by Stuart Woods
“Not much.”
“He’s lucky not to be in prison. An office building he put up collapsed last year, fortunately in the middle of the night, so no one was killed. The incident prompted an inspection of a dozen of his buildings, and it was discovered that a lot of corners had been cut. Cost the old boy a packet of money and a bad bruise on his reputation. I think he was relieved when inheriting the title allowed him to change his name.”
“Mmmm,” Stone replied, not wanting to comment.
Half an hour later, the ladies joined them, and everyone talked until past eleven, when people began to drift upstairs to bed.
Stone had just switched off the light and was settling in when the door opened and someone entered. A moment later, she was in bed with him, her hands searching and finding what she wanted. Stone joined in enthusiastically, and after a few minutes they both came noisily, then collapsed. He was half asleep when she left the bed and went back to her room. Just as well, he thought, since he was exhausted and needed sleep.
He had just drifted off when she returned to his bed, snuggling up to him.
“What?” he said sleepily.
“Sorry I took so long,” Monica said, throwing a leg over his.
Stone sat straight up in bed. “How long has it been?” he asked.
“I don’t know; three-quarters of an hour, I suppose. I had a bath.”
Stone fell back onto the bed, realizing what had happened. “Monica,” he said, “you’re going to have to forgive me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”
“Oh, surely I can bring you around,” she said, feeling for him.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Oh, all right,” she said grumpily, and went back to her room.
Stone, before he drifted off again, had the momentary feeling that he was a character in a Feydeau farce.
11
STONE SLEPT LATER THAN HE INTENDED and was still struggling with the time difference. When he came downstairs for breakfast, nearly everyone had finished. He scraped the last of the scrambled eggs from a silver serving dish and grabbed some bacon and toast.
He found a leather chair in the library and settled into it. As he started on the eggs, Sarah and her fiancé, James, appeared before him. He struggled to get to his feet, but Sarah motioned him back into his chair.
“And how are you this fine morning?” she asked, smiling broadly. “I hope you were very comfortable in your bed last night.” She winked, while James looked on, sure that something was going on, but without a clue what.
Stone choked down a big bite of eggs. “Yes, sure,” he managed to say without spraying her with food.
“I was certainly very comfortable in bed,” Sarah added unnecessarily.
“Good,” Stone said. “What’s up for the day?”
“Oh, you’re coming sailing with James and me,” she replied, taking James’s arm in a proprietary way. “James is just learning to sail.”
James nodded, clearly her prisoner.
“Great; what time?” Stone asked, longing to return to his eggs before they got any colder.
“Five minutes,” she said. “We’ll meet in the mud room and get you some gear.”
“Great,” Stone replied, returning to his eggs. They wandered away.
Monica appeared with two cups of coffee and sat down on the rug at his feet. “Good morning,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better rested today.” Her voice dripped with meaning.
“Yes, thanks. I’m sorry about last night,” he said, accepting the coffee and setting it on a small table beside him. “It must be the jet lag.”
“We’re going sailing shortly,” she said.
“I heard.” He was shoveling in breakfast as fast as he could. He set down his plate and picked up the coffee. Black. He hated coffee without sugar, but he forced himself.
“I do hope you won’t wear yourself out too much today,” Monica said, archly. “Perhaps a nap in the afternoon?”
Outfitted with a slicker and a pair of rubber sailing boots, Stone climbed into a Range Rover with Monica, Sarah and her James, and Lance and Erica. Sarah drove like a madwoman, tearing down a narrow, winding track until she skidded to a stop at a dock, where a yacht of forty feet or so lay waiting on a pretty river.
“This is the Beaulieu River,” Sarah said over her shoulder to Stone. She pronounced it “Bewley.” “Up there a ways is the village of Beaulieu, and the other way is the Solent.”
Everyone climbed aboard, Sarah started the engine, and there was much scrambling with lines and sails. As Sarah motored down the Beaulieu, Stone began hoisting, first the mainsail, then a medium genoa, assisted by James, who clearly didn’t know what he was doing and didn’t seem to be getting the hang of it. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from the river into the Solent.
Sarah set a course to the east, and Stone trimmed the sails. “Anybody else on this boat know anything about sailing?” he asked.
They all shook their heads as one person.
“Swell,” he muttered under his breath.
The sky was a mix of blue and clouds, and they beat into a stiff breeze of close to twenty knots. Stone zipped up his slicker and wished he had a hat. What with the breeze, it was chilly. They sailed up the Solent, Sarah pointing out the sights, until they were abreast of a town and harbor to starboard.
“That’s Cowes,” she said, “England’s capital of yachting; maybe Europe’s.”
Everyone looked glumly at Cowes. Sarah seemed to be the only person really enjoying herself.
Stone thought it wasn’t too bad. Then Sarah bore away, and he had to let out the sails to go downwind. Off the wind, headed west again, the breeze seemed to diminish, and everyone was more comfortable, even though the yacht was rolling enthusiastically. James climbed out of the cockpit, knelt at the rail, and tossed his breakfast into the Solent. He seemed to feel better then, and he went and stood on the afterdeck behind Sarah, holding onto the backstay to steady himself.
Stone began to enjoy the sail. He hadn’t been on a yacht since his trip to St. Marks some years before, and he had never sailed in England.
“Have you done much sailing?” Monica asked.
“At summer camp as a kid,” Stone replied. “And I spent three summers in Maine, as a hand on a yacht. We did a lot of racing up there.” He looked up at the mainsail and saw a slight curl as the wind flirted with it. They were sailing dead downwind, and the boom was fully extended.
Stone leaned over and said quietly to Sarah, “You’ll be sailing her by the lee in a minute, if you’re not careful. You don’t want to gybe her.”
“I know what I’m doing, darling,” Sarah shot back. Then, as if to prove that she didn’t, she gave the wheel a slight turn, and the rear edge of the mainsail began to flap.
“Watch it,” Stone said, trying not to reach for the wheel to correct her, and then it happened, and fast. The wind got behind the mainsail, and the yacht gybed. The boom whipped across the deck, catching James on the side of the head and catapulting him overboard. He disappeared into the water.
“Christ!” Sarah yelled, fighting the helm. “Gybing back!” She put the helm over.
It took Stone less than a second to think: Never go after a man overboard; then you’ll have two men overboard, and nobody on this yacht can sail, except Sarah. Then Stone stood up, yelled to Sarah, “Stop the yacht!” grabbed a horseshoe buoy from the stern, and jumped into the water.
The water was colder than he expected. Pushing the buoy ahead of him, Stone kicked his way toward the spot where James had gone under. He shucked off the slicker and took a moment to get rid of his rubber boots, which had filled with water. Moving faster now, he reached what he thought might be the spot where James had gone down. He dove under, feeling, looking, seeing nothing but greenish water. Again and again he dove, until he had no breath left. He came to the surface and looked around him. No sign of James, and the buoy had blown away from
him. He treaded water and looked for the yacht. She was lying abeam to the seas, two hundred yards away, her genoa aback and the main flapping free.
He got his second wind and started diving again, and it quickly became apparent that his actions were futile. He was very cold and tired now, the yacht was a long way off, and he didn’t know if he could swim that far. He began to try.
He swam slowly, his arms heavy with fatigue. Lance was taking the genoa down on the yacht, and someone, probably Monica, was lying on top of it, trying to keep it from blowing overboard. He thought he heard the engine start. He hoped to God he heard right.
Suddenly, he was only fifty yards from the yacht, and it was headed toward him. Sarah brought the boat to a halt when he was abeam of the helm. “Switch off the engine,” he called out weakly. He didn’t want to get chewed up by the prop.
Somebody tossed him the other horseshoe buoy, and he grabbed it gratefully. Lance was reaching out to him, grabbing at his clothes.
It took Lance, Monica, and Sarah to haul him aboard, and he wasn’t much help. He lay in the cockpit, shivering and gasping for breath.
“Did you see him?” Sarah asked, oddly calm.
Stone shook his head. “He’s gone.”
12
STONE WOKE SLOWLY. THE ROOM WAS dark, but faint daylight showed around the edges of the heavy curtains. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. Then there was a knocking at the door.
“Come in,” he said, as loudly as he could, struggling into a sitting position.
The door opened, and Lance Cabot walked in. “Good morning,” he said.
“Morning?”
“You’ve been asleep since we got you back to the house.”
“Then it’s tomorrow?”
“It’s today; the, ah . . . accident happened yesterday. How do you feel?”
Stone got a pillow behind him and leaned back against the headboard. “Dull,” he said. “I think I’ll probably ache a lot when I start moving around.”
“The police were here yesterday, but the Wights wouldn’t let them near you. They were very concerned about your health. The local doctor came, but you showed no signs of waking up, so he said just to let you sleep it off.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after nine. Why don’t you come down and have some breakfast? All the guests left yesterday, except you, Erica, Monica, and me. We’re all witnesses.”
Stone nodded.
“There’s going to be an inquest tomorrow morning. The locals hurried it up so they could get it done while we’re all here, so we’re staying over another night.”
“I see.”
“I thought you, Erica, Monica, and I ought to get our stories straight.”
Now Stone was awake. “Straight?”
“We should be in agreement.”
“About what?”
“About what happened.”
“Is there any disagreement about what happened?”
“That depends on how you see it.”
“The yacht gybed, and James went overboard, then I did.”
“The yacht didn’t gybe; Sarah gybed it. She knew what she was doing.”
Stone resisted the thought. “Lance, how much sailing have you done?”
“None, to speak of.”
“Then you don’t really understand what happened. Boats accidentally gybe all the time; people sometimes get hit with the boom. James was unlucky.”
“So that’s the story you’re sticking to?”
“It’s what happened; I was there, too, remember?”
“You weren’t on the yacht after James went overboard.”
“No. Did something happen then?”
“Very little. Sarah seemed . . . Well, I had the distinct impression that her only real concern was getting you out of the water.”
“Tell me exactly what happened after I went in.”
“I heard you yell, ‘Stop the yacht,’ and then Sarah yelled, ‘Gybing back.’ Or maybe it was the other way around. Why would she gybe back?”
“To get the sails on the same side of the boat.”
“But she didn’t gybe back,” Lance said. “She just turned into the wind.”
“That was the right thing to do,” Stone said. “When I looked back and saw the yacht, the genoa was aback, and that would stop the yacht.”
“Sarah wouldn’t start the engine—not at first, anyway. I asked her to, and she ignored me.”
“She did start the engine; she came back for me.”
“Only after I pointed out that you were still in the water.”
“She would have been stunned by what happened,” Stone said. “We were lucky she was able to function at all.”
“She was as cool as ice,” Lance said.
“Lucky for me.”
“All right, Stone,” Lance said. “You’re the lawyer. How should we handle the inquest?”
“Tell the truth; relate the facts as they happened; don’t offer any opinions, unless you’re asked, then be circumspect. The family is certainly going to have a lawyer there, and—”
“He’s already arrived,” Lance said. “Sir Bernard Pickering, QC. Very famous barrister, I’m told. A polite shark.”
“Then he’ll tear you and the others to pieces if you begin to imply that what Sarah did was intentional. Stick to the facts; don’t make reckless charges. Have you been questioned by the police?”
“Yes, but not the girls. I told the police they were too upset to talk yet.”
“What did you tell the police?”
“I played dumb, told them I don’t sail, don’t know anything about it.”
“Which was the truth.”
“After a fashion.”
“What do the girls think happened?”
“They don’t seem to have a clue.”
“Did they question Sarah?”
“No, she’s been locked in her room, except to have meals brought in. She won’t even talk to her parents, but I think the barrister is probably talking to her by now.”
“That’s as it should be.”
“So you don’t think what Sarah did was deliberate?”
“Of course not. I know her quite well, you know, and I’ve never seen her exhibit any behavior that would cause me to think she might want to kill her fiancé. She was marrying him, after all; if she wanted to be rid of him, she’d have dumped him in a straightforward manner. She’s a very decisive girl.”
“And you don’t think that’s exactly what she did?”
“I mean she’d have broken the engagement, told him to get lost. That’s pretty much what she did with me, except that we weren’t engaged.”
“How did all this happen?” Lance asked.
“We’d been seeing each other for a while, had been mostly living together in my house. Somebody from my past turned up—a man my partner on the NYPD had sent to prison for murder some years before. He began killing people close to me, and Sarah was, naturally, very frightened. Then he planted a car bomb outside a gallery where Sarah was showing her paintings. We managed to get everybody out before it went off, but after that, she just wanted to leave the country as quickly as possible. She asked me to come with her, and initially, I agreed, but then, at the airport, I changed my mind. She got on the airplane and, as far as I know, never looked back. I didn’t hear from her again after that.”
“Cool and decisive,” Lance said.
“That doesn’t make her a murderer.”
“I guess not.” Lance stood up. “I’ll take your advice, Stone. I don’t suppose anything I could say at the inquest would make a great deal of difference.”
“Not after the barrister got through with you,” Stone said.
“He wants to talk to you; you’d better get dressed and come downstairs.” Lance left the room and closed the door behind him.
Stone sat and thought about the scene on the boat for a minute. Lance couldn’t be right, could he? Of course not. He got up and headed for a shower.<
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13
STONE SHAVED, SHOWERED, DRESSED, and went downstairs; the house was very quiet. He walked into the library and found a man sitting before a fire reading a leather-bound volume. “Good morning,” he said.
The man rose; he was of Stone’s height but much slimmer, balding, with pale gray eyes. “Good morning.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bernard Pickering. I expect you’re Barrington.”
Stone shook the hand. “Yes.”
“I’ve ordered us some breakfast,” Pickering said, nodding at a small table at the end of the room that had been set for two. As if on cue, a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray. “Come,” Pickering said, leading the way.
“I understand you’re a lawyer back in the States,” Pickering said, pitching into his eggs.
“That’s right.”
“Have you done any criminal work?”
“Yes, and I was a police officer for many years before I began to practice law.”
“And you’re a partner, now, in Woodman and Weld?” the barrister asked, rasing his eyebrows.
“I’m of counsel. I work out of my own office.”
“I see,” Pickering replied, though clearly he didn’t.
“I do much of their criminal work.”
Pickering’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I see.” Now he really did. “Well, that should make our conversation easier. I’m glad you’re someone who will understand the, ah, limits of my questions.”
“You mean the limits of my answers, don’t you?”
“Quite so. A death of this sort is always a delicate matter, and, if we handle it properly, we can dispose of the entire incident at this inquest.”
“I hope so,” Stone replied.
“I’m a bit concerned about Mr. Cabot’s attitude.”
“We talked about it. I don’t think he’ll be of particular concern to you.”
“James Cutler’s body came up in a fisherman’s trawl in the middle of the Channel, late last night. It’s being examined now.”
