What had started as a bright day was gathering itself into a dull evening. The mares’ tails that Richard had seen this morning were replaced by a flat, gray overcast. The sea, gray-green at the best of times, now seemed almost black, rolling in on the starboard quarter from Biscay and the southwest.
The detective sergeant’s name was Bodmin, like the moor; and he wasn’t either as self-effacing or as seasick as he seemed. He had been born and raised in Falmouth, able to sail a boat before he could ride a bike. Only education in London, at Hendon, and his detective’s course in Manchester had taken him far away from the sea. And as soon as he had passed out of police training college, he had transferred back to the Cornish force and his childhood sweetheart, content to make his way slowly and happily down here.
Nor was he a fool, for all that he played up his accent and acted before the ignorant a little of the country bumpkin.
So when he told the chief engineer to consider himself under arrest, Harry Bodmin knew well enough what he was up to. The American took it surprisingly calmly, and at first the detective thought he couldn’t have heard above the grumble of the engines in the Engine Control Room. But Martyr had heard all right, as had Rice and McTavish. Their reaction was more marked than the chief’s, for, as it was with Captain Mariner and the deck officers, so obviously it was with Martyr and his engineers. For a moment, Bodmin wondered if he had miscalculated after all and was about to meet a sticky end.
But Martyr swung round slowly, wearily. “Can’t prove nothing, son,” he said. “But you’re welcome to try like the others back home.”
“Thank you, sir. At least I can assume you are not going anywhere for the moment, and I know you are necessary to the running of the ship, so it’s a notional arrest. Unless you try to escape before this inquiry is over, of course.” He saw the skeptical look in the chief’s eye and added dryly, “Scotland Yard is of course aware of the warrant for homicide outstanding against you in New York, though I believe that to be a federal offense; and, together with the investigator from Lloyd’s, I cannot see how this alleged fraud could possibly have been perpetrated without your active or passive connivance. You are the last of the original officers left alive. This ship was always bound, illegally, for Durban. You and your dead colleagues must have known that from the start. When we have proved what is actually in those tanks, we might well be adding our own charges to the federal warrant against you.”
Rather pleased with that as an exit speech, he swung wide the door into the strangely misshapen, blast-damaged corridor past the Pump Room and went to pursue the rest of his inquiries.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in the first mate’s office, interviewing everyone aboard. But it really got him nowhere. No one actually admitted to knowing anything, and he began to realize that unless he and Watson could prove that the ship had visited Durban on purpose — and the food poisoning was going to make that difficult — then there was precious little proof that anything illegal had been done since Mariner had assumed command.
And yet it was quite obvious that here was a massive fraud, attempted mass murder by the use of explosives, perhaps the same thing by the use of poison off Durban, and heaven only knew what else. Grievous Bodily Harm at the very least, if the American’s face was anything to go by. He had better get ashore, he thought, and turn this lot over to his superiors.
He found Martyr and the captain on the bridge, both looking morosely across the choppy expanse of Lyme Bay to where the lights of Exmouth twinkled in the distance. As soon as Mariner saw him, he went straight into the attack. “I hear you’ve put my chief under some kind of arrest.”
It was only to be expected, thought Bodmin, without a trace of resentment at the hostility. It hadn’t taken him long to see how close-knit this crew had become, like some station houses he had known on the force. He hoped if he ever got into trouble there would be people like these to stand beside him. He calculated that this was the time for a softly-softly approach, if he wanted to get ashore.
“Only notionally, sir. I’m not quite sure of my authority. If Mr. Martyr were considering coming ashore, I might be able to arrange some sort of accommodation until…”
“He’s not. Now that we’re at anchor, we’re keeping a harbor watch until the rest of the authorities come aboard in the morning.”
“And that watch will include the chief?”
“Yes. It includes all the crew.”
“Fine. How do I get ashore?”
“If you hurry, Captain Moriarty may let you have a seat with Mr. Watson in the pilot’s cutter. It’s just about to pull away.”
Bodmin left at a run.
Richard had not been lying to protect his chief. He did fully intend to keep watches above-and belowdeck all night, no matter how exhausted he and his crew were. He had a feeling that their safety was by no means assured now they were at anchor — indeed, he was absolutely certain that this position was not the beginning of safety but the climax of danger.
The real investigation would not start until tomorrow after all. Anyone left active in Demetrios’s murderous plot, therefore, would have to act to night.
So, after Bodmin left, Richard remained on the bridge and Martyr remained in the Engine Room, each one of them at full alert.
And the hours began to pass.
At a quarter past midnight, Robin found herself in the same spot as usual, outside Richard’s door in the C deck corridor. She had come down here straight off watch as though driven by some Pavlovian reflex.
The situation and the time were so correct that she paused, though she knew Richard was up on the bridge keeping the first part of Ben’s watch while Ben tried to fix the computers in the Cargo Control Room for the morning. She paused for a moment, then, almost ready to turn left toward her lover’s empty berth, only to turn right after all and knock quietly on the door opposite.
The owner’s suite was occupied again. Oddly — or perhaps not so oddly at that — without a word being said on either side, Sir William Heritage had joined the team. In what capacity it was not quite clear, but when the other interlopers left by helicopter and pilot’s launch, he was still aboard. And he had no intention of being anywhere else. Though no great sailor himself for many years past, he fitted into Prometheus’s routine as he fitted everywhere — quietly and without fuss.
The battered but sizable expanding briefcase he habitually carried held as much as he needed — a few office things in one side and a few overnight things in the other; and a small, two-way radio, which could transmit as far as Exeter, perhaps, but which could receive from very much farther afield.
He was speaking quietly into this as Robin entered. He glanced up, grinned, and waved her to a seat. “Please wait,” he said into the small microphone and took his thumb off TRANSMIT.
“New toy,” he announced, pleased. “It can transmit as far as Exeter, and I arranged a relay there on the way down. Just having a word with the twenty-four-hour secretary at the office.” He depressed the button once more and began to speak.
It was from another, half-forgotten world. Robin watched, bemused; amazed anew at her father’s grasp of his business. He would have settled everything important before leaving Town and yet here he was, still tying up loose ends with no reports or memoranda — with nothing to help but a few crisp notes from his personal tape recorder.