My homecoming was not jolly; Johanna had known about the ear but she was a bit taken aback when she saw me without it (I’d discharged myself the moment they took the bandages off) and she burst into tears – a thing I’d never seen her do before. I made a few jests about how she had never thought much of my looks anyway and the lop-sided effect might grow on her but she was inconsolable. I shall never understand women. You probably think you do but you’re wrong, you know. They’re not a bit like us.
In the end I took her gently to bed and we lay there hand in hand in the dark so that she could cry without my seeing her eyes get puffy and we listened to Le Nozze di Figaro which turned out to be a bad mistake: one forgets that it’s not nearly such a lighthearted piece for people who understand Italian. As Johanna does. When it came to Dove Sono she really broke down and wanted to tell me all about what had happened on that dreadful night. This was too much for me, I simply wasn’t up to it; I rushed downstairs and fetched a tray of drinks and we both got a little drunk and then it was better, much better; but we both knew that I had let her down. Again. Well, that’s the price you pay for being a coward. I only wish one could be told exactly how much the instalments are, and when they are likely to fall due. A moral coward, you see, is simply someone who has read the fine print on the back of his Birth Certificate and seen the little clause which says ‘You can’t win’. He knows from then on that the smart thing to do is to run away from everything and he does so. But he doesn’t have to like it.
‘Jock,’ I said the next morning. ‘Mrs Mortdecai will not be down to breakfast.’ I looked at him levelly. He twigged. His good eye crumpled up into a huge wink, which left the glass one – carelessly inserted – leering up at the cornice. Sure enough, he had read my mind and the eggs and bacon, when they arrived, were mounted on delicious fried bread and accompanied by fried potatoes, all quite counter to Johanna’s ‘Standing Order Concerning Mr Mortdecai’s Waistline’. Well, dash it, why should I persecute my waistline; it’s never done me any harm. Yet.
The last fried potato had captured the last runlet of egg-yolk and was about to home in on the Mortdecai waistline when George and Sam appeared. They looked grave and friendly for I too, now, had suffered, I was a member of the club – but they both looked askance at the marmalade and richly-buttered toast which Jock brought in at that moment. Sam never breakfasts and George believes that breakfast is something that gentlemen eat at a quarter past dawn, not at half-past noon.
I waved them to chairs and offered them richly-buttered toast and marmalade. They glanced at it with ill-concealed longing but refused: they were strong; strong.
I knew most of their news: there had been only two rapes in the intervening period and one of those had been a bit suspect: a young Jersey girl who was already a teeny bit pregnant by a fiancé who had absent-mindedly joined a boat going to Australia. The other incident bore all the marks of being ‘one of ours’ but the victim was a hopeless witness, even by female standards, and could add nothing to our dossier.
George and Sam had been patrolling in a desultory and half-hearted way but with no results except that Sam said he had chased a mackintoshed suspect for half a mile but had lost him in the outbuildings of one of George’s tenant-farmers. A search had produced nothing but a pair of bicycle-clips in a disused cow-stable.
Sonia was quite recovered. Violet was much worse: clearly catatonic now, having to be watched night and day.
George was withdrawn and morose; Sam was in a state of suppressed hysteria which I found disturbing: long silences punctuated by random and bitter witticisms of poor quality. Not at all the Sam I had known and loved.
News exhausted, we looked at one another dully.
‘Drinks?’ I asked, dully.
George looked at his wristwatch; Sam opened his mouth and shut it again. I poured drinks. We drank three each, although we had had no luncheon. Johanna joined us. By the hard light of noon she looked older by ten years but her air of command was still there.
‘Well, have you boys made a plan?’ she asked, looking at me, bless her.
We made three apologetic grimaces. Sam started to sketch out a smile but gave up at the attempt. George cleared his throat. We looked at him wearily.
‘Let’s go fishing,’ he said. ‘My bass-boat’s all new-painted and varnished and they’re putting it into the water tomorrow. Do us all good, a bit of a sail. Try for some mackerel, eh?’
Sam and I, by our silences, registered total disapprobation. George on land is merely brigadier-like; at sea his mission seems to be to prove that Captain Bligh was a softy.
‘Oh yes, Charlie, do go!’ cried Johanna. ‘A bit of a sail will do you so much good, and I would adore some fresh mackerels.’
I shifted sulkily in my chair.
‘Or pollocks,’ she added, ‘or basses or breams. Please, Charlie?’
‘Oh, very well,’ I said. ‘If Sam’s coming.’
‘Of course,’ said Sam bitterly, ‘of course, of course.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Johanna.
‘Nine o’clock, then?’ said George.
‘Dark by that time,’ I said.
‘Got a dinner engagement at eight,’ said Sam.
‘I meant nine a.m.’ said George.
We stared at him. Finally he settled for immediately after luncheon and, later still, agreed that this should be construed as 2.30 p.m.
By an excess of zeal, I was at Ouaisné Bay at three minutes short of 2.30 p.m. Clearly, the thing to do was look in at the pub on the shore and seek a fortifying drop of this and that. Sam was already there, fortifying himself diligently.
We grunted, then sat for a while in a silence broken only by the steady sip-sipping noise of two born landsmen about to embark on a sixteen-foot boat captained by another landsman with a Nelson-complex. George stamped into the bar and stared rudely at us.
‘Hullo, sailor!’ we cried in unison. We had not expected him to smile, so we were not disappointed.
‘Waiting for you for five minutes,’ he said. ‘Can you tear yourselves away? Got any dunnage?’
Sam’s dunnage consisted of a slim volume of verse wrapped in a plastic bag to keep typhoons out. Mine was a sou-wester and full oilskins (because the meteorologists had predicted calm, sunny weather), one flask each of hot soup, hot coffee and the cheaper sort of Scotch whisky, my sandwich-case and a pot of cold curried potatoes in case of shipwreck or other Acts of God. George carried a battered, professional-looking ditty-bag full, no doubt, of sensible things.
The boat, I must say, looked splendid in all its beginning-of-season paint and varnish and carried a huge, new outboard motor. George’s ubiquitous Plumber, who also acts as his waterman, helped us to launch; the new motor started without trouble and we sailed away across little dancing blue waves which stirred even my black heart. There was a light haze which was probably thicker further out, for the doomily-named La Corbière (‘The Place of Ravens’ – our friendly neighbourhood lighthouse) was giving out its long, grunting moan every three minutes, like a fat old person straining at the seat. We recked not of it. In no time we were the best part of a mile out and George bade us troll our lines for mackerel. We trolled, if that is the word I want, for half an hour, but to no avail.
Puffins, shags and smews passed overhead, puffing and shagging and doing whatever smews do, but they weren’t interested in that bit of water. Moreover, there were no gulls feeding, and no gulls means no fry and no fry means no mackerel.
‘There are no mackerel here, George,’ I said, ‘moreover, we are going too fast for mackerel; two or three knots would be better.’
‘Nonsense,’ he replied.
I kneaded a piece of Marmite sandwich and a piece of cheese ditto into a lump on a larger hook, added a heavier weight to my line and almost at once boated a fine big pollock. George glared. I slipped Sam a lum of my mixture and soon he, too, had a good pollock.
‘Keep it up, George,’ I said, ‘this is the perfect speed for pollock.’
‘Mackerel obviously not in yet,’ he grated. ‘Going to bear in a bit, find some broken water and try for bass.’
La Corbière groaned, muffling deeper groans from Sam and me. There’s nothing we like better than broken water, of course, but we prefer to brave it with a professional boatman at the helm. In we went, though, and found a stretch of the stuff which looked as though it might serve, although it was unpleasantly close to a razor-edged miniature cliff at the shoreline. Worse was to come.
‘Going to step the mast,’ said George; ‘run up a scrap of sail, then we can cut this engine, get a bit of quiet.’
I am nothing of a mariner but this appalled me. I looked at Sam. He looked at me.
‘George,’ said Sam gently, ‘are you certain that’s wise? I mean, isn’t this a lee-shore or something?’
‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘A shore is only a lee-shore if there’s an on-shore wind. There is no wind at present but at this time of a warm day we can depend upon some light off-shore airs. And I must remind you, Sam, that there can only be one skipper in a boat: disputing an order can kill people.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Sam, in a puzzled, insubordinate voice.
I started to remember that I hadn’t heard La Corbière for some minutes, wondered whether a breeze had got up to dissipate the haze, but too late now. George had raised and locked the little mast into its tabernacle and was halfway up it, wrestling with the daft little leg-o’-mutton sail, when the first gust out of the South-East hit us.
Over we went on to our beam-ends, the outboard motor screaming as the screw found no water to bite, George dangling then vanishing overside amidst a raffle of canvas and cordage. In we drove to the murderous rock, beam on, until a fearful gnashing noise told us that the mast had gone and we felt our craft strike – not with a crash but a nasty, mushy sensation. Bubbles came up from where George must be. I seized an oar and fended us off as best I could; Sam grabbed the gutting-knife and slashed and hacked us free from the raffle of wreckage overside. We caught one glimpse of George, face up, an arm flailing, then the undertow seemed to catch him and he vanished under the boat. He reappeared after a minute, twenty feet to seaward, still with one arm thrashing the water; we ground against the rocks again and again. I fended us off with one oar. The motor coughed and died. Like the fools we were, none of us was wearing a life-jacket, nor was there visible a length of casting-line to throw to George. As I battled with the oar Sam crawled to the little forepeak and rummaged frantically, dragging out our dunnage in search of anything useful; then kneeling, frozen, staring at what he had ripped out of George’s sea-bag. It was a tight ball of cloth, wrapped about with ¼? line. Sam raised this to his nose and made a face of loathing.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I screamed against the rising noise of wind and sea. He didn’t answer. He undid the parcel: it was a mackintosh, the cuffs and shoulders studded with nails. From it he drew a hideous rubber mask. He didn’t look at me; he wiped his fingers on a thwart and looked to where George had thrashed his way, one-armed, almost to the side of the boat. Sam took the other oar and slowly, as though carrying out some ritual gesture, raised it two-handed high above his head, blade upwards.
George had his good hand on the gunwale now and we could see a great flap of skin hanging from his scalp and the bloody ruin of his crushed arm. He looked at Sam. His hand left the gunwale and his face vanished. Sam threw the oar into the boat, then lurched aft to the motor. I fended off for dear life: our timbers couldn’t take much more punishment from those granite daggers. The engine roared into life; Sam revved it until it screamed and then suddenly we were in open water. I started to bail. Once, looking over my shoulder, I thought I saw something half a furlong away with an arm up-raised, but it was probably only a cormorant.
We were in sight of Ouaisné Bay before either of us said a word.
‘I suppose he must be dead by now?’
I didn’t answer: it hadn’t really been a question. And I was thinking.
‘Sonia wasn’t raped,’ I said flatly.
‘No. We’d been lovers – if that’s a word fit to use – for months. First time was an accident, both drunk at a party. After that she made me do it again and again; swore she’d tell George if I didn’t. That first day of all this, when you and George came home unexpectedly, we thought we were caught and I told Sonia to yell “rape” while I got out of the window. She’d been reading all that muck about the Beast of Jersey, that’s what put all the witchcraft trimmings into her head.’
‘But George worked it out. What he did to Violet was revenge, simply?’
‘Yes. Perhaps he was telling us that he knew. I should have realized. Suppose I was too upset to think it through.’
‘I see. Then he must have got a sort of taste for it, I suppose. Brought out a streak of insanity in him, perhaps?’
‘An officer and gentleman,’ said Sam. He made it sound like the punch-line of a vile joke.
I finished bailing and tied George’s horrid paraphernalia to the spare anchor and threw it over the side. I didn’t care whether someone might fish it up, I just wanted it out of my sight.
The Plumber met us on the beach, helped us haul-up on to the trailer.
‘Where’s Mr Breakspear, then?’
‘Lost overside. We were nearly wrecked. Tell the Coastguard, would you.’
‘My Chri’,’ said the Plumber. Then, ‘Oh, there’s a phone call at the pub for Mr Davenant, from England, urgent. You have to ask for the Personal Calls Operator.’ Sam started to walk towards the pub, then broke into a shambling run.
‘So it was Mr Breakspear all the time,’ said the Plumber.
I didn’t answer. I was wondering how many people had known all the time. Perhaps I should have asked my gardener. Perhaps he would even have told me.
Sam came out of the pub, bleak-faced.
‘Violet has killed herself,’ he said carefully. ‘Let’s go home. Things to do.’
‘Have to go to the police first,’ I said. ‘Report George missing.’
‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten about that.’ His voice was gentle now.
‘Don’t you want your fish?’ the Plumber called after us.
‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘We know where they’ve been.’
It was dark when we left the Police Station and drove up the Grande Route de S. Jean towards our homes.
‘Want to talk?’ I asked diffidently.
‘Vi was left alone for a moment – nurse went to the loo – and she just got out of bed and hurled herself through the closed window. Can’t blame the nurse; Vi hadn’t stirred for days. They warned me, of course. Catatonics think they can fly, you see. Angels.’
‘Sam –’ I started.
‘Please shut up, Charlie.’
I tried again when we got to his house.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘won’t you please stay with us tonight?’
‘Good night, Charlie,’ he said and shut the door.
At home, I told Johanna about things as briefly as I could, then announced that I wanted to write letters. I went up to my dressing-room and stood at the open window, in the dark. Across the fields Sam’s house was a blaze of lights, then, one by one, they started to go out. I gripped the window-sill. It was very cold and a thin rain sifted on to my face.
When the shot came I stayed where I was.
Jock drifted into the room.
‘Shot from over Cherche-fuites way,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Heavy-calibre pistol, by the sound of it.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, are we going over there?’
‘No.’
‘You going to phone then, Mr Charlie?’
‘Get out, Jock.’
Five minutes later Johanna crept in and took one of my arms in both of hers, pressing it to her poor breast.
‘Dear Charlie, why are you standing here in the dark and shivering. And crying? All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, of course you’re not
crying, I can see you’re not.’
But she closed the window and drew the curtains and led me to my bed, making me lie down, spreading a quilt over me.
‘Good night, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Please sleep now.’
‘Oh, very well,’ I said. But I would have liked to tell her about it.
‘Johanna,’ I said, as she opened the door.
‘Yes, Charlie?’
‘I forgot to ask – how is the canary?’
She didn’t answer.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
She closed the door, very gently.
He just wanted a decent book to read …
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The Mortdecai Trilogy Page 56
