Death on a Dark Sea (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 2)

by R. A. Bentley

  Death on a Dark Sea

  R. A. Bentley

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in Great Britain 2016

  Copyright © R. A. Bentley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book has been produced for the Amazon Kindle and is distributed by Amazon Direct Publishing

  Author's note:

  Landlubbers may be comforted to know that this novel is essentially a floating country-house mystery. No nautical knowledge is required! The following salty terms may, however, prove useful in finding your way about the ship:

  A deckhouse is a cabin built on deck ('upstairs,' so to say). Forrard is towards the bows, aft is away from them, the bulwarks are a low wall around the deck, a companionway is a staircase, a head is a lavatory, the fo'c'sle is the crew's quarters, the bilges lie beneath the lower deck, a bulkhead is a wall and a deckhead is a ceiling, a tender is a ship's boat and the taffrail is a wooden rail at the stern.

  As to her layout. The action of the plot is restricted to the deck, the deckhouse, the chartroom (which is also on deck), and the below-decks accommodations. These are centred on the saloon, from which corridors run forrard and aft. The one running aft has sleeping cabins, a bathroom, a study, and terminates in the owner's suite. The forrard one has more sleeping cabins, the galley and another bathroom, and terminates in the fo'c'sle. Right in the bows is the sail locker and right at the stern is the lazarette (a storeroom).

  Ready to sail now? Then anchors aweigh!

  Ralph Bentley

  Chapter 1

  August 1926 found the schooner Isabella anchored in the Solent, that narrow and historic straight that separates the Isle of Wight from the English mainland. Her port of call was Cowes, but owing to her considerable draught she was obliged to lie well offshore. It was just after four bells in the first dogwatch, the weather scorching hot and the sea flat calm. Scarcely a breath of wind disturbed her courtesy red ensign, and the flag of Spain hung limp at her stern. Only when a steamer passed by did she briefly stir in her siesta, a somnolent pitch and roll that her people, seasoned mariners all, scarcely noticed.

  Sitting obediently still in the shade of the deck awning, Connie Harrison closed her rather tiresome novel, heaved a surreptitious sigh, and lifted her gaze to the distant estuary of the Medina. Their fellow traveller, the Bermudian cutter Musket, partly obscured the view, but by slightly – surely negligibly? – altering her position she was able to follow, amongst a hazy thicket of masts, the slow-creeping progress of Stan Hobson's launch.

  'They're coming,' she said, to no-one in particular.

  'Who dear?' asked Winifred.

  'Your guests. They've just cleared the quay.'

  'Surely you can't see that far? I can barely make out the town.'

  'Yes, Mummy, that's how I know they're coming.'

  Maurice looked up and scowled. 'You moved,' he complained. 'You moved your head.'

  'Well I'm sorry but my leg's gone to sleep and my neck hurts. I'm suffering for your art.'

  'Très drôle. All right, we can stop now if you want. I shan't have time for another anyway.' He passed her his sketchpad, 'What do you think? It's a little prediction piece.'

  Released from the discipline of the model, Connie enjoyed a grateful stretch before giving the work her critical attention. 'Hmm, yes. You're getting frightfully good, you know. I like the little collar especially, and the hat. Is that where you think hemlines are going?'

  'Of course. They can scarcely go higher, so they'll have to come down. I think it'll be rather splendid — a return to elegance. I'm eager to hear Jeremy's opinion; he has an excellent eye.'

  Julia Pérez came and peered between them. 'But long frocks are so dull,' she said. 'I like the young fashions; they suit me. Is that you he's drawn, Connie? It looks like you.'

  'It's not supposed to be anyone in particular,' said Connie. 'It's the clothes that matter.'

  Maurice smiled. 'Connie is quite without personal vanity, aren't you, sweetie? Contrairement à moi.'

  'Well you've made her nice and thin anyway. You haven't seen Effie, I suppose? You wouldn't think it possible to lose someone on a yacht but I'm forever doing it. Goodness knows where she gets to.'

  'It's remarkably easy to lose someone off a yacht,' murmured Connie.

  'I'm sorry, dear; what did you say?'

  'I'm afraid it's my fault,' said Winifred hurriedly. 'She happened to be passing so I pressed her into balling wool for me. Then she thought she had better go and lay out your things. Constance thinks she can see them coming.'

  'I can see them coming. Honestly, Mummy!'

  'Then I must change,' said Julia. 'But first I must use my feminine wiles on the caterers. They won't like it, but I'm minded to move dinner to the deckhouse. It might be a little cooler than the saloon and can scarcely be any worse. I'm giving Effie the evening off, by the way; there's not much she can do once they arrive.'

  'Won't she be bored, stuck in a her cabin all night?' asked Connie. 'There'll be nowhere for her to go.'

  Julia looked surprised. 'I really don't know, dear. She can always read or something. Oh, and Maurice, kindly leave Oscar Wilde in the wardrobe tonight; I don't want anything to upset Luis. He's in a funny mood at the moment and just a little bit grumpy.'

  Watching her scurry below, Maurice rolled his eyes. 'Beats me how she knows. And if that was some antediluvian reference to my sartorial taste, she's hardly in a position to criticise. Mutton dressed as lamb isn't in it.'

  'Maurice, how can you say that?' exclaimed Winifred. 'Your mother is always beautifully turned out.'

  'For a girl perhaps, but as you've no doubt observed, she ain't one. Her neck's going, and her arms. She should let me dress her. I could work wonders. I wonder if Jerry will bring his swatches? We might try something.'

  'Is that London Jeremy?' asked Connie. 'The one you're always talking about.'

  'Yes. Isn't it exciting? I'm quite faint with anticipation.'

  Rising with difficulty from her deckchair, Winifred Harrison began to gather up her knitting. 'Am I to understand you've invited this boy to the party, Maurice? Does your step-father know?'

  Maurice looked suddenly defiant. 'Yes you are, and no, he doesn't. And if it doesn't suit him, he can jolly well lump it.'

  'Was that really such a good idea? You know what he thinks of your bohemian pals, and if he's keyed up about tonight —'

  'I can hardly be expected to anticipate his every mood. Anyway, he won't dare be rude to Jerry in front of everyone, and if he is, we'll just brazen it out.'

  'Well on your own head be it. I shouldn't want to be in your shoes if he turns nasty. Come along, Constance; we must get ready too.'

  Connie shook her head. 'I'm not going down into that oven until the last possible moment. I thought it was supposed to be informal anyway.'

  'I hardly think that includes bathing dresses, dear. And do try to make an effort. It is business, you know. There's a lot of money involved.'

  'Yes, and if you want to know what I think about that —'

  'No, Constance, I don't,' said Winifred firmly. 'You've made your views abundantly clear on the subject, and unless you want to embarrass me and your father I hope you won't be voicing them tonight
.'

  Connie glowered angrily at her mother's retreating back. 'It's obscene!' she burst out. 'A man died, for God's sake! Suppose it'd been Daddy or Luis, would it have been business as usual then? They ought to be ashamed — all of them! I've a good mind to stay in my cabin like Effie. That'd show them! You agree with me, Maurice, don't you? You must do.'

  Maurice eyed her cautiously. 'I share your sentiments, Connie, of course I do. But nothing will bring the poor fellow back, and you know how much I've been looking forward to it.' He glanced quickly around him. 'Does this mean you won't do what we said? You did promise.'

  But Connie was already shaking her head. 'Oh, Maurice, no! Not tonight. How can you possibly ask?'

  Crouching in the Isabella's dark and echoing bilges, Captain Albert Simmons ran his torch-beam over a complex arrangement of plumbing. The hull plating behind him was wet with condensation, and water lay trapped behind the stringers. 'Just look at that panellin' — all swelled up! I hate to think what it's like further aft. Ah, and there's the culprit. Chuck us that big spanner, my sonny.'

  'This?'

  'No, the adjustable. That's the feller. Crikey, they didn't leave much room, did they? Lucky I'm not your size or I shouldn't've got in. And look at them limber holes — all blocked with flippin' rubbish! Call themselves shipwrights? I wouldn't let 'em build a tin pail. Back off a bit, can you? You makes a better door 'n you do a window.'

  Withdrawing his great blond head from the maintenance hatch, Able Seaman Sven Olofsson, knelt up, eased his back and gazed with approval around the Isabella's aft bathroom. 'Is nice here — quiet! Maybe I stay.'

  The Captain smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. 'She been botherin' you again then?'

  'Ja, same. Always behind me, talking, talking. Why she do this?'

  'Well if you don't know, I ain't gonna tell you.'

  Sven made a circle with thumb and forefinger and suggestively inserted the other. 'You think this? I also think. But she is old woman!'

  'No she ain't. I doubt she's much over forty. Quite a decent figure too. Nice legs. Not that I'm advocatin' it, mind; unless you fancies a long swim and a shore job.'

  'I don't want! I tell her go away — busy.'

  'Very wise. Blast! There goes another bloody gallon. We'll have to fetch a sponge or something to this lot, as if we didn't have enough to do.'

  'We finish easy when others come. Only foremast now.'

  'If they come. And if they don't, I shan't blame 'em. Have you opened the sealant?'

  'Ja, it is here.'

  'Hand it over then. Trouble with this stuff, it gets brittle and can crack. We'll have to halve in a bit of timber to stop that pipe flexin' or we'll be down here again as soon as we hit some weather. Effie's a nice little girl though, eh? Not stuck-up or nothing. How she puts up with you-know-who I don't know.'

  'Ja, she is nice. Listen, he is coming.'

  'Now ain't that a surprise?'

  At the advent of the boss, Sven shambled to his feet, snatched off his cap, and stood nervously clutching it. Luis Pérez ignored him, addressing his remarks to the open hatch. 'Ah, Captain. Have you found it?'

  'Yes sir, it's like I thought: joint come apart behind the Señora's head. We couldn't get at it from the other side.'

  'And when shall you finish?'

  'Maybe half an hour.'

  'That is no good. My guests are arriving shortly. You must leave it until later.'

  'Aye aye, sir, but you won't get no water until it's fixed. It's all connected.'

  'Oh, I see. Well, you have ten minutes. Then all must be clean and tidy.'

  Hidden from view, Captain Simmons jerked two fingers at his employer. 'Ten minutes it is, sir.'

  'Hello again, Mr Grantham,' said Julia. 'And Mrs Teague, is it? So pleased to meet you, dear. Thank you for arriving so promptly. Isn't it wonderful weather! Makes your job so much easier, doesn't it? Did they help you with your boat? I'm afraid there's only a skeleton crew at the moment as the others are on shore leave. You've met Giuseppe here? Good, that's smashing. Poor Giuseppe — so much to do! Mr Grantham, I was wondering. Sorry to spring this on you, but could we move dinner to the deckhouse? It's not much further than the saloon. You might even prefer it. It's a lovely room — my favourite. Shall we have a look? And this gentleman's name is?'

  'Ken Jones, Señora.'

  'Hello, Mr Jones. Nice to meet you. We have to go back the way you came in. No, you first.'

  'Was that Señora Pérez?' asked Mrs Teague. I thought she'd be Spanish.'

  Giuseppe regarded her with approval. He liked big women. 'No, is English. Nice English lady. Come, I show you galley. Is good, eh? Mucho espacio! Here we cook, there we wash, do plates there. Sí, bring box. Bring, bring! These are glasses?' He made a wave-like motion with both hands. 'Every day we break!'

  Working his way forrard, Luis Pérez had quietly appeared at the door. His hands were in the pockets of his white suit and a Havana cigar was now installed at the corner of his mouth. 'Caterers?' he asked.

  'Sí Señor. Esta es la señora Teague. This is boss, Señor Pérez.'

  Clutching her box of glasses, Mrs Teague wondered if she should curtsy, but Luis merely nodded, centred his cigar and departed.

  'He doesn't say much, does he?' she observed.

  Giuseppe, whose preferred mode of expression was a shrug, shrugged. 'You don't want he say much! You cook?'

  'Yes, if you need me to.'

  'Good! We cook together, eh? You have husband?'

  Effie Smith, lady's maid, hummed cheerfully as she let herself into her minuscule cabin and tossed her books onto the unused top bunk. It was kind of Miss Harrison to lend them to her but they weren't really her sort of thing. She preferred a nice romance, preferably with pictures. She wondered what they were having for dinner and when she'd get hers. Usually she was last, which wouldn't do. She'd have to work on old Giuseppe.

  So hot! In a rush, she pulled off her sticky uniform and then, with a glance at the open port, her shoes, stockings and underwear. After a moment's consideration she replaced the shoes. Feeling agreeably wicked she stood and admired herself in the wardrobe mirror, putting her hands behind her head and turning first one way, then the other. Who's going to be a lucky boy then? She knew she had "it." Most of the men on board looked at her, even Captain Simmons. And Humphrey of course. Humphrey looked at her a lot! Not Pérez, she was glad to say. Pérez gave her the creeps.

  Even naked it was hot! At least in the Carribean there had been a breeze. She wished she could have a swim to cool off, like Miss Harrison, although she wouldn't care to be out of her depth. They'd never let her, of course. The Señora might, but he wouldn't. You did your job or you stayed in your box. Which is what it was: a nasty little box. Still, the calm was nice, not having to hang on to something all the time. She ought to have a shower really but she'd need to be quick, before Maurice beat her to it.

  At the other end of the ship, Humphrey Harrison gazed haplessly into his own wardrobe. 'What should I wear, Winifred? I never know what to wear. I'd rather it was formal. You know where you are with formal.'

  'Stick to black tie; it won't show the mildew. No-one is going to go informal.'

  'What's Constance wearing?'

  'I've no idea. As long as it's clothes I'll be happy. She's still sulking; I'm getting fed up with it.'

  'Well it's terribly hot. Luis is behaving strangely too.'

  'What sort of strangely? Julia says he's "just a little bit grumpy."'

  'I don't know if he's grumpy because I haven't seen him. I'd have expected to get my orders by now — what to think, whose arse to lick. Instead, he's avoiding me.'

  'That ought to be a blessing, surely?'

  'Not really, I'd rather know the score. Not that I haven't a pretty good idea. Is that the harbour launch?'

  'Probably. Can you button me up?'

  The dress began to swing a little from its hook on the deckhead, marking the arrival of their guests. Regarding it
dejectedly, Connie dragged a brush through her hair and thought about Jim Parker. She had shared his lonely death so often she had sickened herself of it, watching repeatedly the yacht sail away until the dark waters closed over her head. He was her own age, near enough. What agony of mind must he have suffered, knowing he must die before he had lived? Was he even now looking down on them, appalled by their callousness and disregard? Or perhaps he no longer cared? Perhaps he was merely sorry for those left behind, with all their earthly trials still to come?

  No comfort in that for his girl, of course. Oddly, she always pictured her in an off-the-shoulder peasant-gown, weeping on a footstool. It seemed such as eighteenth century way to die, to be washed off a ship in a storm. Did they get on, she and his widowed mother? Were they together now, united in grief? She wanted to go to them, to tell them that she cared, even if no-one else did, but perhaps she might not be welcome. They might think her prying, or patronising, or pour out all their anger and misery on her and she wouldn't know what to say. What was there to say?

  It was a very lovely dress. Sighing, she took it down and held its soft fabric against her cheek.

  'It's not so bad, this,' declared Dennis Grantham, adjusting the cutlery with professional care. 'Bit tight behind the chairs, I admit. We'd best take a side each and stick to it, or they'll be getting a free dance routine. I'll do starboard, if you like, and throw in Pérez. He's on the end, I see.'

  'It'll be all right as long as the weather holds,' grumbled Ken. 'I shouldn't fancy those steps in a breeze. I thought you gave in a bit quick, to be honest. You could probably have got another fiver if you'd pushed for it.'

  Dennis smiled. 'Thinking ahead, my lad. We might get another of these if we play our cards right. Cracking-looking woman isn't she? Charming too. Chuck us a mat, will you? This one's got a splodge on it.'