The Empty House (26 page)

There, surely, lay the germ of truth. It explained such a lot. It answered most of the questions. Peter knew now where Dr. Wolfe had gone to on those motor trips through Europe. He knew how he had got the ugly scar on his face. He knew why Kevin had wanted him to give Anna an empty cigarette case. More than that, he not only knew where Dr. Wolfe was at that moment, he could even guess what his future plans were likely to be.

Having arrived at these conclusions, Peter solved his own more personal problem. It occurred to him that if he reversed his trousers, he would present a semblance of decency from the front. When he had done so, he replaced sock and shoe on his left foot, which was now quite numb, waded across the river, and set his face toward Morebath and Bampton. As he crossed the Bampton-Taunton road, the moon was finally blotted out and the rain came pelting down. He was not sorry about this. It was already four o’clock, and the overcast sky would win him another half-hour of darkness.

He plodded on. The rain worked its way into the back of his windcheater, down his back, and out at the gap which was now at the back of his trousers. His feet and legs were caked with rich red Devon loam.

For the last hour he was only half awake. One part of his mind was directing him through lanes which became increasingly familiar as the light grew. The other part was back at Blundell’s. He was running in a cross-country race. The honour of his house demanded that he finish in the first fifty. It was a question of whether his lungs or his legs would give out first. His ankle had almost ceased to trouble him. It was amazing how much punishment the body would take without collapsing. From time to time he seemed to hear the cheers of a distant crowd.

It was six o’clock and the light was back in the sky when he crossed the big playing field, made his way into the garden of School House, and rang the bell. Mr. French-Bisset answered the door himself. He was wearing a dressing gown and seemed wide awake and unsurprised at the scarecrow apparition on his doorstep.

“Well,” he said, “you seem to have had a rough night, Manciple. Come in.”

“You look as if what you need is a bath and breakfast.”

“What I need,” said Peter, “is a bath and bed.”

“Been up all night, eh? You
have
picked an exciting job. You know your way to the bedroom, the one you used before. The bathroom’s opposite. I’ll bring you up a clean towel. I think you’d better leave your clothes on the bathroom floor, don’t you?”

Washed, and wearing a pair of his housemaster’s pyjamas, Peter climbed into bed and fell straight into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion followed by tension released. He was recalled to consciousness by the rattle of a tray being put down on the table by his bed. It was a large black tin tray, and it seemed to have on it anything that anyone could want for breakfast. Peter sat up. He said, “You oughtn’t to do this sir. I could quite easily have got up.”

“Just as easy to do it this way,” said Mr. French-Bisset. “The boys went home yesterday, and I’m all alone here, except for old Sally. You remember Sally? When I told her you’d turned up out of the blue at six o’clock in the morning and would probably be ready for breakfast by four o’clock in the afternoon, do you know what she said? She said, ‘Manciple. I remember him. Not surprised. Clever boy. No saying what he’d do next.’”

Peter said, “It really has been rather a – well, a curious sort of chain of events. I’m not sure—”

“No need to tell me anything. If you’re involved in some hush-hush job for the government, less said, the better.”

“Who did you get that idea from?”

“I was talking to Mr. Knight down at the Stanhope Arms.”

“Oh, I see,” said Peter. “Yes.”

If Mr. French-Bisset assumed him to be working for the Secret Service, it was going to save him the trouble of answering a lot of unanswerable questions.

“Incidentally,” continued Mr. French-Bisset with a splendid assumption of nonchalance, “I’m sorry to see that you’re dead. Some sort of cover story, no doubt.”

He threw a copy of the
Western Evening News
onto the bed and departed.

London Man Missing Boat Found Abandoned

A tragic outcome is feared to an evening visit made by Peter Manciple to Rackthorn Farm, on the Culme River between Cryde and Hunter- combe. A fisherman this morning discovered a small boat, afloat but half submerged, at the point where the Widd stream runs out into Porlock Bay. He identified it as belonging to the owner of Rackthorn Farm. A Colonel Robert Hay, who is holidaying at the farm, told the police that Manciple had visited him on the previous evening, leaving his car at the caravan site on the far side of the stream. “We use the boat constantly for ferrying. It never occurred to me that there could be any possible danger,” said the Colonel. “He left the house around midnight, and was to leave the boat on the other bank for a friend who is staying with me and was going to be back late. It’s something we have done dozens of times ourselves without giving a thought to it. The Culme is less than thirty yards wide at that point.” The Colonel agreed that the river was unusually full on account of the summer rainfall, but said that he was still puzzled how the boat could have been swept out to sea.

Mr. Manciple, who is employed by Messrs. Phelps, King and Troyte, Insurance Adjusters of St. Mary Axe, London, was in Cryde on business. His mother, Mrs. Marie Manciple of 16 Eckersley Gardens, Hampstead, has been informed.

He was finishing his breakfast when he noticed a second and smaller news item.

Unexplained Rifle Fire

Farmers in the Exford area reported hearing a number of bursts of rifle fire, single shots and what sounded like automatic fire in the direction of Dunkery at some time after midnight last Tuesday. An army spokesman said that he knew of no manoeuvres which could have been taking place in that area at that time. The police have been alerted to the possibility that deer poachers have restarted the activities which plagued this district some years ago.

The Colonel, as Peter had noticed before, was a man who liked to tidy away loose ends.

“Clothes,” said Mr. French-Bisset, reappearing with a selection of garments. “Your trousers, I am afraid, were beyond us. You must have reminded anyone you met of ‘the poor Indian whose untutored mind clothed him in front and left him bare behind.’”

“Mercifully, I don’t think anyone did see me. The rain kept them indoors.”

“I have a selection here. It’s a curious thing that growing boys seem to lose interest in their clothes the moment they grow out of them. Like snakes shedding their old skins. I find a quantity of miscellaneous garments abandoned at the close of every school year. We’ve no one of quite your height, but Garstone wasn’t far off it.” He displayed a pair of gray flannel trousers. “There’s a blazer here which should go well with the trousers. It belonged, I fancy, to Whitmarsh. He was always a natty dresser. Sally has laundered your vest and pants. Your shirt, I’m afraid, was past redemption. I’m lending you one of mine. You can return it at your convenience.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Peter, “but I can’t possibly—”

“Your shoes,” said Mr. French-Bisset firmly, “have come up quite nicely. And I suggest you take this light raincoat. I’m not sure who it came from. It might have been Kent-Blake’s. I rather think it was. Shaving gear in the bathroom. I suggest you get dressed and we’ll see what you look like.”

Peter lowered the trousers to the full extent of his braces and decided that the shirt, which was several collar sizes too large, would have to be worn open at the neck. The blazer fitted perfectly. He descended to find his housemaster pouring out glasses of sherry.

“Do you think I could have a word with Sally?” he said. “I’d like to thank her.”

“She’d be delighted,” said Mr. French-Bisset. “Come with me.” He led him along familiar passages. They found the old lady ironing sheets. She looked at Peter out of the guileless blue eyes which had been curiously comforting to him when he had first arrived in that terrifying place. “There was blood on your vest,” she said. “Up to your tricks again.”

“If it was blood, it was probably mine, Sally.”

“I didn’t suppose you’d been murdering somebody. Not that I’d have been greatly surprised. You were always a boy who went his own way.”

She slapped another sheet onto the ironing board to signify that the audience was over.

Mr. French-Bisset said, “You’ll be wanting to telephone your mother, I expect. She’ll have been badly worried.”

“If I’d thought I could do it safely,” said Peter, “I’d have rung her the moment I saw that paragraph in the paper.”

“Safely?”

“I’m afraid our telephone will certainly be tapped.”

“Good heavens,” said Mr. French-Bisset. He looked as though he would have liked to make some comment, but restrained himself with an effort. Peter’s stock as a Secret Service agent was rising.

“I’ve been looking up trains to London. That is to say, if you’re planning to go to London. Perhaps you haven’t quite worked out your future moves yet.”

Washington? Bonn? Moscow?

“I shall have to go to London,” said Peter slowly. “But after that it depends on how things work out. I wonder whether I could regard this as my headquarters for the next few days. I mean, from the point of view of receiving and forwarding messages.”

“Certainly. I shall be here myself until the middle of next week. Our idle governors have a habit of meeting in London from time to time and I may be called up to advise about appointments. We’re faced with a bit of a crisis over last-minute resignations – but I needn’t bother you with school politics. You must have much more serious things to worry about.”

“Two or three days will be quite enough,” said Peter. “If I or anyone else sends you a message, could you pass it on to this man at Cryde Bay? His name is Anderson. He’s perfectly reliable, and I’m planning to keep in touch with him. I’ll give you his telephone number. It might be better if you remember it and don’t write it down.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. French-Bisset. “Certainly. Never write anything down. Much safer. Now, about getting up to London.”

“I’d prefer to arrive after dark, and as inconspicuously as possible.”

“No difficulty. I’ll run you out to Riverton Junction in my car and you can catch the six-thirty Cornishman. It gets to Paddington at nine. Should be getting dark by then. You’ll pass muster as a young man who’s been spending a short holiday in the West Country. But it did occur to me that you’d look more convincing if you had some luggage with you.”

He went out into the hall and returned with a battered suitcase. From the initials on it Peter recognised it as having belonged to an oafish boy called Baker who had left School House the term that Peter had arrived.

“We’ll put in a few books and newspapers to give it a convincing weight. You’ll have time for a light supper before you go. Unless it’s too soon after your breakfast.”

“I’ve got a lot of leeway to make up,” said Peter.

At half past six on the dot the Cornishman pulled up at Riverton Junction, and Peter, wearing Garstone’s trousers, Whitmarsh’s blazer, and carrying Kent-Blake’s raincoat and the oafish Baker’s suitcase, now weighted with obsolete copies of Hall and Knight’s Algebra and Kennedy’s Latin Primer, joined a carriage full of returning holiday makers. He had planned a story of a walking tour on Dartmoor, but he had no need to use it. As soon as conversation became general, he found he had only to listen to other people’s accounts of their holidays.

“Thank the Lord,” said the woman in the corner, “that we decided to send the children abroad. Think what they’d have been like, sitting for a fortnight in a boardinghouse at St. Ives watching the rain coming down. Herbert spent most of
his
time drinking with the local fishermen.”

Her husband said that it wasn’t all drinking. They had managed to catch a few fish. A small man in the far corner said that all he’d caught was a cold. At nine o’clock on the dot the train rolled into the misty cavern of Paddington Station and Peter climbed out.

Having time yet to kill, he dumped his suitcase in the cloakroom and made his way to the station buffet, where he secured a meal of a sort and extended it with repeated cups of coffee until the time had crept around to half past ten. By now, so oddly had his hours become reversed, he was feeling wide awake and energetic. He decided to walk back to Hampstead.

He had not made the comment about his telephone being tapped solely in order to impress Mr. French-Bisset. It was a real possibility. He was beginning to feel an unwilling respect for Colonel Hay’s devious mind. The Colonel might not have been convinced by that waterlogged boat. All the same, there was a limit. He could hardly tell the local police to put a twenty-four-hour cordon around Peter’s mother’s house. The most he could do, surely, was to ask that the man on the beat keep an eye on it.

There were several ways into the house. The quietest was the back gate, reached from a lane behind the house and leading through the garden to the kitchen door.

The moon was hidden and it was quite dark when Peter reached Eckersley Gardens. The lane produced no unpleasant surprises. He opened the garden gate quietly. His rubber-soled shoes made no noise on the paved path. The kitchen door, as he had expected, was locked. He had his own key, which he fitted quietly into the Yale lock. No bolts. The door opened with hardly a squeak. He stepped inside and shut it behind him. Then a voice from the darkness at the far end of the room said, “One more step and I shall shoot.”

“Please don’t shoot, Maman. It’s only me.”

He heard something which might have been a sob, quickly choked. Then his mother said, “Is it really you?”

“Flesh and blood,” said Peter.

“They didn’t succeed in killing you, then. I’m glad.”

“I’m glad, too. Can we turn the light on?”

“Not in here. Come through to the front room.”

The curtains in the front room were tightly drawn. His mother said, “Be careful not to walk between the curtains and the light. They will see your shadow.”