to Hayes to the house of her married son.’
‘What was the daughter’s name?’
‘I tried to get it, but she couldn’t remember.’
‘Was the daughter pregnant at the time?’
‘Bless you, yes! Don’t you want the details?’
Gently eased his back away from the encroachments of the staircase. The lemonade had re-started his sweat, he could feel drops of it trickling down his brow. Or was the heat entirely responsible… was some of it due to a different reason? From down the hallway he could hear the vicar in conversation with a tradesman.
‘Are you with me? The daughter was married in nineteen-twenty-nine. Her mother disapproved and she wasn’t married from home. My informant never saw the man and Mrs Campion never spoke about him — the impression was that he was of the roving kind, or anyway, unrespectable.
‘She came back again a year later, not much to the joy of Mrs Campion. The old lady was a bit old-fashioned and her daughter had the reputation of being a man-eater. But the girlie was having a child, which I dare say made a difference; so she duly stayed on and had it — a girl, of course: our old friend Rachel.
‘Then there happened this spat between them and the daughter once more slung her hook. She went off in a towering passion, leaving her baby and junk behind her. Her mother thought she’d be coming back for them, but when she didn’t, wasn’t too surprised. So the baby stayed there and was brought up by its grandmother. It was known from the beginning as Rachel Campion.
‘Those are the facts, old man, less the picturesque trimmings. My informant, needless to say, put the least favourable construction on them.’
It had to be the same woman! Gently clutched at his moist receiver. Every detail fitted pat, there wasn’t a single trace of discrepancy. And she had come back to Hiverton, back to that lonely grave in the marrams. And nobody had missed her at Hiverton. Nobody had missed her at Camden Town.
‘Hallo? I want something else done.’
‘I could hear you thinking it up.’
‘The local police have sent in some dental impressions. I’m pretty well certain that they belong to Rachel’s mother.’
‘Oh no — don’t shove that on to us!’
‘Will you see what you can do?’
‘Why not? The taxpayers expect something for their money. By the way, as you sit there sweating in Northshire…’
Pagram’s voice grew suddenly fainter and more distant, and in its place Gently could hear a soft and sibilant drumming. For an instant it grew louder and resembled something familiar; then, as though a switch were pulled, it was cut off entirely.
‘Recognize that, old man?’
‘Would it be the sound of rain?’
‘Rain is right — if you make a habit of the British understatement! The stuff is fairly whirring down. We’re in the middle of a freak storm. Over the City way it’s as black as ink, and there’s a lot of lightning without any thunder. And here’s a tip — keep your mac handy: the stuff is heading straight up-country.’
Gently jammed the receiver on its cradle and hurried back to the vicar’s den.
‘That register… I’d like to see it.’
‘Come with me then. It’s kept in the vestry.’
Even a townsman could spot it now, the terrific weather that was breeding. The southern sky was all in a haze, and northward the landscape as fragile as glass. There was a tense, galvanic stillness. The clamour of a blackbird sounded like a threat. On a distant farm, seeming unable to stop itself, a cock was crowing again and again.
‘I could smell this coming all day.’
The vicar was forced to take two strides to Gently’s one.
‘There was scarcely any dew — did you happen to notice it? In this weather it’s a sign that we’re going to catch it.’
‘I had a feeling, too.’
‘Ah! You’re country-bred, aren’t you?’
‘Do you keep the church locked?’
‘Good gracious no. Whatever for?’
As he led him up the aisle the vicar gave his chuckle again:
‘Talking of that and Bob Hawks puts me in mind of something else. I caught him in here yesterday, and what do you think he was after? The date of his mother’s wedding! If she was wedded would be more like it!’
‘You mean?’ Gently caught him by the arm. ‘He was in here — looking at the register?’
‘Just so, as large as life. I had to laugh about it afterwards.’
Gently almost ran into the vestry. The register was lying on a chest of drawers. Quickly he flickered through the pages of life, hope, and mortality. The name stood plump and plain: it was Josephine Rachel Campion. And beside it, like an evil omen, lay a single, tarry thumb mark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He was still nearly running when he got to the beach, but he had known, at every step of the way, that he was making haste too late. His instinct had been right — he should have fastened himself to the Sea-King! It was useless now to pretend that he didn’t know how Esau worked.
From the top of the gap, panting, he saw the whole tragic tableau. The rays of the pre-tempest sun drew it in almost psychic luminosity. The sea was as green as grass and the beach shining white. The men on it were as dark brush strokes, the boat, a knifed daub. In the sky, a breathless bowl, there echoed a single, trembling sound: it was the chanting of the motor as the boat put out from shore.
Straight out to sea it was heading, leaving a rulered wake behind it. The surface was now so oily and placid that one could trace every arrowing ripple. Esau was standing to his helm, his upright figure stiff and implacable: he wore no cap over his silvery locks and they lifted slightly in the gentle air. On the beach they were mostly fishermen, but with a sprinkling of hangers-on. All of them were watching silently and in attitudes of bewildered awe.
Gently plunged down the shallow slope, his feet dragging heavily in the sand.
‘Ahoy there… Esau Dawes!’
His voice sounded hoarse and futile.
‘Ahoy there… Keep Going! Ahoy!’
The strange acoustics made the sandhills ring with it. But one might as well have hailed the moon as to hail the departing Sea-King. All the reply was the putter of his engine, growing momently, inexorably fainter. On the air was a whiff of exhaust, on the shingle the print of the keel. Esau had beaten him by five short minutes, but they were as final as five long years.
‘It’s no good shouting — he won’t hear you.’
The fishermen were watching the intruder oddly. Did they know, these alien men, what had made the Keep Going put out? Spanton stood there biting his lip. Hawks could hardly get near enough to the sea. Pike, with one or two of the others, was muttering something under his breath.
‘But in heaven’s name… why let him do it?’
They had obviously assisted Esau to launch. The blocks, down which the boat had ridden, still lay in position on the beach.
‘He said he’d got some business.’
‘What — with this lot coming up?’
‘You don’t ask Esau what he’s doing. If he wants to launch, that’s up to him.’
But they knew, of course they did: they were showing it like so many children. Without the exchanging of a word they had divined the state of affairs. Esau was launching, and that was enough they were fishermen and
