behind me, and I guessed it must be Gundersen. Her face was very white and she looked scared.
Hal leaned across to me. ‘Looks as though Lionel is mounting an attack on the Company,’ he whispered, and I nodded, thinking that perhaps Patch was saving his announcement of Dellimare’s offer until he was questioned by Sir Lionel. It seemed reasonable. And that question by his lawyer, Fenton—it had been clumsily done, but he had made his point.
Perfume wafted over me as Mrs Petrie resumed her seat, and I heard Gundersen’s voice, cold and angry, say, ‘Why didn’t you tell him? I gave you those figures weeks back.’ And she answered him in a whisper: ‘How can I think of figures now?’
And then Holland called ‘Hans Gundersen.’
He described himself as a financier and company director and he made a strong impression on the Court. He was a business man and he had all his facts and figures at his finger-tips. Without any prompting from Holland he explained to the Court exactly why he had joined the Company, why they had acquired the Mary Deare and the Torre Annunziata, how the purchases had been financed and what the expected profits were.
He explained his interest in the Dellimare Company in the cold, hard language of business. He had many interests in Singapore and other ports in the Far East. It suited his interests at that time to take a hand in the affairs of this small company. He had the chance to acquire two old ships at a very low figure. He had taken the view that freight rates were on the mend and that in a year’s time it would be possible to sell the ships at a handsome profit. He had chosen the Dellimare Company as the medium through which to make the purchase because he knew Mr Dellimare and discovered that he was willing to have the Company wound up at the end of the transaction. ‘In my experience,’ he added, ‘that is much the most remunerative way of engaging in these operations.’ In the case of the Torre Annunziata his object had been achieved. They had sold the ship to the Chinese at a figure much higher than the purchase price. The Mary Deare, however, had not proved such a good proposition. Her condition had been worse than he had been led to believe. The result was that he had decided that she should make one voyage and then be sold for scrap in England. Break-up price less purchase price and overhaul would have given the Dellimare Company a small margin of profit plus the profits of the voyage. He landed Holland a slip of paper. ‘Those are the figures, actual and estimated,’ he said.
Holland passed them up to Bowen-Lodge and then sat down. The Chairman checked through the figures, nodded and glanced towards Sir Lionel, who rose and said, ‘I should like to know from the witness who financed the acquisition of these ships and how exactly he stood to gain from the deal.’
Bowen-Lodge put the question and Gundersen replied, ‘Of course. I financed the operation myself. In return I was allotted all the shares of the increased capital of the Company.’
‘In other words,’ Sir Lionel said,’ your motive for becoming a director of this company was profit?’
‘Naturally. I am a business man, sir.’
‘I appreciate that.’ Sir Lionel smiled drily. ‘Now, about the Mary Deare. You have admitted that she was not in the condition you had hoped. How was it that such a valuable cargo was entrusted to her? Did Mr Dellimare arrange that?’
‘No. I arranged it through my contacts in Singapore. You must understand that I am very well known in business circles there.’
‘One further question. For what reason were these two ships—the Mary Deare and the Torre Annunziata—routed in such a way that they were in the Rangoon River together from January 7th to 11th?’
‘I don’t understand the reason for your question, sir,’ Gundersen replied. ‘Mr Dellimare looked after all the details of the Company management. If a ship is sailing from England to China and another from Japan to Antwerp, then they will cross somewhere.’
Sir Lionel asked him a number of further questions, but Gundersen refused to admit any responsibility for the details of ships’ schedules. ‘You must understand that I have many calls on my time. This was a very small business. I do not concern myself with the day-to-day management of affairs of companies I am interested in.’
‘But you flew all the way from Singapore as soon as you heard what had happened to the Mary Deare and have remained in this country ever since.’
‘Of course. I am a director of the Company and this is a serious business. When something goes wrong, then it is necessary to be on the spot. Particularly as Mr Dellimare is dead.’
‘One final question; why was it necessary for Mr Dellimare to travel on the Mary Deare as supercargo. Surely in these days it is very unusual?’
Gundersen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Mr Dellimare was in Yokohama to arrange all the details. I don’t think he was a rich man, and it is cheaper to travel a long distance like that in your own ship.’
There were no further questions and Gundersen stood down. He was dressed now in a dark-grey double-breasted suit, obviously cut by a London tailor, and he looked a typical English business man—quiet, remote, competent.
More technical evidence followed, and then Bowen-Lodge adjourned the court. ‘Tomorrow at ten-thirty, gentlemen.’
As I followed Hal into the corridor, a hand plucked at my sleeve. ‘You’re Mr Sands, aren’t you?’ A little, grey-haired woman was smiling up at me a little uncertainly.
‘Yes,’ I said. There was something about her face that I seemed to recognise.
‘I thought you were, but I’m never quite certain about people—my eyes, you know. I just wanted to tell you how glad I am he has one good friend in all this terrible business. You were splendid, Mr Sands.’
I saw the likeness then. ‘You’re his mother, aren’t you?’ I was looking round for Patch, but she said, ‘Please. He doesn’t know I’m here. He’d be terribly angry. When he came down to see me at Bridgewater, he didn’t tell me anything about it. But I knew at once that he was in trouble.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘It was the first time I had seen him in seven years. That’s a long time, Mr Sands, for an old body like me. I only had the one, you see—just Gideon. And now that his father’s dead . . .’ She smiled and patted my arm. ‘But there, you don’t want to hear about my troubles. I just wanted you to know that I’m glad he’s got one good friend.’ She looked up at me. ‘It will be all right this time . . . you do think so, don’t you, Mr Sands?’
‘I’m sure it will,’ I murmured. ‘Sir Lionel Falcett is obviously concentrating on the cargo and the Company.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s what I thought.’
I offered to see her to her hotel, but she wouldn’t hear of it and left me with a brave little smile, moving along with the crowd. Hal joined me then and we went out to his car. I caught a glimpse of her standing, waiting for a bus. She was off-guard then, and she looked lonely and a little frightened.
Hal offered to put me up for the night and we collected my suitcase from the station and drove down to his ho
use at Bosham, a small, thatched place with a lawn running down to the water. I had bought an evening paper in Southampton; it was all over the front page and three columns of it inside—Captain’s Daughter Breaks Down at Enquiry; Strange Story of Loss of Mary Deare.
It wasn’t until after dinner that Hal began to ask me specific questions about Patch. At length he said, ‘That day you rejoined us at Peter Port—you didn’t say very much about him.’ He was standing by the window, looking out across the lawn to where the water was a milky blur in the dusk. There were a couple of yachts moored out there and their masts were bobbing to the lop and the wind gusts. He turned and looked at me. ‘You knew about the Belle Isle business then, didn’t you?’
I nodded, wondering what was coming. It was very cosy in that room with its lamps and its glimmer of Eastern Brass and the big tiger skins on the floor, very remote from all that I had lived with during the past two months. Even the glass of port in my hand seemed part of the illusion of being in another world.
He came and sat down opposite me. ‘Look, old chap,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to pry into what, after all, is your concern. But just how sure are you about this fellow?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you’ve got to be damn’ sure about a man . . . I mean . . .’ He hesitated, searching for the words he wanted. ‘Well, put it this way. If Patch wrecked that ship—deliberately wrecked her—then it was murder. They may only be able to pin a charge of manslaughter on him in law, but before God he’d be guilty of murder.’
‘He didn’t do it,’ I said.
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Absolutely.’ And having said that, I sat back, wondering why I’d said it, why I was so certain?
‘I’m glad,’ Hal said. ‘Because, you know, all the time you were in the witness box, I was conscious that you were defending him. You were selecting your evidence, keeping things back, and at times you were a little scared. Oh, you needn’t worry. I don’t think anybody else noticed it. I noticed it because I know you and because at Peter Port, when you’d had less time to think it all out, you were so obviously covering up.’ He paused and sipped his port. ‘Go carefully, though,’ he added. ‘I know Lionel Falcett. Member of my club. Seen him in action, too. Don’t let him get his claws into you.’
The Wreck of the Mary Deare Page 16