The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

Bowen-Lodge glanced up at the clock again and then he put the question to Patch. And Patch, rigid, and tight-lipped, said, ‘There was a report issued at the time, sir.’

Bowen-Lodge looked across at Sir Lionel, a mute question to discover whether he wished to pursue the matter. It was obvious that he did. You could see it in the stillness with which he watched the man in the witness box, his small head thrust forward as though about to strike. ‘I am well aware that there is a report available,’ he said in a cold, icy voice. ‘Nevertheless, I think it right that the Court should hear the story from your own lips.’

‘It’s not for me to give my views on it when a Court has already pronounced judgment,’ Patch said in a tight, restrained voice.

‘I was not asking for your views. I was asking for a resume of the facts.’

Patch’s hand hit the rail involuntarily. ‘I cannot see that it has any bearing on the loss of the Mary Deare.’ His voice was louder, harsher.

That is not for you to say,’ Sir Lionel snapped. And then — needling him — ‘There are certain similarities.’

‘Similarities!’ Patch stared at him. And then, beating with his hand on the rail, he burst out: ‘By God, there are.’ He turned to face the Chairman still angry, goaded beyond the limits of what a man will stand. ‘You want the sordid details. Very well. I was drunk. Dead drunk. That’s what Craven said in evidence, anyway. It was hot like the inside of an oven that day in Singapore.’ He was still staring at the Chairman, but not seeing him any more, seeing only Singapore on the day he’d smashed up his career. ‘Damp, sweaty, torrid heat,’ he murmured. ‘I remember that and I remember taking the Belle Isle out. And after that I don’t remember a thing.’

‘And you were drunk?’ Bowen-Lodge asked. His voice was modulated, almost gentle.

‘Yes, I suppose so… in a sense. I’d had a few drinks. But not enough,’ Patch added violently. ‘Not enough to put me out like a light.’ And then, after a pause, he added, ‘They ran her aground on the Anambas Islands at 02.23 hours in the morning with a thundering surf running and she broke her back.’

‘You are aware,’ Sir Lionel said quietly, ‘that there has been a lot of talk since … suggesting that you did it for the insurance.’

Patch rounded on him. ‘I could hardly be unaware of it,’ he said with wild sarcasm, ‘seeing that all these years I’ve barely been able to scratch a living in my own chosen profession.’ He turned back to the Chairman, gripping hold of the rail. ‘They said I ordered the course and they had the log to prove it. It was there in my own handwriting. Craven — he was the second officer — swore that he’d been down to my cabin to query it and that I’d bawled him out. Later he took a fix and then came down to my cabin to warn me again, but I was in a drunken stupor — those were his words — and when he couldn’t wake me, he went back to the bridge and altered course on his own responsibility. By then, of course, it was too late. That was his story, and he stuck to it so well that everybody believed him, even my own counsel.’ He turned his head and was looking across the courtroom at Higgins. ‘By God,’ he repeated, ‘there are similarities.’

‘What similarities?’ Sir Lionel asked in a light tone of disbelief.

Patch turned to face him. It was pitiful to see how easily he was goaded. ‘Just this,’ he almost shouted. ‘Craven was a liar. The log entry was forged. The Belle Isle was owned by a bunch of Greek crooks in Glasgow. They were on the verge of bankruptcy. The insurance money just about saved them. It was all in the papers six months later. That was when the rumours started.’

‘And you had nothing to do with it, I suppose?’ Sir Lionel asked.

‘No.’

‘And this man Craven had slipped a micky into your drink. Is that what you’re suggesting?’

It took away from him and destroyed his defence. His muttered ‘Yes’ was painful anti-climax. Bowen-Lodge intervened then. ‘Are you suggesting a similarity between this Greek company and the Dellimare Trading and Shipping Company?’ he asked.

And Patch, fighting back, cried, ‘Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I am suggesting.’

It brought the Dellimare Company’s counsel on to his feet, protesting that it was a monstrous allegation, an unwarranted aspersion on a man who was dead at the time the fire broke out in the hold. And Bowen-Lodge nodded and said, ‘Quite, Mr Smiles — unless there is some justification.’ He turned to Patch then and said, ‘Have you any reason for making such an allegation?’