by Charles Todd
“She should have stayed away,” he said. “She thinks they’ll forget the past soon, but they’re not the sort to let it go. Small-minded and insular.” I knew what he was saying, having had some little experience with small-village narrow-mindedness.
“Shall I go down, to keep her company?” I asked. “And someone came to borrow your field glasses. I gave them to him. Was that all right?”
“No, it won’t help matters if you go,” he said wearily. “As for the glasses, I’d have done the same.”
“Will the little boat make it into the bay?”
“His only hope is to beach himself on the strand, and worry later about damage to the boat,” he answered, the wind whipping at his words. I could see he was having trouble with his crutches too, as this narrow space by the hedges tunneled the wind.
A cry went up from the watchers, and I turned quickly to see what was happening.
The mast must have snapped, for it was lying across the boat now, the sail dragging heavily in the water. Like a rudder—and in the worst possible place for one, broadside to the gunwales. The effect was to spin the craft slowly, like a child’s toy top winding down.
And I still couldn’t see if it was empty—or occupied.
But if there was someone on board, why wasn’t he trying to do anything to save himself?
Was he hurt so badly that he couldn’t help himself?
If so, he was surely going to drown.
I shivered.
We stood there watching for what seemed like hours, the little craft struggling to stay afloat. I was wet to the skin, and shaking in the cold wind, but I couldn’t turn away.
And Hugh stood behind me, bracing himself on his crutches, breaking a little of the wind’s force. Rachel was still below, and once or twice I saw her turn and look our way. But if she knew more than we did, there was no way she could let us know.
Finally, almost in slow motion, the boat capsized, having taken on too much water, and it spun around twice, briefly anchored by that dragging mast and sail before it began to break up from the battering it was taking.
I saw what I thought was a leg flung into the air, and almost at once, a head bobbing for a few seconds. Then man and boat went under. And didn’t come up again.
Another cry had gone up from the watchers down by the water. The man with the field glasses strained forward, trying to see what had become of the drowning man. The hull reappeared, upside down, and then that too began to splinter and break apart.
The man with the glasses lowered them, then he looked over his shoulder, back toward the cottage next to where we were standing. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for us or toward the rear of the cottage.
I heard a man’s voice near at hand shouting something, and I realized that someone had been posted by the cottage as a lookout. But he, like the rest of us, could offer no hope.
After a while many of the watchers began to trudge back to where they’d come from. A handful stayed on, in the event something could be done, there to raise the alarm. The man in the boat would eventually find his way to the strand—or be taken out to sea. There was nothing anyone could do to help.
Their faces as they turned away were drawn and tired, and they were silent.
I turned to start back to the house, and after a moment Hugh followed me and we made our way there with the dogs pacing in front of us. I tried not to notice the effort he was making, to keep going against the wind. Or his grim expression.
We left our wet coats in the kitchen to dry in the warmth from the cooker. I went up to change into dry clothes, then put the kettle on, to make tea.
Hugh was still not down, and I thought he must be sitting there in his room, where no one could watch him, giving in to his exhaustion.
By the time the kettle had reached a boil, Rachel came in, looking tired and dispirited.
“Did you see?” she asked, taking in the wet coats draped over chairs and adding her own to the jumble. For the table could seat eight easily in this large kitchen.
“Yes,” I answered. “It was hopeless. And so very sad. He can’t possibly survive.”
“Is Hugh all right?” She drew his field glasses out from under her coat and set them on the table.
“Frustrated just as I was by the fact that there was nothing anyone could do.”
She nodded, then said, “Thank you for making tea. I’ll just change and be right down. But pour your own, if you like, don’t wait. And there are biscuits on the shelf just there. A plate on the dresser there.”
I began to set the biscuits on the plate, all the while replaying in my mind what I’d seen out there on the bay.
It hadn’t occurred to me then. I’d been too drawn into the tragedy unfolding to think clearly. But now it seemed rather odd to me that the man in the boat had made no effort to signal the watchers, or even wave his arms in a desperate plea for help that had no way of reaching him. It was human nature to fight to live, although there was no rescue boat drawn up on the strand below the Down. Even if there had been a dozen boats, it would have been impossible to launch one. Even I, with so little experience of the sea, could understand that. The faces of the watchers as they turned away had been drawn and tired, and they had been silent. That moment when the boat went over had touched all of us, somehow.
So why hadn’t its occupant at least tried to cry for help, or show that he was alive and in dire straits?
Because the man was already dead.
I felt cold, even there in the warmth of the kitchen.
They came for me, when the little boat had finally washed up on the shore, close enough that men could wade out and beach her on the strand. It was past three, and the light was going. The sun hadn’t appeared all day, but the wind was dropping a little.
I pulled on my coat, and with Hugh behind me once more, I set out down that long twisting lane that eventually turned to cross the Down. There I continued on the path to the shore.
It was a long way for a man on crutches, and would be even harder coming back, but I knew better than to suggest that Hugh stay above and wait.
When I got closer to the wreckage of the boat, I saw the man. I hadn’t been told he’d been pulled from the sea as well. But then I could see that his right foot was tangled in the ropes from the sail. He had never gone far from the little boat . . .
I bent over the body, observing him as I would a patient brought into a forward aid station. He was in uniform. A Corporal. But his regimental insignia was missing. It was something that I, a soldier’s daughter, would look for, because the regiment was itself a form of identification—where a man had served and often where he’d come from.
He was small in stature, with dark hair and a thin build.
And dead. Possibly had been, just as I’d expected, before the boat overturned. Rigor had passed, and the gash on his head, just behind the ear, had been washed clean by the sea. Still, it was ugly and deep. I couldn’t tell if he’d fallen and struck his head on the gunwale or even the mast. That would explain why the little boat had sailed on erratically with no one at the helm, until it was caught by the storm and brought up here.
I was also thinking that the gash was where an attacker might have struck him from behind when the man going through his clothing said, “There’s nothing in his pockets to tell us who he is. Poor soul.”
Someone behind me said, “That’s not a very seaworthy craft. Look at the state of the wood. And there’s rot in the mast. See there?”
Another man was untangling the dead man’s foot and dragging him higher up on the strand. “What are we to do with him?”
I reached for the dead man’s hand, cold as the sea itself, to feel for a pulse. It was perfunctory, I knew I’d find no heartbeat.
A woman said, “He had no chance, with that cut on his head. A kinder way to die than drowning.”
I straightened. “I’m sorry. There’s no sign of life.”
They nodded in silent agreement. But the formalities had been observed
.
One of the men spoke. He was about forty, lean and strong, with a square jaw and high forehead. “Was it the sea, then, Sister?”
“I honestly can’t say. A small boat in a storm, the mast swinging—losing one’s footing? I don’t know that anyone could be sure. He must have been alone in the boat. It really isn’t large enough for two.”
Hugh said, “A man doesn’t go out in a boat without carrying some identification, so that his family can be notified if he’s lost. And where’s his insignia?”
But the others ignored him.
This wasn’t a fishing community, but these men lived near the sea and understood it. The man who’d asked me if it was the sea clambered aboard the wreckage and looked around. “Nothing,” he said at last. “Nothing to show where she’s from, this boat.” He nearly fell getting out again, and someone caught his arm to steady him. He nodded his thanks, then turned to stare at Hugh. “A man wearing a uniform and Army boots wouldn’t put out to sea this time of year. He’d have proper gear. Makes no sense.”
His voice, raised to carry over the wind, couldn’t conceal the sinister threat in his words.
“This one did,” I said shortly. “How he got to be in this boat and what happened to it tells me he knew nothing about the sea. With a storm of this magnitude coming in? It was madness.”
There was silence around me.
“Surely this boat must have come from somewhere around here.” I waited, scanning the grim faces forming a half circle around me. They stared back at me. “Someone should inform the police. They can ask around on the other side of the peninsula. I don’t know the currents here, but it might have come from one of the villages there.”
They didn’t particularly care for the suggestion. I had the feeling that nothing of a criminal nature happened out here at the far end of the peninsula. And if it did, these men dealt with it. Without involving the police in Swansea, or whoever had jurisdiction over the village.
And another thought came unbidden: if the police came, perhaps I’d be able to beg a lift back to Swansea with them.
“We ought to pull the boat higher, where the tides can’t reach it,” I said, “and take the body to some shelter. There’s no doctor close by?”
I’d already guessed as much—they’d summoned me, after all, a stranger. But there should be some more official examination.
“Not close by,” the man who’d clambered over the wreckage informed me. “But where to put the body, if we take it up?”
That was a quandary—no police station, no doctor’s surgery. They couldn’t put the dead Corporal in the church.
“What about Ellen’s cot?” one of the bystanders asked.
There was a short conversation among the men. I couldn’t hear most of it. There was mention of a worm. And then they seemed to come to an agreement.
Then one man asked, “What will Ellen say?”
There was a prolonged silence.
“He’ll be gone before ever she comes again,” someone else replied.
“Who is Ellen?” I asked.
But no one answered me.
Someone produced a blanket. I thought a woman had brought it in the hope it might be needed. It was, but not in the way she’d intended. They laid him in it. Then four of the most stalwart men took a corner each while others pulled the boat higher.
Behind us the surf was still pounding in, and the wind whipped at my skirts as the pathetic cortege began to climb up toward the road.
I fell back to the tail of the line, out of their way. Hugh soon dropped back to join me. I was sure his shoulders must be aching from the crutches, but I said only, “It must be a beautiful little bay, when it’s calm.”
“It is. The first day I was here, Rachel took me to the overlook. You must see that too, before you go.”
“When the police come.”
He smiled grimly. “I expect they’ll bury him in the churchyard, just as they did the last one.”
“At least they can’t blame his death on you. They can’t claim that this man might be Tom as well.”
“We’ll see.”
I wanted to ask him about the worm the men had mentioned. It was an odd term to use in regard to a dead body at this stage. But I could see he was having trouble with the increasingly noticeable incline.
I slowed my own pace, but he said sharply, “Keep going.”
“I’m sorry,” I retorted. “Nursing doesn’t prepare one for Down-climbing.”
He managed a laugh at that.
We had a long way to go.
By the time we reached the top, I was breathing hard, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Hugh was red-faced and haggard.
I stopped, turning to look back the way we’d come. It was quite a lovely view, even with the massed storm clouds and the waves crashing in. I couldn’t quite decide what I was looking at, what body of water. It was hard to get a feeling for where the headlands were pointing, with barely any sunlight to help me find the points of the compass. Rachel had said there was nothing out there but the Bristol Channel. She would know. When my breathing was slower, I said, “I live in Somerset. Far from the sea. It’s really incredible to watch, isn’t it? You grew up in the valleys. Do you find it as amazing?”
“Yes.” He was slowly catching his own breath.
“On a clear day, you must be able to see for miles.”
The cortege had disappeared from view.
“I don’t think I can keep up with them,” I said doubtfully as I walked on, past the hedge and into the road. The cortege was at the head of a long downslope that seemed to disappear into the heavy clouds. “Going down is all right, I expect. Coming back will be beyond me.”
“I don’t think they want you to follow.”
“Will they take care of him all right? Do I need to be there?” I was still concerned about the worms they’d spoken of.
“They’ll see to him. I don’t think you should worry.”
In reality I thought I’d be able to follow them without much trouble. The incline was nothing like the lane up from the beach. But I knew that if I went, Hugh would insist on going too. Still—where were they heading?
“Well, then, I could use a cup of tea. I’m cold through and through.”
We turned toward the house, and I could ask my question now. “I heard someone say something about worms. If the body is properly cared for, it’s too soon for worms.”
Hugh smothered a grin. “Actually it’s an odd-shaped island off the tip of the peninsula just there.” He thought about it for a moment. “I’m sure you’d describe it as a turtle with a raised head. My brother, Tom, went exploring out there once. It’s tidal, you’ll be cut off if you aren’t careful. And there’s a land bridge of sorts. Local families may call it The Worm, but it’s actually the head and body of a great serpent or dragon to them. In the days of coastal raiders, centuries ago, this strange-looking creature frightened them off. When the storm moves out, you’ll see it. Tom talked about it several times.”
Then why mention it in regard to the poor man’s body? I didn’t care for the sound of that. Had someone suggested tossing him back into the sea? Where the tide would take him out again and he would no longer be the community’s responsibility?
But I said nothing. I was the stranger, I must have misunderstood. Maybe Ellen’s cot was near the worm. Worm.
After drying off, I came down to find Rachel and Hugh in a soft conversation. They looked up—almost guiltily, I thought—as I reached the door to the front room.
Rachel said quickly, “I’ve kept back our meal. You must be starving by now. Hugh was just telling me about the poor man on the boat.”
“It was sad. But there was nothing to be done for him,” I said.
“Do you—was it an accident? Or—or something else?” she asked as the two of us walked down the passage to the kitchen, leaving Hugh in his chair. I thought he must be too exhausted to eat, but he’d make the effort.
“I couldn’t te
ll. It’s best for the police to handle his death.”
“I don’t think they’ll come. Not for a drowning. That’s how they’ll see it,” she told me, taking food out of the warming cupboard and carrying it to the table.
“Is it that? Or the reluctance of the families out there to send for them?” I remembered suddenly that my driver had left in the middle of the night. A stranger . . .
There was no smuggling out here. And no whisky stills, like those one might stumble across in out-of-the-way places in Scotland. What made these people out here so clannish?
I decided to ask Rachel outright.
She considered the question. “I don’t think it’s because they’re doing anything wrong. People have lived on this peninsula for ages. There are places here where all sorts of ancient artifacts have been found, belonging to quite primitive people. Caves with bones dyed red. Bits of pottery, even a line drawn on a cave wall. My father had seen some of them. He must have been rather wild as a boy, because he’d seen the cromlechs and explored the caves. That was before he met my mother, at any rate. But as for the people here, I think it’s just that they’re used to the isolation and don’t see it as important as you do, having grown up with modern conveniences like police and hospitals and lots of people around to help. They’re used to making do.”
I took the plates she handed me and set them round the table after spreading the cloth across it, then dealt with the utensils. “Your parents lived here. Your mother had her children here. Was there no doctor or midwife?”
“There was an older woman who came to help. Gwennie, her name was. My father went for her when the pains began. Mama managed just fine.” It was said with a smile.
I smiled in return and let the matter drop. But I wondered how the children were educated and what the rector of that small church must think about all this. I hadn’t seen him down by the strand. Or I should say, I didn’t recognize him—most of the men were dressed alike in heavy work clothes against the weather. I wouldn’t have seen a collar.
“Hugh was telling me about The Worm.”
She laughed. “Our one claim to importance. Yes, it’s a landmark, in this part of Wales. I think it’s on the sea charts. My father told me that. Seabirds nest out there. Guillemots, razorbills, fulmars. Shags. The only time I ever saw my father really angry was when he thought my brother had gone out there to hunt for eggs. There’s only a very short time when one can cross over the land bridge, and I’m sure he was terrified that Matthew had been cut off or even drowned. But Matthew was only exploring some of the prehistoric caves—nearly as dangerous, some of them, either because they’re also tidal or very hard to reach.”
