Getting away from the breakwater had been a tricky bit of business – he had an ingrained unwillingness to leave behind anything that might be of use and so, rather than cut the lines, had climbed out to untie them from the iron rings, and then had to leap back aboard before the boat drifted out from the rocks. He had a pole ready to push out to sea with, and then had hauled up the main sail to catch the breeze that pulled the craft away from the beach. Now he was several hundred yards off shore, with the sail properly trimmed, and, at comparative leisure, could settle beside the tiller and look about.

There were no other boats in view yet; gazing back at the chalk cliffs he saw the expected gun emplacement, but no soldiers. As he sailed farther out into open water he observed the land to the northwest shift and spread apart to reveal what seemed at first to be a wide bay. Some moments later a distant port came into view, surrounded by a great built-up area – a rather large city – and he squinted his eyes to make out the details: what at first seemed to be low grey rocks of a sea wall re-formed into massed warships.

"Good god, that's Portsmouth," he said aloud, and turned to look back at the coast of the Isle of Wight, where he had been stranded.

Readjusting his sense of perspective, he studied the rise and fall of the land above the shore.

"If that promontory is Bembridge…" he scanned southwards to his departure point, "then I must have been below…"

Foyle rolled his eyes heavenward at the realisation.

"Shanklin. Of course. But what's the connection, I wonder…"

With the knowledge that he had some eighty miles to sail to return to Hastings, he regretted not setting the jib – it would have given him more speed. At best he must expect the crossing to take more than seven hours; but if the wind dropped or changed direction, even longer…

He knew he wouldn't make it home within the usual twenty-four hour delay for opening a missing person's file – he certainly hoped Milner wouldn't think of notifying Andrew of his disappearance yet – but neither did he relish the thought of explaining his situation to the authorities at some nearer port, and having them telephone Hastings to report his whereabouts. His stubbornness or his pride wouldn't allow it.

No, instead he'd take the risk of fetching the second jib from below and getting it raised, then he would steer a direct course for Beachy Head, muster up all his sailing skills, and, even if it meant going wing-and-wing the whole way, he was determined to be in sight of Eastbourne by early afternoon.

Paul Milner was aware of a change in Ransley's manner; shortly after they had gone down to the cargo ships at the dock, he had suddenly become alert, tense and, if Milner was reading him right, disturbed by something he had seen. After further observation Milner revised this to 'disturbed by something he had not seen': Ransley seemed concerned about something missing. Clearly not the 'Clara Belle' – he'd been aware of that yesterday and he undoubtedly had been the one that ordered the boat away.

Milner left Ransley inside the warehouse in the custody of two constables, and sent for Fred to join him on the pier.

The lad arrived looking eager to help. They sat down opposite each other on wooden crates.

"Fred, tell me everything you can remember about the 'Clara Belle' leaving the dock."

"Well, sir, I didn't see her leave the dock, I saw her when she was already down the river, just past the first bend." He pointed down the channel.

"I couldn't tell who was aboard, but I saw two crewmen. Mr. Elphick said it was Tom and George, didn't he?"

"Not exactly. You saw Tom and George carrying that rolled tarp to the docks, and then they were nowhere to be found after the 'Clara Belle' went out."

"Well, then it must have been them on the boat."

"That's what we call circumstantial evidence. It's likely, but we haven't proved it."

"Oh. And… you have to prove it to a judge?"

"That's right." Milner almost smiled at the boy's deeply furrowed brow.

"Was it unusual to see the boat go out?"

"I'd never seen her go out before. I've been working here seven months. I thought maybe her engine had been removed and turned in for the war."

"Right."

"Only, she did get moved from place to place at the dock…"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, she would be in a different berth some mornings. Oh!" the boy was suddenly appalled at his mistake, "…Someone must have taken her out late in the day, after I'd gone home."

"Yes, perhaps someone did."

"I wondered why anyone had bothered moving her; she wasn't really in the way, and with the sailboat tied up to her, that would have been tricky –."

"Sailboat?"

"Yes, there was a little twenty-footer rafted onto the side; must've been poor old Mr. Smith's private boat. The 'Clara Belle' was towing it when she went out."

Milner sat back and rubbed his chin, unconsciously mimicking his Chief.

"I see."

He smiled at the boy,

"Well, thank-you, Fred, you've been very helpful. You said you'd started here…when, in April?"

"Yes, sir. It was Mr. Smith himself that took me on, just before he got the bad news about his son being killed on convoy duty south of Greenland – he was on the Destroyer Beverley – and then… having that stroke… It was a shame, that was. He was a nice man."

By twelve-thirty in the afternoon, Mullen had returned from the gruesome task of ascertaining that the body on the beach – not that of Mr. Foyle – was of a man of about twenty and possibly German.

The many constables, who had arrived on the scene that morning as eager and active as foxhounds, were standing in groups near the cars, or on the pier or by the warehouses, frustrated.

Not that they had had no results: contraband had been found in two other lorries that had been scheduled to depart today, and even in a cupboard hidden behind a wall panel in Elphick's office. But now they were under the strain of simply waiting for further orders.

In the books kept in the offices of the manager and foreman, discrepancies had been discovered in records of fuel consumption, bills of lading, basic accounting. Hutton gave his opinion that there was no great criminal mind behind it all, but that the illegal operation had begun in the summer and had rapidly grown beyond the capability of the man at the head of it.

As Mullen, Hutton and Milner, sitting on chairs in the Manager's office, discussed the accumulated evidence for the case and formulated the charges to be laid, Sam and Fred walked in with sandwiches from the pub up the road, and a thermos bottle – which Sam had learned to keep stowed under the seat of the Wolseley – filled with hot tea for them.

Sam's entire demeanour was one of barely suppressed curiosity and anxiety, but she knew better than to question the senior policemen. Milner wanted to take her into his confidence, but wouldn't do it in front of the other men; he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She and the boy left them to eat their lunch.

The telephone on the desk rang; he picked it up and was told that the 'Clara Belle' had been seen off Pevensey, travelling at a speed of ten knots.

"Right," he put down the phone and looked at his watch, "the boat should arrive at the river mouth within two hours. But the tide is just on the turn and the channel won't be navigable again until after three-thirty, so they'll have to wait."

"And so shall we." Mullen muttered in frustration.

In the yard, Sam and Fred wandered down to the dock again, Sam kicking a stone along before her unhappily,

"Oh, I wish I knew what their plans were – I don't understand why Sergeant Milner hasn't sent out a search party or something… They must have some idea of where to look."

"It does seem strange that everyone is still here, since they've finished their search..." Fred suddenly snapped his fingers and looked at her,

"They're waiting!"

"For what?"

"For the 'Clara Belle.' She must be on her way here."

Sam stared at him intensely,

"Would they bring Mr. Foyle back, after kidnapping him?"

"No, I don't think so; but they will know where he is, and they'll have to tell."

tbc...