The Wreck of the Mary Deare (26 page)

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.'

‘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?'