VI

An Evening Out

DAVID MADE AN early start and was back in Finmouth in good time to catch the market van, with a most satisfactory two days’ haul. He got back to the rectory quite early in the afternoon, with a pleasant feeling of an evening and night ahead of him before he needed to go to sea again.

Elizabeth was delighted to see him back so early. ‘I’ve brought you some fish for supper,’ he said.

‘There’ll be just the two of us. Daddy’s gone to a synod in Exeter, and he’s staying to dinner with one of the canons. He won’t be back till late.’

After his extravagance of last night David felt that there was a case for some further relaxation of his private rules. ‘If your father’s not going to be in, why don’t you come out and have a meal in Plymouth? The fish was caught today –it will be perfectly good tomorrow. I’d love to take you out to dinner – please let me.’

Elizabeth hardly ever had a meal that she had not cooked herself, and she jumped at the invitation. ‘I’d love it, too,’ she said. ‘The only thing is, it will be horribly expensive. Are you sure you can afford it – I mean, the money not going towards buying Lily?’

‘Well, I had a couple of good days, and the Lily account isn’t going badly. Do let’s go. And let’s make an early start, and have time for a civilised drink before dinner. I’ll go and get into my one decent suit and be ready to start when you are.’

Elizabeth was privately a good deal bothered about what to wear herself. She lived in pullovers which she knitted for herself, and the rest of her wardrobe was sadly thin. But she had one black dress which she had inherited from her mother – it was not hopelessly unfashionable because it had never been particularly fashionable. This would have to do. David, who used to irritate Louise by seldom noticing the new clothes which she was always buying, couldn’t have said whether the inherited black dress was fashionable or not. He thought simply that Elizabeth looked stunning.

David’s knowledge of Plymouth was a decade or so out of date. He could still find his way by sea to the boat harbour at Sutton Pool, but he knew nothing of the tower blocks of hotels which have sprung up round the Hoe. Elizabeth, who occasionally went into Plymouth to shop, was equally ignorant of Plymouth restaurants, but had heard that the roof-top restaurant of one of the new hotels was good. So they went there. It was a magnificent site – a penthouse high above the Hoe, with a tremendous view of the Sound and, in the far distance, the Eddystone light just beginning to wink.

They sat for drinks at an immense window, with the green Hoe and then the vast seascape reaching away beneath them. David felt completely happy – and then the nagging thought which had come into the edge of his mind last night returned.

David had earned his living as an accountant, which does not call for particularly high-grade maths. By nature, however, he was a mathematical philosopher, he had been a Wrangler at Cambridge, and he had a good logical mind.

‘Cast your mind back, Elizabeth, to when that policeman of yours was trying to run me in.’

‘He wasn’t trying to run you in,’ Elizabeth said indignantly. ‘He was looking for Mr Platt, who he thinks – and I think – stole the chalice. He didn’t know who you were: he just had to eliminate you from the inquiry.’

‘All right, all right. I don’t hold it against him – actually, I thought he was a rather nice policeman. The man he was looking for was called Platt. Yes? Well, go on a bit to the night you rescued me from my camp. Do you remember at supper telling me more of the story of Mr Platt? What was the name of the ancestor he was looking for in your parish registers?’

‘Layton – James or John Layton he wasn’t sure which.’

‘So that’s it. Well, I’ve just come across a Mr Layton.’ He told her of his encounter with the divers.

‘It can’t have anything to do with Mr Platt. Layton was the name of his mother’s father, or grandfather perhaps. It wasn’t his name.’

‘And he didn’t exist – at any rate in the Combe Dean registers. But Mr Platt doesn’t exist either, so they’re all square so far. How good are you at inventing names? Obviously ones like Smith or Jones wouldn’t quite do. Mr Platt had to have two names – the fake Platt, which he’d thought up at leisure, and got a fake visiting card for, and a name for his ancestor. Now a mother’s ancestor couldn’t be any giveaway – it couldn’t be his name, because that would be his father’s. Why not use his own name? It would be realistic and sound good. I can imagine doing it myself if I suddenly had to find a name for one of my mother’s relations that I didn’t want traced to me. It would be better, in a way, than a random name, because in the nature of things it couldn’t be my own real name.’

‘It sounds very involved. But I see what you mean. Only there must be hundreds of Laytons around, and there is nothing whatever to relate your Mr Layton to our Mr Platt.’

‘No. But there is a little more to it. Suppose there are 100,000 Laytons in England. And suppose one of them is also Mr Platt. The crude odds against picking the right Mr Layton at random are 99,999 to one. Once you know anything about them, the odds alter – some Mr Laytons will be over eighty, others may have one leg, or be blind, or otherwise ruled out. Geography is not a very strong ruling-in factor, but it is a factor. If you are looking for a Layton-Platt and you find a Layton within a dozen miles or so of where Mr Layton-Platt was last seen, it’s mildly interesting, to say the least. There’s something else as well.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The chest that the girl said was brought up from the wreck. She saw it come up – remarked on its good condition. It had to be taken ashore to be opened with special tools, or that’s what Mr Layton said. Your father told us that the Madras went down in 1805. Do you think that a wooden chest that’s been on the seabed since 1805 would come up in good condition? I think it would have disintegrated long ago.’

‘David, what on earth are you driving at?’

‘I’ve been wondering what I would do if I wanted to make money out of very valuable stolen goods – big jewels, or your chalice. There’s a crook’s market, of course – fences who are ready to buy stolen things. But they don’t give very good prices – they can’t, because they’re taking a lot of risk themselves. Salvage from an old wreck would be a marvellous way of acquiring a legal title to sell things. No one knows what went down in the Madras – no one can say for certain what comes up. Major pieces of jewellery can usually be identified by insurance records, but the stones themselves can be reset, or even recut. If you found an old chest on a wreck and got it up, wouldn’t you be so excited that you’d want to open it straightaway? The girl said she and the others did want to open it, but Mr Layton wouldn’t let them. If what she told me is accurate – and I can’t see that she had any reason to lie about it – no one, apart from Mr Layton, actually saw the chest opened. He has witnesses to prove what came out of it – there’s no evidence of when any of it went in.’

‘You’ve certainly got a powerful imagination! But how could the chalice come into it?’

‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that no one has tried to claim the £10,000 reward? I grant you, it could have been melted down before the reward was offered – in which case the thief must be kicking himself. But would anyone go to all the trouble of getting fake visiting cards printed and concocting a story about his mother’s ancestors to steal the chalice just to melt it down? The sneak thief and the sophisticated thief have different sorts of mind. I don’t believe this was a sneak thief’s job, nor do you, nor do the police.

‘I think I told you – or if I didn’t tell you, I certainly told your policeman – that I’ve seen your chalice. I remember it very well – it was in an exhibition of church plate in Exeter, and we had a lecture on it when I was at school. There is no inscription on the chalice – that’s one of the things that casts a little doubt on the Francis Drake story, though I remember the lecturer telling us that it’s hard to see how else anything so valuable could have got to Combe Dean. Its beauty is in its shape and workmanship. It’s been measured and recorded, of course, but if witnesses saw it coming out of the wreck of the Madras, who could prove that it wasn’t another chalice, an unknown replica, or one of an unknown pair? Museums or rich private collectors would bid eagerly for it – if they could!’

Elizabeth gazed out of the encircling window at lights springing up along the Hoe, against the huge backcloth of now nearly dark sea. ‘Do you think there is even a chance that the chalice still exists?’ she asked wistfully.

‘I should think it almost certain,’ David said. ‘Whether it can be recovered is another matter. But I should rate the chances of that as reasonably good, too.’

‘Oh David . . . it would transform Daddy’s life. He’s saying now that he feels he ought to resign the living. And I don’t know where we’d go, or what he’d do . . . Do you really think there’s anything in your Layton-Platt theory?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never been a proper philosopher, though perhaps I could have been. I think I could have stayed at Cambridge, but my parents were both dead, and I felt awfully restless. I liked climbing, and I wanted to get out into the world. But I had a good education in mathematical logic. Suppose you want to account for something . . . you devise a theory that seems to fit the known facts, and you stick to this until you have proved it to be wrong, or some other fact turns up which doesn’t fit. That’s what I feel now. My theory seems to fit the facts, but there must be a lot of other facts that we don’t know. I’d like to try to find out those other facts, but I’m not a policeman. I’ve thought of something, though, that I could do.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, the Chief Constable at Exeter used to be a friend of my father’s, and I think he’d remember me. I could go to see him, tell him what I feel about the diving operation, and leave it to him.’

Elizabeth considered this. Then she said, ‘You know, David, I don’t think you ought to do that. He’ll be a very busy man – a bit like a bishop, I’d imagine. If you go direct to the bishop about something that needs doing in the parish it’s fine if he has time to be interested. But if he doesn’t do anything about it, then you’re stuck – having gone to the bishop you can’t very well go to anybody else. I think you should go to Sergeant Blundell. He’d probably have to do the investigating in any case, and he’ll be much more enthusiastic about it if the idea comes to him directly instead of being passed down by the high-ups. He’s an intelligent man, and a nice man, and I’m sure he’d listen to you.’

‘I don’t mind doing that, but you’d better come with me. He may still be a bit suspicious of me for all I know. If you are with me at least he’ll realise that I haven’t tried to run away . . . And now we really ought to have our dinner –the chap with the menus seems to be getting a bit restless.’

*

On the way home they arranged a plan of campaign. David didn’t want to lose a day’s work, but by going out early in the morning, around six, he could be in by about noon. During the morning Elizabeth would telephone Sergeant Blundell and try to make an appointment with him. She would meet David at noon, and they’d fit in with whatever time Blundell suggested.

*

When David brought in Lily Elizabeth was waiting on the quay. ‘I’m sorry, David,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid there’s a bit of a rush. Sergeant Blundell was very friendly, but he says the only time he can see us today is at the police station at twelve thirty. I’ll help you unload Lily. We should just about make it.’

‘He’ll have to put up with my fishing clothes,’ David said.

*

‘You again,’ said Blundell, but he said it pleasantly.

‘You did me a good turn by arresting me,’ David said. ‘It’s really because of that that I’m staying at the rectory.’

‘I didn’t arrest you. And I knew about your going to the rectory.’

‘How on earth—’

Blundell smiled. ‘You may think that village people take no notice of you, but in a village everyone knows practically everything about everyone else. Sometimes I think it’s a kind of instinct. People keep themselves to themselves, but you can’t put on a new pair of shoes without somebody’s knowing about it. I heard about your striking camp and going to the rectory the day after you got there. You mustn’t misunderstand me, Mr Grendon, but I had to check up as far as I could on the things you told me. Everything you said seems to have been quite accurate.’

David was slightly taken aback. ‘Since it was all true it could hardly have been anything else,’ he said. ‘But I don’t hold it against you – rather, it makes me a bit happier about coming to see you now. It makes me hope that you may take seriously some ideas I’ve formed about the chalice.’

‘Of course I’ll take them seriously. Tell me about them.’

David recounted the theories he had discussed with Elizabeth the night before. Blundell listened without interrupting, making an occasional note on a pad.

‘Finmouth fishermen don’t exactly love those divers, do they?’ he remarked when David had finished.

‘We’ve no cause to love them. They take our fish and, what is far worse, they wreck our gear. I’ve seen almost new lobster pots cut to pieces with a knife. We can’t prove that the divers do it, but I can’t see how else it could happen.’

Blundell was a South Devon man, and he understood the fishermen’s feelings. ‘It’s a rotten business,’ he said. ‘One of your mates brought in just such a slashed pot. I wish we could do something about it, but without a constant sea patrol there isn’t much we can do. I mentioned your relations with the divers only because it’s the sort of question my superiors will ask me. I’m not really suggesting that you thought up your ideas to try to make trouble for them.’

‘No, it’s not that at all.’ This was a point of view that hadn’t occurred to David, but he was naturally an honest person, and he accepted Blundell’s observation as quite reasonable. ‘I suppose it could look like that, though.’

‘I don’t suppose it does,’ Blundell said. ‘I like your point about the Layton name. I ought to have thought of it, but I didn’t. Of course, there’s no evidence one way or the other, but it’s one of those funny little coincidences that need to be looked into. I also like your point about the condition of the chest after all those years at the bottom of the sea. But you didn’t see the chest yourself?’

‘No. I only heard about it from the girl. But her account of how it had to be taken ashore to be opened suggests that at least it wasn’t falling to pieces.’

‘Yes, that’s a good point, too. But again there’s no sort of evidence. But that’s our job. I think I’d like to have a look at that chest. Another thing, Mr Grendon – did any of the people you met say anything about Huntingdon? Did they come from Huntingdon, perhaps?’

‘I haven’t the least idea. Why Huntingdon?’

‘The car registration MEW that Miss Danvers noticed is a Huntingdonshire registration.’

‘It made me think of seagulls. I remember it very clearly,’ Elizabeth said.

‘I only met three of them in the pub,’ David said. ‘They were all amateur divers, and I got the impression that they weren’t local, but they didn’t say where they came from. I gathered that there was a pretty constant flow of people from various sub-aqua clubs coming for a sort of working holiday. The lot I met had a car, but I’m afraid I didn’t notice the registration number.’

‘It was just a thought. If there was an MEW vehicle in the camp it would be evidence to support your theories. If there isn’t – or wasn’t at the time of Mr Platt’s visit to the rectory – it doesn’t necessarily rule out the theories, of course. I take it that Miss Danvers hasn’t seen Mr Layton?’

‘No, neither of us has.’

‘I wonder if it could be arranged. I could ask Mr Layton to call here – as I asked you – but I’d rather the police kept in the background at present. If Miss Danvers could see Mr Layton, she could tell us whether or not he bore any resemblance to the man she met as Mr Platt. That would be an important step towards deciding if there really is a case for investigation.’

‘I told the people I met that I liked their pub, and that I might come back. I could try to find out if Mr Layton ever goes there, and if he does there’s no reason why I shouldn’t take Miss Danvers with me one evening when he’s likely to be there. Or we might think up some reason for calling at the camp – I could say I’d lost an anchor, and wondered if the divers could help me to recover it.’

‘I must say I hope you don’t take to crime, Mr Grendon. You have a horribly subtle mind.’

‘I’m a mathematician, really. It’s just a question of trying to solve a problem.’

‘The pub would be the better plan, I think, because it’s more casual. Could you manage to get back there fairly soon?’

‘Yes, I could go by road this evening, if you like.’

‘That would be admirable. And if you do manage to see Mr Layton, let me know as soon as possible. I’ll give you my home telephone number, so that you can get hold of me if it’s out of office hours. And there are one or two discreet inquiries that I can make in the meantime. Well, Mr Grendon, obviously I don’t know whether there is anything in your ideas or not, but I’m exceedingly grateful to you both for coming to see me. I don’t need to tell you to be very careful in anything you do or say.’

‘We want to get back the chalice,’ Elizabeth said.

*

Blundell was considerably impressed by David’s visit. His theorising was pretty wild, and yet in an odd way it held together. It was not so much any one thing as a combination of little things which added up to a sort of circumstantial evidence. The story of the chest – if true, and it was no more than hearsay based on a girl’s pub chatter – was a queer one. And they had all been so busy looking for a man called Platt that nobody had thought of looking for anyone called Layton. Yet Layton was a name at least as important in the story as Platt. If the disappearing Mr Platt was really Mr Layton, his choice of a name for one of his mother’s ancestors was a good one – it was the last name anyone would think of as applying to him. Blundell had one piece of evidence which could settle the matter one way or the other – the so far unidentified fingerprint on the safe. But if by any chance Mr Layton was the mysterious Mr Platt, an official visit from the police before they knew anything more about him would probably put paid to all hopes of recovering the chalice: he could scarcely be expected to tell them where it was on a preliminary visit, and while inquiries were being made he would have plenty of opportunity to dispose of it. Without the chalice, or some really hard evidence that he had something to do with it, the fingerprint alone was not enough to proceed on. If it was Mr Layton-Platt’s fingerprint it would be highly suspicious, but there was no evidence to say when it was made. Mr Layton-Platt could say that he had wanted to speak to the rector about something or other and had followed him into the vestry one Sunday morning after a service. The safe would be open for putting away the ordinary Communion plate, and he must just have put his hand on it. A thin story, but with the help of a clever counsel one that it would be next to impossible to disprove. The rector might say that he had no recollection of the incident – but it would not need much cross-examination to suggest that his memory was scarcely to be relied upon. Of course, there was the additional possibility that the rector and Miss Danvers might recognise Mr Layton as the man they knew as Platt – but the kind of ingenuity they were dealing with suggested that Mr Platt would not be easily identified with anyone.

And if that Mr Grendon’s ideas had anything in them, the chalice was only part of an ingenious use of an old wreck to dispose of stolen jewellery. If – if – if – Blundell decided to go to Plymouth to discuss things with his inspector.

*

‘What do we know of this chap Grendon?’ the inspector asked after listening to Blundell’s story.

‘Nothing much, really. You’ll remember that I put in a report about interviewing him in the early days of our search for the man Platt – he was camping out on a lonely part of Ugborough Moor, and we were interviewing all strangers in the vicinity. Grendon gave a reasonable account of himself, and made no objection when I asked if I could take him to Combe Dean to see if either Canon Danvers or his daughter could identify him. They both said he was nothing like the man they knew as Platt, and I was able to check his fingerprints against the unidentified print on the safe – it was certainly not him. All that seemed to let him out completely. I did ask the Exeter people about his story of having lived in Exeter, and it seems to be quite true. There was a Samuel Grendon, who was a well-known Exeter solicitor, and there isn’t any doubt that he was a friend of the Chief Constable. Of course, I haven’t seen young Grendon’s birth certificate, but there doesn’t seem any need to. As far as I know he’s exactly what he says he is.’

‘And now he’s turned up living at Combe Dean rectory. Queer, that.’

‘I don’t think it’s particularly queer. He told me that he’d left his wife and come to Devon to try to make a living as a fisherman. He worked at first for old Jess Grimble at Finmouth, and he’s now working Grimble’s old Lily on his own, or in some sort of partnership with Grimble. I had a word with the Finmouth people before I came over here. Young Grendon’s been around just as he says he has, and the other fishermen seem to think well of him, as a good boat-hand and a willing worker. As for living at the rectory – he hadn’t anywhere else to go. The local story is that Miss Danvers rescued him from his camp one pouring wet night, and that he’s staying on as a paying guest. It’s just the sort of thing the Danvers girl would do – she has a name for helping people in the parish. And I daresay they need the money. That rectory is a huge rambling old place – it must cost a mint of money to keep up, and I’ve never heard that Canon Danvers was a rich man.’

‘OK then, if you’re satisfied about him. What do you yourself make of his story?’

‘It’s hard to say. I just feel there could be something in it. It’s a question whether you feel it’s worth going into seriously. It can’t be done locally.’

‘Well, we’re at a dead end otherwise. The high-ups are getting restive about complete lack of progress in the Combe Dean chalice case. At least this is a line of some sort to work on. And some of these treasure hunters aren’t all that scrupulous. If there’s anything in the Grendon story, I take it the jewels said to have been found in the chest were presumably stolen.’

‘That would be the idea, yes.’

‘I’ll start by getting the cutting from the evening paper. What would be the date? Day before yesterday? Shouldn’t be any difficulty about that. Matter of fact, I think I remember reading the story – I thought, “How bloody lucky some people are!” Funny if it turned out they weren’t so lucky after all. And I know the Receiver of Wreck. I can have a word with him, and get a proper description of what is supposed to have come from the chest.’

*

‘Damn the expense,’ David said as he and Elizabeth left the police station. ‘Let’s have some lunch at a hotel.’

‘We can’t. What about Daddy?’

‘Ring him up and explain. I expect you left everything ready for lunch, anyway.’

‘Well, yes, I did. But David, I’m costing you a fearful lot of money. And you have to go to that pub again this evening.’

‘That’s what I want to talk about. We must have a plan of campaign. Ring your father and tell him we’re stuck here for lunch.’

Feeling guiltily that she was living in an extravagant world of meals out, Elizabeth found a telephone box and explained matters to her father. When she rejoined David, he was beginning to have second thoughts. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘whether I’m fit to be seen with you in these clothes.’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘What’s the matter with them? They’ll think you’re a yachtsman. You look rather nice.’

The summer visitors having departed, those hotels which were still open were left to their permanent residents, most of whom ate early. David and Elizabeth had a dining room almost to themselves. ‘What do you think your policeman made of us?’ David asked.

‘I’m sure he took us seriously. Oh, David, I wonder if you could possibly be right?’

‘Well, we’ve got to go on until we’re proved wrong. I’m thinking about tonight. Could you come with me?’

‘But we’ve no idea whether Mr Layton will be there.’

‘It’s worth a gamble. There’s nothing to do in that camp in the evenings, and I should think most of the people there go to the pub. The Layton man wasn’t there the time I went because he’d gone to Plymouth to deal with the Customs or whatever about his finds. If he’s around, he’ll quite likely visit the pub. And if we’re lucky you’ll see him at once, and that will save a lot of time. There’s another thing. If we go to the pub together, it’s quite natural. If I go by myself and start asking about Mr Layton it will mean going back there again with you, and if anyone is at all suspicious they’ll begin to wonder why I’m interested. It would be far better if we could just be there casually when he came in.’

‘I see what you mean. I’ve never thought about being a detective before – it’s awfully exciting. Of course I’ll come with you.’

‘Can you remember what you were wearing on the day Mr Platt came to the rectory?’

‘A skirt and jumper, I suppose – what I’m wearing now, although it may have been a yellow jumper instead of this one. There was nothing special about the day, and I certainly wasn’t dressed up for anything.’

‘Put on a long skirt, or something quite different for tonight. And do your hair a bit differently if you can. We don’t want to run any chance of his recognising you. If by any chance I have to introduce you I shall call you Anne – and it mustn’t be Anne Danvers. What about Anne Cameron?’

‘All right. It doesn’t sound a bit like me, but I’ll try to remember my name. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t call you David?’

‘None at all – I don’t come into the picture at that point. Mr Platt may have done some homework about your father and you before his visit, but he’ll have kept well away from Combe Dean afterwards. We’d better give ourselves a bit of background for this evening, though. If we meet any of the people I met before, they know I have a boat. I didn’t say I was a fisherman, and I’d rather they didn’t know that. Relations between Finmouth fishermen and the divers are not good, and they’ll think I’m just out to spy. They’ve seen Lily because they saw me anchoring in the cove. But although Lily is a fishing-boat she’s the sort of boat that any cruising yachtsman might have. I didn’t say I was a yachtsman, but I didn’t say I wasn’t. If they like to think I am, so much the better. I came by boat the day before yesterday, now I’m come back by land . . . What have I done? I put in at Finmouth to see my friend, Anne Cameron. You live – no, better, you’re staying with some people there. I think you live in London. You’re a fashion designer . . .’

‘But I don’t know anything about fashion.’

‘All right, you’re not a fashion designer. What would you like to be? A schoolmistress? No, that wouldn’t do, it’s term time now. A shorthand-typist in a City office, taking a late holiday.’

‘I do know shorthand – I do nearly all Daddy’s letters for him. Do we have to say what office?’

‘No. You said you could swim – skin-diving could be one of your hobbies.’

‘It could be, but it isn’t. And these people are experts – they belong to clubs, and know all about it. I’d make some awful mistake.’

‘Just be decorative, then. You can do that very well.’

‘Thank you!’ They both laughed. Elizabeth was shocked to find that she was actually enjoying herself. It seemed all wrong that the misery of the chalice should produce anything nice.

*

But it did. She was not used to being taken out to pubs, and the prospect was exciting. She was again bothered about her wardrobe. She possessed only one long skirt, a nondescript affair which she had bought at a sale to go with her father to the annual guest-dinner of the Combe Dean Women’s Institute. She wondered if a real London typist would be seen dead in it. However, she did have a rather pretty Turkish blouse which her father had brought back some years before when he had been invited to Turkey to lecture on the Hittites, and this, she felt, might make up to some extent for the rather dowdy skirt. She brushed her hair back, holding it in place with a band, and put on a pair of ornate Victorian earrings that had belonged to her grandmother. Studying herself in a mirror, she concluded that the total effect was really rather dashing. At least it was quite unlike her normal appearance.

David had met the divers early in the evening. That was little to go on, but it suggested that they went to the pub before rather than after their evening meal. He thought, therefore, that they had better get there soon after opening time, but to be prepared, if necessary, for a longish stay there. He remembered seeing some sandwiches behind the bar: they would help to fill in time.

*

They were both so keyed up that they started earlier than they needed to, and got to the pub a few minutes before it opened. So they drove along the coast road to the cove where David had anchored Lily. The cruiser was still there. David would have liked to explore a little, but Elizabeth’s long skirt inhibited scrambling down the steep cliff path. He studied the anchorage from the cliff top. On the cruiser he could see the crane that the girl had talked about – a squat thing rather like the hoists on the back of breakdown lorries. The dinghies were drawn up on the beach, as before. Whatever the divers were doing, they were still there.

The car park by the pub was deserted when they got there, and they were the first customers in the bar. The barman remembered David. ‘Brought your boat back?’ he asked.

‘No,’ David said. ‘I put in at Finmouth to see Miss Cameron – she’s staying with some people there. She came down from London by car, so she has her car with her. We just came out to have a look at your pub. I rather hoped to meet some of those divers again.’

‘They’ll be in – a bunch of them usually come along. It’s a bit early yet.’

David ordered whisky for himself and sherry for Elizabeth. When the man brought the drinks David asked if he would join them. He accepted a half-pint of bitter, pulled it, and said ‘Cheers’.

‘Does the boss of the outfit come in at all?’ David asked. ‘I read about him in the paper – name of Layton, isn’t it?’

‘Aye, he’s often in with the others. Not the last couple of nights, though – I heard he’s been away. But his boat was out this morning, and it doesn’t generally go out unless he’s with it. So it looks like he’s back.’

They chatted for about twenty minutes, and the bar remained empty. David was wondering how to spin out the evening without drinking too much, when there was the noise of a car outside and a few minutes later three people came in. One was the girl called Sheila whom he had met before. With her were two men, both strangers.

‘Evening, Miss, evening Mr Layton,’ the barman said.

The girl noticed David. ‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Back again? Your friend sail with you?’

‘No, landsman tonight,’ David said. ‘Anne’s staying at Finmouth, and we drove over. Can I get you a drink? What will your friends have?’

The girl said she’d like a gin and orange. One of the men asked for beer, the other, who it turned out was Mr Layton, said he’d join Sheila in the gin, but not with the orange juice. Could he have a pink gin? David ordered the round, and the girl introduced him. ‘We met on the night you were in Plymouth dealing with the treasure,’ she said. ‘David, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, David Grendon. This is Anne Cameron.’

‘Phil Layton, and Robert Ogilvy,’ the girl said.

‘I read about you in the paper,’ David said. ‘It must have been a great occasion. But I bet it took months of work.’

‘You a diver?’ the man called Layton asked.

‘No, I try to stay on top of the water.’ They all laughed.

‘Well, I wish they wouldn’t put these things in the papers. I had to go to London yesterday, and I came back to find twenty-three begging letters waiting for me. It’s all very well, but people don’t understand. Yes, we’ve had a bit of luck, but diving is a damnably expensive business. It can take two or three years’ work to find a wreck, and what you recover when you’ve found one is anybody’s guess. Then you have to wait while the officials go through all their rigmarole. If you break even over the years, you’re lucky.’

‘But it’s frightfully exciting,’ Sheila said.

‘All right for you, poppet – you’re having a holiday.’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I couldn’t do without you. And yes, it’s better than working in an office. But it’s also a job with plenty of headaches – like any other.’

David was trying hard to assess what Elizabeth was thinking. She sat on her high stool at the bar, looking into her glass of sherry. She had taken no part in the conversation. Mr Layton began to order another round of drinks and asked her what she would like. She replied in a queer voice, not much more than a whisper. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but really we ought to be on our way. We’ve got a date. David, don’t you think we should be getting on?’

David glanced at his watch. ‘Lord, we certainly should,’ he said. Then to the others, ‘Will you excuse us?’

‘Of course,’ they muttered politely.

‘Going back to Finmouth?’ Layton asked.

‘No – we’ve got a dinner date in Plymouth,’ David said. ‘We can just about make it, if we hurry.’

‘Nice to have met you again,’ Sheila said. ‘Give yourself more time when you drop in next.’

‘I will. Goodnight.’

Elizabeth looked white and worried as they went out to the car. David offered to drive, but Elizabeth said she had to drive because – to keep down the premium – the Mini was insured only for her own driving. On the way out of the car park she trod hard on the brake – ‘Look!’ she said. Then, ‘But it isn’t. You see, it can’t be!’

She was about to turn to go back towards Combe when David said, ‘We told them we were going to Plymouth. We’d better go in the Plymouth direction for a bit, anyway.’

They took the cliff road which at least led towards Plymouth, though if they decided to go right into Plymouth they would have to turn inland after a few miles to cross the Yealm at Yealmpton. It was dark, and although the Mini’s headlamps were quite good Elizabeth drove slowly. David said nothing, waiting for her to talk. In daylight, the stretch of road they were now on would have been breathtakingly beautiful – it ran close to the cliff edge, the cliffs falling steeply, in places almost sheer, to the rocks and the sea below. They had gone perhaps two miles when they saw the lights of a car coming out of a side turning on their right, about a quarter of a mile ahead. It turned towards them, and Elizabeth dipped her headlamps. The other car did not dip: it gathered speed and raced towards them, hugging the crown of the road. As it came up it moved over towards their side of the road.

David began to gasp ‘He must be mad’ but there wasn’t time to get all the words out. Elizabeth could do nothing but swerve to the nearside – towards the cliff edge. The other car roared past them and the Mini left the road. The other driver made no attempt to stop.

A few yards farther on they would have gone over a sheer cliff and crashed into the sea. Where they did leave the road there was a narrow, boulder strewn ledge between the verge and the actual cliff top. The nearside front wheel of the Mini hit a big boulder, mercifully deeply embedded, on the very rim of the cliff. This stopped the car, and also slewed it round and toppled it over on David’s side.

In her eagerness to get away from the pub Elizabeth had forgotten about her seat belt. The first shock of impact with the boulder had flung her forward, but as the car had also slewed she was hurled not directly on to the steering wheel but between the wheel and the door. Perhaps the door was not quite properly shut, anyway, the crash burst it open, and she was flung out of it and over the edge of the cliff. The door, torn off its hinges, went with her over the edge.

David had clipped on his seat belt automatically as they drove away from the pub. The belt saved him from being flung into the windscreen, and as the car toppled over he was left huddled on his side. He was cut and bruised, but nothing was broken, and his first thought was to call out to Elizabeth. She did not answer, because she was no longer in the car. The crash had put out the lights, and David, tangled in the wreckage, was in total darkness.

He knew that there was a torch on the shelf under the dashboard: could he possibly find it? Even in the chaos of the crash his mind worked in its accustomed habit of logical analysis. Everything in the car must have been thrown forward in the sudden deceleration of the crash; therefore the torch must be somewhere at the fore end of the shelf. It might, of course, be smashed, but it was rubber-covered, and should stand a reasonable chance of survival. The immediate need was to free himself to get at it. The safety belt which tied him to the car unclipped without difficulty, but he could not get it off his shoulders because one of the straps seemed caught in some twisted bit of metal. His hands were free, however, and he had his pocket knife. This was in a trousers’ pocket and it required some contortion to get at it, but he managed it. The strap was tough and hard to cut, but David was a practical seaman and kept his knife sharp. As soon as he could cut himself free he began feeling for the torch, working gingerly, because there were many sharp edges of torn metal.

He found the torch, jammed against an AA book that had also been on the shelf. The book had also helped to protect it, and the torch worked. He saw a gaping hole where the door on Elizabeth’s side had been, called out to her again, and again got no answer. Desperately worried, he scrambled over the wreckage of the seats and climbed out through the door-hole, stopping himself just in time from going over the cliff top by grabbing at the rock which held the wreckage of the car. The torch showed a horrible situation. The boulder which had stopped the car was on a small promontory extending only a few yards from the edge of the cliff. Between the wreckage of the car and the sheer face of the cliff was a ledge of no more than a few inches. Below was blackness, which he could investigate only a little way in the thin beam of the torch.

*

It was the long skirt that saved her. Elizabeth had been flung clear over the cliff top, but at the point where she had gone over it was not quite sheer. About fifteen feet from the top a gnarled and wizened tree had managed to root itself and, somehow, to survive. In order to survive it had to be tough, and its thin, twisted branches were in fact exceedingly strong. One of them had pierced and caught a fold of Elizabeth’s long skirt and, whatever its inadequacies of fashion, its fabric had a good Women’s Institute quality of strength. David’s torch found her apparently hanging upside down from the tree, although she was actually lying along the branch, her head and shoulders pressed against the cliff face. She had been dazed into semi-consciousness and had not heard him call, but the beam of the torch revived her, and when he called again she was able to call back, ‘I’m all right – at least I think I am.’

‘Whatever you do don’t move,’ David said. ‘Do you have a tow-rope in the car?’

‘Yes. In the boot.’

‘I’m going to get it. I shall have to use the torch, so you’ll be in the dark again. Get your arms round the tree and just hang on. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Most of the damage was to the front of the car, and the boot was still openable. David was terrified that it might be locked, but whatever the sins of the countryside there is seldom any need to lock the boot of the rectory car in a remote moorland parish. David found the tow-rope and went back to the cliff top.

The rope was not as long as he would have liked, but it would have to do. Near the big boulder that had stopped the car was a smaller rock that seemed firm, and which would not take up too much rope for a coil to be passed round it. He anchored the tow-rope to this, tested it as far as he could by leaning back against the rope, and then let himself over the edge. He needed all his skill as a rock climber to get down to Elizabeth: in daylight it would have been easy enough, but in darkness it was a terrifying climb. He tied his handkerchief round the torch so that he could hold it in his teeth: it was hard to keep the thing steady, but at least it left his hands free. He made for the tree on the far side of the branch that held Elizabeth. When he got level with the tree things became slightly easier, for it had spreading roots, and he was able to find a firm foothold against a root. He worked his way round the tree until he was a little above Elizabeth and could get his left arm round her shoulders.

‘Anything hurt?’ he asked.

Elizabeth managed a small laugh. ‘Lots of things,’ she said. ‘But I think it’s mostly scratches.’

‘I can hold you quite safely like this. Do you think you could hold the torch?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

He gave her the torch, and said, ‘Don’t try to move round. Shine it on the cliff face and we’ll get just about enough reflected light to see where we are.’

He rested for a few moments while Elizabeth manoeuvred the torch. Then he got his knee into the crook of a branch and put both arms round Elizabeth. ‘I’m going to put the rope under your armpits,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll lift you off the branch. Don’t try to do anything for yourself yet – just be as limp and relaxed as you can manage, and go on holding the torch.’

There was just enough rope to go round her. He made it secure, and said, ‘You’re held by the rope now, and you can’t fall any farther. The next thing is to free your dress from the tree. When I’ve done that I’m going back upstairs, and I can pull you up from the top. If you can manage to hold yourself out a bit from the cliff face as you go up, it will be a help. If anything hurts badly, give a shout and I’ll come down again. I’ll take the torch now – I shall need it at the top, and you’ll want your hands free for coming up. I shan’t need it to climb back, because I’ve got the rope, so I’ll put it in my pocket.’

Elizabeth felt a sudden, desperate loneliness when David left her to begin his climb, but the rope round her shoulders was a comfort. She moved into a sitting – or rather, squatting – position, holding the branch with her legs and the tree trunk with her hands. She wriggled her feet and bent her knees – no, nothing was broken.

David found going up easier than coming down. With the rope to guide him he had no need to worry about where he was going, and the rough cliff-face offered some reasonably good toeholds. He was back at the top in a few minutes, and shone down the torch at Elizabeth.

‘All right?’ he asked.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Ready to come up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, don’t move until I tell you. I must check the rope before we start.’

With the torch he examined the coil of rope round the boulder. It did not seem to have frayed materially, and when he pulled up Elizabeth the strain would be taken by him. He had to find a secure hauling position for himself, but that was not too difficult, for the cliff edge was hard and firm. He balanced himself and called down to Elizabeth. ‘Ready now?’

‘OK.’

‘Right. Starting to haul. I’ll go very gently.’

Elizabeth felt the rope tug at her shouders. She grasped it with her hands as well, and as she was pulled clear from the tree she found the cliff face with her feet. David pulled her up very slowly, and from time to time she took some of her own weight on her toes. She had lost her shoes, which helped her to find toeholds: in the irrational way in which the trivial suddenly intrudes on the important she said to herself, ‘That’s the end of these tights. And they really were my best pair.’

When she was about three feet from the top David rested for a bit. Then, ‘Last lap,’ he said. ‘As soon as you can get a grip on the edge with your arms, tell me, and I’ll lift you over.’

One more heave with the rope did it. Elizabeth reached over the cliff edge, digging her fingers into the coarse, strong grass. Putting a turn of the rope round his left wrist, David knelt down, got his arms round her, and pulled her over the top. As soon as she was safe, he was swept by utter exhaustion. For several minutes they lay on the cliff top, clinging to each other.