It did not really occur to me that this could be a serious consideration, and I was smiling as I stepped out onto the small ledge on the landing side and looked out to sea ready to wave and holler. But there was nothing to wave at. No boat. No Jason. I scanned the horizon. Not a dot.
The water was lapping at my feet. The tide had already risen three feet or more. Soon it would flood the bottom end of the tunnel and there was nowhere else to go on this face of the rock. I contemplated going back to the far side of the Pencil to the higher ledge which I realised the incoming tide would not reach for some time. I quickly decided against it, though. It would be practically impossible for a boat to reach me there, and logic told me Jason would soon be back. Something rational must lie behind this. Even though the light was fading fast, I was sure that I should wait where I was and not panic.
By the time I began to think better of my decision, it was too late. The bottom of the tunnel had now flooded. I crouched on the far end of the ledge, slightly above the tunnel entrance, but the tide was already lapping at my feet, and quite vigorously too. The sea had got up with the sunset. Occasionally more robust waves cracked ominously against the sheer sides of the Pencil and I was getting drenched. I was cold and wet and very frightened. I felt the panic rising in spite of my efforts to suppress it. The position of the Pencil was such that no vessel was likely to pass close to it by chance and in any case it would soon be too dark for anyone to spot me. I had my torch, of course, but it was not a very powerful one and the batteries would not last for ever.
Maybe Jason had had an accident. Maybe he wasn’t going to come back at all. Maybe nobody was coming. I tried not to think about that. Logic – again – told me the staff on Abri would miss me at dinner and launch a search party. But nobody knew I had gone on this foolhardy expedition to the Pencil with Jason. Why should they come here? And in any case, could I last that long?
The cold and the damp cut me to the marrow. I began to realise that both my movements and my ability to think had slowed. The panic mounted with the increasing darkness. Within an hour of my returning to the ledge the sky had turned completely black. I was not sure if the luminous hands of my watch were a comfort or a reminder of the inevitability of tide and time. The sea rose higher and higher.
By five o’clock on that bleak November evening I had been forced to somehow scramble up the sheer side of the rock as high as I could manage to escape the approaching threat of the sea. I clung to rocky outcrops with fingers I could no longer feel, and I had no idea how long I could hang on. More by luck than judgement my feet found a kind of misshapen crevice into which I managed to half crouch. But I still had to hold on somehow to the rock face with both my numbed hands. Six o’clock came and went. I tried to think only in minutes. One more minute, and then another, of life.
Curiously, my panic had subsided a little. I was quite certain now that I would die. The only question was when.
Two
The shout came just when I had totally accepted that it was all over. A faint call above the roar of the sea.
I peered into the darkness. I could just make out a gleam which could surely only be the lights of a boat. Yet for a moment or two I still wasn’t quite sure if I was indulging in wishful thinking, if my imagination was playing tricks on me. Then I heard an engine. I remembered the torch dangling loosely from its strap around my wrist, which I had switched off in order to conserve its batteries for as long as possible. Somehow I found the strength to grasp it, switch it on, and wave it frantically. I tried to shout but my voice came only in gasps, and in any case, whoever was aboard that noisy sounding boat would never be able to hear.
They spotted me. At the time it seemed like a miracle, but later I realised that they were half expecting me to be on the Pencil. They had come looking for me.
The beam of my torch, still quite powerful thanks to my energy-conservation efforts, picked up the approaching bow of an inflatable – quite possibly the one which had dumped me there in the first place – nosing its way through the hazardous array of rocks. The boat came alongside the Pencil, unable to tie up anywhere now even temporarily as the ledge was four or five feet under water, and seconds later strong arms reached up for me and pulled me downwards.
I collapsed into a kind of human cradle, a tangle of limbs. The faces were just a hazy shadow. I had no idea even how many people were aboard the small boat, let alone who they were, and neither did I care. I had, however, a vague impression that young Jason did not seem to be among them, although, in reality, I was only half-conscious.
‘It’s all right, you are safe now,’ said a soothing male voice.
They knew about survival, it seemed. They wrapped me in tin foil and then blankets and something hot, sweet and liquid was pressed to my lips. I remember gulping it gratefully, feeling warming reviving fluid cursing through my system. Yet I was only barely aware of what was going on. I did know that I was safe. I knew that the ordeal was over. And that was enough. The next few hours were indistinct. At some stage I realised vaguely that I was back on dry land, the motion of the sea no longer rocking me, and that there were other new voices speaking and a certain bustle going on around me.
Strong arms carried me again. There was the sound of another engine, the island Land Rover perhaps. I was almost oblivious. I had no recollection of where I was taken or of being stripped of my sodden clothes and put to bed, although later it became apparent that is what had happened. Ultimately I became aware only of deep warmth and comfort and of the overpowering need for sleep.
Eventually I woke. I was lying on the softest mattress I had ever experienced, wrapped in white sheets so crisp they crackled when I moved, upon a bed which seemed to be about the same size as most people’s houses. Gradually I took in a room of extremely grand proportions with huge towering windows. My first impression was of a glorious abundance of light again. And my second of a handsome Charles Dance lookalike sitting by my bedside peering at me anxiously.
The sunshine streaming through the windows was blinding. I blinked furiously. When I had more or less accustomed my eyes to the glare, Charles Dance was still there, leaning forward now and looking relieved.
‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘We choppered the doctor over in the night and he reckoned all you needed was warmth and rest. But none of us were entirely sure . . .’
‘I don’t remember a doctor . . .’ I mumbled blearily. My head felt as if it belonged to somebody else.
‘You wouldn’t,’ replied the vision. ‘You were suffering from shock and exposure. You were pretty much out for the count.’
He smiled. It is pretty damn stupid to be bowled over by a smile when you’ve just come back from the dead. But then, I’ve never been very bright when it comes to matters of the heart – let alone the more basic urges.
‘I’m Robin Davey, by the way,’ he said.
Even in my state of weakness I recognised the name. The Davey family had owned Abri for generations and Robin Davey was about the nearest thing to a feudal lord this side of the remains of Hadrian’s Wall. I judged him to be somewhere in his mid-forties, and his face was of the sort that is inclined to improve with age. He had wispy reddish blond hair, thinning a bit, which in no way lessened his attractiveness, and the brightest of blue eyes. They held an obvious warmth and humour in the way they crinkled at the edges and he positively oozed charm.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Piper, that I was not here to welcome you to my island and I am even sorrier I was not here to stop what happened yesterday afternoon.’
I struggled to remember exactly what had happened.
‘Was it you who rescued me from that rock?’ I asked hesitantly.
He nodded imperceptibly.
I could remember being taken out there by the boy, Jason. But what had happened then? Why had he left me there? I began to ask more questions.
Robin Davey shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now you must rest. I just hope you feel able to accept my apologies and my hospitalit
y.’
He stood up then. He was a big man, definitely well over six feet tall, and I could not help noticing the breadth of his shoulders and the slenderness of his hips as he left the room.
It was just as I was beginning to realise that the one question I might have insisted upon asking was exactly where I was, that the door opened again and in bustled a thin rather severe-looking woman, balancing a tray on which sat a bowl of something steaming.
‘I’m Mrs Cotley, Mr Robin’s housekeeper,’ she said in a soft voice which completely belied her somewhat forbidding appearance. ‘Mr Robin says that his home is your home, and that I’m to look after you,’ she went on, at least half-answering my as yet unspoken question.
She brought the tray to the bedside, with one hand flicked something underneath it so that it grew neat little legs, then manoeuvred it across my lap. I looked down at myself with interest as I lay caged within the tray’s wooden frame. I appeared to be clad in a man’s nightshirt. It was striped in blue and made of the kind of cosy flannelette I vaguely remembered from my childhood.
‘Mr Robin’s,’ said Mrs Cotley, who obviously didn’t miss much. ‘Hope you don’t mind, most comfortable nightwear you can get, they be.’
I shook my head, and barely even had the strength to wonder if Mr Robin had helped me into the nightshirt. Not likely with Mrs Cotley around. Meanwhile my nostrils were being invaded by the smell of something wonderfully good.
‘This is my special home-made chicken broth, my dear,’ said Mrs Cotley soothingly. ‘And I want you to eat it all up. ‘Twill bring your strength back in no time.’
Obediently I picked up my spoon and overcame – just – a slightly hysterical desire to giggle. The whole thing was like living out a cliché. I had been rescued by a quite gorgeous man and now I was sitting up in bed in his house eating chicken broth and being mothered by his housekeeper.
Mrs Cotley’s chicken broth turned out to be nothing to giggle about, and tasted every bit as good as it smelt. Even that, however, could not quite bring about a miracle. My ordeal had taken its toll. It was, I learned, mid-afternoon. I had been more or less asleep since being put to bed shortly before midnight, and I still felt exhausted.
Mrs Cotley insisted that I stay in bed, but in fact I wasn’t arguing. It was late the following morning before I woke properly and reckoned I was at least halfway back to normal.
I climbed a little uncertainly out of bed and as soon as I started to move around the room Mrs C, looking grim and sounding kind, arrived clutching a cup of tea. She fussed around me in the already familiar motherly fashion.
‘Come down to the kitchen when you’m ready and I’ll have a nice breakfast waiting for you, dear,’ she said.
I saw that the clothes which I had been wearing on my ill-fated trip to the Pencil had been washed, dried and ironed, and were neatly folded on a chair by the bed. After a much needed bath and hair-wash, I put them on, wandered downstairs, and was guided to the kitchen by the sweetly wafting aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon.
Mrs Cotley greeted me with a tight smile. I had already realised that her nature matched the warmth of her voice. If it contained any of the paradoxical severity of her appearance then this was probably reserved to add weight to the uncompromising efficiency with which she patently ran this house and all who resided in it.
I was swiftly provided with a huge fried breakfast followed, in the West Country fashion, by slices of rich fruit cake.
‘Mr Robin’s off at the farm,’ she informed me. ‘He’ll be back just after one for ‘is dinner and ’e’s going to be that pleased you’re up and about.’
I glanced at my watch, which thankfully appeared to have survived its thorough drenching on the Pencil. It was already nearly noon. The breakfast had been delicious, an orgy of cholesterol, and my appetite – nearly always healthy, I was a great believer in comfort food – seemed even more vociferous than usual. Nonetheless, if I was also expected to have dinner just after one I might be struggling.
Mrs Cotley, clutching a big mug of tea, came and sat at the kitchen table to watch me finish off the fruit cake.
‘He’s been worried sick about ’ee I don’t mind telling ’ee,’ she confided in an almost conspiratorial fashion, as if informing me of something very important and confidential. ‘You know that’s ’is bedroom you’re in, don’t ’ee? Mr Robin said you must ’ave the best room in house, and he moved isself into one of the guest rooms.’
I raised an eyebrow and just stopped myself remarking that Mr Robin was quite welcome to share the best bedroom with me, but I suspected that Mrs C would not approve of such flippant remarks about the man she clearly hero-worshipped.
I spent a fascinating hour or so checking out the Davey home, which I knew to be called Highpoint House, having admired the splendid Georgian building from the outside frequently during my first few days on the island. It’s name had been appropriately bestowed. The house dominated the island from a fine vantage point at the edge of the village, but it nestled into the top of a gully, and, unlike my lighthouse, was considerably sheltered from the high winds Abri was famous for. The grand old stairway and the hall boasted a selection of Davey ancestral portraits. There were more in the drawing room where Mrs Cotley bade me sit by a blazing fire.
She fussed over me nonstop – as she had probably been told to do, I thought – not surprising when I finally began to learn the truth about the incident that had nearly killed me.
It was Robin Davey who did his best to explain. Upon returning to the house he came straight into the drawing room and sat down opposite me.
‘I’m just so glad you’re up and about,’ he said, and smiled that smile again.
‘Thank you,’ I responded. And waited. He knew exactly what I was waiting for.
‘I expect you want to know what happened?’
I merely nodded.
‘Yes, well, I won’t beat around the bush,’ he said. ‘Jason Tucker suffers from epilepsy. Acutely so, and a very extreme form. He appears to be perfectly normal ninety-nine per cent of the time, but when he does have an attack he is capable of completely losing his short-term memory.
‘He had a grand mal while you were on the Pencil and he was hovering around in the inflatable. He passed out and then went into a kind of trance. By the time he had fully recovered consciousness the boat had drifted almost back to the shore – the tide was coming in if you recall. Jason had absolutely no memory of dropping a visitor off at the rock and had completely forgotten why he was out at sea at all.
‘We are all terribly, terribly sorry, and both Jason and his father will be up here this afternoon to apologise to you personally.’
I stared at him in amazement. ‘As simple as that?’ I said. ‘Look, I’m sure Jason is a very nice young chap and everything, but nobody with that affliction should be in charge of a boat at all, let alone carrying unsuspecting passengers around the place.’
‘I know.’ Robin Davey sighed resignedly. ‘He wasn’t supposed to do what he did, of course he wasn’t. I employ him as a porter and an odd job man, but his family have fished off Abri for almost as long as mine have been here. We let him use the boat and do a bit of fishing because he loves it, but he’s not supposed to carry passengers, he knows that.’
‘Mr Davey, I could have died,’ I said.
‘Call me Robin, please,’ he responded. ‘But no, you had to be missed, we were always going to miss you. You must realise that. We only take a maximum of about twenty staying guests on the island, and there are just a dozen of you here at the moment. As soon as you didn’t turn up for supper at The Tavern, we reckoned something was amiss. One of the waitresses remembered seeing Jason bring the inflatable into the landing beach quite late in the day and that when she spoke to him he had seemed confused and unwell. We put two and two together . . .’
I wasn’t entirely convinced. I reckoned I’d had a very lucky escape indeed. All Abri’s accommodation had at least elementary cooking facilities and some gues
ts did their own catering. It was fortunate that I had trotted along to The Tavern at about six every evening for my first drink of the day followed by an early supper. Had I not been both bone idle when it came to any kind of domesticity, and also such a creature of habit, I might not have been so fortunate. I might not have been missed until the next morning, and I was quite sure that I would have been unable to survive an entire night clinging to the Pencil. The very thought of my fate had my ordeal lasted much longer brought me out in a cold sweat.
No wonder Robin Davey was showing so much concern. Idly I wondered how much I could sue the bugger for, and I did obtain a certain rum satisfaction from watching him turn a dull shade of green when I casually told him my job.
I don’t look like a Detective Chief Inspector. In fact I don’t look like a copper at all, although I’ve never been quite sure whether that has by and large been an advantage or a disadvantage to me. I have quite a lot of very curly fair hair, and as I had allowed it to dry naturally that morning, it had formed itself into a fuzzy blonde halo around my head. I had once overheard a couple of particularly chauvinistic Avon and Somerset wooden-tops describe me as ‘a Barbie-doll with a brain’. However, being all too aware of the average copper’s opinion of women in The Job, certainly in senior positions, I had merely counted myself fortunate that they’d allowed that I had a brain. On this occasion it was pleasantly entertaining to watch Robin Davey’s reaction to my profession and my rank. He was a quick recoverer though.
For Death Comes Softly Page 2
