The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(183)

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I screamed against the rising noise of wind and sea. He didn’t answer. He undid the parcel: it was a mackintosh, the cuffs and shoulders studded with nails. From it he drew a hideous rubber mask. He didn’t look at me; he wiped his fingers on a thwart and looked to where George had thrashed his way, one-armed, almost to the side of the boat. Sam took the other oar and slowly, as though carrying out some ritual gesture, raised it two-handed high above his head, blade upwards.

George had his good hand on the gunwale now and we could see a great flap of skin hanging from his scalp and the bloody ruin of his crushed arm. He looked at Sam. His hand left the gunwale and his face vanished. Sam threw the oar into the boat, then lurched aft to the motor. I fended off for dear life: our timbers couldn’t take much more punishment from those granite daggers. The engine roared into life; Sam revved it until it screamed and then suddenly we were in open water. I started to bail. Once, looking over my shoulder, I thought I saw something half a furlong away with an arm up-raised, but it was probably only a cormorant.

We were in sight of Ouaisné Bay before either of us said a word.

‘I suppose he must be dead by now?’

I didn’t answer: it hadn’t really been a question. And I was thinking.

‘Sonia wasn’t raped,’ I said flatly.

‘No. We’d been lovers – if that’s a word fit to use – for months. First time was an accident, both drunk at a party. After that she made me do it again and again; swore she’d tell George if I didn’t. That first day of all this, when you and George came home unexpectedly, we thought we were caught and I told Sonia to yell “rape” while I got out of the window. She’d been reading all that muck about the Beast of Jersey, that’s what put all the witchcraft trimmings into her head.’

‘But George worked it out. What he did to Violet was revenge, simply?’

‘Yes. Perhaps he was telling us that he knew. I should have realized. Suppose I was too upset to think it through.’

‘I see. Then he must have got a sort of taste for it, I suppose. Brought out a streak of insanity in him, perhaps?’

‘An officer and gentleman,’ said Sam. He made it sound like the punch-line of a vile joke.

I finished bailing and tied George’s horrid paraphernalia to the spare anchor and threw it over the side. I didn’t care whether someone might fish it up, I just wanted it out of my sight.

The Plumber met us on the beach, helped us haul-up on to the trailer.

‘Where’s Mr Breakspear, then?’

‘Lost overside. We were nearly wrecked. Tell the Coastguard, would you.’

‘My Chri’,’ said the Plumber. Then, ‘Oh, there’s a phone call at the pub for Mr Davenant, from England, urgent. You have to ask for the Personal Calls Operator.’ Sam started to walk towards the pub, then broke into a shambling run.

‘So it was Mr Breakspear all the time,’ said the Plumber.

I didn’t answer. I was wondering how many people had known all the time. Perhaps I should have asked my gardener. Perhaps he would even have told me.

Sam came out of the pub, bleak-faced.

‘Violet has killed herself,’ he said carefully. ‘Let’s go home. Things to do.’

‘Have to go to the police first,’ I said. ‘Report George missing.’

‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten about that.’ His voice was gentle now.

‘Don’t you want your fish?’ the Plumber called after us.

‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘We know where they’ve been.’

It was dark when we left the Police Station and drove up the Grande Route de S. Jean towards our homes.

‘Want to talk?’ I asked diffidently.

‘Vi was left alone for a moment – nurse went to the loo – and she just got out of bed and hurled herself through the closed window. Can’t blame the nurse; Vi hadn’t stirred for days. They warned me, of course. Catatonics think they can fly, you see. Angels.’

‘Sam –’ I started.

‘Please shut up, Charlie.’

I tried again when we got to his house.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘won’t you please stay with us tonight?’

‘Good night, Charlie,’ he said and shut the door.

At home, I told Johanna about things as briefly as I could, then announced that I wanted to write letters. I went up to my dressing-room and stood at the open window, in the dark. Across the fields Sam’s house was a blaze of lights, then, one by one, they started to go out. I gripped the window-sill. It was very cold and a thin rain sifted on to my face.

When the shot came I stayed where I was.

Jock drifted into the room.

‘Shot from over Cherche-fuites way,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Heavy-calibre pistol, by the sound of it.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, are we going over there?’

‘No.’

‘You going to phone then, Mr Charlie?’

‘Get out, Jock.’

Five minutes later Johanna crept in and took one of my arms in both of hers, pressing it to her poor breast.

‘Dear Charlie, why are you standing here in the dark and shivering. And crying? All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, of course you’re not crying, I can see you’re not.’