The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a bank, I suppose?’ And when I nodded, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a package and tossed it on to the table. ‘Would you have them lock that up for me?’

‘What is it?’ I asked as I picked it up.

He moved his hand in a vague, impatient gesture. ‘Just some personal papers. Afraid they may get lost.’ And then, without looking up at me, he added, ‘I’ll collect them when I see you.’

I hesitated, wanting to tell him it was no good his coming to see me. But he was sitting there, slumped in his chair, lost apparently in his own thoughts. He looked drawn and haggard and ghastly tired. ‘You better get some sleep,’ I said, and my words took me back again to the Mary Deare. He didn’t answer, didn’t look up. I slipped the package into my pocket and went out to the car. He was still sitting there slumped over the table as I was driven away.

Two hours later I was in the air, high up over the sea. It was like a corrugated sheet of lead, and out beyond the starboard wingtip was an area all flecked with white.

The Frenchman in the next seat leaned across me to peer out. ‘Regardez, regardez, monsieur,’ he whispered eagerly. ‘C’est le Plateau des Minquiers.’ And then, realising I was English, he smiled apologetically and said, ‘You will not understand, of course. But there are rocks down there — many, many rocks. Tres formidable! I think it better we travel by air. Look, monsieur!’ He produced a French paper. ‘You ‘ave not seen, no?’ He thrust it into my hands. ‘It is terrible! Terrible!’

It was opened at a page of pictures — pictures of Patch, of Higgins and the rest of the survivors, of a dead body lying in the sea, and of officials searching a pile of wreckage washed up on some rocks. Bold black type across the top announced: MYSTERE DU VAISSEAU BRITANNIQUE ABANDONNE.

‘Interesting, is it not, monsieur? I think it is also a very strange story. And all those men …’ He clicked his tongue sympathetically. ‘You do not understand how terrible is this region of the sea. Terrible, monsieur!’

I smiled, overwhelmed by a desire to laugh — to tell him what it had been like down there in the Minkies. But by now I was reading the statement made to the authorities by le Capitaine Gideon Patch, and suddenly it was borne in on me that he had not stated the Mary Deare’s position. He hadn’t even mentioned that the ship was stranded and not sunk. ‘… And you and I are the only people who know she’s there.’ His words came back to me and I sat staring down at the paper, knowing suddenly that this wasn’t going to be the end of the Mary Deare. ‘A strange affair, is it not, monsieur?’ I nodded, not smiling now. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very strange.’

PART TWO

THE ENQUIRY

CHAPTER ONE

The formal enquiry into the loss of the Mary Deare was finally fixed for Monday, May 3rd, at Southampton. For a Ministry of Transport Enquiry, this must be considered unusually expeditious, but I learned later that the date had been brought forward at the urgent request of the insurance companies. The sum involved was a very large one and right from the start it was the question of insurance that was the vital factor.

In fact, we had only been in Lymington a few days when I had a visit from a Mr F. T. Snetterton representing the H. B. amp; K. M. Insurance Corporation of San Francisco. It was that section of the cargo consigned by the Hsu Trading Corporation of Singapore that interested him. Could I testify as to the nature of it? Had I been down into any of the holds? Had Patch talked to me about it?

There was a devil of a racket going on. Sea Witch had just been slipped and the yard men were drawing keel bolts for inspection and Mike and I were stripping the old engine out of her. I took him down to the waterfront, where we could talk in peace.

‘You understand, Mr Sands,’ he explained earnestly, ‘I have to be sure that the cargo was exactly what the Hsu Trading Corporation claim. I have to establish the manifest, as it were. Now surely you must have seen something that would enable you to give an opinion as to the nature of the cargo? Think, sir. Think.’ He was leaning forward, blinking in the bright sunshine, quite over-wrought by the urgency of his problem.

I told him I had been down the inspection hatch of Number Three hold. I described the charred bales to him. ‘Please, Mr Sands.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘It’s the aero engines I am interested in. Only the aero engines.’

That was the first time anyone had mentioned aero engines to me. ‘I heard she had a cargo of explosives.’