The Wreck of the Mary Deare (13 page)

I tried to push past him, but one of his great paws shot out and gripped me by the arm. ‘Come on. Let's have it. Is that wot you told 'em?'

‘Yes,' I said.

He let go of me then. ‘God Almighty!' he growled. ‘Wot the hell do you know about it, eh? You were there I s'pose when we took to the boats?' He was grinning, truculent, and the stubble mat of his face, thrust close to mine, was still grey with salt and dirt. For a man who had been shipwrecked he looked oddly pleased with himself. He oozed self-confidence like a barrel oozes lard and his small, blood-shot eyes glittered moistly, like a pair of oysters, as he said again, ‘You were there, eh?' And he guffawed at his own heavy humour.

‘No,' I told him. ‘Of course I wasn't there. But I don't—'

‘Well, we was there.' His voice was raised and his small eyes darted to the half-open door behind me. ‘We was there an' we know dam' well wot orders were given.' He was saying it for the benefit of the French official in the inner office. ‘It was the right order, too, with the ship half full of explosives and a fire on board. That's wot we felt at the time—me and Rice and the old Chief . . . everybody.'

‘If it was the right order,' I said, ‘how was it possible for Captain Patch to put the fire out on his own?'

‘Ah. You'd better ask him that.' And he turned and looked at Patch.

Patch came slowly back from the street door. ‘What exactly do you mean by that, Higgins?' he demanded. His voice was quiet, but it trembled slightly and his hands were clenched.

‘Wot a man's done once, he'll do again,' Higgins said, and there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

I thought Patch was going to hit him. So did Higgins, for he stepped back, measuring the distance between them. But Patch didn't hit him. Instead, he said, ‘You deserve to be strung up for murder. You killed Rice and those others as surely as if you'd taken a gun to them and shot them down in cold blood.' He said it through clenched teeth and then turned abruptly to walk out.

And Higgins, stung, shouted hoarsely after him: ‘You won't get away with it at the Enquiry—not with your record.'

Patch swung round, his face white, and he was trembling as he looked at the pitiful little gathering, his eyes passing from face to face. ‘Mr Burrows.' He had picked on a tall, thin man with a sour, dissipated face. ‘You know damn' well I never gave any orders to abandon ship.'

The man shifted his feet nervously, not looking at Patch. ‘I only know what was passed down to me on the blower,' he muttered. They were all nervous, doubtful, their eyes on the floor.

‘Yules.' Patch's gaze had switched to an under-sized little runt of a man with a peaked, sweaty face and shifty eyes. ‘You were at the wheel. You heard what orders I gave up there on the bridge. What were they?'

The man hesitated, glancing at Higgins. ‘You ordered the boats swung out and the men to stand by to abandon ship,' he whispered.

‘You damned little liar!' Patch started to move towards him, but Higgins stepped forward. And Yules said, ‘I don't know what you mean.' His voice was high-pitched on a note of sudden spite.

Patch stared at him a moment, breathing heavily. And then he turned and went out quickly. I followed him and found him waiting for me on the pavement outside. His whole body was shaking and he looked utterly drained. ‘You need some sleep,' I said.

‘I need a drink.'

We walked in silence up to the square and sat at a little
bistro
that advertised
crêpes
as a speciality. ‘Have you any money?' he asked. And when I told him Fraser had lent me some, he nodded and said, ‘I'm a distressed seaman and a charge on the Consul. It doesn't run to drinks.' There was a note of bitterness in his voice. And then, when we had ordered cognac, he suddenly said, ‘The last body wasn't brought in until two o'clock this morning.' His face looked haggard as it had done on the
Mary Deare
, the bruise along his jaw even more livid against the clean-shaven pallor of his face.

I gave him a cigarette and he lit it with trembling hands. ‘They got caught in the tide-rip off the entrance to Lezard-rieux.' The drinks came and he knocked his back and ordered two more. ‘Why the hell did it have to be Rice's boat?' The palm of his hand slapped viciously against the table. ‘If it had been Higgins . . .' He sighed and relapsed into silence.

I didn't break it. I felt he needed that silence. He lingered over his second drink and every now and then he looked at me as though trying to make up his mind about something. The little square bustled with life, full of the noise of cars hooting and the quick, excited chatter of French people as they hurried along the pavement outside. It was wonderful just to sit there and drink cognac and know that I was alive. But my mind couldn't shake itself free of the
Mary Deare
, and watching Patch as he sat, staring down at his drink, I wondered what had really happened on that ship before I boarded her. And that little huddle of survivors in the office overlooking the
bassin
 . . . ‘What did Higgins mean—about your record?' I asked. ‘Was he referring to the
Belle Isle
?'

He nodded, not looking up.

‘What happened to her?'

‘Oh, she ran aground and broke her back . . . and people talked. That's all. There was a lot of money involved. It's not important.'

But I knew it was. He'd kept on talking about it, saying you wouldn't think it could happen to the same man twice. ‘What's the connection between the
Belle Isle
and the
Mary Deare
?' I asked.

He looked up at me quickly. ‘How do you mean?'

‘Well . . .' It wasn't easy to put it into words with him staring at me like that. ‘It's a pretty strange story, you know—the crew saying you ordered them to abandon ship and you saying you didn't. And there's Taggart's death,' I added. ‘Dellimare, too.'

‘Dellimare?' The sudden violence of his voice shook me. ‘What's Dellimare got to do with it?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘But . . .'

‘Well, go on. What else are you thinking?'

It was a question that had been in my mind for a long time ‘That fire . . .' I said.

‘Are you suggesting I started it?'

The question took me by surprise. ‘Good God, no.'

‘What are you suggesting then?' His eyes were angry and suspicious.

I hesitated, wondering whether he wasn't too exhausted to answer rationally. ‘It's just that I can't understand why you put the fire out and yet didn't bother to get the pumps going. I thought you'd been stoking that boiler. But it hadn't been touched.' I paused there, a little uncertain because of the strange look on his face. ‘What had you been doing?'

‘God damn you!' His eyes suddenly blazed. ‘What's it got to do with you?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Only . . .'

‘Only what? What are you getting at?'

‘It was just the coal dust. You were covered with it and I wondered . . .' I saw his hand clench and I added quickly, ‘You can't expect me not to be curious.'

His body relaxed slowly. ‘No. No, I suppose not.' He stared down at his empty glass. ‘I'm sorry. I'm a little tired, that's all.'

‘Would you like another drink?'

He nodded, sunk in silence again.

He didn't speak until the drinks came, and then he said, ‘I'm going to be quite honest with you, Sands. I'm in a hell of a spot.' He wasn't looking at me. He was looking down at his glass, watching the liquor cling to the sides of it as he swirled it gently round and round.

‘Because of Higgins?'

He nodded. ‘Partly. Higgins is a liar and a blackguard. But I can't prove it. He was in this thing right from the start, but I can't prove that either.' He looked at me suddenly. ‘I've got to get out to her again.'

‘To the
Mary Deare
?' It seemed odd that he should think that it was his responsibility. ‘Why?' I asked. ‘Surely the owners will arrange—'

‘The owners!' He gave a contemptuous little laugh. ‘If the owners knew she was on the Minkies . . .' And then abruptly he changed the subject and began questioning me about my own plans. ‘You said something about being interested in salvage and converting that yacht of yours into a diving tender.' That had been up in his cabin when he'd been half-doped with liquor and exhaustion. I was surprised he remembered it. ‘You've got all the equipment, have you—air pumps and diving suits?'

‘We're aqualung divers,' I said. His sudden interest had switched my mind to the problems that lay ahead—the conversion, the fitting out, all the business of starting on our first professional salvage operation.

‘I've been thinking . . .' He was drumming nervously on the marble-topped table. ‘That boat of yours—how long will it take to convert her?'

‘Oh, about a month,' I said. And then it dawned on me. ‘You aren't suggesting that we take you out to the
Mary Deare
, are you?'

He turned to me then. ‘I've got to get back to her,' he said.

‘But, good God—why?' I asked. ‘The owners will arrange for the salvage—'

‘Damn the owners!' he snarled. ‘They don't know she's there yet.' He leaned urgently towards me. ‘I tell you, I've got to get out to her.'

‘But why?'

His eyes gradually dropped from my face. ‘I can't tell you that,' he muttered. And then he said, ‘Listen, Sands. I'm not a salvage man. But I'm a seaman, and I know that ship can be refloated.'

‘Nonsense,' I said. ‘Another gale and she'll be flooded—she'll probably break up.'

‘I don't think so. She'll have water in her, but she won't be flooded. It isn't as though she's sunk,' he added. ‘At low water you could get pumps operating from her deck and, with all the apertures sealed up . . .' He hesitated. ‘I'm trying to put it to you as a business proposition. That ship is lying out there and you and I are the only people who know she's there.'

‘Oh, for God's sake!' I said. The effrontery of the proposition staggered me. He didn't seem to understand that there were laws of salvage, that even if it were possible to refloat the
Mary Deare
, it involved agreement between the owners, the insurance people, the shippers—everybody.

‘Think it over,' he said urgently. ‘It may be weeks before some fisherman finds her there.' He gripped hold of my arm. ‘I need your help, Sands. I've got to get into that for'ard hold. I've got to see for myself.'

‘See what?'

‘That hold didn't flood because the ship was unseaworthy. At least,' he added, ‘that's what I believe. But I've got to have proof.'

I didn't say anything, and he leaned towards me across the table, his eyes on mine, hard and urgent. ‘If you won't do it . . .' His voice was hoarse. ‘I've nobody else who'll help me. Damn it, man! I saved your life. You were dangling at the end of that rope. Remember? I helped you then. Now I'm asking you to help me.'

I looked away towards the square, feeling a little embarrassed, not understanding what it was that he was so worried about. And then the police car that had brought me to Paimpol drew up at the curb and I watched with relief as the gendarme got out and came into the
bistro
.

‘Monsieur—if you wish to catch your aeroplane . . .' He nodded towards the car.

‘Yes, of course.' I got to my feet. ‘I'm sorry. I've got to go now.'

Patch was staring up at me. ‘What's your address in England?' he asked.

I gave him the name of the boatyard at Lymington. He nodded, frowning, and looked down at his empty glass. I wished him luck then and turned to go.

‘Just a minute,' he said. ‘You've got a bank, I suppose?' And when I nodded, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a package and tossed it on to the table. ‘Would you have them lock that up for me?'

‘What is it?' I asked as I picked it up.

He moved his hand in a vague, impatient gesture. ‘Just some personal papers. Afraid they may get lost.' And then, without looking up at me, he added, ‘I'll collect them when I see you.'

I hesitated, wanting to tell him it was no good his coming to see me. But he was sitting there, slumped in his chair, lost apparently in his own thoughts. He looked drawn and haggard and ghastly tired. ‘You better get some sleep,' I said, and my words took me back again to the
Mary Deare
. He didn't answer, didn't look up. I slipped the package into my pocket and went out to the car. He was still sitting there slumped over the table as I was driven away.

Two hours later I was in the air, high up over the sea. It was like a corrugated sheet of lead and out beyond the starboard wingtip was an area all flecked with white.

The Frenchman in the next seat leaned across me to peer out. ‘Regardez, regardez, monsieur,' he whispered eagerly. ‘C'est le Plateau des Minquiers.' And then, realising I was English, he smiled apologetically and said, ‘You will not understand, of course. But there are rocks down there—many, many rocks. Trés formidable! I think it better we travel by air. Look, monsieur!' He produced a French paper. ‘You 'ave not seen, no?' He thrust it into my hands. ‘It is terrible! Terrible!'

It was opened at a page of pictures—pictures of Patch, of Higgins and the rest of the survivors, of a dead body lying in the sea, and of officials searching a pile of wreckage washed up on some rocks. Bold black type across the top announced: MYSTERE DE VAISSEAU BRITANNIQUE ABANDONNE.

‘Interesting, is it not, monsieur? I think it is also a very strange story. And all those men . . .' He clicked his tongue sympathetically. ‘You do not understand how terrible is this region of the sea. Terrible, monsieur!'