Part 41 (1/2)

Joyce's blue eyes sparkled. ”It would be lovely,” she said, with a deep breath; ”but dare we risk it?”

”There's no risk,” I rejoined. ”When I said 'pay a call,' I didn't mean it quite literally. My idea was to cruise along the coast and just find out exactly where their precious bungalow is, and what they do with that launch of theirs when they're not swamping inquisitive boatmen. It's the sort of information that might turn out useful.”

Joyce nodded. ”We'll go,” she said briefly. ”What about the tide?”

”Oh, the tide doesn't matter,” I replied. ”It will be dead out by the time we get to Southend; but we only draw about three foot six, and we can cut across through the Jenkin Swatch. There's water enough off Sheppey to float a battles.h.i.+p.”

It was the work of a few minutes to pull in the anchor and haul up the sails, which filled immediately to a slight breeze that had just sprung up from the west. Leaving a still peaceful, if somewhat mutilated, Canvey Island behind us, we started off down the river, gliding along with an agreeable smoothness that fitted in very nicely with my state of mind.

Indeed I don't think I had ever felt anything so nearly approaching complete serenity since my escape from Dartmoor. It is true that the tangle in which I was involved, appeared more threatening and complicated than ever, but one gets so used to sitting on a powder mine that the situation was gradually ceasing to distress me.

At all events I had made my explosive, and that was one great step towards a solution of some sort. If McMurtrie was prepared to play the game with me I should in a few days be in what the newspapers call ”a position of comparative affluence,” while if his intentions were less straightforward I should at least have some definite idea as to where I was. Sonia's promised disclosures were a guarantee of that.

But apart from these considerations the mere fact of having Joyce sitting beside me in the boat while we bowled along cheerfully through the water was quite enough in itself to account for my new-found happiness. One realizes some things in life with curious abruptness, and I knew now how deeply and pa.s.sionately I loved her. I suppose I had always done so really, but she had been little more than a child in the old Chelsea days, and the sort of brotherly tenderness and pride I had had for her must have blinded me to the truth.

Anyhow it was out now; out beyond any question of doubt or argument.

She was as necessary and dear to me as the stars are to the night, and it seemed ridiculously impossible to contemplate any sort of existence without her. Not that I wasted much energy attempting the feat; the present was sufficiently charming to occupy my entire time.

We pa.s.sed Leigh and Southend, the former with its fleet of fis.h.i.+ng-smacks and the latter with its long unlovely pier, and then nosed our way delicately into the Jenkin Swatch, that convenient ditch which runs right across the mouth of the Thames. The sun was now high in the sky, and one could see signs of activity on the various barges that were hanging about the neighbourhood waiting for the tide.

I pointed away past the Nore Lights.h.i.+p towards a bit of rising ground on the low-lying Sheppey coast.

”That's about where our pals are hanging out,” I said. ”There's a little deep-water creek there, which Tommy and I used to use sometimes, and according to Mr. Gow their bungalow is close by.”

Joyce peered out under her hand across the intervening water. ”It's a nice situation,” she observed, ”for artists.”

I laughed. ”Yes,” I said. ”They are so close to Sheerness and s...o...b..ryness, and other places of beauty. I expect they've done quite a lot of quiet sketching.”

We reached the end of the Swatch, and leaving Queenborough, with its grim collection of battles.h.i.+ps and coal hulks, to starboard, we stood out to sea along the coastline. It was a fairly long sail to the place which I had pointed out to Joyce, but with a light breeze behind her the _Betty_ danced along so gaily that we covered the distance in a surprisingly short time.

As we drew near, Joyce got out Tommy's field-gla.s.ses from the cabin, and kneeling up on the seat in the well, focused them carefully on the spot.

”There's the entrance to the creek all right,” she said, ”but I don't see any sign of a bungalow anywhere.” She moved the gla.s.ses slowly from side to side. ”Oh, yes,” she exclaimed suddenly, ”I've got it now--right up on the cliff there, away to the left. One can only just see the roof, though, and it seems some way from the creek.”

She resigned the gla.s.ses to me, and took over the tiller, while I had a turn at examining the coast.

I soon made out the roof of the bungalow, which, as Joyce had said, was the only part visible. It stood in a very lonely position, high up on a piece of rising ground, and half hidden from the sea by what seemed like a thick privet hedge. To judge by the smoke which I could just discern rising from its solitary chimney, it looked as if the occupants were addicted to the excellent habit of early rising.

There was no other sign of them to be seen, however, and if the launch was lying anywhere about, it was at all events invisible from the sea.

I refreshed my memory with a long, careful scrutiny of the entrance to the creek, and then handing the gla.s.ses back to Joyce I again a.s.sumed control of the boat.

”Well,” I observed, ”we haven't wasted the morning. We know where their bungalow door is, anyway.”

Joyce nodded. ”It may come in very handy,” she said, ”in case you ever want to pay them a surprise call.”

Exactly how soon that contingency was going to occur we neither of us guessed or imagined!

We reached the Nore Lights.h.i.+p, and waving a courteous greeting to a patient-looking gentleman who was spitting over the side, commenced our long beat back in the direction of Southend. It was slow work, for the tide was only just beginning to turn, and the wind, such as there was of it, was dead in our faces. However, I don't think either Joyce or I found the time hang heavily on our hands. If one can't be happy with the sun and the sea and the person one loves best in the world, it seems to me that one must be unreasonably difficult to please.

We fetched up off Southend Pier at just about eleven o'clock. A hoa.r.s.e-voiced person in a blue jersey, who was leaning over the end, pointed us out some moorings that we were at liberty to pick up, and then watched us critically while I stowed away the sails and locked up everything in the boat which it was possible to steal. I had been to Southend before in the old days.