somewhere, and it would be no fun getting stranded with a hired car.
Then, indistinctly in the distance, they saw the mill.
They both peered forward through the windscreen, eager for the details that gradually became apparent as they approached. The windmill was like a grey monolith perched on a small knoll with a tumble of low dunes behind it. The monolith grew into an octagonal tower with a domelike cap, and the skeleton remains of the sail-frames, the four long whips or arms, became visible. There had once been a paved yard between the mill and the cottage, but most of the stones had been entirely covered by the coarse grass. Andrew advanced the car gingerly into this space, and backed and turned before pulling up.
The girl moved to get out, but he restrained her. They kept their seats for a moment, listening. There was a sound of wind and the squeaking complaint of corroded metal as the arms of the mill shuddered and swung a little. Nothing else.
Now the two stepped out and stood gazing up at the mill. It was a massive structure when you came close to it. The arms must have measured thirty feet from axis to tip, but they were dead arms, except for that slight shuddering movement that caused the metallic sounds. They would hang on the landward side till they rotted away. The vane that had once been there to rotate the cap and bring the sails to the wind had long since gone. Windows were dark, boarded-up slots. There was a heavy, weather-bleached door. It was shut.
They looked at the cottage-a simple two-storeyed affair in an advanced state of dilapidation. Here the door had fallen in, the windowpanes had been broken, the roof had a hole in it.
“This doesn’t look as if that will add much to the value of the estate,” Ruth said. “Let’s go.”
“In a minute or two.” Andrew grasped her arm and guided her across the yard and round the knoll of the mill.
“Why are you tiptoeing?” the girl asked.
He grinned. “It’s the marsh again. Listen!”
The grinding creak of the mill’s rusted mechanism was followed by the low moan of a dying wind. The sea swished and murmured and hung in silence between the waves. Far off the whistle of a locomotive sounded.
Ruth and Andrew moved on round the mill, and there, before them, were the winding creek and the landing stage.
And there, too, was the boat.
The two masts of the craft swung slowly from side to side as the hull yielded to the tidal movement in the creek. Weather-stained, battered, her peeling paint stained with rust, you wondered that she was still sound enough to keep afloat.
Ruefully, the girl stared at her. Then she laughed.
“There’s your prize,” she said. “A nice reward for all the trouble and worry. She’s yours, Andrew. I make you a present of her. What do we do now? Go home?”
The yawl swung round a little with the movement of the water and they could see, showing faintly through the Calabrian fisherman’s casual effort to over paint them, the words on her square stern: Tender to Moonlight.
Andrew shook his head. “She’s got something to tell us: why Kusitch started for England to find her, why he was murdered in Brussels, why…” He broke off. “Anyway, let’s look at her.”
The berth was snug. There was a wide bend in the creek like a small cove, sheltered on the seaward side by the low dunes; on the other side, by the knoll and the windmill and the cottage. The craft was secured by an anchor and a mooring buoy; also she was made fast to the landing stage by a steel cable with sufficient slack to take care of the rise and fall of the tide. And there were rope fenders to protect her if she were forced against the timbers. At the moment there was a clearance of about a yard, and the deck was a few inches below the level of the landing stage, a platform of heavy planks projecting four feet over the water.
Neglect of the paintwork was even more apparent on closer inspection. The hot sun of the Mediterranean had dried out the oils and whitened the woodwork. Paint had peeled and scaled away, but one could still make out the registration number on the bows, SS 729, showing through the over paint applied at Zavrana.
No doubt Ernest Jansen had done his best to bed her down safely after her voyage home from Bova Marina. Sail covers had been lashed in position and everything left shipshape, but now a roughly folded tarpaulin lay on the deck, forward of the coach roof. Andrew stared at it uneasily.
Plainly that tarpaulin had covered the open well of the craft; clearly it had been removed quite recently-today, or yesterday. From the landing stage no other signs of interference could be seen, but Andrew found his uneasiness increasing as he stepped down onto the deck and reached out a hand to his companion.
“Now we’re on board,” she said, “what do we search for and where do we search?”
They stood in the well of the craft and looked round. The auxiliary engine had a teak housing secured by a padlock. At least there was the appearance of security, but, when Andrew tested the padlock, he found that a hack saw had been used on it, and a slight tug brought the hinged part of the lock away from the staple fixed to the housing. He told himself that his worst fears might be unjustified. A deserted craft was an irresistible attraction to marauding boys or petty thieves. Parts of an engine could be removed, sold to a junk dealer, used. But when he lifted the cover of the housing, the engine seemed to have been cleaned quite recently. The magneto looked particularly bright, and might have been placed in position that day.
He thought about the magneto. An experienced man like Ernest Jansen, knowing that the craft would be tied up for months if not years, would never have left it there. The engine housing might be sound and well constructed, but the moist sea air would penetrate at various points, and moist sea air was bad for magnetos. One either took them ashore or stowed them in a more protected place. Andrew was no sailor, but he knew that much.
“What does it mean?” Ruth asked, sensing his apprehension.
“I don’t know.”
He stood up and looked round, but knoll and windmill hid the track across Groper’s Wade. Above the marsh gulls wheeled, crying raucously, swooping and rising again. There was more light under the overcast, and the gulls were paper-white against the dark cloud. Beyond the dunes, rain squalls slanted across the sea.
Ruth climbed onto the deck, stepped ashore, and mounted the knoll.
“Not a soul in sight,” she announced, “if that’s what’s bothering you.” He nodded. He could feel and smell the emptiness. He could smell something else, too. He went down on his haunches beside the engine and sniffed. Paraffin, and newly poured. Someone had been using paraffin to clean the engine. He picked up a cigarette end and examined it. It had not been there very long.
Ruth came down to the landing stage. “What have you found?” she asked.
He threw the butt into the creek. “Doesn’t mean a thing,” he commented. “Someone has been taking an interest in her, that’s all. It’s a miracle she hasn’t been looted before this. Your Uncle John should have had more sense. I’m going to take a look inside.”
Ruth came on board again.
The padlock of the sliding companion hatch had been treated in the same way as that on the engine housing. In addition a fitted lock had been forced with a chisel or similar tool. Andrew opened the hatch and led the way below deck. There was a miniature galley on one side of the entrance, a small pantry or storeroom on the other side. Both were completely empty, stripped of whatever fittings they had once contained.
Beyond was a fairly roomy saloon with a chart table in the centre and bunks on either side. A door forward gave access to a small water closet, and right forward, divided from this cubicle by a wooden partition with a sliding panel, was the usual chain locker. There were fitted drawers for clothes under the bunks, and one of them contained a piece of old blanket, a piece of oilskin, and a length of string; more evidence that Ernest Jansen had been thorough in preparing for the lay-up, for it was plain enough that here the magneto had been wrapped and stowed.
The wrappings were the sole find. The saloon, like the galley and pantry, had been stripped. Once, no doubt, there had been mattresses and cushions but at some time, in Dalmatian or Calabrian waters, someone had gone through the craft and left only the bare boards. Was it rational, then, to suppose that anything of value remained in the yawl?
Andrew peered into corners, resisting the thought of the anti-climax that now seemed inevitable. But it was difficult to resist with much conviction. He was a fool, and must appear doubly a fool in the eyes of Ruth Meriden. Kusitch had thrown away his life in pursuit of a myth. Kretchmann and Haller had committed murder for nothing and embarked on a futile errand. The treasure coveted by Kusitch and his assassins had vanished. Whatever it was, a
