The Sunken Sailor

by Patricia Moyes

  “My dear child,” said Henry, “you’re twenty-three and you’re one of the most attractive creatures I’ve ever met. It’ll happen again.”

  Anne turned to him gravely. “Do you really mean that?” she said.

  “Of course I do. You’ve got your whole life ahead—”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Anne. “I mean—do you really think I’m attractive?”

  “You must know you are,” said Henry uncomfortably. He was aware of a growing mixture of embarrassment, irritation and excitement.

  “You see,” said Anne slowly, “you remind me so much of Pete.”

  “I’m interested in Pete.” Thankfully, Henry grasped his opportunity of changing the subject. “You must have heard by now that I’m not at all satisfied that his death was—accidental.”

  “Oh, but it was.” Anne appeared to be stating an incontrovertible fact.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’m going to tell you a great secret, Henry. I went ashore to Steep Hill Sands in the fog that day.”

  “I know you did,” said Henry.

  “Oh,” said Anne flatly. “So much for my big sensation. I suppose you’ve been talking to David. You don’t waste much time, do you? What did he tell you?”

  “Not much,” said Henry. “I’d like to hear your version.”

  “I simply had to talk to him, you see,” said Anne. There was no mistaking the simple sincerity in her voice. “I had to. I suppose I was a bit out of my mind just then. I made David row me ashore, and wait for me in the dinghy while I looked for Pete. I was on the end of a rope so as not to get lost.”

  She stopped, and looked sideways out of her green eyes at Henry, who was doing his best to preserve the traditional poker face of Scotland Yard.

  Anne rolled over onto her face, as she did so touching Henry’s leg with her own slim, brown one. “I suppose,” she went on, “that David told you it was he who went ashore and left me in the dinghy. He has very old-fashioned ideas about chivalry.”

  Henry maintained a stubborn silence.

  “Oh, very well,” said Anne lightly. “Don’t tell me. It makes no odds. I’m telling you the truth. It was I who went ashore, and I found Pete. That is, I found Blue Gull. Pete was below in the cabin. I tapped on the hull and called to him. He was very angry.”

  “He spoke to you?”

  “Oh, yes. He came up into the cockpit. He was furious and he looked terrible. He told me I was a bloody fool and that I was to go back to Pocahontas at once. I said I must talk to him, and he said, ‘I can’t talk to anyone. I feel lousy. I’ve just cracked myself over the head with the boom.’ Then I saw that he had a big bruise on the left side of his head.”

  Henry took a deep breath. “He said that? You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Where was the boom? In the gallows or swinging free?”

  For a moment, Anne hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “Swinging free, I think. I didn’t really notice.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I tried again to make him listen to me, and he got really livid. He said, ‘Are you going back or do I have to take you?’—and he climbed out of the boat and on to the sand. I was scared then. I knew if he left Blue Gull he’d never find his way back. So I said, ‘O.K., I’m going.’ And then I went back. He was still standing there on the sand behind Blue Gull when I left him. He...he must have collapsed after I’d gone. A sort of delayed concussion, I suppose.” Anne was speaking very quietly. “So you see, Henry, it was an accident. But if anybody killed him, I did. Because if it hadn’t been for me, he’d never have got out of the boat. You can imagine how many kinds of hell I’ve been through since.”

  There was a long silence. “It’s a pity you didn’t tell the coroner all this at the inquest,” said Henry. “It certainly clears matters up.”

  “I didn’t know anything about it. I went straight back to London with David, and the next day I went on holiday to the south of France. I didn’t even know that Pete was dead until Colin wrote and told me. When I got home, it was all over. And anyway, they came to the right verdict, so what did it matter?”

  Henry said, “You didn’t see or hear anybody else on Steep Hill Sands?”

  “No. Certainly not. Only Pete.”

  “Have you any idea what time you went ashore?”

  “About ten, I should think. I don’t know.”

  “And how long did you stay there?”

  “Oh, hardly any time. Not more than ten minutes.”

  “You left Pete,” Henry went on, “and followed the rope back to the dinghy. What did you tell David?”

  Again there was a trace of hesitation before Anne spoke. Then she said, “I felt a bit of a fool and very angry by then. It was so humiliating that he wouldn’t even speak to me. I told David I hadn’t been able to find him.”

  “One more thing,” said Henry. “How far away was Blue Gull from the dinghy? I mean, do you think David could have overheard your conversation with Pete?”

  Anne considered. Evidently the idea was new to her. “It’s terribly hard to say,” she said, at length. “Fog does such odd things to sound. I don’t know how far away we were. I suppose he might have heard.”

  “It’s a very strange story.”

  Henry looked at Anne, and saw that her green eyes were full of tears. “You don’t believe me,” she said miserably. “I knew you wouldn’t.” She turned away, young and hurt and defenceless.

  Without thinking, Henry laid his hand on hers. “I never said I didn’t believe you, Anne. I only...”

  Anne gripped his hand. “I’m so terribly unhappy, Henry,” she said. And before he knew what was happening, she had thrown her arms around his neck and was crying on his shoulder like a child. Henry patted her comfortingly on the back, and felt her arms tighten. Then she stopped sobbing, and nuzzled her face into his neck. It was a distinctly pleasant sensation. It was at that moment that Henry saw Colin beaching his dinghy. He tried to push Anne away.

  “Pull yourself together. Colin’s coming.”

  Anne clung to him obstinately. Colin started to walk across the fields toward them. Henry said, “Be sensible, Anne, for God’s sake.”

  Without moving, she whispered, “Say you believe me. Henry, darling, say you believe me.”

  In the grip of a nightmare, Henry said desperately, “All right, I believe you. Now behave yourself.”

  “You won’t go on with this silly business of stirring up trouble, will you? Promise me you won’t.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Promise!”

  “Oh, very well.”

  She drew away from him then. “Thank you, darling Henry,” she said. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling.

  Colin came closer. It was inconceivable, Henry decided, that he had not seen what was going on, and equally inconceivable that he would not have put the worst possible construction on it. Feeling trapped and ridiculous, he scrambled to his feet.

  “Don’t get up,” said Colin drily. “Forgive me if I join you. I got bored with my own company. I trust Anne has been entertaining you adequately.”

  Henry sat down again. Colin certainly did not appear either angry or upset, but in his embarrassment Henry felt sure he could detect an undercurrent of irony behind every word.

  “Anne’s rather upset,” he said, and his own voice sounded hopelessly pompous in his ears. “My fault, I’m afraid. I started talking about”—it suddenly occurred to him that to mention Pete Rawnsley at this stage would be tactless in the extreme: he ended, wretchedly—“about death.”

  “Anne’s a very emotional girl, aren’t you, darling?” said Colin. He sat down beside her, gave her a sharp look, and added, “You’ve been crying.”

  “I’m all right now,” said Anne. “I’m sorry I was so stupid. What have you been up to, darling?”

  “Reading,” said Colin. Again, his voice held the note of secret amusement that Henry had noticed the night be
fore. “The Venturesome Voyages of Captain Voss. Hadn’t looked at it for years. Most instructive. The fellow had some very ingenious ideas.”

  Only Colin appeared completely at ease. He turned to Henry and added, “I can’t help feeling, Henry, that you’d have been more profitably employed reading a good book than playing at nymphs and shepherds with my feather-brained fiancée—especially as you succeeded in reducing her to tears. Some day you must tell me how you did it. I’ve never managed it.”

  This time there was no mistaking the malice in his voice, but Henry had the impression that it was directed at Anne. Colin, he reflected, must be quite used to situations of this sort, and even seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from them: but this mood of delicately cruel amusement contrasted sharply with the brooding anger which he had shown in the bar when Anne had referred to her affair with Pete Rawnsley. Was it that Colin knew that Pete had meant more to her than the casual flirtations into which she drifted so naturally? Or was it—?

  “Of course,” Colin was saying, “I could have told you that death—particularly sudden death—is Anne’s least favourite topic of conversation. She’s very sensitive about it just now. Aren’t you, my sweet? Couldn’t you find anything better to talk about in these idyllic circumstances?”

  “Colin, you’re being beastly again,” said Anne lightly. “What time is it, Henry? Shouldn’t you go back?”

  Henry glanced at his watch. “Yes,” he said, with some relief. “It’s a quarter to four. I promised Alastair I wouldn’t be late.”

  “Off you go, then,” said Anne. “We’ll stay a bit longer, shall we, Colin darling?”

  Henry got to his feet. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I’ll be seeing you. In The Berry Bush, I presume.”

  “You presume correctly,” said Colin. “We won’t disappoint you.” He looked at Henry intently for a moment, with lively mockery and a hint of sympathy. Henry considered several remarks, rejected them all, and set off across the meadows to his dinghy.

  Alastair was nothing if not punctual. Ariadne was already in sight, beating down Hamford Water towards the anchorage. Henry rowed out, Alastair put the nose of the boat into the wind to stop her, and helped him to clamber aboard.

  At half past four, the wind had died away to the merest breath. At five o’clock, beating laboriously against the incoming tide, Ariadne was still well inside the narrow exit from the Backwaters.

  Alastair said, “There’s no sense in this. Come and take her, Rosemary, while I start the motor.”

  He removed several floor boards from the cockpit, to reveal a small, sturdy marine engine. It would be pleasant to be able to record that this miracle of modern science leapt into life at the first swing of the starting handle. It would also be untrue. However, it took little more than ten minutes of tinkering and profanity before Alastair emerged from the bowels of the boat, filthy but triumphant, to the accompaniment of an ear-splitting but reassuring roar. The sails were lowered, and Ariadne began to crawl confidently towards the open sea.

  “Go and sit on deck, up fo’rard,” Alastair yelled to Henry and Emmy. “Less noise and smell.”

  This proved to be quite true. Forward of the mast, there was nothing to be heard but a gentle purr, and conversation became possible.

  Emmy said, “Did you have a nice walk?”

  “Very enlightening,” said Henry shortly.

  “I was beginning to wonder,” said Emmy, “whether Anne had designs on you.”

  To do him justice, Henry had fully intended to tell his wife the whole ludicrous story, to share the joke with her and implore her never to leave him alone with an unscrupulous minx again: but for some reason, when it came to the point, all he said was, “Good heavens, no. I only went with her because I wanted to talk to her about...you know what.”

  Emmy gazed out over the glassy sea, and said, “Did she have anything interesting to tell you?”

  Henry told her Anne’s account of her adventures on Steep Hill Sands. Emmy turned to him, her eyes shining. “Oh, darling, I’m so glad. That’s the explanation. Now you can forget the whole thing, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I can.”

  “You fraud,” muttered his conscience, nastily. “Tell her what David said.”

  “But I promised Anne...”

  “Under duress,” said Conscience, with a leer.

  “I’m on holiday.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. I thought you cared about truth and justice.”

  “I care more about people,” said Henry, crossly—and was horrified to realize that he had spoken the last words aloud.

  Emmy, surprised, said, “More than what?”

  “More than anything,” said Henry.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Henry turned and looked at his wife. For the first time, he saw, consciously, that she had been putting on quite a bit of weight: he saw the crow’s-feet of laughter at the corners of her eyes, and the occasional glint of grey in her black hair. A great wave of tenderness swept over him.

  “I care about you,” he said, and put his arm round her shoulders. “In fact, I love you very much. It seems a long time since I told you that.”

  Emmy relaxed against his arm, and shut her eyes. “I love you, too,” she said. “I suppose we’re just sentimental old fools. Do you know, I was actually worried about you and Anne.”

  “Idiot.”

  “I might have known you’d have more sense.”

  “I haven’t got much sense,” said Henry.

  “Go on,” said Conscience, approvingly. “Tell her now.”

  But he didn’t.

  They reached the mouth of the Berry at eight o’clock. At ten past eight, Mary Jane passed them, gliding swiftly and beautifully through the still water to the gentle throb of her powerful motor. The chill of the evening had driven Henry and Emmy back to the cockpit, where they sat in enforced silence, since any attempt at speech was drowned under the harsh roar of Ariadne’s faithful but cacophonous engine. They were all glad to see the tall, angular chimney stacks and steep roof of The Berry Bush silhouetted against the sunset. Alastair took Ariadne upstream of her mooring, then swung her round into the tide, and switched off the motor, leaving the boat just enough way on her to carry her down to her buoy. As the engine coughed itself into silence, the full beauty of the evening became apparent for the first time: quietness streamed back over the river like cool rain on parched earth: the fading light turned the trees to black, amorphous shadows and the water to grey satin, shot with reflected pink and green and violet from the western sky.

  By common consent, Ariadne’s crew had decided against going ashore, and it was without any great pleasure that, at a quarter to ten, they heard Colin’s voice shouting, “Ariadne ahoy!”

  “Oh, blast,” said Alastair, “what does he want?” He got up slowly and went out into the cockpit.

  Colin’s dinghy was alongside. Anne sat in the stern.

  “Aren’t you people coming ashore for a beer?” Colin called.

  “We weren’t,” said Alastair. “Too comfortable where we are. Besides, it’s nearly closing time.”

  “Not till eleven, Alastair,” said Anne. “Do come. We’re only going to have one for the road.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Alastair. “I’ll sound out the feeling of the meeting.” He went below again, and put the proposition to the others.

  “I’m certainly not going,” said Rosemary. “In any case, I have to wash up.”

  “Count me out, too,” said Emmy. “I’ll help Rosemary, and then I’m ready for bed. I’m not used to all this fresh air.”

  “By all means, you go if you want to, darling,” said Rosemary. Her voice sounded perfectly natural.

  “I think perhaps I will, after all,” said Alastair, with a trace of guilt. “What about you, Henry?”

  Henry yawned. “Um,” he said. “What a difficult decision. O.K., I’ll come.”

  The bar of The Berry Bush on a Monday evening had an
atmosphere which was entirely different from its weekend clamour. Herbert Hole sat in an inglenook, his greasy yachting cap still anchored firmly to his grey head, talking earnestly to Sam Riddle. Bill Hawkes was chatting to Bob at the bar. Hamish, looking unseamanlike in grey flannels and a sports jacket, was playing a desultory game of darts against Sir Simon. Old Ephraim sat by himself near the fireplace, puffing at an ancient and smelly pipe. Otherwise the bar was empty.

  The four newcomers settled themselves at the big table in the window, where Sir Simon and Hamish joined them, thereby leaving the dart board free for a contest of deadly seriousness—Bill Hawkes and Bob against Herbert and Sam.

  “Had a good day?” Hamish asked.

  They told him, enthusiastically, about their trip to Walton Backwaters.

  “Walton?” said Hamish. “Funny place to go today. Tide’s all wrong.”

  “I wanted to go there,” said Anne. “I love Hamford Water.”

  “Typical female reasoning,” said Hamish, “completely devoid of even the most elementary logic. I suppose you had to motor all the way back?”

  “So what? It was a heavenly sail down there.”

  “You’re a fool,” said Hamish indifferently.

  “Yes,” said Anne quietly. “I’m a fool. Colin, darling, I could use another beer.”

  Colin took the empty mugs to the bar.

  The dart game was proceeding acrimoniously.

  “We saw you out in Priscilla,” said Henry to Sir Simon. “A wonderful day for a spin.”

  Sir Simon looked surprised. “Me?” he said. “No, I wasn’t out today, worse luck. Couldn’t manage it. Had to take that bit of Wedgwood into Ipswich. They say they can mend it, but I doubt it.”

  “Your boat was out, at all events,” said Alastair.

  “Was she? Oh, very likely. Riddle went out for a spot of fishing, I dare say.”

  “That’s right, Sir Simon,” Bob put in. “Came up past the pub.”

  “He had somebody with him,” said Henry.

  “Old Ephraim, most like,” said Bob. Lowering his voice, he added, “Knows where the fish are, ’e does. Proper old poacher.”