The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

He turned then and began to walk back towards the slip, and as we negotiated the wooden duck-boards of the pontoons, he said, ‘I’ll be quite honest with you. This is a matter that might in certain circumstances …’ He hesitated there and seemed to change his mind. ‘I am waiting for a report now from our agent in Rangoon. But …’ He shook his head. ‘It is all very disturbing, Mr Sands. The Torre Annunziata has been sold to the Chinese. She has vanished behind what I believe is called the Bamboo Curtain — not only the ship, but her crew as well. And Adams has disappeared, too. We are almost certain that he shipped out in a dhow bound for Zanzibar. It may be weeks before we can contact him. And then there are these two fires on the Mary Deare and the loss of Mr Dellimare. A fire in the radio room is most unusual, and Mr Dellimare had been in the Navy. The possibility of suicide … small firm, you know … might be in difficulties …’ He tucked his brief-case more firmly under his arm. ‘You see what I mean, Mr Sands. Little things in themselves, but together…’ He glanced at me significantly. And then he added, ‘The trouble is the time factor. The H. B. amp; K. M. are making great efforts to increase their business in the Pacific. And Mr Hsu is a big man in Singapore — considerable influence in Eastern ports. They feel it calls for prompt settlement of the claim unless …’ He shrugged.

We had reached the slip and he paused for a moment to admire Sea Witch’s lines, asking questions about our diving plans, the aqualungs we were using and the depths at which we could work. He seemed genuinely interested and I explained how we had financed ourselves by salvaging bits and pieces from the wreck of a tanker in the Mediterranean and that we were now going to work on the wreck of an L.C.T. in Worbarrow Bay off the Dorset coast. He wished us luck and gave me his card. ‘Think about what I’ve said, Mr Sands. If you remember anything — well, you have my card, sir.’

It was only after Snetterton had gone — when I had had time to think over what he had told me — that I began to understand what the loss of the Mary Deare was going to lead to. There would be other people besides Snetterton coming to ask me questions. He was just the breeze before the storm. The newspaper reports I had read had all taken it for granted that the ship was sunk — so had Snetterton and the two reporters who had come to see me when I had arrived with Sea Witch. Everybody thought she was sunk. But sooner or later they would start probing, and before then I had to see Patch and find out his reasons for concealing her position.

I thought it must be connected in some way with his past record and when I was in London two days later to sign our salvage contract with the underwriters, I made a few enquiries about the Belle Isle. She had been wrecked on the Anambas Islands northeast of Singapore nearly ten years ago, and she was entered in the records as a ‘total loss’. Her master was given as Gideon S. Patch. An Enquiry had been held in Singapore and the Court had found the stranding to be due to default of the master and had suspended his Certificate for a period of five years. That was all. There were no details. But, discussing it with one of my friends in the marine section of Lloyd’s, who specialised in the Far East, I learned that some ugly rumours had got about afterwards to the effect that the stranding had been a put-up job. The ship had been very heavily insured.

I was very close to St Mary Axe and I decided to have a look at the Dellimare Company office. It was partly that I was curious to see the sort of company it was, and also I wanted to find out where I could contact Patch. Their offices were at the Houndsditch end, on the fourth floor of a dingy building full of small trading businesses. I found myself in a poky little room with a desk and a gas fire and some filing cabinets. The single typewriter had its cover on and dirt-grimed windows looked out across a litter of chimney pots to the white-tiled rear of a big office block. There was a bell on the counter and amongst a litter of papers was some Dellimare Company note-paper. It gave the directors as J. C. B. Dellimare, Hans Gundersen and A. Petrie. When I rang the bell, the door of an inner office was opened and a full-bosomed, fleshy-looking woman appeared, dressed in black with a lot of cheap jewellery and blonde hair that was startling because it was clearly natural.