“Indeed. As he lay there whimpering I recognized him; one of our young subalterns.
I summoned my husband from his club, of course, and I’ve never seen the Brigadier
so furious. I thought he was going to horsewhip the fellow! But when he was able
to speak, the plausible young devil convinced the Brigadier he’d come to invite us for
supper. It all blew over and they played a game of snooker instead. Funny creatures,
men.”
“I really wouldn’t know.” Thelma seemed preoccupied. “To tell the truth, I’d
have liked to go to the lecture, I mean, you never know these days, do you? You read
such terrible things in the Times Colonist. But the Tapestry Club’s so thin on the
ground this year; just Muriel and Ellie and me, and of course Ted Westaway. I’d have
felt conspicuous at the lecture, with all those other women asking technical questions
and quoting statistics. And in any case the James Spooner Society is there, which
means that awful May Vinge.”
“The Vinge woman? That damned Johnny-come-lately? Good God, she’s into
everything including the local Arts Council, as they call themselves! So you’ve crossed
swords with her too, have you? Good for you, Thelma. I didn’t know you had it in
you.”
“It was nothing, really.”
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s gaze wandered, and came to rest on her painting on
its easel near the window. This brought to mind another Vinge-inspired grievance. “I
was kind enough to submit my recent work in oils, Pulled Down, for the art exhibition.
One must do one’s bit for the community. And that Vinge woman had the gall to reject
it, would you believe it! But enough of that. Tell me about you and Vinge.”
“It was dreadfully embarrassing,” Thelma admitted.
“What was? Spit it out, woman!”
She took a sip of coffee. Thelma took a long time to collect her thoughts these
days, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger had noticed. And she seemed to get so flustered at any
kind of question or comment.
“You know how interested I am in literature,” she said at last, the pretentious
old biddy.
“Each to his own. I like a good whodunit, myself”
“A couple of weeks ago I was browsing around a used book store in Peterville,
and quite by chance I happened to pick up a book by James Spooner. You know, the
nineteenth century novelist.”
“I didn’t know, but no matter. Go on, go on.”
“The name rang a bell. I’d overheard someone mentioning a James Spooner
Appreciation Society in the library one day. The book was only a couple of dollars and
it was hardcover, and even if the story was no good I thought it would look nice on the
shelf. So I bought it. When I came to read it I found it really was the most awful drivel.
I was curious what the Society could possibly appreciate about this stuff, so I thought I
might join. Just for a couple of meetings, you understand. And for the company, to be
honest.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 38
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger began to lose patience. “Get to the point, for pity’s
sake! You know how your endless monologues irritate me!”
“So the next time I was in the library I asked May Vinge about it. She seems to
know everything that’s going on. Well, it turned out she’s a member herself. She
seemed quite reticent about the whole thing, and when I said I’d like to join she said I’d
probably find it cliquish because the members were all old friends. I made the mistake
of persisting. She got quite uppity and we began to attract attention. It was humiliating.”
She flushed. “You know what May Vinge is like, she treats you like a disobedient
child. We both started shouting. She shouted the louder, and in the end there was
nothing for it but to turn tail and flee. Everybody was watching. Oh, Adelaide, I can
never face going into the library again!”
Silence fell while Mrs. Rooke-Challenger regarded her friend. It was quite intolerable
that the ghastly librarian should have insulted Thelma in this fashion. The Vinge
woman seemed to forget she was a servant of the public. Steps would have to be
taken. May Vinge must be chopped down to size.
“I will deal with the matter, Thelma.”
Oddly enough, this seemed to upset her further. “Things are bad enough as they
are! Let it be, Adelaide. Oh, my God,” she wailed, “I wish I’d never told you!”
“Subtlety, that’s what’s needed here.”
“Subtlety? Must you, Adelaide?”
“I owe it to you. Nobody insults a friend of mine and gets away with it! Leave
it to me. I will exercise diplomacy.”
Thelma bowed to the inevitable. “All right, if you think you can manage it. Just
a quiet word, a discreet apology from May Vinge on the library notice board. That’s all
I ask. So people will know she was at fault. Nothing violent though. You won’t take
your umbrella, will you?”
“Only if it’s raining. Have no fear, Thelma, I shall bring the woman to heel....
What on earth was that?”
The windows rattled to the thud of an explosion outside. Mrs. Rooke-
Challenger was on her feet in an instant. She flung open the gun cabinet and removed
the twelve-bore, feeding in two cartridges with a smoothness born of long practice.
“Adelaide! It’s only a car backfiring down the lane!”
“Nonsense, woman! I know the sound of a bomb when I hear it. Get under
the table if you have no stomach for this. I propose to investigate, armed and ready!
Aha! See that?” A column of smoke was rising above the tin sheds of Duffy’s marina.
“What did I tell you?”
Thelma’s eyes were wide with anxiety as she watched the smoke. “I do hope
nobody’s hurt,” she twittered.
“Foul play,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger observed grimly. “I knew it.” She made
for the door. “And my son-in-law, the so-called policeman, is loafing around at the
community hall, naturally. Are you coming, Thelma, or do you intend to cower in here
all morning?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 39
“I’ll come if you put that gun thing away. It’s not what’s happened at the marina
that frightens me, Adelaide. It’s you!”
SUNDAY MORNING: THE DEVOTEES OF JAMES SPOONER
May Vinge faced Devoran squarely, cup gripped firmly in hand. “An adequate presentation,
I would say, Staff Sergeant. Most of the points were covered. As you must realize,
this is a matter of great concern to women.”
“Not only women,” Devoran protested. “Any householder should know how to
handle himself in this situation. Or herself,” he added weakly, feeling pressured.
“So why is there only one man in the audience?”
Foolishly, he ventured a mild quip, “Because Mark Thomas Severin’s shovel
was struck by lightning, I suppose.”
It passed right over the blonde curls. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.
What I do know, is it’s a disgrace the women here can’t walk the streets of Noss Cove
in safety, and I’d like to know what you’re doing about it. When I say you, I don’t
mean you alone, of course.” She smiled briefly. “I mean the RCMP as a whole.”
One of the James Spooner aficionados spoke unexpectedly. “Don’t you think
we’ve heard enough about your problems for today, May? Personally I enjoyed the
Staff Sergeant’s talk and maybe I even learned something from it. And it’s never occurred
to me to be frightened to walk the streets of Noss Cove.” She was a few years
younger than the other Spoonerites, and up close Devoran decided she was sexy rather
than sleazy. She seemed to have struck up a cross-culture friendship with Ted Westaway
of Tapestry, all dark hair and menace, who hovered close.
“That’s because you live in Victoria and you only watch game shows on television,
Brenda. You don’t know what’s going on all around you.”
“And maybe I’m better for it.”
“You came from Victoria specially for the talk?” Devoran asked, amazed.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Sergeant,” said May Vinge. “Our Society had a weekend
get-together at my place. The Victoria contingent are just filling in time before they
leave.” She smiled suddenly, and it transformed her face. “Oh, what the hell. Thanks
for the talk. Sorry if I seemed prickly. Maybe Brenda’s right; I watch too much news
on TV.”
The quick mood change was disarming and Devoran found himself regarding
May with a more friendly interest. Odd that such an obviously dynamic woman should
be a librarian, in such a tiny library too. It was little more than a lean-to attached to the
community hall. He’d have expected her to be running a successful business. Actually
quite an attractive woman, about his age, too. A widow, apparently. And not in the
least streetwise like her friend Brenda. As people drifted around chatting, clutching their
cups of coffee, Devoran found himself alone with her.
“James Spooner says a policeman is a criminal without imagination,” she was
saying. “I’m sure he’s a little harsh, isn’t he, Sergeant?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 40
Constable Dobbin overheard. “James Spooner never met Staff Sergeant
Devoran.”
Devoran pondered this one. Was it a compliment or not? Did Dobbin (odd
thought) fancy him? It was unthinkable; she was twice his size. Or did she simply appreciate
qualities he didn’t know he possessed? Although he must have done something
right to have made it to Staff Sergeant. Or had his mother-in-law blackmailed the authorities,
thinking that by promoting him it gave Veronica more status? This took his
thoughts in a familiar direction: Veronica, dead six years; Jesus, he missed her still.
He emerged from this particular reverie as May Vinge was delivering another
nugget of pure Spooner gold. “He says a policeman upholds the law so he can beat you
over the head with it.”
“I’ve never actually read James Spooner,” said Dobbin, “and maybe that’s just
as well. Nineteenth century, was he? Things have changed since then. What do you
people find so interesting about him?”
May Vinge swallowed her final mouthful of Community Hall coffee with some
difficulty, grimaced and pronounced, “He’s one of the unrecognized greats of detective
fiction. He wrote over twenty novels featuring his amateur sleuth Harold Pummery. He
was a contemporary of Conan Doyle, which accounts for the lack of recognition. He
was overshadowed.” The little speech sounded well-practiced.
A tiny beeping sound hardly registered with Devoran; he was still mulling over
the word ‘sleuth’. He’d seen it in print, of course, but he’d never heard anyone actually
speak it before.
“You pager beeped, Sergeant.”
“Did it? Yes, of course it did. Hold the fort for a minute, Constable.” There
was a telephone in the entrance lobby of the community hall, on a small table covered
with pamphlets advertising writers’ groups, local amateur dramatics, ecological field
trips and the like. He was quickly put through to Inspector Lockhart.
The familiar voice sounded more excited than usual. “We’ve had a 911 call.
There’s been an accident at Duffy’s Marina, Eric. Some kind of explosion. You’re in
the area, aren’t you? I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.”
“Uh, yeah, I did hear something a while back. I thought it was blasting at the
quarry.”
“You’d better get along there and find out what’s going on. There’s a team on
its way, should be with you in half an hour. Ambulance, too. It’ll look bad if they get
there before you, Eric. Off you go. Don’t get lost on the way.”
Devoran poked his head around the door. May Vinge was haranguing Dobbin;
Ted Westaway and the Brenda woman were talking quietly at the back of the hall; the
rest of the audience stood zombie-like, staring into their coffee cups. Maybe Duffy’s
Marina would be a welcome break. “Take over, Constable Dobbin!” he said. “I’ve
been called away.” He saw May Vinge glance sharply toward him and hoped his
words had given an impression of indispensability.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON: AT DUFFY’S MARINA
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 41
“Civilians,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger shouted over her shoulder to the scuttling figure of
Thelma Drost, “are incapable of dealing with an emergency. The trained hand of command
is required.”
“Really, Adelaide, I don’t think you should interfere,” Thelma twittered.
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger had expected to find a scene of chaos at Duffy’s Marina
and she was not disappointed. Distant figures could be seen running aimlessly on
the docks. People were shouting. Smoke billowed up. As they neared the entrance
gates she heard the telephone in the marina office ringing. Nobody was answering. As
she’d thought, the people here lacked leadership and organization. She was always
pleased to offer such qualities.
The yard gate was propped open by an upturned wheelbarrow. A number of
people had gained entrance and were making for the docks.
Thelma arrived puffing to receive a sharp rebuke from Mrs. Rooke-Challenger.
“You’re five years younger than me, woman, but your arteries are obviously clogged.
You’re blowing like a grampus. I’ve warned you about it often enough.” She regarded
the people hurrying down the ramp to the docks with disfavor. “So much for the security
arrangements. If I had my way they’d have a sentry box here!”
The tide was high, which meant the ramp was almost horizontal. This made the
approach to the docks easier, which was fortunate because Mrs. Rooke-Challenger
detested making an undignified entrance. At the end of the ramp a long T-shaped dock
floated with the tide, held in position by pilings. To the left of the T floated a ramshackle
little village of corrugated-iron boathouses. To the right, short fingers projected at rightangles
from a long dock, most of them occupied by boats. The smoke rose from the far
end of the long dock.
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger indicated this with her stout cane. “A milling throng, just
as I expected. Look at them, like chickens with their heads cut off. No leadership, I’ll
warrant. We’ll soon change all that.”
“Really, Adelaide, I’m sure Mr. Duffy’s doing his best.”
As they approached, the huge and muscular figure of Red Duffy could be seen
among half a dozen or so people standing on a finger projecting from the long dock.
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger noticed her grandson Wilberforce among them, together with
his young lady. People were not actually milling; perhaps for once she’d overstated the
case. The finger on which they stood was so narrow and rickety that any attempt to mill
would have thrown them all into the water. Rather, they stood motionless with bowed
heads like mourners at a graveside. A puff of wind carried the last of the smoke away.
As she forced her way through to the finger with the aid of her umbrella she saw the sad
sight of two masts rising from the oily surface.
“Who’s in command here?” she demanded.
Red Duffy glanced round, identified her, then had the impertinence to turn away
again, regarding the water lapping around the masts as though willing it to give up its
secrets. A pale and distorted cabin roof could be seen a couple of feet below the surFoul
Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 42
face; the after end blown open so that the tiny galley was clearly visible, the forward end
still intact.
Here was a recipe for further disaster. Duffy’s Marina had been running on a
hand-to-mouth basis for several years, the monthly receipts from moorage fees barely
covering upkeep and municipal taxes. The docks and fingers were old and the planking
rotting. The floating slabs supporting the structure were honeycombed with the tunnels
of those sea creatures that find Styrofoam a delicacy. The finger onto which she’d
fought her way was reaching the limits of its useful life, and for an embarrassing moment
everyone teetered, clutching at one another for balance. Eventually a mutual equilibrium
was restored, but not before some regrettable remarks had been passed in her direction.
“Back, you fools!” she shouted. “Move back to the main dock or it’ll be a watery
grave for us all!” Reaching Red Duffy, she laid a hand on his meaty shoulder.
“What is going on here?”
The marina owner swung round angrily. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? This boat’s
sunk.”
“Ah, yes, that much is obvious. But surely the question is: Why did the boat
sink? And more specifically, who caused the boat to sink? These are questions that
must be asked, Mr. Duffy. We all heard the explosion. A bomb on a boat is a serious
matter. Have the police been notified?”
“Jesus Christ, it’s only just happened! Did you say a bomb? How do you
know that?”
“Rest assured, I know.”
“Then you know a goddamned sight more than I do!”
“That is to be expected. I have a wealth of experience in these matters.”
“You’re talking garbage, woman!” Duffy’s face was as red as his hair. “It was
probably a gas leak. Fumes in the bilge exploded by a spark from something. That’s
what it usually is in these cases.”
“And to whom does the boat belong?”
“It’s Li Slade’s boat. The Ocean Dream. Forty foot Taiwan ketch.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “And the next question is: Where is
Mr. Slade?”
This caused a further outbreak of muttering. The group was swollen by a couple
of Duffy’s employees, arriving at a nearby dock in a runabout they’d been testing.
Li Slade was in Vancouver buying boat parts, wasn’t he? No, he said he’d be back
this morning. He was probably in Victoria shopping. Yes, that’s where he was. In
town, shopping.
“And are we prepared to take that on trust?” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger demanded.
“Can we rely on hearsay when lives are at stake? For all we know Mr. Slade
may be lying in the cabin of that boat at this very moment, foully murdered.” She hadn’t
originally intended to use the word murder, but it had seemed an effective way to end
the sentence. It got them thinking.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 43
“Murder?” People glanced at one another anxiously. She could read their
frightened little minds. Murder? It was an accident, surely? This is Noss Cove, for
heaven’s sake. You don’t get murders in Noss Cove. There had been a case of shoplifting
at the store last year. And the odd case of breaking and entering at one of the
subdivisions. That was the sum total of local crime. Murder? Who would do such a
thing? The glances became searching. It could be any one of them. Who knows what
passions fester beneath the surface of a quiet coastal community?
“Murder most foul,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger intoned. She was not a woman to
abandon her stand. “And the evidence lies before us, in six feet of ice-cold water.”
“Oh, Jesus!” someone muttered. The spectators goggled at the underwater
cabin as though expecting a bloated body to come drifting out.
“John!” called Duffy to a dockhand hurrying toward them. “Pop up to the diving
club, eh? Get someone here with their gear, pronto!”
“And call the police while you’re about it!” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger shouted.
“Now, Mr. Duffy, what do you propose to do while we’re waiting for a diver who may
never come?”
The marina owner scratched his head, at a loss.
“Obviously you’re not accustomed to dealing with emergencies, my good man.
I shall be asking questions about marina safety at our next Council meeting, believe me.
Now, I’d like a volunteer to step forward.”
“Volunteer for what?” someone asked apprehensively.
“Good grief, man! Here we have a poor wretch trapped in the cabin of a
sunken vessel, and nobody thinks of trying to release him? He’ll be dead before any
diver gets here. Really, I despair of people these days. What kind of men are you?
Scared of getting your feet wet? By God, if I were twenty years younger I’d have been
down there and checked out that cabin before you could say Jack Robinson!”
After a thoughtful pause, Duffy said reluctantly, “Argh, what the hell.” He
kicked off his shoes and pants, shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off shirt and undershirt,
revealing a vast acreage of pallid flesh with a scattering of red hairs and freckles.
He sat on the edge of the dock. “Jesus!” he exclaimed as he slid down to the boat’s
narrow side-decking, deceptively deeper than it appeared. Shuddering with cold, he
worked his way aft and stepped down to the cockpit floor. The water rose to his
shoulders. “Jesus!” he exclaimed again. “This had better be worth it.”
“Stop whining and get on with it, man!” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger called.
He moved cautiously forward, feeling under the water with outstretched hands.
He reached the companionway where the steps descended into the cabin. “It’s going to
be too deep down there,” he shouted.
“So dive into the cabin, Duffy!”
Shouts of encouragement came from the others. “Dive, Duffy! Dive!”
“Any of you like to take my place?” Duffy snarled. “Since you’re all so goddamned
free with your advice!”
“Get on with it! There’s a man drowning in there! Every second counts!”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 44
“I thought you said he was already foully murdered.” Duffy stared up angrily,
took a deep breath and plunged. White legs terminating in black socks churned for a
moment, then disappeared. They saw the dark shape of him pass through the wrecked
after part of the cabin, then he disappeared under the intact end of the roof. Silence fell.
The water became still. The sun broke through again, causing a rainbow effect on the
oily surface. A gull winged toward them, backpedaled and landed on the mast’s cross
tree, shuffling its feathers into position. It stared down at them with a bright yellow eye,
wondering if carrion might result from this gathering.
“He’s been gone too long,” somebody said.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger reassured him. “He’s been gone less than
thirty seconds. Pearl divers can stay down for ten minutes.”
This did not go undisputed. “Pearl divers? Three minutes max., I reckon.”
“Who said that? Who contradicted me?”
The speaker was spared her wrath by an upheaval of water. The pop-eyed
face of Duffy exploded to the surface, gulping air. “Argh!” he shouted. “Aaargh, shit!”
His face was contorted with horror. “He’s in there!” he croaked. “We held hands!”
“A plea for help? And you failed him?”
Red Duffy collected himself. “When I say we held hands, I mean I must have
grabbed his hand.” He shuddered, causing little ripples to spread outwards from his
plump body. “It was cold. Flabby. He was dead, I’m sure of it.” He began to scramble
from the cockpit. “Nothing to be done until the Mounties arrive, I guess.”
His cowardice was trying Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s patience. “Get him out of
there immediately!” He wouldn’t have lasted a day under her late husband’s command.
Duffy’s tone became pleading. “Listen, I can feel hypothermia setting in. If I go
back into that cabin I might pass out and drown, and then you’ll have two bodies on
your hands. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not, you fool.” She faced her audience. “We shall have to try other
measures. You!” She stabbed a finger at a biddable-looking man who backed away
warily. “Get a boat hook for Mr. Duffy. Perhaps he has the courage to hook the victim
out of there.”
A boat hook was soon found and offered to Red Duffy, who by now was blue
with cold and trying to climb back onto the dock. “They say you only last eleven minutes
in these waters,” he was gasping. “That’s what the Coast Guard say, and I believe
them.”
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger seized the boat hook and jabbed it spear-like at him.
“Get back down there, you coward! Ask yourself this: Do the Coast Guard call off a
search after eleven minutes? Of course not. They don’t give up. They continue the
search until all hope is lost, which may be hours later!”
Near to weeping with cold and frustration, Duffy stepped back into the cockpit
and began to make stabbing passes into the cabin with the boat hook. After a few
abortive attempts he exclaimed, “I think.... Oh, Jesus, I think I’ve got him!”
“Twist the hook into his clothing.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 45
“Oh, Jesus. Don’t get me wrong,” he said to the observers, feeling the need to
excuse his squeamishness. “I’ve seen bodies before. I’ve never held hands with one
underwater, that’s all.”
“Save your breath, Duffy! Now draw him out. Gently, man! You don’t want
to destroy the evidence!”
Duffy backed away from the hatch, holding the boat hook at arm’s length.
“Argh!” He turned away, ducking his head and retching violently.
The body drifted gently from the hatchway and floated into the cockpit.
It lay face down, dressed in a tweed jacket and brown twill pants, obviously a man, a
little under six feet tall. Arms and legs were spread like a parachutist in free fall. It
drifted inexorably toward Red Duffy.
With a yell of fear he hauled himself from the cockpit and clambered onto the
dock.
“Don’t lose the boat hook, Duffy!”
“The hell with the boat hook!” Duffy crouched on the dock, shuddering and
unmanned. Water poured from him. A sleeping bag was brought from a nearby boat
and wrapped around him. He was led away to the office block near the top of the
walkway, still shuddering and moaning obscenities.
“I’ve seen similar behavior as a result of shell shock,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger
observed.
The boat hook was retrieved and the body brought alongside the dock. A desultory
conversation ensued while people regarded one another uncertainly. Short of
hauling the body on to the dock — which everybody felt was a police matter — the
general feeling was that there was nothing further to be done.
They required a leader.
“You will all give me your names and addresses,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger said,
taking a notebook from her purse. She was never without her notebook. “Nobody
shall leave this dock until the police arrive.”
“Red Duffy’s already left,” someone pointed out. “And the fellow that was helping
him.”
“Who was that man?” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger demanded.
They regarded one another. They shrugged. Nobody knew. It was quite pitiful.
“Describe him!”
He was, apparently, just an ordinary kind of fellow.
“You may well have allowed the murderer to escape,” she informed them
sternly. It was always the way with civilians. No powers of observation. Resignedly
she began to note down the names and addresses of the remaining spectators.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON: A CHANGE OF COMMAND
Staff Sergeant Devoran was glad to be away from the village hall. Although she’d relented
toward the end, he felt that May Vinge still blamed him personally, as a policeFoul
Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 46
man and as a man, for all the woes of women. And he could still see the anger in her
face as she threatened him with physical violence.
What kind of woe had befallen her, to cause her combative attitude? An attractive
and intelligent woman; she should be surfing the crest of life. And maybe she was;
maybe the fault was his. Maybe he was the real-life incarnation of those insensitive
clods they portray in TV soaps merely for the purpose of shooting them down.
Maybe…. Ah, what did it matter, really?
It was all in the past, now. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt so badly about it, if she
hadn’t been so attractive. Passing a mental point of no return, he turned his elderly
mud-brown Toyota Corolla into the marina. The car park was more than half empty;
an expanse of blacktop marked with a herringbone pattern of parking spaces. He
drove on until brought up short at the boundary by a chain-link fence, switched off and
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