sir. Handed to me by the Royal Naval officer in command at Mallaig. If you’d care to come aboard.’
‘Lead me to it, Lieutenant,’ the admiral said eagerly, then paused and turned to Jean Sinclair. ‘I found Rory. He was with Murdoch at the lifeboat station.’
Her eyes were lively now and there was a slight amused smile on her mouth. ‘Why, Carey, I thought you were going to ignore me altogether.’
He said gravely, ‘I found something else down there on Traig Mhoire. A body on the beach. A German boy off a U-boat.’
Her smile died. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I left him at the church with Murdoch.’
‘I’d better get up there then. I’ll pick up a couple of women on the way. See the lad’s decently laid out.’
‘I’ll be along myself later.’
She walked away quickly, her umbrella tilted to take the force of the rain. ‘Quite a lady,’ Jago remarked.
The admiral nodded. ‘And then some. As a matter of interest, she owns the whole damned island. Left it by her father. He was a kind of feudal laird round here.’
‘What about that naval greatcoat, sir?’ Jago asked, as they descended the ladder.
‘Her husband’s. Went down in the Prince of Wales back in forty-one. He was a Sinclair, too, like her. A second cousin, I believe.’ He laughed. ‘It’s an old island custom to keep the name in the family.’
The crew were assembled on deck and as the admiral went over the rail, Jansen piped him on board. Reeve looked them over in amazement and said to Jago, ‘Where did this lot spring from? A banana boat?’
‘Chief Petty Officer Jansen, sir,’ Jago said weakly.
Reeve examined Jansen, taking in the reefer, the tangled beard and knitted cap. He turned away with a shudder. ‘I’ve seen enough. Just take me to my dispatch, will you?’
‘If you follow me, Admiral.’
Jago led the way down the companionway to his cabin. He took a briefcase from under the mattress on his bunk, unlocked it and produced a buff envelope, seals still intact, which he passed across. As Reeve took it from him, there was a knock at the door and Jansen entered with a tray.
‘Coffee, gentlemen?’
Reeve curbed the impulse to tear the envelope open and said to Jago as he accepted a cup, ‘How’s the war going, then?’
It was Jansen who answered. ‘The undertakers are doing well, Admiral.’
Reeve turned to stare at him in a kind of fascination. ‘You did say Chief Petty Officer?’
‘The best, sir,’ Jago said gamely.
‘And where may I ask, did you find him?’
‘Harvard, sir,’ Jansen said politely, and withdrew.
Reeve said in wonderment, ‘He’s joking, isn’t he?’
‘I’m afraid not, Admiral.’
‘No wonder the war wasn’t over by Christmas.’
Reeve sat on the edge of the bunk, tore open the package and took out two envelopes. He opened the smaller first. There was a photo inside and a letter which he read quickly, a smile on his face. He passed the photo to Jago.
‘My niece, Janet. She’s a doctor at Guy’s Hospital in London. Been there since nineteen-forty. Worked right through the blitz.’
She had grave, steady eyes, high cheekbones, a mouth that was too wide. There was something in her expression that got through to Jago.
He handed the photo back reluctantly. ‘Very nice, sir.’
‘You could say that and it would be the understatement of the year.’
Reeve opened the second envelope and started to read the letter it contained eagerly. Gradually the smile died on his face, his eyes grew dark, his mouth tightened. He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Bad news, sir?’
‘Now that, son, depends entirely on your point of view. The powers-that-be are of the opinion that the war can get on without me. That, to use a favourite phrase of our British allies, I’ve done my bit.’
Jago opened a cupboard behind him and took out a bottle of Scotch and a glass which he held out to the admiral. ‘Most people I know wouldn’t find much to quarrel with in that sentiment, sir.’
He poured a generous measure of whisky into the glass. Reeve said, ‘Something else that’s strictly against regulations, Lieutenant.’ He frowned. ‘What is your name, anyway?’
‘Jago, sir. Harry Jago.’
Reeve swallowed some of the whisky. ‘What kind of deal are you on here? This old tub looks as if it might be left over from the Crimea.’
‘Not quite, sir. Courtesy of the Royal Navy. We’re only playing postman, you see. I suppose they didn’t think the job was worth much more.’
‘What were you doing before?’
‘PT boats, sir. Squadron Two, working the Channel.’
‘Jago?’ Reeve said and his face brightened. ‘You lost an Elco in Lyme Bay.’
‘I suppose you could put it that way, sir.’
Reeve smiled and held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, son. And those boys up top? They’re your original crew?’
‘What’s left of them.’
‘Well, now I’m here, you might as well show me over this pig boat.’
Which Jago did from stem to stern. They ended up in the wheelhouse, where they found Jansen at the chart table.
‘And what might you be about?’ Reeve demanded.
‘Our next stop is a weather station on the south-west corner of Harris, Admiral. I was just plotting our course.’
‘Show me.’ Jansen ran a finger out through the Sound into the Atlantic and Reeve said, ‘Watch it out there, especially if visibility is reduced in the slightest. Here, three miles to the north-west.’ He tapped the chart. ‘Washington Reef. Doesn’t it make you feel at home, the sound of that name?’
‘And presumably it shouldn’t?’ Jago asked.
‘A death trap. The greatest single hazard to shipping on the entire west coast of Scotland. Two galleons from the Spanish Armada went to hell together on those rocks four hundred years ago and they’ve been tearing ships apart ever since. One of the main reasons there’s a lifeboat here on Fhada.’
‘Maybe we’d be better taking the other route north through
