So it was arranged. Dr. Morelle brought his suitcase from the car, and was given the third guest cabin. He expressed his thanks to Aunt Edith for her hospitality by praising the amenities that she provided on her houseboat. All pretence at his having casually called at the Moya on his way to visit Professor Stenberg was forgotten. But Miss Frayle decided to make no comment upon this.
All this transpired while Aunt Edith was preparing the evening meal, with Miss Frayle dividing her time between seeing that Dr. Morelle was comfortable in his cabin and lending a hand to Aunt Edith. After Miss Frayle had taken a supper-tray along to Erica, snug and warm in bed, she, Aunt Edith and Dr. Morelle sat down to grilled cutlets and salad. Inevitably Aunt Edith managed to steer the conversation to her favourite topic, ornithology; and finally announced that directly after supper she was heading down the creek hoping to see a spoonbill.
It appeared that while Dr. Morelle and Miss Frayle had been over at Sharbridge, Jim Rayner had come aboard the houseboat with the momentous news, so far as Aunt Edith was concerned, that a pair of spoonbills had been spotted by a fisherman on the mudflats at the mouth of the creek earlier that evening.
“Is Mr. Rayner going with you?” Miss Frayle said.
Aunt Edith shook her head, as she took a mouthful of tinned peach and cream. “Gone over to Southend,” she said, “if ever he gets there in that rattletrap car of his. Won’t be back until to-morrow. He popped in to say hello to Erica, and she told me when he’d pushed off that it’s something about some poster he wants some background for. So he’s staying at Southend overnight. Rush job, apparently.”
“I’m sorry I missed him,” Miss Frayle said. “Are you going off on your own?”
“Why, want to come with me?”
Miss Frayle hesitated and glanced at Dr. Morelle, who was lighting a cigarette, Aunt Edith had just served coffee. She wondered if Aunt Edith was going to ask him to come along as well. “I wouldn’t know a spoonbill if I saw one,” she said.
“Spoonbill, sub-family Plataleinae in the ciconiiform family Ibididae,” Dr. Morelle said crisply, “and closely related to the ibises. The spoonbill is characterized by its curious bill, which is long and flat, and dilated at the end into the shape of a spoon. Hence its name. Its feet are adapted for wading, and the bird obtains its food, consisting chiefly of fish, frogs, mollusces, and crustaceans, from shallow water.” He drew at his cigarette. “The spoonbill is found in Europe and Central and South Asia, and is a visitor to Eastern England. Formerly it bred in this part of the world as well. It is a rare bird indeed.”
Miss Frayle couldn’t help bursting out laughing at the sight of Aunt Edith’s open-mouthed amazement as Dr. Morelle paraded his knowledge on the one subject which was closest to her heart. Miss Frayle was perfectly well aware that he had done it intentionally, simply to show off the far-reaching range of his erudition.
“Would you like to?” Aunt Edith started to ask him when she had recovered her astonishment sufficiently to speak, but he cut in promptly.
“The prospect of crouching in a boat, cramped and cold, frankly makes not the slightest appeal to me,” he said. “Even in the noble cause of ornithology.”
Miss Frayle thought it was rather mean of him. Aunt Edith would obviously have been terribly thrilled if he had gone along with her, and privately she thought that a little discomfort such as he had described wouldn’t do him any harm. Impulsively she offered to go with Aunt Edith herself.
“Good for you,” Aunt Edith said. “Wrap up warm and you will be all right. You might even enjoy it,” she said with a sidelong glance directed at Dr. Morelle.
Miss Frayle saw him frown, and thought for a moment he was about to say something as if to prevent her. But if any reason had occurred to him to cause him to dissuade her against going on the trip, he changed his mind. He said nothing.
Presently, Miss Frayle was changing into a pair of slacks and a heavy sweater, in readiness for her trip with Aunt Edith. She wished Dr. Morelle was going with them, this time because she rather fancied herself in her get-up, Erica having expressed her admiration for her appearance in no uncertain terms. She had called in on the other on her way up on deck, and she moved away from Erica’s dressing-table and glimpsed through the port-hole, which was shoulder high, the surface of the water. Hardly a ripple on it, blobs of flotsam and jetsam slipped past, a white mist was beginning to hang above the marsh. She experienced a faint pang as Erica expressed her pleasure at the fact that she wouldn’t be left alone on board the houseboat. “Jolly nice to know,” she said, “that Dr. Morelle’s around in case.”
Miss Frayle noticed that Erica was looking extremely pretty as she sat up in her berth, an attractive stole over her slim sunburned shoulders. She couldn’t resist hoping that Dr. Morelle would find something to occupy his full attention while she and Aunt Edith were away, and that he wouldn’t think it necessary to call in to see if Erica was all right, didn’t require her temperature taking, or anything like that.
Not, of course, that Dr. Morelle would notice how attractive Erica looked. He never noticed that about any woman. Except, perhaps that lovely young countess some while ago, who’d given him that gold cigarette-case. Miss Frayle gave a little heartfelt sigh. Anyway, she decided, she was going to do her best not to let Aunt Edith spend too long spying on the blessed spoonbills.
Up on deck, Miss Frayle found that Aunt Edith had brought the dinghy alongside and she was already in it, waiting. She was obviously in her element as she looked up at Miss Frayle. She was wearing her canvas trousers belted round her ample waist, canvas shoes, and a heavy sweater. Around her neck in their case swung a pair of binoculars and on the stem thwart was her camera. An outboard motor was clamped on to the transom, but tipped forward so that the propeller was clear of the water.
Aunt Edith pulled the stern painter free of the Moya’s rail. “Okay,” she said. “Down you come. Dr. Morelle’s got some binoculars for you.”
Miss Frayle turned to him as he stood there with another pair of Aunt Edith’s binoculars also in their case, ready to hand to her. She had a mental vision of her dropping them into the water, and as she hesitated, another image swiftly rose upon her mind. It was that of Dr. Morelle left behind and Erica downstairs, calling him to find some excuse to visit her. She decided he ought to have something to do to occupy his mind. She shook her head at the glasses.
“You keep them,” she said. “It’ll give you something to do.” She hadn’t meant to say that, it just slipped out. But still he couldn’t know what was in her mind. Dr. Morelle merely shrugged and bent what she felt positive was a faintly sardonic expression upon her as she stepped over the rail and on to the accommodation ladder clamped to the side of the hull. She went down gingerly and stepped into the dinghy. Aunt Edith slipped the for’ard painter and shoved away from the Moya with the handle of an oar. The dinghy was caught up in the main stream of the tide and glided gently down the creek.
“Not much water alongside now,” Aunt Edith said. She put the blade of her oar over the stern to straighten the dinghy on its course in the tide. “You get on the middle thwart. Don’t stand up.” Her tone was warning. “Now take up the other oar, we’ll use them as paddles.” She brought her own oar to the side as Miss Frayle obeyed.
“Aren’t you going to use the outboard?”
“Scare every bird for miles with that racket? I brought it to bring us back.” She suddenly smiled. “Paddling won’t wear out all your strength. Tide’ll do the work. Just need to keep her in the stream.” She dug in her oar to correct the head of the dinghy.
The boat was quite roomy, it rode steadily, its wide beam making a good stabilizer without detracting too much from its lightness and pace.
Soon the old jetty and the Moya were lost from sight round the first bend in the creek, and Dr. Morelle who had been looking at them through the binoculars turned his attention to the scene about him.
They were Solaross binoculars, and Dr. Morelle handled them appreciatively. Gli
nting black die-cast light alloy body in the vulcanized leather-grained rubber covering, with large comfortable eyecups and an adjustable compensating eyepiece, with finger-tip centre screw focusing. The coated prisms securely retained by a lock-set feature, ensuring perfect collimation, and the 35mm coated object glasses meant maximum light gathering-power, the precision hinges accurate alignment.
It was approaching twenty minutes past seven o’clock when Dr. Morelle, after idly searching the vicinity with the glasses from the Moya’s deck was attracted by a movement in the direction of The Wildfowler. Casually curious he brought the binoculars to bear on the two figures which had appeared from the inn. He held them steadily in the object glasses. One was a dark girl whom he did not recognize.
He knew the man beside her, however, he knew him all right.
A short while later Dr. Morelle had called out to Erica Travers that he was going ashore for a few minutes to buy some cigarettes from The Wildfowler, and he was proceeding with a leisurely air along by the side of the creek to-wards the inn. He paused a couple of times to look across the water as if something on the further side in the marsh had caught his attention. But he was pausing merely to give the impression to any watchful eye that he was bent on no serious purpose in his casual approach.
Now he was observing that the weatherboarding outside the inn was in need of paint, the hot sun and salt air had eaten into the window-sills and sashes. Even the sign wore an impoverished and neglected air. There was no bright tone of welcome anywhere and the place appeared deserted.
Dr. Morelle noticed the policeman on his bicycle. The policeman had paused and was looking at him as he opened the door and stepped into the uncomfortable saloon-bar. It was empty. There was some dirty sawdust on the boards, an oil lamp stood on the counter and had not been lighted. The evening light was fading outside and lengthened the shadows in the room. He could hear men’s voices but no one came to serve him. He moved to the bar and leaning over the counter looked along the passage. The voices were louder, but he couldn’t distinguish the conversation. Customers and the landlord, he presumed. He lit a Le Sphinx and waited, his eyes fastened on the open doorway. It was not a long wait. The conversation ceased and there was a movement along the passage. The man came to the door. He was short, thin, his face in shadow, but Dr. Morelle recalled the thin hair, the greyish features, the prominent forehead.
“It’s a trifle dark in here,” he said.
The other muttered something and struck a match, coming forward to set the lamp wick aflame. Dr. Morelle whistled casually to himself. It was half under his breath, but the man before the oil-lamp seemed to freeze. Then he thrust in the glass and held up the lamp in the grip of his spatulate fingers, throwing the rays of light across Dr. Morelle’s face.
“I fear I may have troubled you unnecessarily,” he said smoothly. “I wondered if you had a telephone I might use?”
The man stared at him. After an effort he found his voice. “No phone here.”
An enigmatic smile flickered across Dr. Morelle’s lips. He nodded lightly and turned and went out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THERE WAS NO wind. The mist was rising around them, narrowing their horizon to a white circle that melted away upwards into the sky. Faint streaks of cloud floated lower towards the west. The strange solitude of the marsh in the hush of the oncoming night was pierced only by the gentle splash of the oars and the intermittent call of wildfowl beyond the walls of the creek.
Miss Frayle watched the ripples fold away from the dinghy until they spent themselves on the shelving mudflats on either side. As far as she could make out it was Aunt Edith’s plan to get in close to the sedges that ran out over the mudspit forming the eastern point at the creek mouth. Beyond this the river stretching wide on its way to the sea, but uncovering extensive mudflats at low tide.
Here, according to Aunt Edith, was one of the feeding-grounds, and it was here that the spoonbills had been observed. As they neared their objective Miss Frayle felt a thrill of excitement, and found herself looking ahead for the point at more frequent intervals.
They left the Dormouse which the receding tide was quickly uncovering to port, and Aunt Edith steered the boat in towards the line of sedges that ran out from the bank like a miniature pier. Beyond, the river and great stretches of mud came into view, and Miss Frayle was sure she could see some birds wading at the tideline.
As they approached the sedges a bird suddenly arose, its startled call a shrill piping sound which died away as it winged over the river wall and across the marsh.
“Blast,” Aunt Edith said, scowling ferociously.
“Was that a spoonbill?” Miss Frayle said.
“Redshank,” Aunt Edith said with a growl. “It’ll disturb all the others.”
She gave another stroke with her paddle and the dinghy drifted in among the willowy sedge and tall reeds. “Hope it hasn’t scared off everything on the flats. Quiet,” she said, pushing with the oar, and the dinghy rustled in between the thick growth and they were almost hidden from view.
Aunt Edith came for’ard, binoculars in her hand, and raising herself, peered over the reeds focusing the glasses on the mudflat beyond. Miss Frayle was looking in the same direction and even with the naked eye could see the long, spindle legs of the waders dipping their long slender beaks into the ooze at the tideline, in search of choice morsels of food. A small flock of birds came across the river, circled and dropped down at the edge of the tide.
“What about them?” Miss Frayle said.
Aunt Edith focused her glasses.
“Look like dunlin.” She considered for a moment. “Should have thought they would have left our shores by this time. They call in on their passage north. May is the month to see them.”
“Any sign of the spoonbills?” Miss Frayle said.
“I’m watching,” Aunt Edith moved to the thwart and quietly stood on it. “Ah.” It was a taut whisper. Miss Frayle dared not speak. At last Aunt Edith stepped down and handed the glasses to Miss Frayle. “Like to take a peep? There’s a pair of them on the spit just the other side.”
Miss Frayle got up carefully and took the glasses.
“Stand on the thwart or you won’t see,” Aunt Edith said. “Sedge darn near blocks them from view. Wonder if I might try for a photo?”
Miss Frayle got up on the seat and focused the glasses on the spot indicated. Two long-legged birds walked about the mud at the edge of a little pool the tide had left. Miss Frayle recalled Dr. Morelle’s description of the spoonbill. Each bird had a large, broad bill flattened out at the end to give it a spoon-like appearance. They seemed to use these as a sieve through which they sifted the tiny forms of marine life from the ooze. Miss Frayle found herself smiling in amusement as she watched their heads moving from side to side as they fed.
Aunt Edith anxious for her photograph while there was some light left, had found a spot into which she thought she could manoeuvre the boat to give her the opportunity of getting a picture. Under her guidance and with strict instructions for complete silence she and Miss Frayle began to push the dinghy from their bed in the reeds towards a little channel, no wider than a ditch, that cut in almost as far as the mudspit. Here, screened by a thin reed fringe, they would have the spoonbills in view without being seen themselves.
As the dinghy floated clear, guided by Aunt Edith’s oar which stirred up the thick mud visible less than a foot below them, she indicated a bent stem of wood, like a slender branch of a tree, sticking up out of the water.
“When we get round, grab it,” Aunt Edith said in a whisper. “Hold on to it and keep the boat steady while I shoot.”
Miss Frayle pushed her horn-rims firmly into position on her nose and got ready to reach out. Aunt Edith used the oar again, careful not to make a splash, and the dinghy swung round gently towards the stem of wood. Miss Frayle made a grab for it and holding on to it from the bow, the tide slowly pushed the dinghy’s stern round until they were nestling on the edge of the
channel against the reeds. Aunt Edith threw a calculating eye at the light, muttered something to the effect that everybody should keep their fingers crossed, and picked up the camera, and knelt on the stem thwart all set to take her shot.
It was then that Miss Frayle saw it. She thought it was a bundle of clothes. It was floating, strangely still, caught up in the reeds, a few feet from the little channel.
Then some trick of the tide caused the thing to spin, so that the face showed uppermost. The eyes seemed to look straight at her.
Miss Frayle’s scream startled the spoonbills and they immediately took wing; but they were forgotten in the horror and excitement as Aunt Edith quickly pushed the dinghy across the few feet of water for a closer look. It was a man, dressed in trousers and a shirt. Once more the movement of the water as the dinghy approached caused the body to twist uncannily. The face seemed to turn away as if coyly hiding from sight, and the dark, watery hole in the back of the head became visible. But before the body rolled over, Miss Frayle, gasping in horror, had time to see that it was the same man she had seen at the hoop-la stall at Southend Kursaal, and whose photo had been in the newspapers.
Johnny Destiny, or it had once been.
Chapter Twenty-Five
FOR ALONG time after the door closed on the dark, forbidding figure Danny Boy didn’t move. He remained there, his body pressed against the bar, one hand sticky with sweat splayed on the counter, the other still holding the lamp. The flame flickered as the lamp trembled in his hand.
First Johnny Destiny, and now this.
His world was crumbling about his ears.
He heard the voices of his customers in the other bar, but they meant nothing to him. Even when the voices were raised noisily, demanding service, Danny Boy did not stir. His limbs as well as his brain seemed numbed. A lassitude crept over him, so that he no longer cared what happened any more. To the pub, the customers, to him. Even to Lucilla. The voices from the bar again, shouting for him to come and pull another pint. He let them shout and grumble on, until with puzzled mutterings, they went, their heavy boots scraping on the floor. The voices passed and dwindled away on the evening air. Then silence engulfed The Wildfowler.
Dr Morelle and Destiny Page 15