by Ann Bridge
He was just in time for lunch, and told Mrs. Hathaway that the burial could take place as soon as they could arrange it with the parson.
‘Oh, what a comfort!’ the old lady said. ‘Thank you, Philip.’
‘I think you’ll like the graveyard,’ he said. ‘Of course they’ve had to open a new extension, but it’s a rather sweet place, full of such touching memorials—there is one stone to an unidentified seaman who was washed up, with just the date of burial and the words—“Known to God”.’
‘How lovely!’ Julia said; Mrs. Hathaway, like Mrs. Hicks at the inquest, wiped her eyes.
Halfway through the meal, not in the least to Philip’s surprise, one of the receptionists came into the dining-room to say that someone wanted to see him at once.
‘Is it a sailor?’ Jamieson asked.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well take him into the bar and give him a beer, and say that Colonel Jamieson will be with him in five minutes. Waiter!’ Philip said. ‘Let me have some cheese and biscuits at once, without waiting for the ladies, and coffee too—I’ve got to go out.’
Julia was looking out of the window. The Zennor Hotel stands high enough to command a view of a good part of the outer harbour, and she could see the naval patrol-boat lying there, flying the White Ensign—she guessed why ‘a sailor’ should want to see Philip, but said nothing. Jamieson hurriedly swallowed down the rest of his first course; he took the Coroner’s card out of his wallet, and handed it across the table to her.
‘That’s the Padre’s name and address,’ he said. ‘You’d better get hold of him this afternoon yourself; I may be out for some time.’
‘My poor Philip, why have you got to go out again?’ Mrs. Hathaway asked.
‘Oh, business,’ the Colonel said cheerfully, pouring out his coffee. He too looked out of the window, but at the sky, which was overcast—and then at his watch. Not too much daylight left; he hoped the Captain, or whatever his rank was, had had the wits to lay on the local pilot, if there was one—if not, someone from the Boatmen’s Association. He gulped down his coffee, lit a cigarette, and went out into the hall; the naval rating was waiting there for him.
‘Colonel Jamieson?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Lieutenant-Commander would be much obliged if you could come on board at once, Sir.’
‘Certainly. Sorry to keep you. I hope they gave you a drink?’
‘Yes, thank you very much, Sir.’
The patrol-boat was not very big, and Philip could not be sure if the deck onto which he stepped amounted to a quarter-deck; but as she was flying the White Ensign he gave the prescribed salute. This pleased the Lieutenant-Commander, who promptly took him below to his cabin, where a large-scale chart was spread out on the desk.
‘Now, you can tell me, I gather, just where to go.’
‘Yes—but have you got a pilot? I know the spot, but I know nothing about the way there.’
‘The pilot’s got ’flu, but we’ve routed out a fellow who’s supposed to know these waters.’
‘If he’s from the Boatmen’s Association you’re quite all right.’
The Lieutenant-Commander boomed in a main-top voice for a subordinate, who appeared instantly.
‘Find out if this acting pilot is from the Boatmen’s Association.’
‘He is, Sir,’ said the sub-lieutenant—‘I’ve been talking to him.’
‘All right.’ He turned to the chart. ‘Now, where are the doings?’
Jamieson bent over the desk. As on many charts of islands, much of the land was shown—he pointed with the butt end of his pen to the slabs below Shipman Head. ‘You land there—ten fathoms, as you see. Plenty for you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But where’s the installation?’
‘Across that gap, out on the far side.’
‘Why not go round and land from that side, and save humping the stuff across? We’ve got to take it back with us, you know.’
‘No landing-place, and probably a ten-foot swell.’ He glanced at the barometer clipped to the wall on a bracket. ‘The glass is going down, too,’ he said. ‘But why not have a word with the deputy pilot? I’m not a sailor.’
‘My orders are to let the locals in on this as little as possible. But let’s go up—you can talk to him.’
On deck an islander in a peaked cap, looking rather self-satisfied, was standing among a group of naval ratings.
‘This gentleman wants to ask you something,’ the Lieutenant-Commander said.
‘What’s that?’ the boatman enquired.
‘Would you say it was possible to land a boat anywhere on the outer side of Shipman Head?’ Jamieson asked. The local seaman looked at him pityingly.
‘Oh no—that’s quite out of the question. The only place to land on Shipman Head is on those slabs, beyond the Neck from Bad Place Hill. That’s sheltered water—any boat would be dashed to bits on the other side.’
‘Thank you,’ Jamieson said quietly; he refrained from looking at the Lieutenant-Commander. This gentleman now gave orders to proceed to sea.
‘Mr.—er—Simpson, will you go up onto the bridge with the Navigating Officer, and act as pilot? We will go to these slabs you speak of.’ He gave a sub-lieutenant the chart.
‘Well, you were quite right,’ the officer said. He glanced at Jamieson’s burberry. ‘Won’t you be cold in that thing?’ he asked, as the little vessel shot out of the harbour.
‘Yes. I’m cold now.’
‘Perkins, find a duffle-coat for this gentleman.’
Snug in the duffle-coat, Jamieson stood watching their progress; the patrol-boat was very much faster than the small local launches, and in no time they were in the narrow Grimsby Channel, between Tresco and Bryher. ‘What are those two castles?’ the Lieutenant-Commander asked.
‘The upper one is Charles’s Castle; that lower one they call Cromwell’s Castle—Admiral Blake built it.’
‘Did he now? And what’s that island to port?’
‘Hangman’s Island—the hill behind it is called Bad Place Hill.’
‘Cheerful sort of spot!’ the officer was saying, when he heard the engines slacken to half-speed, and then the anchor being let to. ‘Hullo, are we there?’
‘Yes. We land on those slabs just to the left of that gap in the rocks. By the way, your men will want some rope slings, or something of the sort, to carry the stuff in—some of it is pretty heavy.’
‘Oh, we’ve got all that, and tarpaulins to wrap it up.’
‘And picks? It’s buried, you see.’
‘Yes. I’ve detailed twelve men, and we’ve brought an electrician along, to disconnect everything.’
Those last words rang a sort of bell in Jamieson’s mind. ‘Disconnect’—yes indeed; it would be just like the Russians suddenly to plant a booby-trap of some sort, to blow up anyone who interfered with their machinery. But he left that for the moment. While two boats were lowered the Lieutenant-Commander checked his gear as it was put on board—then he spoke to Simpson.
‘Mr. Simpson, some of us are going ashore for a while. Perkins here will see that you get some refreshment.’
‘I wouldn’t be too long, Sir, if I were you. It looks like blowing up a bit.’
‘No, we shan’t be very long.’
Once the landing-party was ashore the Lieutenant-Commander spoke to a sub-lieutenant in one of the boats.
‘When you go back to the ship keep a look-out. If we’re delayed we may want the search-lights put on to help us down. I’ll give a torch-signal.’
‘Aye aye, Sir.’
‘Now, Colonel, you’re in charge. Lead on,’ he said to Jamieson.
Philip was extremely glad of the flashes which he had made on the rocks as the party stumbled and scrambled up to the gap. As before, when they reached it wind and spume hit them in the face; but this time he was able to make his way unhesitatingly to the installation. Some yards short of it he paused—that bell was still ringing in his mind.
‘I�
��d like you all to wait here for a moment,’ he said to the officer. ‘I want to have a last look round before you get going.’
‘Why?’ the Lieutenant-Commander asked impatiently. ‘We’ve not got any too much daylight left.’
‘In case there’s a booby-trap. I didn’t check for one before.’
‘Then you’d better take the boffin—he’s up in these things. Hillman!’
At the summons a small man in civilian dress, wearing thick-lensed spectacles and carrying a leather case of tools stepped forward; he was the boffin of fiction to the life, Jamieson thought, with rather wry amusement.
‘Just go with Colonel Jamieson and give this outfit the onceover,’ the officer said.
‘Very well, Sir.’
Jamieson led the little man forward and showed him the socket of the aerial, the plastic saucer over the main installation, and where the long-life batteries were situated, a few feet away.
‘Ah. Well if there’s any funny-business, it’s probably here,’ Hillman said, kneeling down beside the plastic cover. ‘P’raps you’d better stand back, Sir.’
Jamieson didn’t stand back—intensely apprehensive, he nevertheless stood and watched while the little boffin opened a pocket-knife and proceeded to slide the blade round the edge of the plastic cover; presently it encountered an obstruction—Hillman pressed his knife-blade outwards and then hard back towards himself.
‘Here we are,’ he said; ‘but I think I’ve got the plunger held. If not, Goodbye to all that! Now, Sir, could you ease that plastic thing up, so that we can see?’
Thinking that this might indeed be Goodbye to so much—Julia, his life with her in Gray’s Inn, his work—Philip very gently slid his fingers under the edge of the plastic saucer, and raised it.
‘Got ’im! Fine,’ the little man said, peering into the space beneath. ‘Could you feel in my right pocket and get out a roll of plaster? There’s a pair of scissors too—cut me off a short length. This is the tricky part.’
Jamieson did as he was told, and handed the gummy strip to the small expert, who most carefully and delicately fastened it over a minute electric switch, attached to the side of the metal case containing the satellite-tracker. This done, the boffin himself cut off a second strip of plaster, and gummed it over the first one.
‘Now we’re sound,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do but disconnect the wiring.’ He took out a powerful torch, and peered into the metal box. ‘Ah! here we are,’ he repeated. He took a pair of pliers from his tool-case, cut two wires descending from the tiny switch, and with another sort of tape insulated both ends.
‘Okay. Now their damned dynamite is as dead as mutton,’ Hillman said, raising himself.
‘How are you getting on?’ the Lieutenant-Commander called, seeing the movement.
‘Nearly ready,’ Hillman called back. He bent down again, and flashed his torch round the interior of the metal box; Jamieson, now rather less frightened, peered in too. The metal saucer with its many spikes, below the cone, left small spaces at the corners of the rectangular container; in one of these lay what looked like a small tin box, barely four inches square.
‘There’s the charge,’ Hillman exclaimed. ‘Might as well have it out. Could you steady my legs? This perishing thing is rather deep.’
Jamieson held the little boffin by the legs while he bent down.
‘Give me a pull,’ Hillman said after a moment. Jamieson hauled him out; in one hand he held the small box, with the two lengths of flex dangling from it. He carried it carefully across the rocky slope and set it on the ground some thirty yards away.
‘Okay now—come on and get going,’ Jamieson called to the Lieutenant-Commander.
The sailors came up and started prizing out the hay and cotton-waste in which the installation was embedded; two others stuffed this into sacks, while Hillman looked on.
‘Heave her out, now,’ he said at length.
The metal case with its contents was extremely heavy; in spite of the handgrips round the upper edges, it was all four men could do to raise it up out of the rocky hole. As they started wrapping it in a tarpaulin—‘Keep it right-side up,’ the boffin exclaimed sharply. ‘Here’—he took out a red pencil and wrote ‘TOP’ on the upper side of the tarpaulin bundle.
The Lieutenant-Commander started to stroll across towards the small tin box.
‘You leave that alone,’ Hillman called sharply. ‘That’s dynamite.’
‘Yes, but we can’t leave dynamite lying about,’ the officer said. He turned to Jamieson. ‘Do cattle or sheep come here?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Or tourists?’
‘One never knows where tourists will go,’ Jamieson replied indifferently.
‘Better put it in the sea, then.’ The Lieutenant-Commander walked over, picked up the box of dynamite, strolled a few yards further down the slope, and lobbed the object into the surf.
‘Lie down!’ Hillman yelled. But the officer had been a fast bowler in his day, and placed this particular ball well—a shattering roar rose from the green waters as spray was flung high into the air; but the explosion was too far off to do any harm. The Lieutenant-Commander went back and spoke to Jamieson.
‘Did you find this on the rest of the sites?’ he asked.
‘No. I must make a signal as soon as possible to warn the other parties—this is a new idea. But we can’t count on their not having planted them in other places. Everywhere else I lifted the plastic covers, and nothing happened.’
‘We’ll do that as soon as we get back. Now, what more have we got to collect?’
Raising the leaden long-life batteries was much less trouble, heavy as they were—over that rough going it needed two men to carry them. Jamieson had been worrying about how to excavate the aerial from that rocky soil, but it proved to be a telescopic affair, six four-foot sections sliding into one another, sunk between two slabs—with its metal socket it was easily pulled out from its bed of cotton-waste, disconnected from its wiring to the main box, and also wrapped in a tarpaulin and placed in a rope sling. But all this took time, and the light was fading fast as the naval party, burdened with their heavy loads, began to struggle up over the rocky ground to the gap—in fact by then it was getting too dark to see one’s way. The Lieutenant-Commander, the moment he saw the lights of his ship below him, flashed his torch; at once her searchlight spread a glorious flood of light over the wild slope.
‘Good-oh! That’s the job,’ one of the sailors exclaimed. Encouraged, they carried their burdens down to the slabs, and with some trouble got them aboard the boats which had come to meet them. Jamieson insisted on staying to supervise this process, and the Lieutenant-Commander waited with him; both boats had to make a second trip, and they went on board in the last one.
‘Get all that stuff lashed aft,’ the officer said to the sublieutenant, ‘and put an extra cover over the lot—we may get a bit of a blow round Land’s End.’
‘Aye aye, Sir.’
‘Now, Mr. Simpson, you see us back to St. Mary’s, will you?’ He turned to Jamieson. ‘Come below and have a tot. I’m perished; I don’t know about you. God, you were right about that outer shore—what a hellish place!’
‘Just round the headland from where we were it’s called Hell Bay,’ Jamieson said.
‘How right!’
Simpson had been right about the weather blowing up too; crossing ‘The Road’, the broad channel between Samson and St. Mary’s, which is completely open to the west, the small vessel was buffeted by heavy seas coming in from the Atlantic. The Lieutenant-Commander, when he felt this violent motion, left his guest to go up onto the bridge; he returned to his whisky with a satisfied expression.
‘All serene, though it’s almost a Force 8 gale already. That local chap certainly knows his stuff,’ he said. ‘Look—would you like me to send a radio signal for you? We could, of course.’
‘Thank you very much, Sir, but I think it may save time in the end if I ring the office as so
on as we get in—transferring messages from one branch to another sometimes leads to hold-ups, and I know exactly whom to contact.’
‘But our people will be handling these other sites, won’t they?’
‘Except the Irish ones. But my office will be in touch with your people, and will ring them at once—and Dublin too.’
‘Have it your own way,’ the Lieutenant-Commander said. ‘I haven’t really much of a clue as to what all this is in aid of—I was just told to come and contact you, and remove an installation, and take it to Portsmouth.’
‘Well you’ve done the removing part,’ Jamieson said, as the boat rounded the end of the long quay into the blessed shelter of St. Mary’s harbour, and the lights of Hugh Town shone in through the portholes of the cabin.
He and Simpson were put ashore; Jamieson hurried to the Post Office, which was still open, and put through a personal call to Captain Brown at his office number.
‘Brown?—Jimmy here.’
‘Has the R.N. done it’s stuff?’ Brown asked cheerfully.
‘Yes. But we found something rather nasty, and quite new— a booby-trap. You’d better get a signal off to the other parties, urgently—and to Dublin as well, of course.’
‘By booby-trap d’you mean what I think you mean?’
‘Yes. Have they all got boffins along? If not, tell them to hold everything till they’re sent up.’
‘Right—I’ll see to that. You didn’t find this set-up before?’
‘No—or I shouldn’t be here! It must be a new bright idea. But it may have been installed on the earlier places since.’
‘Quite. Now, can you come up at once? We shall want a detailed report on this; and besides, those foreign worthies are being landed this evening, and we expect them up here early tomorrow. Can you catch a boat or a plane tonight?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. The steamer sailed this afternoon, and the plane won’t be flying—we’ve got a Force 8 gale on.’