‘Yes, that’s true.’ Mike took the envelope from me, frowning and turning it over in his hand. ‘Odd that he should have failed to collect it. It’s almost as though he’d forgotten all about it.’
I nodded slowly. And then I went up on deck and lit the riding light. It wasn’t really necessary; we were the only boat in the anchorage, and nobody was likely to come in on such a reeking night. But it gave me something to do. I lit a cigarette. It was quite dark now and we lay in a little pool of light, hemmed in by the iridescent curtain of the drizzle. The wind seemed to have died away. The water was very black and still. No ripples slapped against the topsides. The only sound was the faint murmur of wavelets on the beach. I stood there, smoking in the feeble glow of the riding light and wondering what the hell I was going to do with all that money. If I took it to the authorities, I should have to account for my possession of it. Or should I send it anonymously to form the basis of a fund for the dependents of those who had lost their lives? I certainly couldn’t send it to his mother, and I was damned if I was going to return it to the Dellimare Company.
I stayed there, thinking about it, until my cigarette was a sodden butt. I threw it in the water then and went below. Mike was checking over one of the aqualungs. ‘Care for a drink?’ I asked him.
He nodded. ‘Good idea.’
I got out the bottle and the glasses.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just sat there with my drink and a cigarette, going over the whole thing in my mind. We sat for a long time in silence.
I don’t know who heard it first, but we were suddenly staring at each other, listening. It came from the bows, a sort of splashing sound. ‘What is it?’ Mike had got to his feet. The splashing ceased and then footsteps sounded on the deck above our heads. They came slowly aft, whilst we stood waiting, frozen into immobility. They reached the hatch. The cover was slid quietly back and bare feet appeared, followed by dripping trouser legs and then the body of a man all sodden with water; he was standing suddenly at the foot of the ladder, blinking in the light, his face pale as death, his black hair plastered to his skull and water streaming from his clothes on to the grating.
‘Good God!’ I breathed. I was too astonished to say anything else. He was shivering a bit and his teeth were chattering, and I stood there, staring at him as though he were a ghost. ‘If somebody would lend me a towel . . .’ Patch began to strip off his wet clothes.
‘So Higgins was right,’ I said.
‘Higgins?’
‘He said you’d make for Sea Witch.’ And then I added, ‘What have you come here for? I thought you were dead.’ God! I almost wished he were as I realised the impossible position he’d put me in. ‘What the devil made you come here?’
He ignored my outburst. It was as though he hadn’t heard or had shut his mind to it. Mike had found him a towel and he began to dry himself, standing naked, his hard, sinewy body still brown with the heat of Aden. He was shivering and he asked for a cigarette. I gave him one and he lit it and started to dry his hair. ‘If you think we’re going to slip you over to France, you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘I won’t do it.’
He looked at me then, frowning a little. ‘France?’ The muscles of his jaw tightened. ‘It’s the Minkies I want to get to,’ he said. ‘You promised to take me there. You offered me your boat.’ A sudden urgency was in his voice.
I stared at him. Surely to God he didn’t still want to go out to the Minkies? ‘That was last night,’ I said.
‘Last night—tonight . . . what difference does it make?’ The pitch of his voice had risen. He had stopped towelling himself and suddenly there was doubt in his face. It was as though he had come here in the certainty that when he had arrived everything would be all right, and suddenly he knew it wasn’t.
‘You probably don’t know it,’ I said, trying to soften the blow, ‘but there’s a warrant out for your arrest.’
He showed no surprise. It was as though he had expected it. ‘I was walking for a long time last night,’ he said, ‘trying to make up my mind. In the end I knew I’d never reach the Mary Deare if I went into that court this morning. So I came here. I walked from Swanage and I’ve been up on the hills half the day, waiting for it to get dark.’
‘Have you seen a paper?’ I asked him.
‘No. Why?’
‘The Mary Deare has been located and a French salvage company is endeavouring to refloat her. A full examination is to be made of the wreck, and if you think there’s any point—’
‘A full examination.’ He seemed shocked. ‘When?’ And then he added, ‘It was announced in court, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who told them where the ship was. Did Gundersen?’
‘Gundersen? No. It was the Harbour Master at St Helier reporting to the Receiver of Wreck. I imagine a Jersey Island fisherman sighted the wreck. He must have seen the salvage people working on her.’
‘That’s all right.’ He seemed relieved. ‘But we’ll have to hurry.’ He picked up the towel. ‘Have you got a drink?’
I reached into the locker and got him the rum bottle and a glass. His hands shook as he poured it out. ‘I’ll need some clothes, too.’ He knocked the drink back at one gulp and stood gasping for breath. ‘Now that they know there’s going to be an official examination of the boat, we’ll have to move fast.’
Mike had produced some clothes out of a locker. He put them on the table and Patch picked up a vest. ‘How soon can you leave?’ he asked.
I stared at him. ‘Don’t you understand?’ I said. ‘There’s a warrant out for your arrest. I can’t possibly take you.’
He was halfway into the vest and he stopped, his eyes fixed on me. For the first time, I think, he realised that we weren’t going to take him. ‘But I was relying on you.’ His tone was suddenly desperate. And then he added angrily, ‘It was only yesterday you offered to take me. It was the one chance and—’
‘But you didn’t accept it,’ I said. ‘You told me it was too late.’
‘So it was.’
‘If it was too late then,’ I said, ‘it’s certainly too late now.’
‘How could I accept your offer? They were going to arrest me. I was quite certain of that, and if I’d gone back into that court this morning—’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Can’t you see you’ve put yourself in an impossible situation?’ I leaned forward, determined to get at the truth. ‘You’ve got the police hunting for you now—everybody against you. What in God’s name made you decide to run for it?’
He pulled the vest down over his head and came to the edge of the table, leaning down over it. ‘Something I learned last night—something that made me realise I had to get out to the Mary Deare as soon as possible.’ There was silence for a moment, whilst we looked at him, waiting. And then he said, ‘That salvage company—it’s under contract to the Dellimare Company.’
‘How do you know?’ It seemed the wildest piece of guesswork. ‘How can you possibly know when it’s only just been announced that a salvage company is working on the wreck?’
‘I’ll tell you.’ He began to get into the rest of Mike’s clothes. ‘Last night, when I got back to my rooms—I went up and got my coat. I was going for a walk—to think things over. And outside—I found Janet—Miss Taggart—waiting for me there in the street. She’d come . . .’ He gave a quick shrug. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter, but it made a difference. I knew she believed in me then, and after that I searched the pubs all through the dock area. I was certain I’d find Burrows in one of them. He couldn’t keep away from the booze so long as he had money. And he had money all right. I found him down in the old part of the town, and he told me the whole thing—drunk and truculent and full of confidence. He hated my guts. That’s why he told me about the salvage company. He was gloating, knowing I’d never prove anything after they’d sunk her. And all because I’d told him he was incompetent and that I’d see
to it he never had charge of an engine-room again.’
He paused and took a quick drink. The wind was rising, and in the silence the sound of it whining through the rigging was suddenly loud. Then he pulled on Mike’s sweater and came and sat down opposite me. He was still shivering. ‘Higgins must have worked out the course of our drift for Gundersen. Anyway, they were convinced she was on the Minkies and they chartered a boat and went over there. And when they’d found her, Gundersen signed up this French outfit to salvage her.’
‘But what difference does that make to you?’ Mike asked. ‘It’s perfectly natural for the Dellimare Company to want to salvage her.’
Patch turned on him, his lips drawn back in a smile. ‘They’re not going to salvage her,’ he said. ‘They’re going to have the French pull her off and then they’re going to sink her in deep water.’
I saw Mike looking at him as though he were crazy and I said, ‘Do you seriously imagine they could get away with that?’
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘But no salvage company—’
‘It’s nothing to do with the salvage company. But the contract is for refloating and towing the hulk to Southampton, and Higgins and Burrows will be on board the tow. Gundersen will insist on that. And with those two on board, it’s simple. Burrows has only got to open the sea cocks and the Mary Deare will quietly founder at the end of her tow line. They’ll wait till they’re past the Casquets, I imagine, and sink her in the Hurd Deep. She’ll go down in sixty fathoms or more, and everybody will think it a stroke of bad luck and put it down to the state of the hull after being pounded for a couple of months on the Minkies.’ He turned and stared at me. ‘Now perhaps you understand. I’ve got to get out to her, Sands. It’s my only hope. I must have proof.’
‘Of what?’ Mike demanded.
He looked from one to the other of us, a quick, uncertain movement of the eyes. ‘I must know for certain that there was an explosion in those for’ard holds.’
‘I should have thought that was a matter for the authorities,’ Mike said.
‘The authorities? No. No, I must be certain.’
‘But surely,’ I said, ‘if you went to the authorities and told them the truth . . . if you told them about Dellimare’s offer—’
‘I can’t do that.’ He was staring at me and all the vitality in his eyes seemed to have burned itself out.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Why not?’ His eyes dropped and he fiddled with his glass. ‘You were with me on that ship,’ he whispered. ‘Surely to God you must have guessed by now.’ And then he added quickly. ‘Don’t ask me any more questions. Just take me out there. Afterwards . . .’ He hesitated. ‘When I know for certain—’ He didn’t finish, but looked directly at me and said, ‘Well? Will you take me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But you must realise it’s impossible now.’
‘But—’ He reached out his hand and gripped hold of my arm. ‘For Christ’s sake! Don’t you understand? They’ll refloat her and then they’ll sink her out in deep water. And after that I’ll never know . . .’ He had a beaten look and I was sorry for him. And then a spark of anger showed in his eyes. ‘I thought you’d more guts, Sands,’ he said, and his voice quivered. ‘I thought you’d take a chance—you and Duncan. God damn it! You said you’d take me.’ He was coming up again, the muscles of his arm tightening, his body no longer sagging . . . unbelievably there was strength in his voice again as he said, ‘You’re not scared, are you, just because there’s a warrant out for my arrest?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It isn’t only that.’
‘What is it then?’
I reached across the table for the envelope. ‘This for one thing,’ I said and I threw it down on the table in front of him so that the fivers spilled out of it and lay there, white and crisp, black-inked like funeral cards. ‘You let me bring that back for you, not knowing what it was.’ I watched him staring down at them uncomfortably and I went on, ‘Now suppose you tell us the truth—why you took that money, why you didn’t tell the Court about Dellimare’s offer.’ I hesitated, still staring at him, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘You took that money from his cabin after he was dead, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ His voice sounded weary, exhausted.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ He lifted his eyes then, staring straight at me, and they were suddenly the eyes of the man I had first met on the Mary Deare. ‘Because it was there, I suppose. I didn’t reckon it belonged to him any more . . . Oh, I don’t know.’ He was frowning, as though trying to concentrate on something that didn’t interest him. He seemed to be lost in some private hell of his own creation. ‘I suppose I was a fool to take it. It was dangerous. I realised that afterwards. But at the time . . . well, I was broke, and when you know you’ve got to fight a company to prove you did your best to bring a ship home that they didn’t want brought home . . .’ He let it go at that, his mind still on something else.
‘Is that why you didn’t tell the Court about Dellimare’s offer?’ I asked.
‘No.’ He got suddenly to his feet. ‘No, it wasn’t that.’ He stood for a moment looking out through the open hatch and then he came back to the table. ‘Don’t you understand yet?’ His eyes were fixed on my face. ‘I killed him.’
‘Dellimare?’ I stared at him in shocked silence.
‘He didn’t go overboard,’ he said. And then, after a pause, he added, ‘His body is still there on the Mary Deare.’
I was so staggered I could think of nothing to say. And then suddenly he began to pour out the whole story.
It had happened on the night of the gale, just after the fire in the radio shack had been reported to him. He had gone out on to the wing of the bridge, to see whether the fire could be tackled from there, and he’d seen Dellimare making his way aft along the upper deck. ‘I’d warned him I’d kill him if I found him trying to monkey with the ship. There was no reason for him to be going aft.’ He had rushed down from the bridge then and had reached the after end of the deck just in time to see Dellimare disappearing through the inspection hatch of Number Four hold. ‘I should have slammed the lid shut on him and left it at that.’ But instead he’d followed Dellimare down into the hold and had found him crouched by the for’ard bulkhead, his arm thrust down into the gap between the top case of the cargo and the hull plates. ‘I can remember his face,’ he breathed. ‘Startled and white as hell in the light of my torch. I believe he knew I was going to kill him.’
Patch’s voice trembled now as he relived the scene that had been pent-up inside him too long. Dellimare had straightened himself with a cry, holding some sort of cylinder in his hand, and Patch had moved in with a cold dynamic fury and had smashed his fist into the man’s face, driving his head back on to the steel of the hull, crashing it against an angle iron. ‘I wanted to crush him, smash him, obliterate him. I wanted to kill him.’ He was breathing heavily, standing at the end of the table, staring at us with the light shining down on his head deepening the shadows of his face. ‘There were things happening to the ship that night—the for’ard holds flooding, the fire in the radio shack, and then that little rat going down into the hold . . . and all the time a gale blowing hurricane force. My God! What would you have done? I was the captain. The ship was in hellish danger. And he wanted her wrecked. I’d warned him . . .’ He stopped abruptly and wiped his forehead.
Then he went on, more quietly, describing what had happened after Dellimare had crumpled up, lying in a heap on one of the aero engine cases with blood glistening red in his pale thin hair. He hadn’t realised he’d killed him—not then. But the anger had drained out of him and somehow he had managed to get him up the vertical ladder to the deck. He had nearly been knocked down by a sea that had come surging in-board, but he had made the ladder to the upper-deck. That way he wouldn’t meet any of the crew. But when he had almost reached the bridge housing the lights shining out of the after portholes showed him Dellimare’s head and he knew then
that the man was dead. ‘His neck was broken.’ He said it flatly, without emotion.
‘But surely you could have said he’d had an accident—fallen down the hold or something?’ I suggested. I was remembering the coal dust and the sound of shifting coal in the bunker, knowing what was coming.
He reached for the packet and lit a cigarette. Then he sat down opposite me again. ‘I panicked, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Poor devil, he wasn’t a pretty sight—all the back of his head smashed in.’ He was seeing the blood and the lolling head again, and the sweat glistened on his forehead. ‘I decided to dump him over the side.’
But he had set the body down to examine it and when he bent to pick it up, he’d seen Higgins coming out through the starboard doorway from the bridge-housing. He hadn’t dared carry the body to the rail then. But just beside him the hatch of the port bunkering chute stood open for some strange reason and, without thinking, he pitched the body down the chute and slammed the lid on it. ‘It wasn’t until hours later that I realised what I’d done.’ He took a pull at his cigarette, dragging at it, his hands trembling. ‘Instead of getting shot of the man, I’d hung his body round my neck like a millstone.’ His voice had fallen to a whisper and for a moment he sat in silence. Then he added, ‘When you came on board, I’d slung a rope ladder down into that bunker and was in there, trying to get at the body. But by then the rolling of the ship had buried him under tons of coal.’
There was a long silence after that and I could hear the wind in the rigging, a high, singing note. The anchor chain was grating on the shingle as the boat yawed. And then, speaking to himself, his head lowered: ‘I killed him, and I thought it was justice. I thought he deserved to die. I was convinced I was saving the lives of thirty odd men, my own included.’
And then he looked at me suddenly. ‘Well, I’ve told you the truth now.’
I nodded. I knew this was the truth. I knew now why he had to get back there, why he couldn’t reveal Dellimare’s offer to the Court. ‘You should have gone to the police,’ I said, ‘as soon as you reached England.’
The Wreck of the Mary Deare Page 20