`Barmen usually know the locals pretty well,' he whispered. 'I'm after certain information. Those ships that disappeared…'
Inside Pier 68 was a long cosy room with a bar counter and stools along one wall. Beyond, through an open doorway, Tweed saw tables laid neatly for lunch. He perched on a bar stool next to a man with a stiff blue cap, a prominent peak, who was smoking a cheroot. He ordered a glass of French dry white wine for himself and Paula. The barman was a jolly type with a fringe beard.
`I hear stories about boats vanishing into thin air after they've sailed from Lymington,' Tweed remarked.
`Sailors' stories.' The barman shook his head. 'I've heard vague rumours.'
`Five boats are supposed to have disappeared for ever this year,' Paula observed.
`All rumours.' The barman shook his head. 'Livens up the place, I suppose..
He moved further away, polishing the counter. The man with the peaked cap put down his glass of beer, leaned close to Tweed.
`You a reporter?'
`No, just intrigued.' Tweed swivelled in his chair to give the man his attention. 'And it might make material for a book I'm writing.'
`Then your best bet is down on the waterfront. Try Ned, barman at the Ship Inn. He's closer to what's going on down there.'
`Thank you. We were strolling in that direction anyway.'
He left his glass half drunk, nodded to the barman as they left. Crossing the High Street, they were soon walking down a steep hill, perched on a high railed pavement. Paula glanced in the shops, at the locals.
`Seems a peaceful enough place.'
`Which could be deceptive.'
At the bottom they crossed a road and continued down a very short and steep cobbled street closed to traffic. Quay Hill. A brief distance later it turned sharply right into another cobbled lane. Quay Street. Mostly tourist shops of high quality but Tweed noticed doors which appeared to lead to private residences. They turned a corner and saw a forest of masts and the Ship Inn.
Paula paused, swallowed, resumed walking.
`Would you sooner wait somewhere while I go there – in view of what happened last night?' Tweed asked her.
`No. It was where I had the last drink with Harvey but I'm not letting that affect me.'
A wave of warmth met them as they stepped in out of the raw cold. Again Tweed made straight for the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. He was paying for them when he asked the barman the same question.
`I bumped into the Harbour Master yesterday. He was telling me about some rather strange accidents round here. I gather no less than five boats which went out at different times this year never came back. Oh, are you Ned?'
`That's me.' There were no other customers and the barman leaned forward, dropping his voice as he addressed Paula and Tweed. 'They're trying to keep quiet about it. Idiotic. One boat vanishes. OK. Two. Maybe. But not five. Ought to be investigated.'
`They all disappeared just off Lymington, I gather?'
`No, sir. That's not accurate. Three of them, including a Mr Benton – the first casualty – were seen sailing up the Solent during breaks in the fog. I reckon they went down close to the mouth of the Beaulieu River.'
`Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that river run roughly parallel to the Lymington River but further east?'
`You've got it, sir. It's a wild lonely part with few people living in the area. There's another big boating anchorage upriver, Buckler's Hard. Some prefer to berth there rather than here. Funny lot, these boaty types.'
`In what way?'
`Well, I suppose you'd call it snobbery. Because we've got the Royal Lymington Yacht Club here one group thinks this is the top sailing port. A much smaller group has other ideas. Think the real elite base themselves up at Buckler's Hard. There's a Brigadier Burgoyne has his motor yacht there. Wouldn't be seen dead here. Can't see the difference, myself.'
`You said a moment ago it's very lonely on the Beaulieu River. You mean no one lives there below Buckler's Hard?'
`Well, yes and no, sir. There's a funny lot lives at Moor's Landing. The west bank of the Beaulieu belongs to Lord Montagu. But the east bank – or most of it – is owned by Lord Rothschild. Moor's Landing is land he leased out, as far as I know. There was a small village just back from the river – that's Moor's Landing.'
`You said "was". Doesn't it exist any more?'
`Didn't explain myself very well. Some developer bought up all the old cottages, renovated the insides, made them real posh. He then sold the lot in a matter of days.'
`You said they were a funny lot,' Tweed encouraged him. 'That sounds intriguing.'
`Well, they keep very much to themselves. Professional types, I gather. Snooty. Never seen any of them here. They like to keep the place to themselves. Snobbery again, I suppose.'
`Has this Moor's Landing access to the Beaulieu River?'
`It certainly does. A big landing stage which they recently had poshed up. Carefully repaired and freshly painted. Which I thought was odd – so far as I hear not one of the folk who live there has a boat. Status symbol, I suppose. All this is going back a year or more.'
`I'm writing a book on out-of-the-way places,' Tweed remarked, sticking to the same story – it would avoid Ned wondering afterwards about his questions. 'Is there any way I could sail down the Beaulieu River from Buckler's Hard?'
`Last month you could have cruised on the small catamaran which takes tourists downriver. Too late for that now – end of the season come the last day of October. But I'd have thought you might hire a powerboat with crew. Cost you a lot more than the catamaran.'
`I'll think about it.' Tweed finished his drink, looked at Paula. 'Actually now my stomach is thinking about lunch. That restaurant through there looks tempting.'
`They serve a reasonable meal, sir…'
After lunch they wandered out on to the front. They were there just in time to see a four-coach red, white, and blue train crossing a bridge on its way to the ferry terminal. At the same time a large car ferry appeared, heading for the terminal on its return journey from the Isle of Wight.
`I wonder who Harvey's friend was going to see when he set out on his last trip to the Isle of Wight,' Tweed said half to himself.
`We'll probably never know,' Paula replied. 'Why are you so interested in Buckler's Hard and this Moor's Landing?'
`I'm looking for anything out of the ordinary. We'd better get back to Passford House.'
Paula realized she wasn't going to be told any more so she said nothing more as they made their way back to the car. She never dreamt of what would be waiting for them.
Pete Nield, summoned by Tweed to watch Sir Gerald Andover's home with Harry Butler, stood by his Ford Sierra outside the hotel. Tall and slim, he was a snappy dresser and had a small dark neat moustache which he was fingering. He rushed forward before Tweed or Paula could leave the Escort.
`Harry's back at Prevent. I came to tell you. The house has been broken in to. Andover has disappeared…'
6
`Have you by any chance seen a Land-Rover, Pete?' Tweed asked as he drove the Escort close to Prevent. `Really I should have warned you.'
`No need,' replied Nield, sitting in the back of the car. `Harry spotted it parked back in the undergrowth as we arrived. It left almost as soon as we'd driven past it. Sorry we couldn't get here earlier. Monica had trouble contacting us.'
`When did you get here?' Paula asked as she sat next to Tweed.
`Ten o'clock this morning. We did a recce of the house and immediately discovered the break-in. We didn't go inside,' he continued in his laconic way. 'Waited outside in case the intruders appeared. No such luck. I then drove to tell you at Passford House. Called you from a phone box. You were all out.'