watch there twenty-four hours a day. He discovered the answer to the laundry question, that the clothes were washed in the hotel and transported to and fro in an enormous wicker basket. He had secured from his friend in the estate agents the name, Giles Coleridge, and the address on the King’s Road, Chelsea, for Chesterton’s Estate Agents who had arranged the lease on Estuary House and sent them to London. About four o’clock he began wondering why a man with murderous intent would come to Great Britain and choose to stay in a place like Salcombe. Surely London or Bristol or even Southampton where the liner came in would provide better places to hide. The answer might be linked to London’s questions about a boat. Why had these people come to Salcombe?
Perhaps, Sergeant Vaughan said to himself, they are thinking of escaping by sea. You could sail out into the English Channel and reach Plymouth in a couple of hours. If the boat was a good one with an experienced crew you could sail more or less anywhere. He suspected a mere sergeant would not be very welcome at the Salcombe Yacht Club where they had a reputation for looking down their noses at most of the population. He was right. A superior sort of flunkey told him that they had no idea of any visitors with boats or yachts. It was all they could do to keep tabs on their own vessels. When the sergeant pointed out a large and handsome yacht on the East Portlemouth side of the harbour, clearly visible from the club’s windows, the man from the Yacht Club said it had nothing to do with them, and did the sergeant mind, there was rather a lot on today with a dinner for eighty people in the evening.
Praying quietly that some god of the sea, possibly Poseidon himself in a bad mood, would wreak a terrible vengeance on the Salcombe Yacht Club, Sergeant Vaughan made his way to the solicitor’s where a friend of his worked who was a member of the local Lifeboat. Freddie, for that was the name of the lifeboat man, told him that they had only discovered the details of the boat the previous week.
‘She’s called Morning Glory,’ Freddie told him. ‘And here’s the strange thing. Nobody knows the name of the owner. Well, he’s not properly the owner, she’s rented from some man in Southampton for three months. Even then, whoever the man is, he got a firm of ship’s agents and chandlers in Southampton to do the deal.’
Just like the estate agents from London and the house, the sergeant said to himself.
‘Tell me this, Freddie, has she been out for a sail since she’s been here?’
‘Well, yes, she has, a couple of times. You know Nat Gibson, that chap who’s almost a professional ship’s captain? Lives in Island Street round the corner from here? The chandlers in Southampton commissioned Nat to go there and sail the boat back here. He’s paid to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’
‘Have you seen Nat around recently?’
‘I have, as a matter of fact. But he won’t say a word to you or anybody else. It’s written into his contract that he’s not to speak to a single human soul about his work on the Morning Glory.’
‘Not even a policeman?’
‘Especially not a policeman. Look here, Marky, what’s going on? Is there some wicked gang hiding out in the York Hotel? Up at the Marine with the quality perhaps? Planning to steal all the fish?’
‘I can’t tell you, Freddie, I really can’t. But can I ask you a favour? Whatever is going on may involve the Morning Glory later on. And we, the police, may have need of a vessel of our own at very short notice. Could you put the word out among the lifeboat crew to be ready to go this evening?’
There was an air of scarcely concealed excitement in one of the first-class carriages on the afternoon train from Paddington to Penzance with connections, among others, to Kingsbridge, where the railway company provided their own bus, decked out in the company livery just as if it were a train compartment, to convey passengers the few miles to Salcombe. Inspector Devereux informed the party that they could have gone by boat but the bus was believed to be quicker as long as there weren’t too many farm animals on the roads.
Johnny Fitzgerald went to sleep as soon as the train left London. Lady Lucy was busy with a recent E. M. Forster, A Room with a View. Powerscourt and the Inspector were deep in conversation, the Inspector trying to construct a timetable for Allen’s activities since he left South Africa.
‘God knows what’s going to happen this evening,’ the Inspector told everybody, ‘but I think I can promise you one thing with absolute certainty.’
‘What’s that, Miles?’ said Lady Lucy who had been calling the Inspector by his Christian name ever since she had danced with him at the ball.
‘By ten o’clock this evening,’ the Inspector said, ‘we shall have a visit from a chief constable, come to wash his hands in the blood or the glory.’
A tall police sergeant stopped the bus on its way into the town shortly after half past six. At the sight of Devereux’s uniform, they were waved on. Horace Ross had decided to show off his very best rooms in the Marine Hotel to the visitors from London. Who knew how many friends they could tell when they returned to the capital. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were in the Imperial Suite with a vast sitting room complete with balcony looking out over the harbour. On either side of them, like sentries on parade, were equally luxurious rooms for the Inspector and Johnny Fitzgerald. The telegraph quarters were one floor above. Ross had already provided an office in the shape of the spare dining room, with great glass windows looking out over the waters. A wind was getting up, causing ripples on the surface. Inspector Timpson and a couple of constables were waiting for the visitors.
Inspector Devereux cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, Lady Powerscourt,’ he began, ‘this is what I propose should happen immediately.’ There were, as he was well aware, regional proprieties and regional sensitivities to be addressed here. ‘With your permission, Inspector Timpson, I think one of your constables should keep watch in that room on the top floor overlooking Estuary House. You and I should go with the other constable and speak to this man Allen, if that is his name.’
Powerscourt raised a hand and was about to speak.
‘With respect, Lord Powerscourt, I think this initial meeting should be handled by the police. You will be more than welcome to join us when an arrest has been secured. But these people are killers. Three people have lost their lives. We are paid to stop bullets, my lord. You are not. And there is one final argument in favour of your staying here for the moment.’
‘Which is?’ said Powerscourt.
‘I could never forgive myself if I made Lady Lucy a widow.’
With that the two Inspectors marched out of the room. Everybody else rushed to the top floor on the landward side. They watched as the two Inspectors ran up the slope towards the front door. They watched as they rang the bell several times. They saw them disappear round the back where a loud crash a few minutes later spoke of some back door being kicked in. They watched as lights went on all the way through the house, from the basement to the huge living room with the harbour view to the top rooms with their own little balconies. Lady Lucy swore afterwards that she heard a mighty volley of oaths shouted into the evening air shortly after the top floor was illuminated. Then they saw nothing until two dejected figure could be seen making their way back to the Marine Hotel.
‘There’s nobody there,’ Inspector Devereux told the company in the Marine Hotel office. ‘The birds, as the man memorably said, have flown. We haven’t lost yet, but we’re bloody close to it. Where have they gone? When did they go? How in God’s name did they get out?’
22
Inspector Devereux was looking at his notes. Inspector Timpson was looking at his boots. Powerscourt was walking up and down. He hated failure. Johnny Fitzgerald had purloined the hotel wine list and was inspecting it with some interest. The constable was standing to attention in a corner. They could hear Sergeant Mark Vaughan before they could see him, his boots rattling across the Marine Hotel’s well-polished boards. Inspector Timpson was the first face he recognized.
‘Inspector Timpson, other Inspector, sirs, madam,’ he began, telling himself to present his news in an orderly fashion. The events might be dramatic, but there was no place for drama in the telling of them. ‘I believe the people in Estuary House have gone, Inspector Timpson, sir. There is a path from the side of the house leading down to the water that is so overgrown it is almost secret. At dusk or in the dark a man would be virtually invisible. The party from Estuary House have a yacht, sir. It is called Morning Glory and is normally moored in the harbour here on the East Portlemouth side across the water. It’s not there now. They have also contracted an experienced sailor called
