The Empty House (10 page)

“I should surmise,” said Professor Petros, “that boys’ schools are a great deal softer now than they were a hundred years ago.”

“They’re not exactly soft,” said Peter. “Just more grown-up. The only ordeal I can remember was a terrible race called the Russell. It was all across ploughed fields and it was about a hundred miles long.”

“A hundred miles?”

“It seemed like it. And the course had been artfully designed so that you had to cross the Loman six times. It was usually in flood.”

“I believe you enjoyed it,” said Anna.

“Only in retrospect.”

“The sun is beginning to come through,” said the Professor. “If you’d care to follow me in your car, I could show you something of the work I’m presently engaged on.”

“It’s very good of you to take the trouble,” said Peter. He looked hopefully across the table. “There’s plenty of room in the car if both of you would care to come along.”

Anna grinned at him and shook her head. She said, “We’re going to be busy today. We’re looking for the Wizard’s Slough.”

As she said this, she shuddered. It was partly an artificial gesture; perhaps not entirely so, Peter thought.

Four miles out of Bridgetown on the Cryde road, the Professor, driving the little Austin, swung to the right and, a mile later, sharply right again, up an unmarked, roughly macadamised track. The big Savoia negotiated this turn with some difficulty. The track climbed steadily between high banks, emerging at the top onto the moor itself. Peter had walked on both Dartmoor and Exmoor, and he loved them both; but it had not taken him long to recognise the difference between them. Dartmoor was the man, rugged, stark, honest, sometimes friendly but more often disobliging. Exmoor was the woman, soft, undulating, superficially attractive, and full of unexpected depths and dangers.

The Austin turned again, this time through an open gate in a wire-mesh fence, and Peter saw that they had arrived.

The living quarters consisted of three caravans, parked in a neat row. There was a large hut of the sort you could buy in sections and put up in five minutes with a spanner and a bit of luck, and a barn which had clearly been on the spot when the diggers arrived. Behind the caravans was an Army-style marquee, and behind the marquee a stove was smoking cheerfully.

“You’re well set up here,” said Peter.

“There is no premium in being unnecessarily uncomfortable,” said the Professor. He led the way into the hut. There was a trestle table, with neat piles of files on it. One wall was taken up with a plan and a cross-section of the dig.

The Professor said, “This will give you a rough idea of what we are doing. We obtained access through the kindness of the Exeter Archaeological Society. It is the known site of a Roman villa with a small village settlement. The owner of the villa was probably a magistrate. His dependents and slaves were housed in the village. It is unfortunate that we have not been permitted to open the whole site. The owner of the western end—” he demonstrated on the map— “is apparently opposed to any form of investigation. I am unable to tell you why. It is thought locally that he may have fallen into one of the trial excavations when the site was first explored.”

He smiled, and Peter smiled back cautiously. Sometimes he found it difficult to decide whether the Professor was joking or not.

“However, we are opening up the portion of the site which is available to us, east of that red line on the plan, and we have made some interesting discoveries. If you look at the sectional drawing, you will see that we have cut through the perimeter wall which no doubt acted as protection to the village, and into the fosse which was dug when the wall was built. Ditches are always worth investigation. Then as now, people were apt to throw unwanted artifacts into ditches. I will get one of my young men to show you. Ah, here he is. Stephen, this is Mr. Manciple, whose name I mentioned to you yesterday.”

A young man had come in quietly. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and shorts, was about four inches shorter than Peter but a lot broader, and looked fit to tackle any item in the Olympic decathlon without further training.

“I see that there are papers here which I shall have to attend to. Would you show Mr. Manciple round?”

“I should be pleased to do so. Come with me, Mr. Manciple.”

Although he enunciated the words correctly, he was clearly foreign. Peter wondered if Stephen might originally have been Stefan.

“We will look first at the work in progress, yes?”

“Fine,” said Peter.

They followed a path which led around a shoulder of the hill to a place where there was a trench some twenty yards long and six feet wide in the chalky soil.

“That must have taken a bit of digging,” said Peter.

“We have an enthusiastic team,” said Stephen.

Peter could hear cheerful voices some way away on the far side of the mound.

“They are commencing a trench at right angles to this one. When we have finished, we shall have divided the area into four sections. This is known as the cruciform method of excavation. We then remove the soil carefully – using trowels, not spades – from each section in turn, starting at the centre and moving outward. If you will follow me, I will show you.”

Peter stepped forward to look, and felt himself slipping. A muscular hand grasped him by the arm and pulled him back.

“It is better to remain on the duckboards,” said Stephen. “The ground is still very slippery.” He glanced down at his wristwatch.

“I am afraid I’m keeping you from your work,” said Peter.

“Not at all. But I think we have seen all that is of interest here. We will return and I will show you some of the results of our labours.”

The barn had been fitted up as a showroom. Overhead lighting had been installed, and a line of shelves put in. On the shelves was a variety of different objects, each with a numbered card beside it. There was pottery, from small fragments up to nearly complete bowls and dishes. They were all of the same orange colour, and on the larger pieces Peter could make out designs in relief. The one he was looking at showed a lion which seemed to be chewing off a man’s head while a second man, armed with an axe, attacked it from the rear. A name in the top corner possibly identified the artist.

As well as the pottery, which formed the bulk of the exhibits, there were a number of flint arrowheads and some curious square stones with a hole in each corner.

“What on earth could they have been?” said Peter.

Stephen consulted a numbered list which he was holding. He read out, “They were wrist guards used by archers. There would be thongs threaded through the holes which would attach them to the forearm.”

Peter could think of no intelligent comment to make. He moved back toward the door, reflecting that it was very difficult to go on being interested in something about which one knew absolutely nothing.

Beside the door, in the lefthand wall, was a smaller opening which had probably led to an inner storeroom of the sort where a French farmer would have kept his wine casks. It had been fitted with a stout door, and Peter wondered what treasures were kept in it. On a bench by the door were arranged trowels, shovels, and sieves, all clean and all arranged with the neatness which characterised the whole outfit. He picked up one of the trowels idly and put it down again. As he left the hut, he saw Stephen rearrange it so that it was exactly in line with the other trowels.

The Professor emerged from the office and waved a dismissive hand at Stephen. “You have seen it all. What do you think?”

“I think it’s most impressive,” said Peter. “I had no idea of the amount of organisation involved.”

“Archaeology today is business. It is no longer a matter of enthusiastic amateurs digging at random. You have seen the finds we have made so far? They have attracted much interest. Hardly a day passes but we have people coming in. Usually, I try to show them round myself.”

“It’s very public-spirited of you.”

As he bucketed down the lane in the Savoia, something was nagging him. It worried him so much that when he reached the macadam road he stopped the car and sat for a moment making a systematic effort to locate the trouble. It was the same instinct which had drawn his attention to a minor item in the accounts of the Palgrave Marina Company, and he expended a like degree of effort in identifying it.

It was nothing to do with the excavation itself or the objects which had been extracted from it. It was – yes, that was right – it was the trowel he had picked up. It had a strong wooden handle, a metal tang, and a pointed blade. The tang was attached to the blade, as he had seen when he had turned it over, by three metal rivets.

He was going to have to do some telephoning.

He studied the map. The road he was on was a secondary one which would take him out onto the Dulverton-Corfley road and so into Exeter. As he was putting the map away, he spotted a name: Watersmeet Farm. A very minor road was marked, leading to it and to nothing much else. Peter thought he might have a quick look at the place where Dr. Wolfe had done his fishing. Ten minutes later he was beginning to wonder if he had been wise. The road had deteriorated into a cart track. The Savoia rode the ruts gallantly, like a big ship in a cross sea. The moor stretched on either side, bare of fence or hedge, green and seductive. When he stopped the last rise, he found he was looking down onto a shallow basin which held the headwaters of the River Culme.

The farm buildings slept in the sun. When Peter knocked on the door, a dog started barking. Footsteps came shuffling up the passage, and the door was opened by a very old woman. Peter said, “I understand you have some fishing to let.”

The old woman blinked up at him. Her mouth opened slowly. She said, “You’re very tall.”

“Six foot five,” said Peter.

“My name’s Horridge.”

“I was asking about the fishing.”

“Dan is my boy. He’s mowing just now. When the sun comes out, you’ve got to take advantage, haven’t you?”

Peter smiled. The old lady smiled back, revealing a single tooth, lone survivor of the long campaign of life. She waved one hand to indicate a track which led down through meadows to the river.

Dan Horridge was driving a tractor towing a gang-mower. He stopped when he saw Peter. “Saw your car,” he said. “You’ll have been talking to Mother. I expect you had some trouble there, didn’t you?” He smiled, too. They seemed friendly people. “She’s stone deaf, but she won’t admit it.”

“I’m afraid it’s a long shot,” said Peter, “but I’m staying at Bridgetown, and Mr. Brewer mentioned that you had some fishing here.”

“Dave Brewer?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I do and I don’t, if you follow me. I have a stretch of water here, but I’d let it to that poor gentleman who went over the cliff. I expect you heard about it, didn’t you?”In fifteen leisurely minutes Peter heard a lot about Dr. Wolfe.

“He was a very clever gentleman, so I understand. But you’d never have guessed it, not to talk to him. When the river wasn’t right for fishing, on account of there being too much water in it or too little, why, he’d come right into our kitchen and talk to us by the hour. Anything you mentioned, he’d have something to say about it. Mother took to him at once. So did our old dog, Blackie. He’s a suspicious brute, for the most part. Of course, you need a guard dog in a place like this. But he made friends with Dr. Wolfe at once. He used to talk to him, and Blackie seemed to understand what he was saying. That’s what made it so funny.”

Mr. Horridge stopped to spit politely over the far side of the tractor.

“Funny?” said Peter.

“Odd. Mind you, I’m not superstitious myself. But there’s no denying it was odd. The night it happened – last Wednesday, that was – he couldn’t settle down at all. Then he started barking. I went and had a look outside, but there wasn’t nothing to be seen, so I came in and gave him a piece of my mind, but I could see he was upset about something. Afterward, when I heard about what had happened to Dr. Wolfe, well, I did wonder. They say dogs can feel things that human beings can’t. Do you think he might have sensed what had happened?”

“What time did he start this barking?”

“What time? Why, it would have been about four o’clock in the morning. Just before it got light.”

“How far would you say you were from Rackthorn Point?”

“By road, or coming across the moor?”

“Can you come straight across?”

“Easy enough. All you’ve got to do is stick to the riverbank and follow it up. How far, you were asking. It might be twelve miles or maybe a bit more. Say fifteen if you didn’t rightly know the shortcuts.”

“Yes,” said Peter. “I see.”

He thought that Mr. Horridge, who was no fool, was beginning to cotton on, too.

“Coincidences,” said Roland Highsmith, “are forbidden in fiction, but happen quite frequently in real life, particularly in our profession. I had a client who came in not long ago and asked me, ‘What happens if my wife and I die at the same time?’ I had to explain to him that, in the law, two people couldn’t die at the same time. And then, what do you think?”

“Airplane crash?” suggested Peter.

“As a matter of fact, no. He killed his wife and took his own life.”

“I’m not sure, sir, that I should call that a coincidence.”

“Wouldn’t you?” said Mr. Highsmith. He considered the point. “You think he may have been meaning to do it all along. I’m afraid your profession may be turning you into a cynic.” Roland Highsmith was spherical rather than fat. A lot of his weight was spread around his hips, giving him the low centre of gravity invaluable to a racquets player or a boxer. At forty he was beginning to go thin on top, but looked both shrewd and cheerful – qualities very necessary to someone running a one-man solicitor’s practice.

His desk had been placed so that he could see, over a line of intervening roofs, the tall tower of Exeter Cathedral. He was staring at it now, as though he derived comfort from its square and stony strength.

“The case of Alex Wolfe was different,” he said. “You might, I suppose, call it a sort of coincidence, but it didn’t start out that way. He had read too many accounts of airplanes going down into the sea or into some remote part of the Arabian desert and not being found for years or perhaps not at all. That was the sort of contingency he was guarding against and was prepared to pay an extra premium to avoid.”