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“Why, Miss Fenella, be there something wrong?” he asked as he caught the rope she threw up to him.

“Yes, there is,” Fenella said breathlessly. “Someone has hit Mr. Adair over the head—and he’s unconscious! Will you phone for an ambulance and tell them to get here as quickly as possible."

“Zeke, you do that,” Mr. Phillips said over his shoulder to one of the men. “And Jos, you go up to my house. Missus was expecting Doctor Mallory about now. Tell him what be wrong and get him to come along. Now, miss, I’ll come aboard—”

Beginning to feel just a bit limp now that she was no longer entirely responsible for Martin, Fenella went with the Quaymaster into the little cabin. He bent over Martin without touching him, and Fenella heard him suck his breath in through his teeth.

“Nasty,” he commented feelingly. “Downright vicious, I’d say! Now, I wonder who did it—and what they did it with?”

“With a spanner,” Fenella said faintly, sickened at the memory of the evidence that had been left on the tool.

“Oh?” Mr. Phillips looked about him for a moment and then asked suspiciously: “Then where be it. Miss Fenella?”

“I took it ashore when I loosed the mooring ropes, and I’m afraid I must have dropped it,” Fenella explained apologetically. “You see, I was sure that someone was watching me, and I was afraid they might attack me, so I took the only thing there was—” her voice trailed to silence as she saw the disapproval on Mr. Phillips’ face. “I suppose I shouldn’t have touched it—”

“Well, that be for the police to say,” Mr. Phillips said ponderously. “But to my way of thinking, Miss Fenella, ’tis a pity. Useful evidence destroyed, it could be. Fingerprints. Not to say maybe the owner could have been traced—”

“Well, I must have dropped it on the bank just where the boat was, so it ought to be quite easy to find it—” Fenella suggested hopefully, but Mr. Phillips shook his head.

“Not if you’re right there was someone watching. Nothing more likely than it be at the bottom of the river now,” he said discouragingly, then, lifting his head: “Ah, that’ll be Dr. Mallory!” He stuck his head out of the cabin door. “This way, Doctor. Mind your head as you come in or we’ll have another corpse on our hands! Now, Miss Fenella, if you’d just stand to one side—"

Shivering at his unfortunate choice of words, Fenella did as she was asked and Dr. Mallory came in, a small case in his hand.

He was a cheerful, rubicund man in his fifties who was loved and respected as much because hoodwinking him was known to be quite hopeless as because he was absolutely first class at his job. He took a quick glance at Martin and whistled much as Mr. Phillips had done.

“H’m! To be hoped he has a good thick skull,” he commented. “They say there’s an ambulance coming. That right, Phillips? Ah, good. Well, the less he’s moved, the better, so we’ll wait until it comes.” He turned his back on Martin with what Fenella felt was an extremely unfeeling way and regarded her critically. “Had about as much as you can stand?” he asked with interest rather than sympathy.

“Of course not!” Fenella said indignantly. “If there’s anything I can do—”

Dr. Mallory patted her approvingly on the shoulder.

“Good girl! ” he commented. He had a very soft spot for Fenella. “That’s what I’d expect you to say. But we’ve got to bear in mind that your young man may think you’ve done enough already.”

“My young man?” Fenella repeated blankly.

Dr. Mallory grinned and said, with the privileged familiarity of an old friend: “Anthony, of course!” Fenella looked at him in genuine astonishment. Whatever her feelings towards Anthony might be, she would never, in any circumstances, have thought of referring to him in those terms!

However, perhaps unfortunately, she didn’t have to make a reply because Dr. Mallory’s attention had been diverted to a small, fixed chest at the far end of the cabin. The two lower drawers lay on the floor, their contents scattered, and the front of the top drawer which had a lock to it had been battered in.

“By jove, Phillips, look at that!” Dr. Mallory exclaimed. “Now I wonder what in the world the villain thought was in there for it to be worth his while going to such lengths?”

Mr. Phillips, his lips pressed together in a way which suggested to Fenella that perhaps he knew more than he was willing to admit, shook his head. At that moment there was a little flurry of noise out on the quay and poking his head out of the cabin. Dr. Mallory announced with satisfaction that the ambulance had arrived.

“And you’d better get out of here,” he told Fenella. “Because it’s going to be a tricky enough job getting him out and into the ambulance without jolting him too much. We don’t want additional obstacles.”

So Fenella left the little cruiser to stand beside the ambulance. Her imagination was playing tricks with her nerves—taut, in any case. Supposing Martin hadn’t got a thick skull? Suppose he died—or was dead already—

Then she saw that slowly, awkwardly they were carrying Martin from the cruiser to the quay—and that his face was not covered. She made an odd gulping sound and then, as her self-control returned, the practical aspect of the situation returned to her.

If, as she believed, the man or men who had attacked Martin had still been at hand when she had arrived at the cruiser, then there couldn’t have been time for them to get back to the quay before she had done. Consequently, though it was only negative evidence, none of the men who were here could be the culprit. Fortunately the handful of men were all watching the ambulance men manoeuvring the stretcher, but even so, Fenella took good care that her quick noting of just who was present was as cautious as possible. Mentally she listed them—and noted, not with any great feeling of surprise, that Tom Polwyn was not present.

“Because, of course, he did threaten Martin—” she recalled, though admittedly he had spoken in a way which suggested that there were other people who resented Martin’s questioning as well as himself.

The ambulance doors closed and Dr. Mallory came up to speak to her.

“I’m going to follow the ambulance, Fenella, and make sure that Adair’s handled properly right from the beginning. It could make quite a difference. What are you going to do?”

“Go home, I suppose,” Fenella said, feeling that it was something of an anti-climax.”

“Yes, best thing you could do,” the doctor agreed. Then, looking at her strained face: “Why not phone Anthony and ask him to come and fetch you?”

“Oh no, there’s no need for that,” Fenella assured him, shrinking from the thought of the fuss there would be if Anthony happened to be out and she had to explain to Aunt Gina or one of the maids. “I’ll be quite all right, really, Dr. Mallory.”

“Well—” he said in a dissatisfied way, “I think you’re being silly, but I never argue with a woman if I can help it. See to it you have a good shot of brandy when you get there. You’re not used to taking part in a crime serial, you know! ”

As the ambulance got under way, the doctor slid into his car and started after it. For a moment Fenella stood still, conscious that all eyes were on her—and that some of them did not look very friendly. It was all she could do not to turn tail and run, but that, of course, was the last thing she must do. With a word of farewell to Mr. Phillips and a collective nod to the men, she turned away, only to turn back.

“Will you be ringing the police, Mr. Phillips?” she asked clearly. “Or shall I?”

“Well, Miss Fenella, I shall have to do it in my official capacity,” he explained. “So you can leave it to me—”

“Very well,” Fenella agreed. “Will you tell them that I shall be at home all the rest of the day so if they want to ask me any questions, I’ll be available?”

Then, without waiting for his answer, she began to trudge along the quay. It seemed an interminable length, and when at last she got to the bottom end of Fore Street, she began to wonder if she could get home on foot or whether, even now, she’d better ring Anthony— but some sort of pride or obstinacy stopped her. Somehow, despite the steepness of the hill and the blazing sunshine, she’d make it—

But before she was a third of the way up the hill, a car stopped beside her and the driver leaned over and opened the passenger’s door.

“Get in,” Rosemary said authoritatively, and then, as Fenella’s lips parted : “and don’t argue. You’re obviously all in and the alternative to me giving you a lift is that you should accept Miss Prosser’s hospitality. She’s at her window and all agog to find out what it’s all about. What
is
it all about?” she added as, without protest, Fenella got in and sank thankfully into the seat. “I saw the ambulance. Who—?”

“Martin,” Fenella said baldly, and heard the catch of Rosemary’s breath. “I went to see him on his boat—and someone had hit him over the head—” She slumped back, recalling that awful first moment—

“All right,” Rosemary said briskly. “Leave it at that for the moment I’ll hear the rest when you tell Anthony.”

She leaned over, opened Fenella’s window wide and charged up the hill with a sort of brisk defiance that challenged anyone to stop her. Not that anyone tried to. In fact, with the exception of Miss Prosser, still at her window, they didn’t see a soul.

Still in that same confident way that reminded Fenella far more of the Rosemary she had known years before than the one who had come to the garden party, they swept up the drive of Lyon House and came to a halt at the front door. Mrs. Trevose and Anthony, sitting under the big tree, stood up quickly and came over to the car.

“Fenella has had a shock and she needs a good stiff drink,” Rosemary announced firmly as she got out. “Help her to a chair, Anthony, and don’t start asking questions until she’s had a chance of pulling herself together a bit! ”

Mrs. Trevose, her lips pressed closely together, said shortly that she would go and get something and went off with disapproval showing in every line of her erect figure.

Rosemary’s eyes followed her thoughtfully. She had a perfectly clear understanding of what was wrong. Mrs. Trevose had never really approved of her engagement to Anthony and had been relieved when it terminated. Even more glad, presumably, to know that she was miles away from Fairhaven and unlikely to return. Now she was back again, which was bad enough, but to turn up like this and give orders as she had done—that was unforgivable!

“I’m all right, really,” Fenella said shakily. “Just a bit wobbly on my feet—” and she sank down thankfully into a chair and when Mrs. Trevose, still tight-lipped, came out with some brandy, she sipped it without protest although she grimaced a little.

“And now,” Anthony said quietly as the colour began to come back to Fenella’s cheeks, “if we might be told—?”

“Well, I can tell you what Fenella told me,” Rosemary said, much to Fenella’s relief. “It appears that she went to see Martin on his boat—”

“You went—" Mrs. Trevose gasped, considerably put out. “Really, Fenella—!”

“And someone had hit him over the head,” Rosemary went on just as if she hadn’t spoken. “He’s been taken off in an ambulance, I presume to hospital.”

Anthony’s face was bleak.

“That would appear to be the general outline of the story,” he said in a completely expressionless voice. “Do you feel fit enough to fill in the details, Fenella?” And when she nodded: “Then to begin with, why did you go to see Adair?”

“To tell him I’d changed my mind and that I'd like to do the illustrations for his book. I told you I was going to,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but I had no idea—” he cut the sentence short, perhaps because he remembered her, criticism of the previous day. “Go on!”

Faltering now and again as speaking of them recalled all too vividly the frightening details, Fenella told the whole story. Everyone listened in silence until, almost lamely, she finished with : “That’s all.”

“Quite enough, I should say,” Mrs. Trevose said disapprovingly. “Really, Fenella, I do feel you've only got yourself to thank for this extremely unpleasant experience. After all, you know nothing whatever of this man Adair and yet you—”

“But I do know something,” Fenella protested earnestly. “He’s not just a nobody. Aunt Gina. He’s a man who’s made a world-wide reputation for himself. And you’ve only got to read what he’s written to know that he’s not—not—” she glanced appealingly at Rosemary.

“Not in the least disreputable,” Rosemary filled in coolly. “In fact, he’s as decent a type as you could hope to come across and with a gift of getting on with all and sundry. Which makes it all the more peculiar,” she finished reflectively, “that anyone should want to hit him over the head. I wonder why they did?” And she looked at Fenella enquiringly.

“Well, I suppose to rob him,” Fenella said, though even as she spoke, the explanation didn’t seem to be quite adequate. “The chest of drawers had been smashed into—”

“Where was it?” Anthony asked with sudden interest.

“At the far end of the cabin," Fenella explained. “And Martin was sitting with his back to the cabin door, facing the chest.”

Anthony frowned.

“It doesn't add up,” he announced. “It’s all out of balance. At least it is, unless—” he paused, his lips pursed, deep in thought.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, do finish your sentences, Anthony,” Mrs. Trevose begged impatiently. “We’re not thought-readers, you know!”

“I think what Anthony means is that if this was just a case of petty pilfering whoever the culprit is would have taken good care to make sure that Martin wasn’t there,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “Or at least, if he’d thought he wasn’t and then found he was, he’d have made some excuse for being there himself. After all, what could he have hoped to get? A few pounds, possibly a watch and cuff-links. Not nearly enough to make it worthwhile risking a long prison sentence.”

“Yes, that’s it! ” Anthony turned to her eagerly. “So one can only conclude that since it was worthwhile taking such a risk, there must have been something important he hoped to get. I wonder what it was?”

Fenella stood up abruptly, suddenly beside herself.

“I think you’re absolutely beastly,” she announced hysterically. “For all we know, Martin may
die,
and all you can do is talk as if it’s a detective novel you’re trying to solve before you get to the end of it! What’s more, you’re horribly inquisitive. Would you like someone to poke and pry into
your
affairs, Anthony? I’m sure you wouldn’t! And just because you choose to think there’s a mystery about Martin is no reason—”