heard vague rumours.'
`Five boats are supposed to have disappeared for ever this year,' Paula observed.
`All rumours.' The barman shook his head. 'Livens up the place, I suppose..
He moved further away, polishing the counter. The man with the peaked cap put down his glass of beer, leaned close to Tweed.
`You a reporter?'
`No, just intrigued.' Tweed swivelled in his chair to give the man his attention. 'And it might make material for a book I'm writing.'
`Then your best bet is down on the waterfront. Try Ned, barman at the Ship Inn. He's closer to what's going on down there.'
`Thank you. We were strolling in that direction anyway.'
He left his glass half drunk, nodded to the barman as they left. Crossing the High Street, they were soon walking down a steep hill, perched on a high railed pavement. Paula glanced in the shops, at the locals.
`Seems a peaceful enough place.'
`Which could be deceptive.'
At the bottom they crossed a road and continued down a very short and steep cobbled street closed to traffic. Quay Hill. A brief distance later it turned sharply right into another cobbled lane. Quay Street. Mostly tourist shops of high quality but Tweed noticed doors which appeared to lead to private residences. They turned a corner and saw a forest of masts and the Ship Inn.
Paula paused, swallowed, resumed walking.
`Would you sooner wait somewhere while I go there — in view of what happened last night?' Tweed asked her.
`No. It was where I had the last drink with Harvey but I'm not letting that affect me.'
A wave of warmth met them as they stepped in out of the raw cold. Again Tweed made straight for the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. He was paying for them when he asked the barman the same question.
`I bumped into the Harbour Master yesterday. He was telling me about some rather strange accidents round here. I gather no less than five boats which went out at different times this year never came back. Oh, are you Ned?'
`That's me.' There were no other customers and the barman leaned forward, dropping his voice as he addressed Paula and Tweed. 'They're trying to keep quiet about it. Idiotic. One boat vanishes. OK. Two. Maybe. But not five. Ought to be investigated.'
`They all disappeared just off Lymington, I gather?'
`No, sir. That's not accurate. Three of them, including a Mr Benton - the first casualty - were seen sailing up the Solent during breaks in the fog. I reckon they went down close to the mouth of the Beaulieu River.'
`Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that river run roughly parallel to the Lymington River but further east?'
`You've got it, sir. It's a wild lonely part with few people living in the area. There's another big boating anchorage upriver, Buckler's Hard. Some prefer to berth there rather than here. Funny lot, these boaty types.'
`In what way?'
`Well, I suppose you'd call it snobbery. Because we've got the Royal Lymington Yacht Club here one group thinks this is the top sailing port. A much smaller group has other ideas. Think the real elite base themselves up at Buckler's Hard. There's a Brigadier Burgoyne has his motor yacht there. Wouldn't be seen dead here. Can't see the difference, myself.'
`You said a moment ago it's very lonely on the Beaulieu River. You mean no one lives there below Buckler's Hard?'
`Well, yes and no, sir. There's a funny lot lives at Moor's Landing. The west bank of the Beaulieu belongs to Lord Montagu. But the east bank - or most of it - is owned by Lord Rothschild. Moor's Landing is land he leased out, as far as I know. There was a small village just back from the river - that's Moor's Landing.'
`You said "was". Doesn't it exist any more?'
`Didn't explain myself very well. Some developer bought up all the old cottages, renovated the insides, made them real posh. He then sold the lot in a matter of days.'
`You said they were a funny lot,' Tweed encouraged him. 'That sounds intriguing.'
`Well, they keep very much to themselves. Professional
`Five boats are supposed to have disappeared for ever this year,' Paula observed.
`All rumours.' The barman shook his head. 'Livens up the place, I suppose..
He moved further away, polishing the counter. The man with the peaked cap put down his glass of beer, leaned close to Tweed.
`You a reporter?'
`No, just intrigued.' Tweed swivelled in his chair to give the man his attention. 'And it might make material for a book I'm writing.'
`Then your best bet is down on the waterfront. Try Ned, barman at the Ship Inn. He's closer to what's going on down there.'
`Thank you. We were strolling in that direction anyway.'
He left his glass half drunk, nodded to the barman as they left. Crossing the High Street, they were soon walking down a steep hill, perched on a high railed pavement. Paula glanced in the shops, at the locals.
`Seems a peaceful enough place.'
`Which could be deceptive.'
At the bottom they crossed a road and continued down a very short and steep cobbled street closed to traffic. Quay Hill. A brief distance later it turned sharply right into another cobbled lane. Quay Street. Mostly tourist shops of high quality but Tweed noticed doors which appeared to lead to private residences. They turned a corner and saw a forest of masts and the Ship Inn.
Paula paused, swallowed, resumed walking.
`Would you sooner wait somewhere while I go there — in view of what happened last night?' Tweed asked her.
`No. It was where I had the last drink with Harvey but I'm not letting that affect me.'
A wave of warmth met them as they stepped in out of the raw cold. Again Tweed made straight for the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. He was paying for them when he asked the barman the same question.
`I bumped into the Harbour Master yesterday. He was telling me about some rather strange accidents round here. I gather no less than five boats which went out at different times this year never came back. Oh, are you Ned?'
`That's me.' There were no other customers and the barman leaned forward, dropping his voice as he addressed Paula and Tweed. 'They're trying to keep quiet about it. Idiotic. One boat vanishes. OK. Two. Maybe. But not five. Ought to be investigated.'
`They all disappeared just off Lymington, I gather?'
`No, sir. That's not accurate. Three of them, including a Mr Benton - the first casualty - were seen sailing up the Solent during breaks in the fog. I reckon they went down close to the mouth of the Beaulieu River.'
`Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that river run roughly parallel to the Lymington River but further east?'
`You've got it, sir. It's a wild lonely part with few people living in the area. There's another big boating anchorage upriver, Buckler's Hard. Some prefer to berth there rather than here. Funny lot, these boaty types.'
`In what way?'
`Well, I suppose you'd call it snobbery. Because we've got the Royal Lymington Yacht Club here one group thinks this is the top sailing port. A much smaller group has other ideas. Think the real elite base themselves up at Buckler's Hard. There's a Brigadier Burgoyne has his motor yacht there. Wouldn't be seen dead here. Can't see the difference, myself.'
`You said a moment ago it's very lonely on the Beaulieu River. You mean no one lives there below Buckler's Hard?'
`Well, yes and no, sir. There's a funny lot lives at Moor's Landing. The west bank of the Beaulieu belongs to Lord Montagu. But the east bank - or most of it - is owned by Lord Rothschild. Moor's Landing is land he leased out, as far as I know. There was a small village just back from the river - that's Moor's Landing.'
`You said "was". Doesn't it exist any more?'
`Didn't explain myself very well. Some developer bought up all the old cottages, renovated the insides, made them real posh. He then sold the lot in a matter of days.'
`You said they were a funny lot,' Tweed encouraged him. 'That sounds intriguing.'
`Well, they keep very much to themselves. Professional
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