The Wreck of the Mary Deare (11 page)

‘Yes.'

The iron-grey brows lifted slightly and then settled in a frown. ‘I understood that a Captain Taggart was master of the
Mary Deare
.'

‘Yes, he was. But he died.'

‘When was that?' There was a sharpness in the way the question was put.

‘Just after we cleared Port Said—early this month.'

‘I see.' Fraser stared at him stonily. And then, consciously relaxing: ‘Well, don't let me interrupt your meal. You must be hungry. Sit down. Sit down, both of you.' He glanced at his watch and then called to the steward to bring another cup. ‘I've just time before we go into St Malo.' He sat down, leaning his elbows on the table, his blue eyes staring at us, full of curiosity. ‘Well now, what happened, Captain Patch? The air has been thick with messages about the
Mary Deare
for the last twenty-four hours.' He hesitated, waiting. ‘You'll be glad to know that a boatload of survivors was washed up on Ile de Brehat yesterday afternoon.' Patch still said nothing. ‘Oh, come; you can't expect me not to be curious.' His tone was friendly. ‘The survivors report that there was a fire and you ordered the crew to abandon ship. That was Thursday night and yet Lowden told me—'

‘I ordered them to abandon ship?' Patch was staring at him. ‘Is that what they say?'

‘According to a French report, yes. They abandoned ship shortly after 22.30 hours. Yet at 09.30 the following morning Lowden saw the
Mary Deare
 . . .' He hesitated, silenced by Patch's hard, uncompromising stare. ‘Damn it, man!' he said in sudden exasperation. ‘What happened? Is the
Mary Deare
afloat or sunk or what?'

Patch didn't say anything for a moment. He seemed to be thinking it out. Finally he said, ‘A full statement will be made to the proper authorities. Until then—' He was still staring at Fraser. ‘Until then you'll excuse me if I don't talk about it.'

Fraser hesitated, unwilling to let it go at that. Then he glanced at his watch again, drank up his tea and rose to his feet. ‘Very proper of you, Captain,' he said, his voice formal, a little huffed. ‘Now I must go. We're just coming into St Malo. Meantime, please accept the hospitality of my ship. Anything you want, ask the steward.' As he went out, he paused in the doorway. ‘I think I should tell you, Captain, that we have a young lady on board—a Miss Taggart. She's Captain Taggart's daughter. She flew out to Peter Port yesterday, and when she heard survivors had come ashore on the coast of France, she came on with us.' He paused, and then came back a few steps into the saloon. ‘She doesn't know her father is dead. She's hoping he's amongst the survivors.' Again a slight hesitation. ‘I presume you notified the owners?'

‘Of course.'

‘I see. Well, it's a pity they didn't see fit to inform his next-of-kin.' He said it angrily. ‘I'll have my steward bring her to you.' And then in a softer tone: ‘Break it to her gently, man. She's a nice wee thing and she obviously adored her father.' He left then and a silence descended on the room. Patch was eating with the concentration of a man shovelling energy back into his body. There was nothing relaxed about him.

‘Well, what did he die of?' I asked him.

‘Who?' He looked at me with a quick frown.

‘Taggart.'

‘Oh, Taggart. He died of drink.' He resumed his eating, as though dismissing the matter from his mind.

‘Good God!' I said. ‘You can't tell her that.'

‘No, of course not,' he said impatiently. ‘I'll just tell her he died of heart failure. That was probably the medical cause anyway.'

‘She'll want to know details.'

‘Well, she can't have them.' I thought he was being callous and got up and went over to the porthole. The engines had been slowed. We were coming into the
Rade
and I could see the tourist hotels of Dinard climbing the hill from the quay, deserted and forlorn in the rain. ‘He was running around the ship, screaming like a soul in torment.' He pushed his plate away from him. ‘I had to lock him in his cabin, and in the morning he was dead.' He pulled out the packet of cigarettes he had been given and opened it with trembling fingers, tearing at it viciously. His face was deathly pale in the flare of the match.

‘D.T.s?' I said.

‘No, not D.T.s. I only discovered afterwards . . .' He dragged on his cigarette, pushing his hand up through his hair. ‘Well, it doesn't matter now.' He pulled himself to his feet. ‘We're nearly in, aren't we?'

The ship was moving very slowly now. Lock gates glided past. Boots rang on the deck overhead and there was the clatter of a donkey engine. ‘I think we're going into the basin now,' told him.

‘You're lucky,' he said. ‘You're through with the
Mary Deare
now.' He had started pacing restlessly up and down. ‘God! I almost wish I'd gone down with the ship.'

I stared at him. ‘It's true then . . . You did order the crew to take to the boats. That story about your being knocked out—'

He turned on me, his face livid. ‘Of course, I didn't order them to take to the boats. But if they stick to that story . . .' He flung away towards the other porthole, staring out at the grey daylight.

‘But why should they?' I demanded. ‘If it isn't true—'

‘What's truth got to do with it?' He stared at me angrily. ‘The bastards panicked and now they're saying I ordered them to abandon ship because they've got to cover themselves somehow. A bunch of damned cowards—they'll cling together. You'll see. When it comes to the Formal Enquiry . . .' He gave a little shrug of his shoulders. ‘I've been through all this before.' He said it slowly, half to himself, his head turned away, staring out through the porthole again at the waste ground with the rusty railway wagons. He muttered something about it being a strange co-incidence, and then a door slammed and there was the sound of voices, a medley of French and English. He swung round, staring at the door and said, ‘You will, of course, confine yourself to a statement of the reasons for your presence on board the
Mary Deare
.' He spoke quickly, nervously. ‘You are in the position of a passenger and any comments—' ‘The door opened and he half turned, facing it.

It was Captain Fraser, and with him were two French officials. Smiles, bows, a torrent of French, and then the shorter of the two said in English: ‘I regret, Monsieur le Capitaine, I have bad news for you. Since half an hour I have heard on the radio that some bodies have been washed ashore on Les Heaux. Also some wreckage.'

‘From the
Mary Deare
?' Patch asked.

‘Mais oui.' He gave a little shrug. ‘The lighthouse men on Les Heaux have not identified them, but there is no other ship in distress.'

‘Les Heaux is an island just north of the Ile de Brehat—about forty miles west of here,' Fraser said.

‘I know that.' Patch moved a step towards the official. ‘The survivors,' he said. ‘Was there a man called Higgins amongst them?'

The officer shrugged. ‘I do not know. No official list of survivors is yet completed.' He hesitated. ‘Monsieur le Capitaine, if you will come to the Bureau with me it will assist me greatly. Also it will be more simple. The formalities, you understand . . .' He said it apologetically, but it was clear he had made up his mind.

‘Of course,' Patch said, but I could see he didn't like it. His eyes glanced quickly from one to the other of them, and then he went across the room and passed through the lane they opened out for him to the door.

The official turned to follow him, but then stopped and looked back at me. ‘Monsieur Sands?' he enquired.

I nodded.

‘I understand your boat is waiting for you in Saint Peter Port. If you will give my friend here the necessary particulars and your address in England, I do not think we need detain you at all.' He gave me a quick, friendly smile. ‘Bon voyage, mon ami.'

‘Au revoir, monsieur,' I said. ‘Et merci, mille fois.'

His assistant took the particulars, asked a few questions and then he, too, departed. I was alone, and I sat there in a sort of coma, conscious of the bustle and hubbub of passengers descending to the quay, yet not sure that it was real. I must have dozed off for the next thing I knew the steward was shaking me. ‘Sorry to wake you, sir, but I've brought Miss Taggart. Captain's orders, sir.'

She was standing just inside the door; a small, neat girl, her hair catching the light from the porthole just the way it had done in that photograph. ‘You're Mr Sands, aren't you?'

I nodded and got to my feet. ‘You want Captain Patch.' I started to explain that he had gone ashore, but she interrupted. ‘What happened to my father, please?'

I didn't know what to say. She should have been asking Patch, not me. ‘Captain Patch will be back soon,' I said.

‘Was my father on the
Mary Deare
when you boarded her?' She stood there, very straight and boyish, and quite determined.

‘No,' I said.

She took that in slowly, her eyes fixed steadfastly on mine. They were grey eyes, flecked with green; wide and startled-looking. ‘And this Captain Patch was in command?' I nodded. She stared at me for a long time, her lip trembling slightly. ‘My father would never have abandoned his ship.' She said it softly and I knew she had guessed the truth, was bracing herself for it. And then: ‘He's dead—is that it?'

‘Yes,' I said.

She took it, dry-eyed, standing there, stiff and small in front of me. ‘And the cause of death?' She tried to keep it formal, impersonal, but as I hesitated, she made a sudden, small feminine movement, coming towards me: ‘Please, I must know what happened. How did he die? Was he ill?'

‘I think it was a heart attack,' I said. And then I added, ‘You must understand, Miss Taggart, I wasn't there. I am only passing on what Captain Patch told me.'

‘When did it happen?'

‘Early this month.'

‘And this Captain Patch?'

‘He was the first mate.'

She frowned. ‘My father didn't mention him. He wrote me from Singapore and Rangoon and the only officers he mentioned were Rice and Adams and a man named Higgins.'

‘Patch joined at Aden.'

‘Aden?' She shook her head, huddling her coat close to her as though she were cold. ‘My father always wrote me from every port he stopped at—every port in the world.' And then she added, ‘But I got no letter from Aden.' Tears started to her eyes and she turned away, fumbling for a chair. I didn't move and after a moment she said, ‘I'm sorry. It's just the shock.' She looked up at me, not bothering to wipe away the tears. ‘Daddy was away so much. It shouldn't hurt like this. I haven't seen him for five years.' And then in a rush: ‘But he was such a wonderful person. I know that now. You see, my mother died . . .' She hesitated and then said, ‘He was always coming back to England to see me. But he never did. And this time he'd promised. That's what makes it so hard. He was coming back. And now—' She caught her breath and I saw her bite her lip to stop it trembling.

‘Would you like some tea?' I asked.

She nodded. She had her handkerchief out and her face was turned away from me. I hesitated, feeling there ought to be something I could do. But there was nothing and I went in search of the steward. To give her time to recover I waited whilst he made the tea and brought it back to her myself. She was composed now and though her face still looked white and pinched, she had got back some of the vitality that there had been in that photograph. She began asking me questions and to keep her mind off her father's death I started to tell her what had happened after I boarded the
Mary Deare
.

And then Patch came in. He didn't see her at first. ‘I've got to leave,' he said. ‘A question of identification. They've picked up twelve bodies.' His voice was hard and urgent, his face strained. ‘Rice is dead. The only one I could rely on—'

‘This is Miss Taggart,' I said.

He stared at her. For a second he didn't know her, didn't connect her name; his mind was concentrated entirely on his own affairs. And then the hardness slowly left his face and he came forward, hesitantly, almost nervously. ‘Of course. Your face . . .' He paused as though at a loss for words. ‘It—it was there on his desk. I never removed it.' And then, still looking at her, as though fascinated, he added almost to himself: ‘You were with me through many bad moments.'

‘I understand my father is dead?'

The forthright way in which she put it seemed to shock him, for his eyes widened slightly as though at a blow. ‘Yes.'

‘Mr Sands said you thought it was a heart attack?'

‘Yes. Yes, that's right—a heart attack.' He said it automatically, not thinking about the words, all his mind concentrated in his eyes, drinking her in as though she were some apparition that had suddenly come to life.

There was an awkward pause. ‘What happened? Please tell me what happened?' She was standing facing him now and there was a tightness in her voice that betrayed her nervousness. I suddenly felt that she was afraid of him. A sort of tension stretched between them. ‘I want to know what happened,' she repeated and her voice sounded almost brittle in the silence.

‘Nothing happened,' he answered slowly. ‘He died. That's all.' His voice was flat, without feeling.

‘But how? When? Surely you can give me some details?'

He pushed his hand up through his hair. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry. It was March 2nd. We were in the Med then.' He hesitated as though searching in his mind for the words he wanted. ‘He didn't come up to the bridge that morning. And then the steward called me. He was lying in his bunk.' Again a pause and then he added, ‘We buried him that afternoon, at sea.'