“Disgustin’,” said the actress audibly as she drew on her gloves. Winchmore looked at her with delight. “That’s a peach-Melba, too,” he said.
“And David Jarrott’s a mine-sweeper,” Maddingham mused aloud. “So you turned our Neutral over to him, Winchmore, did you?”
“Yes, I did. It was the end of my beat—I wish I didn’t feel so sleepy—and I explained the whole situation to Jarrott, over the rail. ’Gave him all my silly instructions—those latest ones, y’know. I told him to do nothing to imperil existing political relations. I told him to exercise tact. I—I told him that in my capac’ty as Actin’ Lootenant, you see. Jarrott’s only a Lootenant-Commander—at fifty-four, too! Yes, I handed my Uncle Newt over to Jarrott to chaperone, and I went back to my—I can say it perfectly—pis-ca-to-rial party in the bay. Now I’m going to have a nap. In ten minutes I shall be on deck again. This is my first civilised dinner in nine weeks, so I don’t apologise.”
He pushed his plate away, dropped his chin on his palm and closed his eyes.
“Lyndnoch and Jarrott’s Bank, established 1793,” said Maddingham half to himself. “I’ve seen old Jarrott in Cowes week bullied by his skipper and steward till he had to sneak ashore to sleep. And now he’s out mine-sweeping with Cordelia! What’s happened to his—I shall forget my own name next—Belfast-built two-hundred tonner?”
“Goneril,” said Portson. “He turned her over to the Service in October. She’s—she was Culana.”
“She was Culana, was she? My God! I never knew that. Where did it happen?”
“Off the same old Irish corner I was watching last month. My young cousin was in her; so was one of the Raikes boys. A whole nest of mines, laid between patrols.”
“I’ve heard there’s some dirty work going on there now,” Maddingham half whispered.
“You needn’t tell me that,” Portson returned. “But one gets a little back now and again.”