Deep Waters: Mysteries on the Waves (British Library Crime Classics) by Martin Edwards

Author:Martin Edwards [Edwards, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Ocean, sea, canals, rivers, boats, pool, murder, classic, waterways, detective, short stories
Publisher: British Library Publishing
Published: 2019-06-10T05:00:00+00:00

The small yacht floated motionless, mirrored in the calm waters of Vigo Harbour. Her split headsail, tattered pennant, and stove-in dinghy were mute evidence of the storms that had battered the ketch in the Bay of Biscay, three days out from Falmouth.

In the saloon the four amateur yachtsmen were celebrating their successful completion of the trip by a glass each of excellent cognac, which washed down a meal of tinned salmon, tinned peaches, and coffee extract prepared by Dr Garrett, a well-meaning but indifferent cook.

‘Cheerio!’ said Dr Garrett, lifting his glass. ‘Cheerio!’ answered Hopkins, Leathart, and Pickering.

Pickering’s greeting seemed particularly hearty, yet immediately after drinking the brandy he gave a moan, flung out his arms, and fell prone.

There was a sudden silence in the cabin. Leathart’s rubicund face turned pale; he touched Pickering’s livid features with a trembling hand, then helplessly loosened his collar.

Hopkins’ eyes gleamed behind their pebble glasses, but he made no move. Garrett, with the expert indifference of the medical man, stepped forward, grasped the fallen man’s wrist a moment, and then rolled back his eyelid.

‘Dead,’ he pronounced solemnly, straightening himself.

‘Good heavens!’ stammered Leathart incredulously. ‘What, why—Has he had a heart attack? Pickering dead! I can’t somehow—’

His voice trailed off into silence as he stared at the limp form of that prosperous banker, their host; a moment ago apparently in the prime of life and now stricken down as if by a physical blow.

Leathart was going to say, ‘I can’t somehow cotton on to it…’ but there was no evading the ghastly reality, the deadness of that inert mass, which had a moment before been living flesh, joking and laughing.

Hopkins still said nothing. His eyes moved from Leathart to Dr Garrett who was busy about the body. Now he was prising open the mouth…

Even at a death, Leathart couldn’t help thinking, Hopkins is the same Hopkins; the famous novelist, the remorseless psychological observer, noting, watching, and never showing his hand.

His personality had grated a little on Leathart when they had first met; it was alien to the breezy openness of the Yorkshire Turf commission agent; but they had been brought together by a common love of the sea, and in the ten years that followed Leathart had grown to respect Hopkins’ qualities. A good man in an emergency!

Dr Garrett now stood up, and covered the face of the dead man with his handkerchief. He wiped his hands slowly on a table napkin, gazing into space, his saturnine face expressionless, and said;

‘No, it’s not a heart attack. He’s been poisoned.’

‘Poisoned, Garrett?’ exclaimed Leathart. ‘Oh, come! It’s impossible!’

‘Poisoned!’ repeated Hopkins; saying it slowly; almost as if (Leathart thought) he was savouring the phrase on his tongue. But that must be imagination. Just Hopkins’ manner. For Pickering had been his friend…

‘Hydrocyanic acid,’ said Garrett, still gazing away from them. ‘Prussic acid, as the layman calls it. No post-mortem is necessary; it’s the most easily detected of poisons.

‘I can smell it on his lips and see its traces on his face.’ He lifted up the glass of brandy.

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