I turned to look for Hal, but Higgins caught hold of my arm, so that I was instantly conscious of the colossal brute strength of the man. ‘I ’eard wot you said just then.’ His throaty voice was full of the smell of stale beer as he thrust his head close to mine. ‘If you think you’re goin’ ter take ’im a’t there . . .’ He checked himself quickly, his small, blood-veined eyes narrowed, and he let go of my arm. ‘Wot I mean is . . . well, you steer clear of ’im,’ he rasped. ‘’E’s a wrong ’un—yer can take my word fer it. You’ll only get yerself inter trouble.’ And he turned quickly and went ploughing off down the corridor, little Yules hurrying after him.
A moment later Hal joined me. His face was serious. ‘I’ve been talking to Lionel Falcett,’ he said, as we moved off towards the entrance. ‘It’s as I thought. They think he’s hiding something.’
‘Who—Patch?’ I was still shaken by what Higgins had said, wondering if he’d guessed that I’d been referring to the Mary Deare.
‘Yes. It’s only an impression, mind you. Lionel didn’t say anything, but . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know where Patch is staying?’ And when I nodded, he said, ‘Well, if you’re absolutely certain of the chap, I’d get hold of him and tell him what the form is. It’s the truth and the whole truth now, if he wants to keep clear of trouble. That’s my advice, anyway. Get hold of him tonight.’
We went into the pub across the road and had a drink. I phoned Patch from there. It was a lodging house down by the docks and the landlady told me that he’d come in, got his coat and gone out again. I phoned him later when we arrived at Bosham and once after dinner, but he still hadn’t returned. It worried me and, going to bed early, I found it difficult to sleep. Rain was lashing at the window and in the twilight of half-consciousness Patch and Higgins wandered through my mind. I pictured Patch walking the streets of Southampton, walking endlessly to a decision that would justify his cry that my offer was too late and leave him just something to be identified in a mortuary.
In the morning, of course, it all seemed different. The sun was shining and there was a blackbird singing, and as we drove into Southampton, the world was going about its prosaic, everyday life—delivery vans and postmen on bicycles and kids going to school. It was ten-fifteen when we reached the court. We had arrived early so that I could have a word with Patch before the Investigation was resumed. But he hadn’t arrived yet. Only a few of the witnesses were there, Higgins among them, his big body slewed round in his seat, watching the entrance.
Across the court several of the lawyers had come in and were standing together in a little knot, talking in low voices. The Press desk was filling up; the public gallery, too. Hal left me and went to his seat, and I moved out into the corridor and stood there, watching the people filing slowly in, searching for Patch amongst the faces that thronged the narrow passage-way.
‘Mr Sands.’ A hand touched my arm, and I turned to find Janet Taggart standing beside me, her eyes unnaturally large in the pallor of her face. ‘Where is he? I can’t find him.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Patch. He’s not in the courtroom. Do you know where he is, please?’
‘No.’
She hesitated, unsure of herself. ‘I’m terribly worried,’ she murmured.
I stared at her, wondering how it was she had come to share my own fears. ‘You should have thought of that before,’ I said brutally and watched the muscles of her face contract so that the features looked small and pinched. She was different now from the sunny-smiling kid of the photograph, and the light wasn’t shining on her hair any more. She looked grown up, a woman. ‘He’ll be here in a moment,’ I said more gently, trying to calm her fears, and my own.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’ She stood there, hesitating, her face taut. ‘I went to see him last night. I didn’t understand—not until I read the evidence of Higgins and the others.’ She stared at me, her eyes big and scared-looking. ‘He told me everything then. He was so—’ She stopped there with a little shrug, uncertain of herself and what she was saying. ‘You do think he’s all right, don’t you?’ And then, because I didn’t answer, she said, ‘Oh God! I could kill myself for the things I said.’ But she wasn’t speaking to me. She was speaking to herself.
I heard the court rise. The corridor was empty. There was still no sign of Patch. ‘We’d better go in,’ I said gently.
She nodded, not saying anything more, and we went into the courtroom together and took our seats. Holland was on his feet. He had a piece of paper in his hand and he turned to face Bowen-Lodge as silence descended on the room. ‘Mr Learned Chairman. I have just received information from the Receiver of Wreck to the effect that the Mary Deare is not sunk. The Harbour Master at St Helier, Jersey Island, has reported that the vessel lies stranded on the Plateau des Minquiers and that a French salvage company is endeavouring to refloat her.’
The gasp of surprise that greeted this news swept through the courtroom, gathering force as people gave voice to their astonishment. Men in the Press desk were on their feet. I caught sight of Higgins, sitting with a dazed look on his face. There was still no sign of Patch.
Bowen-Lodge leaned forward over his desk. ‘This alters the situation entirely, Mr Holland. I take it that it means that the Receiver of Wreck will be able to make a full examination of the wreck?’ And when Holland nodded, he added, ‘I presume you have discussed it with him. How long before he can report to the Court?’
‘He’s not sure about that,’ Holland answered. ‘He doesn’t yet know the exact position of the Mary Deare on the reefs nor has he any information as to the identity of the salvage company. He is making enquiries. But he informs me that the legal position may be complicated—the Minkies being part of the Channel Islands and the company concerned being French. It is a question of the Crown’s rights and the rights of the salvage company. He also stated that the tides in this area, which rise and fall by over thirty feet, made the reefs particularly dangerous and, as far as the cargo was concerned, any examination might have to wait on the successful refloating of the vessel.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mr Holland.’ Bowen-Lodge nodded and turned to his assessors. He conferred with them, heads close together, whilst the sound of people talking broke like a wave again over the court. The Press desk was empty now. ‘Well, that’s that,’ Hal whispered to me. ‘He’ll adjourn the Court now.’ And then he said, ‘Did you know she wasn’t sunk?’ And when I nodded, he said, ‘Good God man! You must be daft.’
Bowen-Lodge had separated from his assessors now and he tapped with his gavel to silence the court. ‘There are one or two questions, Mr Holland, arising out of the discovery that the ship is not sunk. Please recall your last witness.’
Holland nodded and called, ‘Gideon Patch.’
The court was still, nobody moved.
‘Gideon Patch!’ And when he still didn’t appear, Holland turned to the usher on the door and said, ‘Call Gideon Patch.’ The name was repeated, echoing in the emptiness of the corridors outside. But still nothing happened. Necks craned in the public gallery; the buzz of conversation rose again.
They waited several minutes for him, and the silence in the court was so absolute that you could almost hear the ticking of the clock. And then, after a brief discussion with the assessors, Bowen-Lodge adjourned the court for one hour. ‘At twelve o’clock please, gentlemen.’ The court stood and then everybody was talking at once, and down by the jury box Higgins, Yules and Burrows stood in a little bunch with their heads close together. And then Higgins broke away from them suddenly and came lumbering towards the door. His eyes met mine for a second, and they had the dead, flat look of a man who is scared.
The wait seemed a long one. There was no news. All we could learn was that enquiries were being made at Patch’s lodgings. ‘A fat lot of good that will do,’ was Hal’s comment. ‘A warrant and the police is the only thing now.’ We had nothing to say to each other as we waited. He had accepted Patch’s guilt as proved. Others
took the same view. Scraps of comment came to me from the waiting crowd. ‘Wot I say is, he’s no better than a murderer . . . You can always tell, old boy. It’s the eyes that give them away every time . . . And what about Dellimare and that poor Captain Taggart? . . . ’Course ’e did. Wouldn’t you do a bunk if you’d killed ’alf the crew . . .’ And all the time I was trying to reconcile the sort of man they thought he was with the man I had known on the Mary Deare.
At length the crowd began to drift back into the courtroom. As they did so a rumour ran from mouth to mouth—Patch hadn’t been seen since the previous evening. Bowen-Lodge and the assessors entered and there was silence as Holland rose to say that he regretted he was not able to produce his chief witness.
‘Have the police been requested to take action?’ Bowen-Lodge asked.
‘Yes. A search has been instituted.’ There was a moment’s silence as Bowen-Lodge fiddled with the papers on his desk.
‘Would you care to re-examine any of the witnesses?’ Holland asked.
Bowen-Lodge hesitated. He was looking over the available witnesses and for a moment I thought his cold, searching gaze was fixed on me. Finally he leaned over in conference with his assessors. I felt the shirt sticking to my body. What the hell was I going to say if he recalled me? How was I going to explain my failure to tell them the ship was on the Minkies?
The minute I was kept in suspense seemed a long time. And then Bowen-Lodge said, ‘I don’t think there is any point in recalling any of the witnesses now, Mr Holland.’ He looked up at the court. ‘In view of the fact that the Mary Deare has been located, the assessors and I are agreed that no further purpose can be served by continuing this Investigation, particularly as the chief witness is no longer available. I am, therefore, adjourning the Court indefinitely pending examination of the wreck. All witnesses are released. You will be notified in due course should further evidence be required of you. Thank you, gentlemen, for your attendance.’
It was over, the Chairman and assessors gone, the courtroom emptying. As I made my way towards the door, Higgins stepped forward, blocking my path. ‘Where is ’e?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s ’e gone?’
I stared at him, wondering why he should be so worked up over Patch’s disappearance. He ought to have been pleased. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ I asked him.
Beady eyes searched my face, peering at me over sagging pouches. ‘So you do know, eh? I said you would.’
‘As it happens,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’
‘To hell with that!’ The violence inside him bubbled to the surface. ‘You think I don’t know what yer up to—you with your boat lyin’ in Lulworth, waitin’ for ’im. Well, I tell yer, if that’s yer game, wotch a’t, that’s all.’ He stared at me, his small eyes narrowed, and then he turned abruptly and left us.
As we walked down the corridor, Hal said, ‘You’re not going to be a fool and try and slip him out of the country, are you?’ He was looking at me, his face serious, a little worried.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it ever occurred to him that that was a way out.’
He nodded, but I don’t think he was convinced. He would have pressed the point further, but as we went out into the sunshine, he was greeted by a man in a reefer with a little pointed beard and greying hair. He had a high, rather strident voice, and, as I waited, I heard him say to Hal, ‘Oh, not your type, Colonel—definitely not.’ There was something about a motor boat, and then: ‘. . . rang up about an hour and a half ago. They had her on charter a month back . . . Yes, old Griselda. You remember. Dry rot in the keel and rolls like a bastard.’ He went off with a high-pitched laugh and Hal rejoined me. Apparently the man was a yacht broker down at Bosham. ‘Odd place, this, for him to do business,’ Hal said. And then he added, ‘I wonder if it’s the Dellimare Company, chartering a boat to go out and see what the French salvage people are up to. I wouldn’t be surprised.’
We started to walk to the car and he went on talking, giving me some advice about not leaving it too late. But I was thinking of Higgins. Why had Patch’s disappearance scared him?
‘John. You’re not listening.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, that’s not surprising. Nobody listens to advice.’ We had reached the car. ‘But if it comes to a criminal case, see that you give them the full story, just as it happened. Don’t leave it to be dragged out of you in cross-examination. They’ll play hell with you and you may find yourself in real trouble.’
‘All right,’ I said.
We drove down to the police station then to see if there was any news of Patch. But all the sergeant at the desk could tell us was that he had been seen in a number of pubs in the dock area and had spent part of the night at an all-night café out on the Portsmouth road. He had got a lift about four in the morning in a truck headed back towards Southampton. They were now trying to trace the truck driver.
We hung around for a little, but there was no further news. ‘And it’s my opinion,’ the sergeant added darkly, ‘that there won’t be any—’cept for the finding of the body as you might say. The people at the café described him as desperate—looked like death, the report says.’
Hal drove me to the railway station then, and when he had gone I bought an evening paper. Without thinking I found myself looking at the forecast. Winds moderate, north-westerly. As I stood waiting for my train I was thinking of Higgins and the Dellimare Company and the fact that the Minkies were only a day’s sail from Lulworth.
Part Three
The Minkies
‘SEA WITCH! AHOY! Ahoy, Sea Witch!’
Gulls wheeled, screaming, and my voice came back to me, a lonely shout in the drizzling rain. The yacht lay motionless in the crater of the cove, the reflection of her black topsides shattered every now and then as cat’s-paws of wind riffled the mirror-surface of the water. The waves of a swell broke in the entrance and, all round, the hills loomed ghostly and grey in the mist, all colour lost, their grass slopes dropping to the dirty white of the chalk cliffs. There wasn’t a soul about.
‘Ahoy! Sea Witch!’ A figure moved on the deck, a splash of yellow oilskins; the clatter of oars and then the dinghy was coming to meet me. It grounded with a crunch on the wet shingle and I climbed in and Mike rowed me out. I was relieved to find that I didn’t have to tell him about the Enquiry; he had followed it all in the newspapers. But once we were on board with the dinghy made fast and my gear stowed, he began to ask questions—what had happened to Patch, why hadn’t he turned up at the court this morning? ‘You know they’ve issued a warrant for his arrest?’
‘A warrant? How do you know?’ I asked. I don’t know why, but it shocked me. It seemed so pointless.
‘It was on the six o’clock news.’
‘Did it say what the charge was?’
‘No. But they’ve got police checks on all the roads leading out of Southampton and they’re keeping watch on the ports.’
We discussed it during the meal. There were only the two of us. Ian had gone home to visit his people. Mike was to phone him as soon as we were ready to start operations again, but he hadn’t done so yet because the latest forecast was wind moderate north-westerly, backing westerly later and becoming fresh, with the outlook unsettled. The thing that puzzled Mike most about the whole business was why Patch hadn’t told the Court about Dellimare’s offer. Not having been present at the Enquiry, but only reading the reports, it was natural, I suppose, that he should still retain a vivid impression of Patch’s visit, and over coffee he suddenly reminded me of the package I had been given at Paimpol. ‘I suppose it couldn’t contain some vital piece of evidence?’ he said.
Until that moment I had forgotten all about it. ‘If it had,’ I said, ‘he would have asked me to produce it.’
‘Have you still got it?’
I nodded and got up and went into the after cabin. It was still there in my brief-case and I took it through into the saloon. Mike had cleared a space on the table and I
reached for a knife and cut the string, feeling as I had done during the war on the occasions when I had had to deal with the effects of some poor devil who’d been killed.
‘Looks like a book of some sort,’ Mike said. ‘It couldn’t be the log, could it?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘The log was in court.’
Inside the brown paper wrapping was an envelope. The name J. C. B. Dellimare was typed on it and below, in blue pencil, was scrawled the one word Collect. The envelope had been ripped open, the tear crossing the stamped impress of a City bank. I had a vague hope then that perhaps Mike was right—that it was some sort of an account book belonging to Dellimare or the Company, something that would reveal a financial motive. And then I slid the contents on to the table and stared incredulously.
Lying amongst the supper things was a thick wad of five pound notes.
Mike was gazing at the pile, open-mouthed with astonishment. He’d never seen so much cash in his life; neither of us had. I split it between us. ‘Count it!’ I said.
For several seconds there wasn’t a sound in the saloon except the crackle of those Bank of England notes. And when we had totalled it all up, it came to exactly £5,000, and Mike looked up at me. ‘No wonder he didn’t want to bring it out through the Customs himself,’ he said. And then, after a pause, he added, ‘Do you think he accepted Dellimare’s offer after all?’
But I shook my head. ‘If he’d accepted, why put out the fire, why beach her on the Minkies?’ I was remembering the state of that cabin when I’d gone in to help him get out the rubber dinghy. ‘No, he must have taken it afterwards—after the man was dead.’
‘But why?’
‘God knows!’ I shrugged my shoulders. There were so many things I didn’t understand. I gathered the notes together and put them back in the envelope. ‘If this were his payment for wrecking the ship,’ I said, ‘he’d have been down here to collect it the instant he landed in England.’
The Wreck of the Mary Deare Page 19