A Painted Ship

Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Ford stared into his wife’s eyes, trying to reassure himself that she really was there, that they really were married, and they really were on their honeymoon. It all seemed so implausible—while she was beautiful, vivacious, brilliant, a shining star lighting up an otherwise drab firmament, he was merely pedestrian, plodding, mundane, mediocre, a dim planet visible only indirectly in her reflected radiance. To make the whole matter even more unlikely, she had married him in the teeth of her family’s fervent opposition, including several false heart attacks simulated by her mother; she had chosen him in preference to a duke; and she had stepped down from the upper crust of patrician society to take his plebeian hand. They were sitting outside the Duke of Cornwall, an inn beside the harbor of the Cornish fishing village of Trethgarret Haven, in the far west of England, where the English Channel meets the Atlantic Ocean. The sun shone almost as brightly as she did. Fishing boats stirred at their creaking moorings alongside the wharf; the sea sparkled and murmured; the breeze was pungent with the tang of salt water and fresh fish; seagulls cackled and wheeled overhead; somewhere out in the shallows a bell buoy clanged dolorously, and fishermen bent over their tackle as they worked on their salt-streaked boats. A creaking derrick cranked a vast dripping net from the hold of the nearest boat and over the dock. From the net a silver cataract of flashing, flapping fish poured forth, the harvest of last night’s labors in the English Channel. A diminutive steam railway locomotive snorted fussily as it waited to haul away the morning’s catch. But all of this made no greater impression on Ford than a damp and dreary day beneath leaden skies in Manchester, for the brilliant scene faded into insignificance in comparison to the vision of his wife—yes, his wife!—sitting across from him at the rickety cast iron table, with the breeze playing with her hair and the sun bringing a fresh pink color to her cheeks, and bread and cheese and cider set before her. A local worthy they had nicknamed the ‘Ancient Mariner’ sat dozing in the sun beyond her. Ford suddenly imagined himself many years in the future, hoary with age, also dozing in the sun, dreaming of this perfect honeymoon. He examined his new wife’s features intently, so that her face, at this idyllic moment, would be imprinted indelibly on his memory for ever. “You’re staring again, Thomas,” she grinned. “I am, however, extremely glad you’re doing so, for it means you haven’t grown tired of me after two whole days of marriage, not to mention two whole nights—at least, you’re not giving that impression.” “Darling Victoria, I’ll never grow tired of you,” he told her earnestly, taking her hand and entwining his fingers with hers. “I’m delighted to hear it,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ll make damned sure you never will. It’s my intention to keep you in a state of constant connubial contentment. For example, after lunch we’ll …” Ford had to wait to find out what she planned, however, for at that moment there were cries of alarm from the jetty, and people were running to see what was causing the commotion. Ford and Victoria would have remained wrapped in their private cocoon, but the shouting intruded. “Fetch the doctor!” … “Good God, it’s Lord Pengriffon!” … and, finally, “Someone fetch the police!” Ford found himself rising to his feet in automatic response, and he and Victoria crossed the street and joined the crowd. The body of a man with a ruined mottled blue-green-white face and hideously empty eye-sockets lay half-hidden in the silver mound of fish and seaweed and crabs and random flotsam. Victoria shuddered, and Ford, feeling immensely husbandly, turned her away and shielded her eyes from the scene with his manly shoulder. “The crabs got him,” one of the fishermen said phlegmatically. “Can’t have been down there more than a day at most,” said another, making an expert judgment of the crabs’ progress. “’E were in the Duke last night as usual, saw him meself,” offered a third. The fishermen were all immensely tough, Ford thought, looking around the group, as tough as the battered yet infinitely resilient fishing boats they took into the stormy English Channel. Now the sea had claimed a life, and they stood in silent contemplation. It occurred to Ford that perhaps they were remembering other ruined faces, faces of crewmates and friends, fathers and sons and brothers, whom the waters had also taken in tribute. “Now then, now then, what’s all this commotion?” sounded a voice of officialdom, and a burly policeman pushed his way through the crowd. “Strewth, is that his lordship?” The crowd filled in the details. “He was at the inn last night, Alfie, four sheets to the wind.” “Drunk?” “Not ’alf—couldn’t ’ardly walk. Must’ve come over ’ere for a Jimmie Riddle and fallen in, poor old bastard.” “Naw, he never fell in here—we picked him up in the trawl net. We was out by the Little Dogs last night; it’s ten fathoms deep there if it’s an inch.” “’Ow did he get out there? That’s five miles or more.” “The tide’s not right if he fell in here.” “No wind to speak of; flat as a pancake.” “Not washed overboard, then, not in a calm.” “In the trawl net, you said? What was he doing on the seabed, sixty feet down?” “How’m I supposed to know?” “What’s that round his leg?” “Blow me down, that’s a rope!” “And, see here, a bloody great lump of concrete tied to it!” “Well, then, ’e must have gone out in ’is launch and done ’imself in.” “Never—that’s ’is launch, over there, moored where she always be. ’Sides, Lord Pengriffon weren’t the type for no suicide; not a care in the world, not his lordship.” “’Specially if he’d been knocking back a pint of scrumpy or two.” “An’ getting’ a regular bit o’ you-know-what from you-know-who.” “Well, someone tied that rope round his bleedin’ leg …” “Cor blimey, then ’e must have been murdered, mustn’t ’e, poor old bugger!” “Murdered?” the policeman demanded. “What do you mean, murdered?” “Haven’t you been paying attention, Alfie?” one of the fishermen asked him, and the crowd chuckled. Clearly the policeman did not have a reputation for being quick on the uptake. “Well now,” the constable said, removing his helmet to scratch his head, as if this act would bring his thoughts to order. “Murdered? Well, I never! What am I supposed to do about murder? I’d best telephone to Penzance and tell the inspector.” “You want us to get ’im out of here, Alfie?” one of the fishermen asked. “Well, yes, I suppose, he’s a bit of a fright, not meaning offense to the dead, of course, and women and youngsters’ll see him. You blokes better hose him off and we’ll move him up to the church and make him decent, like.” More scratching suggested another thought. “And someone better tell Lady Pengriffon, I suppose. Well, I never! There’s not been a murder in these parts for nigh on twenty years, not since the old queen died.” He looked forlornly round the faces in the crowd, clearly hoping for help or guidance, and Ford spoke reluctantly. “Excuse me, Constable, but I suggest you examine everything in detail before he’s touched. There may be evidence.” “What sort of evidence?” the constable asked, continuing to grapple with a situation far beyond his experience. “I have no idea, but you’d best go through everything in the net, and photograph it as you go.” “Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?” another of the fishermen smiled, and the crowd chuckled at the joke. “Well, yes, I am, actually,” Ford admitted humbly and unwillingly. Lord Pengriffon, it seemed, was about to disrupt his honeymoon. “If there’s anything I can do to assist you, Constable, until your inspector takes over …” “And I’ll tell Lady Pengriffon, if you like, Constable,” Victoria said, avoiding another look at the corpse. “Her sister and I were at school together and we’ve kept in touch.