He supposed that if it hadn’t been for Johnny Destiny’s arrival out of the blue, shattering the calm of his existence, he would have noticed what he now recalled to mind. A car and some visitors to that houseboat beyond the jetty. He would have paid more attention to the sight of strangers, even though it was not an unusual event this time of the year; the owners of the two or three boats in the creek often had friends down during the summer months. He’d taken no interest, except when the odd new face had come into the bar to be served.
He moved restlessly, a long shuddering sigh hissed through his tight teeth. He had to keep a grip on himself. He mustn’t panic for Lucilla’s sake. There still might be a way out. But there wasn’t much time. He set down the lamp and twisted round at the sound of footsteps behind him. It was Lucilla returned. He began to think up something to say to her, to prepare her for the course of action he must take. And then it occurred to him that it was only her footsteps.
Where was Johnny Destiny? He had watched her go out with him, where was he now?
“Lucilla,” he called, his voice sounded dry and harsh to his ears. She appeared out of the gloom in the doorway, and he put down her deathly pallor to the shadows about her. The old pub seemed a web of shadows this evening, he thought. His mind was so choked with his own apprehensions that her manner, the tremor in her voice as she spoke to him escaped his notice.
“What is it?” she said.
He moved to her and took her hands in his, they were icy cold, and he peered at her sharply. “Where is he?” he said, “I’ve got news for him.” His mouth set in a bitter line. He seemed to weaken suddenly, to lurch forward so that she put out her hand to steady him. She moved closer to him.
“What —? What is it? Are you ill?”
“I got to be going,” he said. She stared at him, her dark eyes dilated. “Something’s happened, it looks like these parts aren’t so healthy any more.”
“You mean they —?”
“They’ve caught on,” he said.
Her reaction took him aback. She gave a sharp cry as if a knife had twisted in her heart, so that he stared at her in perplexity. It was as if she was someone he didn’t know, a stranger. He was seeing her more clearly. Something in her attitude and her voice, and he sensed she was preparing him for a fresh shock. “You mean they know?” she said, in a gasp of horrified disbelief.
“Know what?” his voice was rasping, a score of speculations, doubts and a flood of suspicion swept over him.
“About him,” she said. She jerked her head back in the direction from whence she had come.
“Johnny?” His gaze narrowed. His boney forehead pushed forward at her. “Where is he?”
It was then that she completely broke down. Clinging to him desperately, she told him in terror-stricken whispers what had happened, what she had done, while incredulity filled his face. Beneath the impact of her words which welled up from within her, his brain reeled. Now the bad dream had become a nightmare so black it was unendurable. Only he must endure it, he must fight a way out of the meshes of disaster which had trapped him and the broken creature in his embrace.
Now he was trying to soothe her with inadequate phrases, while he tried to recover from the shock of the picture she had depicted for him, the picture in which she had deliberately lured Johnny Destiny on to his doom. She had got hold of the gun and put a bullet through the back of his head. This she had done for his sake, whose secret, whose guilt and sinister past she had known all the time. He tried to tell her that she had acted madly, that it was not the way out for them, that violence and death never did pay off. He found it impossible to believe that she could have done it.
They stood there for what seemed an æon in the silent inn, oblivious to everything while he questioned her, and she answered him as best she could. There was no doubt from what she said that Johnny Destiny had collected. She described graphically the sight of him stretched out in the water, a hole blown in the back of his head. He felt no pity for Johnny Destiny. All his mind was given to recovering from these double blows that had jolted the ground from beneath his feet.
“It’s okay, Lucilla,” he said, at length, his voice hardening with bitter determination. “We’re not done for yet.”
“But what can we do?”
“Get weaving,” he said.
She raised her face to him, it was no longer the face of a young girl, no longer his daughter’s face. It was someone else who was shaking her head hopelessly.
“The boat, that’s the only chance,” he said. His confidence flowed back into him. He forced himself to believe his own words. He managed with a tremendous effort to push aside the chaos that had filled his mind as a result of Lucilla’s outpourings. He forced himself to believe that it hadn’t happened. That the Johnny Destiny part of it was all a bad dream. He glanced at the window.
“Getting dark. Fetch the boat, bring it to the wall. The place at the end of the garden. I’ll get the outboard.” His eyes were bright as he looked at her. “Grab what you want, we shan’t be coming back.”
There was nothing she needed. Nothing was worth taking, all she wanted was to get away. She gripped her father’s arm. All her affection, fear and courage was in the pressure of her hand.
“I’ll fetch the boat,” she said.
She went out and along the back of the inn towards the edge of the creek. There was no one about, no one had come to the inn, it was as if the last customers had warned anyone else that the landlord had gone out of his senses, and wouldn’t serve a drink. The first fingers of approaching night had begun to wrap its cloak of darkness over the marsh and water. They must get away before the moon swung up into the sky and revealed their flight.
She felt calmer, as if what she had done was something she could push aside while she got on with what she had to do now. The need for action, for decision and effort lifted the numbing horror from her mind. She felt no more fear now, only a cool determination. She had confidence in her father, she didn’t think of failure now that he had told her what should be done. They would get away, somehow, somewhere.
She let herself quietly down the sloping grass wall of the creek to the sedge above the tideline. There was a narrow stretch of dry ground running along the base of the wall to the jetty. By keeping her head down she could gain the jetty without being seen from the road. The wooden structure and a slight curve of the bank screened her approach.
The clumsy dinghy floated a few feet out, nestling against the side of the jetty, its painter streaming in the water from the ring-bolt by the ladder. She managed to get hold of the end of the painter and pull the boat in, until she could climb in. She steadied herself in the boat and released the painter. The boat just floated. Using the oar as a pole she began pushing the dinghy down the creek. She bent as low as she could, and that way made no noise, and she kept herself hidden by the creek wall.
She went past the inn to the little spit of sedge running out from the bank below the wall. It was here her father had meant. She moved to the bow and pulled it up on to the sedge leaving only the stem in the water. She ran back up the grassy slope to the inn.
Danny had packed a canvas bag with a few things, then he went into the shed to get the petrol-can and the motor. After Lucilla had gone for the boat he had shut up the bar. He had left the lamp in the kitchen burning so as not to draw attention to the place being deserted. He’d got all the money from the till, every penny he possessed in his pockets. He came out of the shed with the petrol-can as Lucilla hurried silently back through the garden.
“The boat’s ready.”
He nodded. She took the petrol-can from him. He packed up the canvas bag and went back into the shed and took the out-board off the metal stand. The motor was an old, heavy model. He needed his two hands to carry it. He left the canvas bag and as he crossed the yard, Lucilla reappeared and he sent her to get it for him. She rejoined him and they went on down the garden together.
Lucilla took one last fleeting glance back.
She had no regrets. The inn stood gaunt, its glimmering windows staring back at her. Suddenly, it seemed evil to her, as if some black, sinister atmosphere had crept up out of the marsh and enveloped the place. She and her father had found a kind of happiness there, but there had always been fear, too, long before this horror of the last few hours. She turned and followed her father across the patch of spiky grass, up on to the wall and down on to the sedge.
The tide had crept back so that the stem of the dinghy no longer floated clear. Danny Boy waded to the stem and clamped the motor to the transom, tilting the propeller shaft upward. Quickly he greased the rowlocks and dropped them into their slots.
“Ready?” Lucilla stood, waiting to push off.
He glanced back along the wall to the jetty and beyond. Everything looked okay. He nodded to her. She threw her weight against the bow and it slipped clear, as she jumped into the boat. She moved into the stem, Danny sat on the middle thwart and took up the oars.
“We’ll row down a bit,” he said. “The noise might give us away.”
She was staring back anxiously, but there was no sign of anyone at The Wildfowler. Danny Boy rowed noiselessly through the shallows. His plan was to keep as close to the bank as possible, at the same time avoiding the main strength of the tide against which he was pulling. He was no boatman. But he’d picked up enough to know that the best way was to work with the tide rather than against it. Not that he had much choice this time.
He had used the boat in the creek before, but he’d never been tempted to go into the river. He’d never seen a chart of the estuary. If he had he couldn’t have understood it. But he knew the lie of the land from the map. If they could get down the river almost to the coast, he knew there was an inlet through the marshes on the other side which would take them to Gullsand. They could leave the boat there, and eventually make their way overland to Byerton. They would still be too near Dormouse Creek for their health, but at least they had made a start on the journey of escape.
He gave a sigh of relief as they rounded the first bend. Rowing the dinghy even though the near slack water had taken up his strength. Now the jetty, the houseboats, the few buildings making up the tiny village were hidden from view by the curve of the river wall. He felt it safe enough to start the motor.
He allowed himself a passing mental picture of the printing-press, left behind under the old church. He wondered if he ever would have used it. He had built it up there over the years, more with the idea of keeping his hand in than anything else. He had wanted to go straight, really; and yet there had been times when the old yearning had taken possession of him. Johnny Destiny had been right about that. He gave a philosophical shrug. Well, he wouldn’t be needing the press now. He gave his full concentration to the business of making a getaway.
He wasn’t to know that the press was even at this moment reposing in the police-station at Sharbridge.
He shipped the oars and stowed them under the thwarts and Lucilla changed places with him. He began winding the starting cord, the dinghy drifting slowly with the tide. He was ready to give the cord a pull when Lucilla suddenly leaned over and gripped his arm.
“What is it?” He looked back in the direction they had come. He could hear it now. It was distant, but it was the unmistakable whine of an outboard motor at full throttle. Savagely he pulled the cord and the motor surged into life, drowning the sound of the other. He settled down grimly at the tiller.
He didn’t say anything, nor did the girl.
Chapter Twenty-Six
DR. MORELLE’S REACTION to the news brought by a trembling, agitated Miss Frayle and a shocked Aunt Edith had been decisive. The final, if fatal, link had been forged which tied up Johnny Destiny with Danny Boy at The Wildfowler Inn, and the printing-press under the old church vestry. It seemed, now, that Nemesis herself had taken her part in the game and removed the necessity for the law having to settle accounts with Johnny Destiny.
Erica Travers, hearing Aunt Edith’s voice raised in horror and sensing that something was amiss, had left the comfort of her cabin and come up on deck in time to hear the account of her aunt’s and Miss Frayle’s sensational find. But Dr. Morelle had not allowed any time for excited comment and speculation. Congratulating Aunt Edith on her common-sense in not making any attempt to move the body, he had instructed her to make her way as speedily as possible to acquaint the local police-officer of what had happened. He himself would make a return visit to The Wildfowler. The dark girl he had seen with Johnny Destiny through the binoculars might have returned to the inn and would possibly have something to say respecting her companion’s sudden death. From the description of the girl he had given Miss Frayle and Erica it seemed pretty obvious that she was the one they had seen at the Southend Kursaal hoop-la talking to Johnny Destiny.
A faint light was showing through the window of the same bar where Dr. Morelle had a short while earlier confronted the landlord of the inn. Miss Frayle had resolutely insisted on accompanying him, while Erica was left to await Aunt Edith’s return. Now, with Miss Frayle following him, Dr. Morelle went inside. The bar was empty. Dr. Morelle crossed to the counter and turned up the wick of the oil-lamp burning there. It flared in its globe, throwing grotesque shadows round the room. A dull reflection of the flame flickered across the bottles on the shelf at the back, like the winking of evil, shiftless eyes. Miss Frayle felt she was allowing her imagination to get the better of her and she glanced away and saw the wildfowl in its case on the wall. It seemed to be watching her, the small beady eyes in the dark plumage followed her. In the heavy silence the ticking of a clock assumed an unnatural sound.
She followed Dr. Morelle along a narrow boarded passage, but there was no sign of the landlord or the girl. A lamp hung from the ceiling in the kitchen, throwing rays of yellow light through the open doorway into the passage. The room was empty. The furnishings were poor but tidy. A folded tablecloth lay on the table, the whole place had an air as if the occupants had deserted it abruptly and it had not yet recovered from the shock.
The passage led to the scullery. It was full of shadow. Twilight had fallen, and a bright moon had started its night-ride. It’s rays faintly pierced the gloom as Dr. Morelle crossed the brick floor to the partly open door. Miss Frayle followed close on his heels, relieved to get out of the place into the moonlight.
They stood still for a moment. Dr. Morelle stared across towards the river wall, peering into the distance.
“Do you hear anything, Miss Frayle?”
She lifted her head and listened. Through the stillness came the faint splash-splash of a boat’s oars. “It’s a boat,” she said.
But Dr. Morelle was already striding along the back of the inn up on to the wall. Miss Frayle caught up with him as he gazed towards the river. It was only a speck in the moonlight, but it was a boat. The echo of its oars sounded faintly across the marsh.
Dr. Morelle spun round, and made his way swiftly, following the wall back past the inn, and on to the road. Breathlessly, Miss Frayle chased after him, back to the Moya. Erica came out of the deckhouse as they crossed the gangplank.
“They’ve got away,” Miss Frayle said. “The inn’s deserted.”
Erica gasped and muttered something about Aunt Edith not having got back yet.
“You know the river well enough?” Dr. Morelle said to her.
“Well enough for what?”
“Well enough to keep us clear of mud-banks,” Dr. Morelle snapped.
Erica gulped at him, but already he was urging her down below, ordering her to get on her warmest clothes. “You might be of some help,” he said.
“Thanks,” she snapped back at him. Then hurried from view. Dr. Morelle had moved to the rail and over, down the ladder, into the dinghy, calling to Miss Frayle to bring the petrol-can from the deck locker. Miss Frayle collected her confused sensations and went into action. Quickly she was clambering down to the dinghy alongside, holding grimly on to the half-filled can with one hand, clinging to the ladder
with the other.
Dr. Morelle had the motor running as Erica appeared in slacks and muffled up to the ears. She stepped into the boat, and Miss Frayle cast off a bit too eagerly. The tightening painter nearly spun the bow round crashing into the hull of the houseboat. But Dr. Morelle acted in time and there was no mishap. They moved out into the creek a bit, but not so far that the motor had to fight against the full strength of the tide.
“Which way do you think they’ll go?” Erica said to Dr. Morelle.
“Down river, towards the coast,” he said. “Where else?”
“They might go straight across,” Miss Frayle said. “Land on the other side.”
“No chance of it.” Erica shook her head emphatically. “It’s marsh and creeks that way. You couldn’t get far unless you took your boat along. No, they’ll head down river, either to Gullsand on the north bank or Pinley on the south.”
Dr. Morelle nodded his agreement and Miss Frayle glanced speculatively back at their wake uncoiling behind, with its dancing reflection of the moon. “They’ve got a start on us,” she said. “They may have a motor, too.”
Dr. Morelle was staring over the bow as they cleared the first bend in the creek, as Erica said to him: “This is a powerful motor, I’ll tell you that. Three-and-a-half h.p. And a lighter boat.” As she spoke they heard a motor start up.
“We should have every chance of overtaking them,” Dr. Morelle said. He spoke confidently, turned and he sat sideways, able to see their course ahead. Miss Frayle sat sideways too, up near the bow, her eyes sweeping ahead to locate the dark streak of the Dormouse. It would be indicated by a buoy; she remembered Aunt Edith pointing it out to her. The water was flat, like a pond, tinged with a yellowish-silver, except where the shadow of the eastern wall hung over the edge of the creek. The noise of the motor drowned the rippling wash flooding the shelving mudbanks either side. The sound reverberated to and fro across the creek, setting to flight the nesting birds and wild duck over in the marsh. Above the throb of the engine and the splash of water came the warning cry of the marsh fowl as they fled wildly from the edges of the creek.
Dr Morelle and Destiny Page 16