She got to her feet, draped the rug over Fiona and fol-lowed him out. “Any sign of them?”
The old man shook his head. “Not yet.”
The kitchen looked out over the courtyard, a large and pleasant room, beams supporting a low ceiling. Jagbir was frying eggs at the stove. When he saw Anne he poured a cup of tea and gave it to her and she stood in front of the fire, drinking it slowly.
Beyond, through the wide window, clouds hung threat-eningly over the fields, rain dripped from the gutters and brown leaves crawled across the cobbles. She went to the window and gazed out into the rain, thinking of Mallory.
Hamish Grant moved beside her and squeezed her hand. “He did say it would take till breakfast-time. I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
Tm not,” she said. “One thing Iam sure of is his ability to look after himself, but I’d have thought we’d have heard from them by now.”
“We very probably will before much longer.”
She finished her tea and moved to the door. “I think I’ll run down to the harbour and see what’s happening.”
“I’ll send Jagbir with you.”
She shook her head. “Let him get on with breakfast. I shan’t be long. No need to wake Fiona till I get back. She could do with the sleep.”
She went along the hall, pulled on her sheepskin coat and let herself out of the front door. Rain fell steadily and she fastened a scarf about her hair as she went down the drive and turned through the gates.
Visibility was poor, a grey, clinging mist drifting in patches across the water, and the central hill of the island looked very green against the leaden sky. She hurried along the road and paused on the brow of the hill to look down into the harbour. Only one boat was moored there, Raoul Guymon’s launch, and the shooting brake was parked at the end of the jetty.
She went down the hill quickly, taking a short cut across the wet grass. The shooting brake was beaded with moisture, the engine cold. She stood there for a moment, a frown on her face, then walked along the jetty and stepped on to the deck of Guymon’s launch. She went into the small saloon, stood looking about her for a moment, then turned to go.
She paused, wrinkling her nose, aware of the heavy, acrid taint of oil on the fresh morning air. It seeped into a pool from under the door of the engine compartment. She opened it and looked into a twisted mass of smashed pipes and broken valves.
She crouched on one knee, gazing at the engine, her mind frozen. As she started to rise, steps boomed hollowly on the wooden planking of the jetty and Owen Morgan called, “Hello below!”
Anne went up the companionway and came out on deck as he stepped down from the jetty. He wore an old blue pilot coat and rubber boots. Rain frosted his grey hair. He started to grin, but his smile faded at the sight of her troubled face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take a look at the engine.”
He went down the companionway quickly. When he reappeared his face was grave. “Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”
“To make sure we couldn’t get off the island,” she said.
He frowned quickly. “Look, how about letting me in on all this? Where’sFoxhunter? I heard her go out early this morning.”
“That must have been Colonel Mallory and Monsieur Guyon,” she said. “They should have been back by now. I’m very much afraid something may have happened to them.”
“Are they in some kind of trouble?”
“They could be, but there isn’t time to explain now, Owen. We must get to Guernsey as soon as possible. What about your launch?”
“I hauled her up the slipway and into the boathouse ready for winter only two days ago,” he said. “No trouble to bring her down again if it’s all that urgent. I can have her ready for sea in half an hour.”
“Do that,” Anne said. Til go back to the house for the others. I’ll explain things more fully when I get back.”