“Smells good, by Jove!” exclaimed Kenneth.
“And we’re hungry,” added the coxswain tentatively. “The whole crowd of us, sir!”
“Let’s examine the cabin first,” suggested the midshipman.
There were two cabins aft, one belonging to the skipper and the other to the mate.
In the former a swing table was laid ready for a meal. The captain was apparently more fastidious than the average master of a coasting vessel, for there was a clean linen cloth on the table and the knives and forks—set for two—were brightly polished. In a rack within hand’s reach were a number of uncorked wine bottles.
On either side of the cabin stove—which like that of the galley had recently been made up and was burning cheerfully—were bookcases. With one exception all the volumes were French. The charts in the rack, too, were mainly French, although there was a British “blue back” of Junk Harbour with hand-inserted additions.
Although he made a perfunctory search for the ship’s papers, Kenneth failed to find them; but he obtained sufficient evidence to show that the schooner was the Marie Lescaut of Fécamp.
The midshipman summed up the situation. He was aware that a French or a Belgian sailing craft was known to be engaged in smuggling in the vicinity of Mautby Harbour. The fishing protection cruiser Gannet had been on the look-out for her in vain, and now the Kirkham was temporarily taking over the Gannet’s duty. Had it not been for the foreign smuggling craft he, Kenneth, would not have had his Christmas leave jammed. Indirectly that vessel was the cause of the commander’s displeasure.
But so far there was no evidence that the Marie Lescaut was a smuggler. True there was no reason why she should be sheltering in a remote and almost unknown haven in the Mutches. Having landed her contraband cargo—if she had brought one—she would probably have made for the open sea without delay. Why then did she remain and prepare a feast for a score or more? The guests were to be English, as the ill-spelt greeting on the bulkhead indicated. But why, unless they were possessed of guilty consciences, did the Frenchmen abandon their ship?
“Dashed if I’d clear off and leave my grub, sir,” remarked the coxswain, reading the midshipman’s thoughts. “I think I’d be tempted to plug a fellow who came between me and my victuals. Think they’ll be coming back, sir?”