Less than an hour later, Hubert Netherbury was on a train pulling out of Great Barton station.

And the race was on.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Lotti adored the Sparrowhawk but oh, why was she so slow?

A day and a bit to reach Armande, Ben had reckoned from the map. They had hoped to arrive late on Saturday, but now it was past lunchtime on Sunday and they were still not there. Lotti sat with Federico on the foredeck, willing the Sparrowhawk on. She knew that Ben and Sam were pushing her as hard as they dared, but the little narrowboat had given almost all she had to give. The rattling in her hull had grown worse, and she crawled along at a walking pace. She might have fared better on the still, calm waters of a canal, but they were traveling on rivers, buffeted by swirls and eddies and unpredictable currents. The river they were on since this morning was wide and strong, and now they had to contend with increased traffic as well, and the wake of much larger boats. Lotti knew from the glances Ben and Sam exchanged that they were worried, and they were so kind to be taking her to Armande … But somewhere out there was Albert Skinner, the policeman who never gave up, and somewhere behind Skinner there must be her uncle too, and beneath the fear of both of these, all the time, was the fear of Moune’s reaction when she saw her.

Lotti felt sick just thinking of it.

The door to the foredeck opened and Clara came out, carrying a mug of tea.

“Drink,” she said, passing Lotti the mug. “And stop worrying.”

Clara was being kind too, making meals, making tea, she hadn’t once mentioned going back to England. Everyone was being kind …

But oh, why couldn’t the Sparrowhawk go faster?

It is a widely accepted fact that the best way to approach Armande is from the water and from the east, where the river swoops round a wide bend and the town, with its ancient bridges and Gothic architecture, its tall cliffs topped with timber-framed villas, presents itself in all its glory. True, you can get a similar effect from the road, which at this point runs alongside the river, but the view is better from the water. To this end, a private company in this first summer after the war had set up a paddle steamer to run up and down the river, charging tourists for the view. And it was the wake of this steamer that finally did in the Sparrowhawk.

She passed the Sparrowhawk at a good clip a mile short of Armande, just before the bend in the river. The waves she threw up were nothing like the waves on the Channel, but they were strong enough to rock the Sparrowhawk, and now to the rattling inside her hull a ghastly creak was added, as something deep inside gave way.