Daphne du Maurier - Not After Midnight & Other Stories

'Fair enough,' he said. 'Who gave you the list?'

'It was with the other papers which the office gave me when I was put on to this job. They were just part of the briefing.'

'You mean the editorial office of Searchlight?'

'Yes.'

'Your assignment was to write an article about a retired naval officer-myself-and describe how he filled his time, hobbies, etc?'

'That's right.'

'And other members of the staff were to write similar articles about other ex-Service officers?'

'Yes. It sounded a bright idea. Something new.'

'Well, I'm sorry to spoil your story, but we've checked with the editor of Searchlight, and not only have they no intention of publishing such a series of articles, but they don't possess a Miss Jennifer Blair even amongst the most junior members of their staff.'

She might have known it. His contacts amongst the press. Pity she wasn't a journalist. Whatever it was he was trying to hide would win her a fortune if it was published in one of the Sunday newspapers.

'Look,' she said, 'this is a delicate matter. Could I possibly speak to you alone?'

'Very well,' Nick said, 'if you prefer it.'

The seven rose to their feet. They were a tough-looking bunch.

She supposed that was the way he liked it.

'If you don't mind,' Nick added, 'the wireless operator has to stay at his post. Messages are continually coming through. He won't hear anything you say.'

'That's all right,' she said.

The seven young men shuffled from the room, and Nick leant back in his chair. The bright blue eye never wavered from her face.

'Take a seat and fire away,' he said.

Shelagh sat down in one of the vacant seats, conscious suddenly of the twisted towel round her head. It could hardly add to her dignity. Never mind. It was his dignity she hoped to shatter now. She would tell the truth up to a certain point, then improvise, wait for his reaction.

'The Searchlight editor was perfectly right,' she began, drawing a deep breath. 'I've never worked for them, or for any other magazine. I'm not a journalist, I'm an actress, and few people on the stage have heard of me either, as yet. I'm a member of a young theatre group. We travel a lot, and we've just succeeded in getting our own theatre in London. If you want to check up on that you can. It's the New World Theatre, Victoria, and everybody there knows Jennifer Blair. I'm booked to play the lead in their forthcoming series of Shakespearean comedies.'

Nick smiled. "That's more like it. Congratulations.'

'You can keep them for the opening night,' she replied, 'which will be in about three weeks' time. The director and the rest of the group know nothing about this business, they don't even know I'm here in Ireland. I'm here as the result of a bet.'

She paused. This was the tricky part.

'A boy-friend of mine, nothing to do with the theatre, has naval connections. That list of dates came into his hands, with your name scribbled beside it. He knew it must signify something, but didn't know what. We got slightly lit up one evening after dinner, and he bet me twenty-five quid, plus expenses, that I wasn't a good enough actress to pose as a journalist and bounce you into an interview just for the hell of it. Done, I told him. And that's why I'm here. I must admit I hadn't expected to be hi-jacked on to an island as part of the experience. I was slightly shaken last night to find the list had been pinched from my tourist guide. So, I told myself, then the dates did stand for something which wouldn't bear reporting. They were all in the 'fifties, around the time you retired from the Navy, according to the naval list which I ran to earth in a public library. Now, candidly, I don't give a damn what those dates signify, but, as I said before, they obviously mean a lot to you, and I wouldn't mind betting something pretty shady too, not to say illegal.'

Nick tilted his chair, rocking it gently to and fro. The eye shifted, examined the ceiling. He was evidently at a loss for an answer, which suggested her arrow had scored a bull's eye.

'It depends,' he said softly, 'what you call shady. And illegal. Opinions differ. You might be considerably shocked by actions for which my young friends and I find perfect justification.'

'I'm not easily shocked,' said Shelagh.

'No, I gathered that. The trouble is, I have to convince my associates that such is indeed the case. What happened in the 'fifties does not concern them-they were children at the time but what we do jointly today concerns all of us very much indeed. If any leak of our actions reached the outside world we should, as you rightly surmise, find ourselves up against the law.'

He got up and began to straighten the papers on his table. So, Shelagh thought, whatever illegal practices her father had suspected Nick of, he was still engaged in them, here in Ireland. Smuggling archaeological finds to the U.S.A.? Or had her hunch this evening been correct? Could Nick and his bunch of friends be homosexual? Eire made so much fuss about morality that anything of the kind might well be against the law. It was obvious he wouldn't let on about it to her.

Nick went and stood beside the man with the headphones, who was writing something on a pad. Some message, she supposed. Nick read it, and scribbled something himself in answer. Then he turned back to Shelagh.

'Would you like to see us in action?' he asked.

She was startled. She had been prepared for anything when she came into the Control Room, but to be asked point blank… 'What do you mean?' she asked defensively.

Her turban had slipped on to the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her.

'It would be an experience,' he said, 'you are never likely to have again. You won't have to take part in it. The display will be at a distance. Very stimulating. Very discreet.'

He was smiling, but there was something disconcerting in the smile. She backed away from him towards the door. She had a sudden vision of herself seated somewhere in the woods, by that prehistoric grave, perhaps, unable to escape, while Nick and the young men performed some ancient and unspeakable rite.

'Quite honestly…' she began, but he interrupted her, still smiling.

'Quite honestly, I insist. The display will be an education in itself. We shall proceed part of the way by boat, and then take to the road.'

He threw open the door. The men were lined up in the corridor, Bob amongst them.

'No problem,' he said. 'Miss Blair will give no trouble. Action stations.'

They began to file away down the corridor. Nick took Shelagh by the arm and propelled her towards the swing door leading to his own quarters.

'Get your coat, and a scarf, if you have one. It may be cold. Look sharp.'

He disappeared into his own room. When she came out again into the corridor he was waiting for her, wearing a high-necked jersey and a windcheater. He was looking at his watch.

'Come on,' he said.

The men had all vanished, except the steward. He was standing at the entrance to the galley door, the little dog in his arms. 'Good luck, sir,' he said.

'Thank you, Bob. Two lumps of sugar for Skip, no more.'

He led the way down the narrow path through the woods to the boathouse. The engine of the launch was humming gently. There were only two men on board, Michael and the young man with the mop of hair. 'Sit in the cabin and stay there,' Nick told Shelagh. He himself moved to the controls. The launch began to slip away across the lake, the island disappearing astern. Shelagh soon lost direction, seated as she was inside the cabin. The mainland was a distant blur, coming close at times and then receding, but none of it taking shape under the dark sky. Sometimes, as she peered through the small porthole, they passed so near to a bank that the launch almost brushed the reeds, and then a moment afterwards there was nothing but water, black and still, save for the white foam caused by the bow's thrust. The engine was barely audible. Nobody spoke. Presently the gentle throbbing ceased-Nick must have nosed his craft into shallow water beside a bank. He lowered his head into the cabin and held out his hand to her.