As the man answered, it seemed that he was more reserved than unfriendly.
“You’d be better off around at Thorpe Bay or someplace like that,” he said. “We’ve had bad luck hiring boats to people in these tidal waters. The creek’ll be two foot deep in one spot and twenty foot deep in another, and when the tide goes out they’ll run aground and walk off and leave the boat, and then the tide comes in and the boat turns up floating on the Canvey front and we’ve got to go and fetch it.”
At least he had not said no.
“You don’t have to worry,” Simon said. “I won’t run aground and I won’t abandon your boat.”
“How long do you want it for?”
“A few hours — most of the day, probably.”
The boatman looked out across the mud and water. The sky was clear and bright, with only a few small clouds above the distant smokestacks and their windblown plumes of white steam.
“Should be a nice day.” He sampled the crustacean-scented atmosphere with his nose. “But it’s not very warm. Not much of a time for being out on the water.”
“We’re hardy types,” the Saint assured him. “We belong to the Polar Bear Club. We take a dip in the sea every Christmas Day.”
The man facing him huddled down inside several layers of sweaters and a duffle coat.
“You’re welcome to it,” he said. “But you’d be better off around at Thorpe Bay or someplace.”
“How much does it cost to hire a boat when you do hire one?” Simon interrupted.
The man paused to ponder how much he might get.
“Two pounds an hour for a boat big enough to be even halfway safe out there this time of year.” He shook his head. “But I just don’t want to take a chance. I’m sorry.”
Simon had already spotted a likely looking if weather-beaten craft in the water near the wooden building.
“How much would that cost?” he asked.
“I told you—”
“I mean how much would it cost if I just took it out and sank it — which I don’t intend to do, incidentally.”
“It’s not for sale, but if it was I reckon it might bring two hundred quid.”
Simon did not bat an eye at the vast overestimate. He reached inside the weatherproof tan jacket he was wearing and pulled out a wallet. From the wallet he counted fifteen ten pound notes.
“Deposit,” he said, offering them to the other man, who had been watching with rapidly expanding interest. “That should make it worth your while even if you had to go down to Canvey to fetch it — which you won’t.”
The man looked at the money and then at the Saint.
“You really mean it?”
“Take it,” Simon said.
The man took it, took his customers into the building, and laboriously wrote out a receipt. Then he started getting the boat rigged with sails, all the while giving directions for negotiating the creek which would have appalled a Mississippi riverboat captain.
“You’re lucky the tide’s coming in,” he said. “Makes it a little easier.”
“I’ll go fetch our lunch,” Simon said.
He set off back to the car for the picnic provisions which he had thoughtfully packed in Upper Berkeley Mews — some cold tongue and ham, bread and butter, apples, cans of beer in a thermal bag full of ice cubes, and a flask of martinis. Tammy followed him.
“Don’t you think we should get one with a motor on it?” she muttered. “I mean, we’ve got a pistol and binoculars and a flashlight, but not water wings. I’d hate to have to swim back.”
“We’ve got to look innocent,” Simon said. “In a sailboat, we can drift about and tack around the fort in all directions, without looking as if it was our special target. But at the first sign that we’re not a couple of lovebirds enjoying a sail, we’ll become a couple of sitting ducks in a shooting gallery.”
The boat owner was busy with the sails when they returned with their burdens. Tammy gazed pessimistically at the boat, which bore the name Sunny Hours. It appeared to have seen many a sunny hour, and many a stormy one as well. Possibly it would look bright and new after its winter renovation, but right now it looked fit for piecemeal consumption on a fireplace.
It floated, however. Simon took the tiller, Tammy got herself more or less comfortably installed beside him, and the owner waded out in boots to get the craft into deeper water.
“Well,” said Simon as the southerly breeze caught the sails. “Wish us bon voyage.”
“Good luck,” the boatman said dubiously.
It was a long awkward run that they made down the variable waters of the creek, but the channel widened after a while, and at last the Sunny Hours spread her wings in the open river. She had no company except wheeling gulls and a long barge churning its way slowly in the opposite direction towards London.
“I don’t see any forts,” Tammy said, peering ahead.
“They’re out there somewhere,” Simon assured her. “We’re still in the river until we get abeam of Southend. Just enjoy yourself. We’ve got a long way to go yet.”
“And when the sun sinks in the west, so do we?”
Simon smiled at her.
“Think positively. It’s Fowler who’s going to get sunk. Relax.”
The dead forest of smokestacks lay small in the haze behind them. The mouth of the creek from which they had entered the Thames was lost in the dwindling line of the shore. There was no need for tacking. The wind was almost on the starboard beam, growing fresher. The pressure of the sail strained hard against Simon’s hand and as the boat’s speed increased the water gurgled and coiled away from the rudder in a thin white wake. There was a perceptible rolling when they encountered bigger waves farther from the shore.
“Cor,” Tammy said. “I wish the wind would let up a bit.”
“Don’t say things like that,” the Saint warned her. “We seafaring men are notoriously superstitious. All we need to scuttle the whole operation is to get ourselves becalmed.”
“Fat chance of that,” Tammy said, clinging to the side of the boat as it swung skittishly from a swell to a trough.
“Speaking of fat, I wonder how Abdul’s getting along,” Simon said.
“What can go wrong?” Tammy asked.
“Abdul can,” the Saint replied. “He’s got the moral fibre of a three-week-old stick of celery.”
“Well, there’s no point worrying about that. We’ve not only crossed the Rubicon — we’re right in the middle of it.” She stopped suddenly and pointed towards the horizon. “What’s that over there?”
Simon pulled a maritime chart out of one of the large pockets of his windbreaker and with Tammy’s help spread it on his knees.
“It is one of the forts,” he said after a moment. “But it’s the wrong one. Too close in. The one we want has to be somewhere off Shoeburyness. That would be at least thirteen miles from where we started.”
“How lucky,” Tammy commented.
Simon adjusted his course slightly. They were far from the nearest land now. To the north, the Essex coastline was almost parallel to their course. Kent, to the south, curved sharply away into the distance, but was mostly lost in a yellowish mist that seemed absent over the water itself. The fort they had seen was scarcely more than a darkish silvery point, and they drew no closer to it.
For a long time they sailed on. After a while it was like being on the open sea, but their rate of travel was becoming slower. The sheet was tugging less forcefully against Simon’s hand. He tensely endured the slackening of the wind for almost half an hour before saying anything.
“You’ve done it,” he said to Tammy at last.
“Done what?”
“Wished us into trouble. The wind is dropping. We are about to become the victims of light airs.”