Murder on a Yacht: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery

by Penelope Sotheby

  “I said, let’s go sailing!”

  Chapter 2

  Even for someone like Diane who does not feel so carefree aboard a ship anymore, today is the perfect day to be sailing around the Bristol Channel. The waters are relatively calm and have a particularly alluring hue, the winds are just the right intensity to fill the boat’s sails, and the sun is shining at the most welcoming blaze.

  “It’s a perfect day for this, Mike,” smiles Diane, tucking a grey lock behind her ear. “Thank you.”

  “Look over there,” Mike says.

  He’s pointing to a handful of grey seals basking atop the rocks near the shore. Close to them, another seal emerges, only exposing its head above the water. Diane watches for some time to see where the head will pop up next. When she squints she can barely make out its whiskers.

  Mike steers the ship away from shore into more open waters and drops anchor, so the two friends can enjoy a picnic of sausage rolls and sandwiches and tarts Mrs. Poole from the Puffin’s Nest so generously packed them. Mike contributes two mugs and a bottle of sparkling white to the mix.

  “If you don’t mind terribly, I’d like you to show me those dreadful letters,” says Diane after swallowing a morsel of salmon salad sandwich.

  Mike continues looking out at the water as if he did not hear Diane’s request. Diane decides she’d better not press the issue and instead stands up to stretch her fingers down to her toes.

  After a few minutes, Mike gets up and goes down to his cabin. Oh dear, I’ve upset him, thinks Diane.

  But her friend returns carrying some pages, the tri-folded creases clearly worn as if they had been opened and closed, read and re-read many times. When Mike passes the pages to Diane, she realizes she had been expecting them to have words formulated from the proverbial letters cut out of a magazine... and maybe even graphic images suggesting violence is near.

  Instead they are simply typed, in all caps, in what looks like Times New Roman, size 12. One of the letters says:

  “DEAR MIKE DAVIES, KINDLY WITHDRAW YOUR LATEST MANUSCRIPT OR ELSE YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.”

  The other says:

  “THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. CANCEL THE BOOK DEAL BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE FOR YOU.”

  The use of simple font and the absence of shock-value visuals makes the messages even more compelling, Diane thinks. She does not like what these menacing messages are suggesting. In her first-hand experience, and also writing about criminals, she knows there are some people so deranged and so malevolent that they like to torment and frighten their victims before committing the final, dirty deed. They enjoy delivering mental and emotional torture before going in for the kill.

  “I can see why you’ve been concerned, Mike,” says Diane quietly. And then with more gusto, she says, “Don’t you worry. We’re going to figure this all out.”

  When they return to shore, Diane does not take notice of the tourists walking along the beach or the family of ponies grazing up on the hill or the newlywed couple stamping their booklet at a nearby letterbox. All she can think about, all she can wonder, is if her friend really is in trouble or if some person with a disturbing sense of humour is just playing games. And besides, who aside from she and the people working at the publishing house know about Mike’s book? With Big Brother watching and the assorted ways for strangers to spy via physical and virtual means, maybe a good deal more people have read her friend’s, the retired MI6 agent, manuscript.

  Diane takes out her mobile and stares at its screen.

  “Mike, is there a phone I can use? My mobile isn’t getting any bars.”

  “Yes, service is spotty on the island,” says Mike. “You can use the phone at the tavern.”

  “Oh goodie! I was hoping to have a meal there tonight.”

  They walk the short distance to the tavern, called The Granite, which has a sterling reputation, and not just among Lundy Island residents and regulars. Visitors from Devon County and beyond will often make the trip to The Granite for dinner. And more than one London reviewer has said the island pub serves the best fish and seafood in England – Diane would have to agree.

  She and Mike are welcomed by The Granite’s landlord, Mr. Wilson, standing behind the bar. He’s been chatting with someone sitting on bar stool, a fisherman and regular patron from the other side of the channel.

  “Hello Mike! And welcome back, Mrs. Dimbleby!”

  “Mr. Wilson, how do you remember every single guest who has ever frequented your tavern? It’s uncanny,” says Diane.

  “Ah, it’s not every visitor… just the ones worth remembering,” Mr. Wilson winks.

  “You sure know how to make a lady feel good,” says Diane. “Now before I tuck into one of your nice meals, may I use your telephone briefly?”

  “By all means, Mrs. Dimbleby, as long as you’re not ringing Australia!”

  “No sir, not quite that far,” Diane laughs.

  Mr. Wilson obligingly places the phone on top of the bar in front of Diane. She feels a heart-warming nostalgia as she stares down at the rotary telephone. She has to take a moment to think of the number she’s about to dial. In more recent years, she’s more familiar with memorizing the positions of numbers on the keypad rather than the numbers themselves. Once she deciphers the actual digits she’ll need to ‘spin’, Diane dials.

  “Detective Darrell Crothers,” says the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Darrell… it’s—”

  “Diane? Hello! We haven’t spoken since your friend… Mrs. Jones… I meant to get in touch…”

  “And me too… and now it seems I need your help.”

  Inspector Darrell Crothers of the Shrewsbury Police Station – the station responsible for a significant section of Shropshire, including Apple Mews – is a close friend of Diane’s. The paths of the retired school teacher and the detective, now in his late 30s, have crossed on several occasions. All of these occasions have had one thing in common – murder. And although at times it causes Darrell to feel great anxiety, Diane normally finds a way to be of great assistance in solving said murders. It’s no wonder that she’s got a knack for writing murder mysteries. On this occasion however, Diane is asking for Darrell’s assistance instead of offering it.

  Diane turns her back to Mr. Wilson and the fisherman at the bar so they cannot hear, and tells the inspector all about her friend Mike Davies and the threatening letters and calls he’s been receiving because of his manuscript. Diane knows that Darrell has the resources and know-how to assist in this investigation… before it’s too late.

  “Well, you caught me right before I was going on a two-day fishing holiday,” says Darrell. “I suppose if your friend Mike is willing to take me sailing I would be willing to change my plans and come to Lundy to take a look at those letters.”

  “Oh thank you, Darrell! Thank you most kindly!”

  Diane turns around and gives Mike a thumbs up. Mike lifts his shoulders, confused. He’s unsure of who Diane is even talking to.

  After Diane hangs up the phone, she and Mike sit down at a table near a window with an ample view of the sea. The wooden table is bare of any decorative pieces which is just fine, as the quality of cuisine – prepared by Mr. Wilson’s wife and son – and the people who visit the tavern are more than enough to make the atmosphere most pleasing.

  “I called my friend, Inspector Darrell Crothers…to help,” explains Diane.

  “But, I’m not sure Diane if we should involve anybody at this point,” Mike, slightly protests. “Can we trust him?”

  “Don’t you worry, Mike. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, this one.”

  Mr. Wilson takes Mike and Diane’s dinner orders after serving them a couple pints of local brew. As they wait for their meals, more people trickle in to the tavern. A man, whose grey hair is mostly covered by his beige Tilley hat, is now sitting at the bar next to the fisherman. Diane recognizes him from at least one past visit.

  “Who is that?” whispers Diane.

 
; “Oh that’s Shaun Boyle, the island’s head marine conservationist,” says Mike. “Nice chap.”

  Mr. Boyle’s striking Irish accent makes it hard for anyone within earshot to resist eavesdropping.

  “I dunnoooo,” says Shaun Boyle. “I think that may be a wee bit premature. Ammmm… a sheriff on Lundy Island?”

  The fisherman says something in response to the conservationist. Diane and Mike subconsciously lean towards him attempting to hear what the fisherman is saying but his utterances are much too soft.

  “Sure we sometimes get some eejits here that drink too much and get langers and make some noise,” continues Mr. Boyle, “but most people that come over are not dodgy… most people respect the land and the people and the good work we’re doing here… we don’t need a sheriff I don’t think.”

  Before Diane can ask Mike his opinion on the merits of law enforcement on Lundy Island, their food arrives. Diane’s mouth waters at the sight of her beer-battered fish and chips and mushy peas and at Mike’s unique sample plate of whelks, crab, sausage, cheese and bread – something not advertised on the menu but mutually concocted by Mike and the chef.

  They enjoy their meal thoroughly and neither Diane or Mike are disappointed, even though there is always the chance of disappointment when a restaurant becomes a favourite and expectations are built up so high.

  “Lundy Island is truly a special place, isn’t it Mike?” says Diane, wiping her mouth after the last bite.

  Mike answers with a completely honest smile. This evening together in the tavern goes back to simpler times and allows the two to forget about any worries, from the past or present. They even join in a game of bridge with a pair of locals, even though Mike would normally avoid such interactions with acquaintances. But Diane’s social manner is a good influence on the secluded man. The first time he and Diane take their tricks, the retired ops man even finds that he has been enjoying himself.

  After finishing their pints and playing who knows how many games of cards, Diane reveals a yawn. It’s 11 o’clock and she’s not sure if the Puffin’s Nest has a curfew. She certainly does not want to disturb Mrs. Poole if she’s sleeping.

  “I think it’s best I turn in for the night,” Diane says, disappointed to leave the fun.

  “I better be going too,” Mike says.

  They thank their new friends for the card game and say goodnight to Mr. Wilson, who is still standing behind the bar.

  As Mike walks Diane back to the Puffin’s Nest, they talk about happy things, like funny shared moments when their families caravanned together, and they ask each other about favourite things, like puddings, films and holidays. They do not talk once about threatening letters, and Diane does not even feel she needs to remind Mike that Inspector Darrell Crothers is arriving on the ferry the next morning. They’ve already arranged that they’ll both be at the pier to welcome the inspector.

  After seeing that Diane is safely tucked inside the bed and breakfast, Mike walks back to his yacht with a spring in his step. He decides that tomorrow he’ll take his friend sailing to a spot he’s never taken her before but thinks she’ll adore. It’s an area of sea caves and he hopes he’ll be able to convince her to snorkel around them. She’s still very adventurous, he thinks.

  Nothing can dissuade Mike’s good mood, that is until he tucks into his own bed on the yacht. It’s when his eyes shut that his mind starts to wander.

  His reverie gradually remembers the sounds of hammers and chisels against concrete, the cheers of people dancing in the streets to pop music being played at full blast…

  Although back then, he was never ‘off the clock’, Mike saw no reason why he could not celebrate too. It was a happy time for he and his team as well. Mike let down his guard and even allowed himself to bop up and down to the music. He remembers looking down to see two children facing one another, and twirling in circles while holding hands.

  Mike remembers staring out across the happy crowd, thinking this is history in the making. And then a loud BANG! pierced through the soundscape.

  ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠

  The next morning, Diane is awoken from a sound sleep by the call of a puffin-themed cuckoo clock downstairs. It is just as well because in an hour, Inspector Darrell Crothers should be arriving on the ferry.

  Mrs. Poole must be reading Diane’s mind, or listening for any sign of movement from her room, because as soon as Diane turns on the tap to splash water on her face she hears a knock.

  “Breakfast, Mrs. Dimbleby,” pipes Mrs. Poole from the other side of the bedroom door.

  Diane, still wiping the sleep from her eyes, rushes out to answer. She opens the door to see the woman balancing two trays, one in each hand. One has fresh-baked scones, a selection of jams, and a fruit bowl on. The other is holding a teapot, teacup and a small carafe of milk.

  “I could have come down to get my breakfast,” says Diane. “How did you climb the stairs with both those trays? How long have you been awake?”

  Mrs. Poole simply laughs, sets the trays down on top of the desk inside the room and scurries back down the stairs.

  “Ta, Mrs. Poole,” Diane calls after her.

  Instead of resuming her ‘bird bath’, Diane digs into one of the cinnamon scones – while they are still warm – and decides on a blueberry jelly as a complement. She takes a few moments to linger over her hot cup of tea and breakfast, and then returns to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Poole pops out from behind her desk to bid Diane a delightful day. After a little startled jump, Diane wishes Mrs. Poole the same, and goes outside to walk down to the dock.

  Diane looks at her watch and realizes there’s still 20 minutes before the ferry is due. She slows her pace down to a meander and notices that the bright blue sky is devoid of any clouds. Another gorgeous day – she’s been lucky this trip.

  For the first time taking this path between the Puffin’s Nest and the boat dock, Diane notices what must be one of the letterboxes Mike was telling her about.

  I really should try to complete this letterbox trail some time, thinks Diane.

  Diane walks up to the letterbox and opens it. Inside she finds a stamp and ink pad. She picks up the stamp and turns it over. When she sees the imprint’s shape, she lets out a gasp.

  “It’s just ink,” she says after a moment, to reassure herself.

  Ink the colour of blood red is partially covering the stamp; it’s shaped like a black crow in flight.

  Laughing her silly reaction off, Diane continues down to the wharf. She finds herself on the pier, alone. Mike had told her he would meet her here, but perhaps he is still sleeping. He is still sleeping. She decides not to go wake him up. There’s no need for them both to welcome Darrell, plus she does not want to miss the inspector’s arrival which is due to happen any minute.

  It’s funny how just the other day, Diane saw Mike waiting for her on the pier… and now she is waving to Darrell coming in on the ferry.

  “God bless him,” Diane whispers out loud. “He’s already good at what he does and he’s still got many years to go.”

  When the ferry is docked, the inspector waits for a family of six (all wearing matching striped shirts) and a couple (who by all accounts appear to be on their honeymoon) to disembark, before joining Diane on the pier. He holds out his hand to shake Diane’s, but she ignores the gesture and wraps her arms around his back. She’s grown fond of the inspector after the time they’ve spent ‘working cases together’.

  “So Mike was going to meet us here too, but he’s still asleep,” says Diane. “We had a late night last night… well, late for us old fogies… not for you I’m sure!”

  “Well, before we go see him, is there anything else you should tell me?” Darrell asks.

  While walking the detective towards the marina, Diane repeats the information about the threatening letters and phone calls that Mike has received. She also tells him that the book, although fiction, might make some people in power angry. Finall
y she tells him that a hard copy of the manuscript has been sent to the publishing house.

  Before she can tell the inspector anything further they have arrived at the small port where a half dozen sailboats and a few fishing boats are moored.

  “That’s his,” says Diane, pointing to the tallest, and what appears to be the newest, sailboat of the lot. “That’s strange,” she adds.

  “What’s strange?” asks Darrell as they approach Mike’s boat.

  “All of the hatches are closed… and the windows too.”

  Diane tells Crothers that it’s highly unusual for Mike to shut everything up like that. Normally he leaves at least one or two cabin windows open. He loves the smell of the sea and would feel cooped up otherwise.

  “Maybe it was chilly last night,” Darrell suggests.

  “Or maybe he’s taking more precautions,” Diane whispers, her voice trailing. What she’s thinking is maybe Mike was afraid to have an intruder catch him unawares.

  Standing on the jetty in front of Mike’s yacht, Diane calls his name. With no answer she calls again, this time louder.

  “Maybe he’s gone to the…” Diane’s voice trails again. There aren’t very many places to go to run errands on Lundy Island. Still, it wouldn’t be impossible for Mike to forget to meet her and go to The Granite for some breakfast.

  Diane climbs aboard with Darrell following behind her. Nothing seems amiss. Mike keeps a clean ship. Diane calls his name again.

  Darrell walks around to the cabin entrance and awkwardly knocks on the hatch. Receiving no answer, he opens the hatch door and slowly goes down the steps. With not much sunlight accessing the space, Darrell feels for his torch attached to his belt. He turns it on and shines it slowly around the cabin.

  He suddenly stops scanning and zeroes in on a particular spot. He gradually steps towards the focus of his attention, shining the torch resolutely.

  “Is there room for me to come down?” asks Diane.

  “No! Stay there!” yells Darrell uncharacteristically. “And don’t touch anything!”