The Empty House (4 page)

“I’m beginning to,” said Peter.

“It was a subtle offer they made him. He could pursue his own line of research, but he had to do it inside a government military institution. The fruits of his research would be covered by the Official Secrets Act, and would be available to the government alone. Subject to that, he was given the run of the most up-to-date facilities, and a free hand. He made two provisos of his own. He would report fully, in writing, but only once every two years. And he was to have as much time off as he wanted, up to four months every year if he felt he needed it. The government didn’t like either condition, but they accepted them because they wanted Alex. It was the second condition which worried them most, because Alex used to take those long vacations abroad. As I told you. He shipped his car across to France and simply drove off into the blue. That put them on the spot. If he’d flown, they could have put a man on the plane with him and found out where he was going to. It was driving his own car made it impossible. He hadn’t committed any crime. So they couldn’t involve the police. The only way would have been to ask for the help of the various foreign intelligence agencies. That would have meant telling them why they wanted Alex traced. And would almost certainly have meant telling them just what line of research he was engaged on. Which wouldn’t have made them popular in certain quarters.”

“So he just drove off for months at a time, and no one knew where he went to?”

“Right.”

“Did
you
know?”

Miss Wolfe looked at him for a long moment, then said, “I didn’t know, and if I had, I don’t think I should have told you. It’s nothing to do with your company.”

“I suppose not,” said Peter. He thought about what she had told him. It was not conclusive, but it suggested a number of possibilities, most of them disturbing.

He said, “Was your brother the sort of person who would commit suicide?”

“Is there such a sort of person?”

“I think so. I rather think my father did.”

“I see,” said Miss Wolfe gently. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. There are people of whom one would say it was possible. Others, certainly, for whom it would be impossible. I wouldn’t put my brother in either category. His head ruled his heart. If circumstances had indicated to him that suicide was the
only
way out, he was capable of planning it in exactly that way.”

“In cold blood?”

“He was a very cold-blooded sort of person. Deceptive, too. When he talked to you, you thought that he was telling you a lot, about himself and his hopes and his ambitions. But when you thought it out afterward, you realised that he hadn’t actually told you anything at all. It was only on that one holiday that he really unbuttoned himself, and even then—I don’t know. I had the impression that there was a central reserve that I wasn’t being allowed into.”

“If there is a chance that he organised the whole thing – if you really thought that – could you accept the money?”

“My dear young man,” said Miss Wolfe, reverting abruptly to her opening style, “of course I would. I haven’t the slightest sympathy for insurance companies or syndicates or whatever they call themselves. That’s right, isn’t it, Charlie?”

The deerhound agreed with a low rumble. He had no opinion of insurance companies either.

“They’re confidence tricksters, that’s all. When you work it out, what do they actually
do?
They take people’s money, and organise their business so that they’re only obliged to give them back part of it. They’re like old robber barons. They steal your money and use it to build huge castles, and live in them in the height of luxury and indolence.”

Peter understood that the interview was over. He accepted his conge with a good grace, got up, and collected his papers. Miss Wolfe, Charlie, Sambo, and the Jack Russell, whose name he had never discovered, accompanied him to the door.

Miss Wolfe shook his hand in a masculine way. He noted the strength of her fingers as she did so.

The car was still parked ten yards down the road. There were two young men in it, neither of them doing anything in particular.

Peter walked down the long hill toward Sudbury town, whistling softly, a habit of his when he was trying to pin down a recollection. It was something Miss Wolfe had said almost at the beginning. Her brother had put in a few years teaching science at a public school. Surely there had been a master called Wolfe at his own school, Blundell’s? It had been before his time, but the oldest boys had still spoken of him, in tones of awed respect unusual in boys discussing their instructors. If that was true, there must be members of the staff who would remember him.

Behind him, he heard the car start up. It cruised slowly down the hill past him and turned into the town ahead.

Having discovered that there was no suitable Sunday train to Cryde Junction, and no train of any sort to Bridgetown, Peter decided to ignore Mr. Troyte’s suggestion and spent Sunday amusing himself. In the morning he played squash, winning the odd game out of five and exhausting his opponent in the process. His opponent, who was a class player, said, “I don’t know how the devil you do it. You must be bloody fit.”

“It’s not fitness,” said Peter apologetically. “It’s length of arm. I can get shots back without moving too far.”

After a lunch at his favourite pub, he went for a walk. When he got home, he found his mother in a state of excitement and indignation.

“He came to the door,” she said. “Right up to the door, and rang the bell.”

“A little man?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the rose in his buttonhole?”

“I didn’t notice his rose,” said his mother crossly. “I was too angry to notice anything. To follow me is one thing. To come up to the house and ring our doorbell is quite another thing. However, I had made my dispositions. I was ready for him.”

“What did you do?”

“I had my camera in my hand. Before he could start to talk, I had taken a picture of him. Then I slammed the door and said, very loudly, ‘In two minutes the police will be here. Be off with you.’ “

“What did he do?”

“He ran away.”

“Actually ran?”

“Perhaps he didn’t run. He walked very fast.”

“What are you going to do with the photograph?”

“First, I shall have to get it developed. That will need some thought. They will have warned all the local chemists’ shops, and will do their best to destroy the negative. The chemist will apologise, of course. He will say that it was an accident. However, I shall circumvent them. I have a friend who is an amateur photographer. He will develop the photograph for me.”

“And what are you going to do with it when it has been developed?”

“What do you imagine I shall do with it, imbecile? Frame it and put it on the mantelpiece? Naturally, I shall send it to the police. They will be embarrassed, but they can hardly refuse to take action when I give them this definite proof.”

“My dear old mother,” said Peter, putting one arm around her, “who
are
these men who follow you about and come to the door and have enough power to corrupt chemists? Why should they be persecuting you? What’s the object of it?”

His mother was silent for so long that Peter thought she was not going to answer him, and might even have forgotten that he was there. Then she said, “It’s because of your father.”

“What about him?”

“I never meant to tell you this. And you must never, never tell anyone else. Promise me.”

“All right.”

“Promise properly.”

“I promise never to tell anyone whatever it is you’re going to tell me now.”

“Very well.”

His mother moved across to the window, which was wide open to the evening sun, and shut it. Then she came back and composed herself in her chair, sitting upright in it like a square, solemn little judge. She said, “The verdict in the coroner’s court was fixed. It was arranged by the authorities. They can, of course, obtain whatever verdict they wish. Your father’s death was
not
an accident.”

The gray mists which had enveloped Peter at the time were coming back. He started to say, “I was afraid—” but was silenced by his mother. She leaned forward a little, and spoke in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“I know. You were afraid that he took his own life. Yes? But it is
not
true. He was murdered. Killed, in cold blood, by his superiors in the Secret Service.”

“Oh, God!” said Peter.

That evening he went down again to the club and found Detective Sergeant Dawlish drinking beer with a group of friends. When he could get him to himself, he said, “I’m afraid my mother’s worse. It’s not just little men following her. It’s the Secret Service.”

“That’s bad,” said Dawlish. “Very bad.”

“And I’ve got to go down to the West Country for a week. Do you think you could, very quietly, sort of keep an eye on her? I don’t want her to do anything stupid while I’m away.”

“Do what I can,” said Dawlish. “Not that there’s a lot you can do in a case like that.”

At five o’clock on the following afternoon Peter got out of the train at Cryde station and walked out into the town, carrying his suitcase. It was raining, and the streets were full of sulky children and bored parents wearing raincoats and waiting for the sun to come out.

There was a small office in the High Street which called itself “Tourist Information.” It had an enlarged photograph in the window showing a group of girls in bikinis sunning themselves on Cryde beach. In the circumstances it might, Peter thought, have been more tactful to take it down.

A girl behind the counter agreed that there was a bus service from Cryde to Bridgetown, but said that the second of the only two buses which ran on Monday had already left. She seemed genuinely sorry about this.”It’s not your fault,” said Peter. “Isn’t there a hotel at Bridgetown?”

“There’s the Doone Valley. It’s quite a nice little place.”

“Then could you find its telephone number for me? And could I use your telephone?”

The girl thought this would be all right. She also thought that Peter had a nice smile. Shy. Not like some of the terrible youths who came in on the pretence of making inquiries and hung around and made nuisances of themselves.

A gruff voice on the telephone agreed that it was the Doone Valley Hotel. Peter asked if they happened to have a room vacant.”Would it be just for the night?” said the voice doubtfully.

Peter was not inexperienced in the art of travel. He said, “Oh, no, it’s not just for the night. I should want it for at least a week, with full board and that sort of thing. I’d be happy to pay for a week in advance.”

The voice, sounding more cheerful, said that it would find out, and came back and said that there was one room left. What name was it? Peter gave his name, spelling it carefully.”There’s just one more thing,” he said. “How do I get out to Bridgetown?”

“You haven’t got a car, then?”

Peter admitted that he had no car.

“That’s a pity,” said the voice. “The last bus has gone.”

“What I was wondering,” said Peter, “was whether there was anywhere in Bridgetown I could hire a car for the week.”

“There’s Key’s Garage. Bridgetown 24. You could try him. He might be able to oblige.”

Bridgetown 24 produced Bill Key himself, who said that he had a little Austin which might do. He would bring it over himself so that—what was the name again, please?—Mr. Manciple could try it out.

Bill Key turned out to be only a few years older than Peter. He shook him warmly by the hand and said, “I thought I recognised the name. Tom and I were day boys, but my youngest brother was in School House with you.”

“Key Three!” said Peter. “Of course. I knew the name rang a bell. He was my fag.”

“An idle young tear-about, I don’t doubt.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s still there. Head of the School. Captain of Rugger. Won the Russell. You name it, he’s done it.”

“Good heavens,” said Peter. He was remembering a small, round-faced boy who had conscientiously cleaned the mud off the studs of his rugger boots. “He must be quite old.”

“Nineteen in September. He’s got a place at Durham. Tom’s in the Navy. I inherited the family business. It’s quite a business, too, considering it’s stuck down miles from anywhere. We do a good deal of work for the Army. It’s going to be a tight fit for you.”

“That’s always the trouble with me,” said Peter. “I’m too long.”

“We can push the seat back one more notch, but that’s it. Great pity you weren’t here a week or two earlier. You could have had the old Savoia. There’s car for you! Built for giants. I let Professor Petros have it. He might swop with you, if you only want it for the week. He’s a decent old boy.”

“Professor of what?”

“Archaeology, I suppose. He’s doing a dig on Cran Tor. He’s pretty well known in his own line, I believe. Fork left here. Do you think you can manage?”

“If I get a cramp, I’ll let you take over,” said Peter.

The left fork had swung them away from the coast and out onto the skirts of Exmoor. There were people who found the steep combes and the sudden gradients, the red soil and the lush vegetation of Devonshire overpowering. Peter was not one of them. He had spent five long and, on the whole, happy years at school there. He felt that he was coming home.

“A pity about all this rain,” said Key. “A lot of people have had their holidays wrecked. If it keeps up, we shall have flooding for sure.”

The road twisted and then dipped steeply into a combe. As they crossed the bridge at the bottom, Peter could see the brown water running nearly level with the top of the arches.

He said, “You mentioned the Army. What particular bit of it have you got at Bridgetown?”

“It calls itself the Biological Warfare Research Station. Not a very popular outfit. We had a big protest about it last summer. A Peace March. They didn’t manage to get in. They camped outside and sang hymns.”

“Did it worry the Army?”

“Hard to say. No one likes being unpopular. I suppose it took their minds off protesting against other things.”