The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

‘Yes.’

‘What accusations?’

Patch glanced unhappily round the court, and then said, ‘He was accusing the officers of stealing liquor from his cabin.’

‘Now, will you please answer this question.’ Holland was leaning forward. ‘What was the basic cause, as far as you know, of Captain Taggart’s death?’

Patch might have remained obstinate on this point, but Bowen-Lodge’s voice cut in from high up on the judge’s seat. ‘Witness will kindly answer the question put to him by Counsel. I will repeat it for his benefit — what was the basic cause of death?’

Patch hesitated. ‘Drink, sir,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Drink? Do you mean he died of drink?’

‘Because of it — yes.’

The stunned silence that enveloped the court was broken by a girl’s voice. It was shrill and high and quavering as she cried out, ‘That’s not true. How can you say a thing like that — when he’s dead?’

‘Please, Miss Taggart.’ Holland’s voice was gentle, almost fatherly. ‘The witness is under oath.’

‘I don’t care whether he’s under oath or not, he’s lying,’ she sobbed wildly. Patch’s face had gone very white. Fraser was trying to pull her back into her seat. But she had turned towards the Chairman. ‘Please stop him,’ she sobbed. And then, flinging up her head, she declared, ‘My father was a fine man, a man anybody here would be proud to have known.’

‘I understand, Miss Taggart.’ Bowen-Lodge’s voice was very quiet and soft. ‘But I must remind you that this Court is investigating a disaster in which many men lost their lives. The witness is under oath. Moreover, he is not the only witness. You may rest assured that this accusation will be probed and the truth revealed. Will you please be seated now. Or if you prefer it, you may leave the court and wait outside until you are called to give evidence.’

‘I’ll stay,’ she answered in a small, tight voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sat down slowly, her face completely white, her hands fumbling for a handkerchief.

Holland cleared his throat. ‘Only one more question on this subject and then we will leave it. About how much liquor was Captain Taggart in the habit of consuming each day?’

‘I cannot answer that. I don’t know.’ Patch’s voice was scarcely audible.

‘You mean you didn’t actually see him consume any set quantity?’

Patch nodded.

‘But you must have some idea. What was it he habitually drank — whisky?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Sometimes a bottle of cognac. Occasionally rum.’

‘How much?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Had this been going on ever since the start of the voyage?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Then, since it affected you directly as first officer, you must have made enquiries as to how much he drank. How much did you gather he consumed each day?’

Patch hesitated, and then reluctantly: ‘The steward said a bottle, a bottle and a half — sometimes two.’ The court gasped.

‘I see.’ The sound of suppressed sobbing was distinctly audible in the stillness of the court. ‘So that he was completely incapable as the Master of the ship?’

‘Oh, no.’ Patch shook his head. ‘Towards the end of the day he would become a little fuddled. But otherwise I would say he was reasonably in command of the situation.’

‘You mean to say’ — Bowen-Lodge was leaning forward — ‘that he was in full command of his faculties when he was steadily drinking one to two bottles a day?’

‘Yes, sir. That is to say, most of the time.’

‘But you admitted that he was raving and you had to lock him in his cabin. If he was raving, then surely …’ the Chairman’s brows lifted in a question.

‘He wasn’t raving because he was drunk,’ Patch answered slowly.

‘Then why was he raving?’

‘He had run out of liquor.’

A shocked silence gripped the court. Janet Taggart had stopped sobbing. She was sitting quite rigid, staring at Patch with a sort of fascinated horror.

‘I would like to get this point perfectly clear before we go any further,’ Bowen-Lodge said in a quiet, controlled voice. ‘What you’re suggesting is that Captain Taggart did not die of drink, but the lack of it. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you really think absence of liquor can kill a man?’

‘I don’t know,’ Patch answered wretchedly. ‘All I know is that he lived on nothing else, and when he hadn’t got it, he went raving mad and died. He never seemed to have anything in the way of food.’

Bowen-Lodge considered for a moment, his pencil tracing lines on the paper in front of him. At length he looked down at Counsel. ‘I think, Mr Holland, we should call medical evidence to establish the point one way or another.’

Holland nodded. ‘I have already arranged for that — it seemed necessary after reading his deposition.’

‘Good. Then we can leave the matter in abeyance till then.’ He sounded relieved. ‘Please proceed with the examination of the witness.’