The Jonah

by James Herbert

  ‘There’s no one around,’ he snapped and she flinched away from him.

  Oh go to hell, she thought, keeping a distance of two feet between them. Then, for some reason, he was looking back into the car park they had just passed, craning his neck as though he thought someone was hiding there. She decided not to ask what was wrong, a little tired of his sudden changes of mood by now.

  They continued walking, neither of them speaking, keeping to the centre of the narrow backstreet, for there was no room for pavements along its length. It was dark and the only sound was that of their footsteps. Kelso stopped, suddenly alert.

  Ellie stared at him and she, too, became aware of the tension in the air. She looked around, the feeling of being observed acute, but she could not see into the shadows.

  She cried out when bright light flared from above.

  Kelso put a protective arm around Ellie’s shoulders and quickly drew her away from the overhead telephone lines. Sparks showered down, each one extinguished before it reached the ground, and the smell of ozone filled the air. The faulty white terminal at the top of the telephone pole spluttered into lifelessness with one final surging flash.

  Ellie was shaking, her face buried into his chest, only cautiously looking upward when the crackling and fizzing sounds had stopped.

  ‘What on earth caused that?’ she said, still hugged close to Kelso. There was no reply from him. Instead, he led her around the pole, keeping well to the other side of the street, both of them watching the terminals above with nervous expectancy. Ellie breathed a sigh of relief when they were clear. ‘Can you still feel it? The air – it seems charged somehow. Filled with . . . with, I don’t know . . . electricity!’

  ‘Static’s been discharged into the atmosphere, that’s all.’ There was a peculiar numbness in his tone.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s possible, but if you say so . . .’

  ‘It is. Come on, let’s get back.’ This time he held on tight to her, his footsteps rapid so that she had to trot almost to keep up with him. His pace slowed only when they were near to the caravan site and, by this time, they were both panting slightly. He quickly scanned the entrance before going in. He dropped his arm away from her as they approached their caravan and she saw he was looking from left to right, searching the shadows for any intruders. He seemed relieved when he tested the door and found it locked. He used his key and put an arm through the open doorway to switch on the light. Ellie blinked her eyes against the sudden glare, then saw the folded white sheet of notepaper lying just inside the doorway.

  Kelso ignored it and stepped up into the trailer, making sure it was empty before indicating for her to come in. She picked up the piece of paper and handed it to Kelso. He opened it up, his brow furrowing into a frown as he read the contents.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, eager to know.

  There was a half-smile on his lips when he replied, a smile that was not reflected in his eyes. ‘It’s an invitation,’ he said.

  8

  Eshley Hall was a stark, grey-stoned manor house, impressive when seen from a distance, but disappointing on closer examination. The elegance of the two rows of tall windows along the facade was spoiled by the top storey which seemed somehow truncated, meanly proportioned compared to the building’s otherwise generous structure. The effectiveness of two statues mounted on the roofline was impaired by chimneys that seemed added as essentials with no thought given to design harmony. The drive swept round before the building and the wide stone steps leading up to the main entrance restored some sense of splendour. Kelso almost felt obliged to park the battered Ford Escort, on loan from the Suffolk Constabulary, somewhere out of sight from the house. But he didn’t; he brought it to a halt directly below the stairway.

  He was relieved to get out of the car, for petrol fumes filled the interior to such a degree that he thought it might even be dangerous to smoke inside. He mounted the steps and was reaching for the large brass doorbell when the heavy oak double-doors opened. A thin-faced man, about Kelso’s age, wearing a grey business suit and navy-blue tie, stood just inside.

  ‘My name’s Kelly . . .’ Kelso began to say.

  ‘Yes, we were expecting you. I’m Sir Anthony’s personal secretary, Julian Henson. Would you follow me.’ It was a command rather than a question. To Kelso’s surprise, the grey-suited man stepped out and closed the door behind him. He scrutinized Kelso briefly as he walked past him down the stairs.

  ‘Sir Anthony is in the garden,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Wonderful, I’d hate to get your house dirty, Kelso said silently, conscious of the stained sneakers and faded denims he wore.

  A broad terrace ran the length of the house at the back, with two sets of steps facing each other leading down into the gardens. Kelso paused for a moment at the top of one flight and looked out across the long sloping lawn. The river glistened like blue silver, the forest on the opposite bank a dark contrast against its sun-reflecting surface. Beyond were fields, their undulations gentle, never rising to any great height. The whole garden area was bordered on two sides by square-shaped hedges which were at least seven feet in height; the lawn itself stretched as far as the riverbank, a broad path to one side leading down to a building at the water’s edge which, from that distance, looked to be constructed in the same style as Eshley Hall itself. Kelso guessed it was an elaborate shell disguising what could only have been a boathouse. A figure, dressed in blue, caught his eye; the man was sitting in a spot halfway between the house and river, two white, round tables set out before him, one shaded by an umbrella.

  ‘Mr Kelly?’

  Henson stood at the bottom of the stairs impatiently looking up at Kelso.

  ‘Sorry.’ Kelso descended to the lawn and unhurriedly followed the grey-suited man, who was already far ahead, striding towards the seated figure. He saw the two men briefly conversing, then both heads turned in his direction. The seated man, whom Kelso realized was wearing a blue tracksuit with a lighter blue stripe running down the sides, turned back to the papers he had been studying. Henson kept his eyes on Kelso, his expression grim, as though he disliked everything about the scruffy individual strolling towards them, particularly the length of time it had taken him to cross the lawn.

  ‘This is Mr Kelly, Sir Anthony,’ he said crisply at Kelso’s arrival.

  Sir Anthony pointed towards a chair at the other table without looking up from the document he was reading. Kelso slumped into the seat and looked inquisitively at his host. He was a small man, his appearance neat even in the tracksuit; a white towel was draped around his neck, the ends tucked into the tracksuit’s top.

  ‘Some fresh orange juice for Mr Kelly, Julian; he looks as though it might do him some good.’ Still he kept his eyes on the paper before him.

  ‘Thank you, Julian,’ Kelso said as the personal secretary poured orange juice from a beaker. Ice clinked against glass and Kelso glanced at the remaining debris of what must have been Slauden’s breakfast: orange peel, grape stalks and two uneaten figs. He sipped the orange juice and returned his gaze to the man before him only to find two sharp gimlet eyes watching him.

  Slauden’s features were as concise as his figure, only the nose, bent at its bridge, marring its proportions. A thin, black moustache ran the length of his upper lip, and his hair, scant at the top of his head, was just beginning to grey at its edges.

  ‘I’m glad you accepted my invitation, Mr Kelly.’

  I’m almost glad I shaved, Kelso thought, a little uncomfortable under the close inspection he was receiving. ‘I’m surprised you know about me.’

  ‘Adleton is a close-knit community; there’s always a mild interest in the presence of strangers in the locality – outside of the holiday season, that is. A town councillor, in fact, told me of your particular interest in the area.’

  ‘Your invitation said you might be able to help.’

  ‘Yes, that’s possible.’ Slauden turned his attention to his personal secretary. ‘These seem to b
e in order,’ he said, indicating the mass of documents before him.

  ‘You’ve studied them all, Sir Anthony?’ Henson asked, seeming surprised.

  Slauden nodded. ‘Every one. Put them in my briefcase and we’ll discuss them on the way to London.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We’ll leave at half-past ten.’

  Somehow Kelso knew it would be exactly on the dot of half-past ten. The little man exuded authority, efficiency and exactitude. Beside him, even the crisp-mannered Henson was a slouch.

  The papers were gathered up and the secretary departed, striding across the lawn as though he were on his very own marching parade.

  ‘Now, Mr Kelly, I understand you are making a study of the birdlife in this area.’

  Kelso nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He reached for his cigarettes and began to take one from the pack.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ A command, not a preference. ‘I spend a great deal of my time in the City – in my office, or at various functions – and I’d rather breathe in poison only when the occasion renders it unavoidable.’

  Kelso put the cigarettes away.

  ‘Thank you. Your research has been commissioned, or is it merely an indulgence on your part?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve been commissioned to do it.’

  ‘May I ask by whom?’

  ‘It’s a conservation group; I don’t think they’d want me to say exactly which group. They’d rather wait until their paper has been published.’

  ‘I see. Has their secrecy any particular purpose?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no real secrecy involved. It’s just that certain authorities and organizations have a way of being obstructive when they think they’re under some kind of investigation.’

  ‘You’re not employed by a left-wing group, are you?’

  Kelso laughed, but he was beginning to feel uncomfortable; their discussion was rapidly developing into an interrogation. ‘No, they’re nothing like that. Just people with a conscience, that’s all. Conservationists, no more than that.’

  ‘What is their view, then?’

  ‘Their view?’

  ‘Yes. Why the research in this area? What is it that disturbs them?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that they’re disturbed. They’re just trying to find out if there’s anything to be disturbed about. They’re worried about pollution in the rivers and estuaries driving the birdlife away.’

  ‘Surely you’re thinking of the Norfolk waterways. In that I can understand your concern. Summer always finds the rivers and canals of the Broads teeming with human life and all the excreta it brings. Yes, it is an immense problem there; but this is Suffolk, Mr Kelly, a vastly different environment.’

  Kelso was thinking fast, not wanting his cover to seem lame. ‘Well, it’s not just that; it’s a combination of things. There’s the various air force bases in the area, aircraft flying low overhead. How does the noise affect the birdlife? Then there’s the gradual but steady erosion of the coastline, land being eaten away or reclaimed by floods.’

  ‘Ah yes. Well, I think there is little for you or your group to worry about. The noise from aeroplanes, jets or otherwise, doesn’t seem to bother our bird colonies one iota. And as for the flooding which, I must admit, has been severe in these parts in the past, you’ll find that most wildlife adapts pretty well under any circumstances.’

  Slauden stood and was even smaller than Kelso had imagined. ‘Come along with me, Mr Kelly, and let me show you something.’

  The detective followed him towards the water’s edge, his strides long to keep up with Slauden. Everybody seemed to walk in double-time at Eshley Hall.

  ‘Wonderful time of year, don’t you agree?’ the little man said. ‘Full of new life, fresh vitality. You can feel the sap stirring, beginning to rise. The very earth comes alive with thrusting shoots eager for sunlight. The animals have a new urgency. Even the birds lose their timidity. Look at those two there, Mr Kelly, showing off for all the world to see!’ He pointed at two birds swooping low over the reeds by the water’s edge, searching for dragonflies. ‘Wagtails, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yellow wagtails,’ Kelso answered. ‘And they wouldn’t be so happy if they saw the marsh harrier over there on the other side of the river.’ His homework on the feathered species was paying off; he even sounded good to himself.

  The harrier came skimming across the river and the two birds fled, shrieking their shrill warning to others.

  ‘There, Mr Kelly.’ Slauden was pointing again. ‘Can you see the coot nesting among the rushes? He’s lying low because of the harrier.’

  ‘I see him.’

  ‘You’ll see much more.’

  ‘I already have. I’ve been exploring the marshes for three weeks now.’

  ‘Then you’ll have found redshank, ringed plover, the oyster-catcher, dunlin . . . so many different species. Even the bearded tit, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘Not to mention the avocet’

  ‘Ah, yes, a rare creature indeed. You’ll find many – and others – in my own private bird sanctuary, Mr Kelly.’

  ‘Your own sanctuary?’

  ‘Why, yes, that’s why you were invited here. If you follow this path along the riverbank, it will take you beyond my grounds to a heavily wooded area and there you will find all kinds of wildlife, let alone varieties of our winged friends. Investigate, Mr Kelly, then let me know if you’re still concerned over pollution and noise in this area. Let me know what you think of my honey buzzards and sooty terns. Try to find the storm petrel, who returns every year to breed. Then I think you will realize your fears are groundless.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you . . .’

  ‘Not at all. But please be careful as you approach the woodland; I have a very special visitor indeed nesting in the reeds. He’s well hidden, but I spotted him down there just the other day, tunnelling himself in. A goosander, Mr Kelly. Extremely rare in these parts, would you agree?’

  ‘Yes, yes, very unusual.’

  He felt suddenly awkward under Slauden’s gaze and turned towards the path he had indicated. ‘Down here, you say?’

  ‘You go ahead. I have to get changed for my trip down to London. Snoop around as long as you like, Mr Kelly; I’m sure you’ll find much of interest.’ With that, Slauden wheeled around and began to jog back towards the house.

  He felt disappointed, too, having anticipated a more fruitful outcome to the meeting. Last night, the note pushed under the caravan’s door had seemed like an invitation into the spider’s web, because of what had preceded it, but now, in the cold light of day and in such natural surroundings, he realized his imagination had been running away with itself. Maybe Ellie, who was at that moment digging into Slauden’s background, would turn up something interesting. In the meantime, he would do as the little man suggested; snoop around. He turned and walked along the pathway, away from the nearby boathouse and towards the woodland.

  Ellie passed the empty quayside and looked across at the various yachts and motor launches tied to their buoys on the water’s calm surface. Earlier, she had phoned the Customs and Excise London headquarters and requested information on Sir Anthony Slauden. She had rung back an hour later and was discouraged by what she learned. Sir Anthony was a well-respected figure in the City, the chairman of a large investment corporation and a director of five other companies, which varied from publishing to pharmaceuticals. He had been a colonel during World War Two, and had been decorated twice. A useful but undistinguished career in the Foreign Office after the war had eventually led to a position in the unit trusts and shares company, which eventually resulted in his chairmanship. The only slight on his name, if it could be called a slight – embarrassment might have been a better word – was that his knighthood had come from a certain retiring Prime Minister’s honours list, a list that was regarded with suspicion by the public because of various honours bestowed upon businessmen of somewhat dubious reputations. However, that was hardly Sir Anthony’s fault.

  He owned three proper
ties in Great Britain: one in Scotland, a small castle no less, Eshley Hall in Suffolk, and a terraced house in Westminster. He often holidayed at a villa he owned in the Algarve. There were no scandals in his life apart from a wife, now dead, who had divorced him seventeen years ago, and a father who had shot himself over a gambling debt when Sir Anthony was only seven. Slauden was sixty-one, played tennis, squash and golf, rarely drank liquor, did not smoke, and regularly gave to various charities. Sir Anthony Slauden merited ten lines in Who’s Who.

  So it looked like his invitation to Kelso had been perfectly genuine; the sequence of events had encouraged Ellie and Kelso to believe it had some special or sinister significance. Ellie turned away from the harbour and began walking back towards the town. On impulse she changed direction to cut across the fields, wanting to take another look at the Preece house. That family were the key to all this, they were the initial reason for the investigation. How had they become the victims of an hallucinogenic drug?

  What she saw as she approached the allotments behind the houses made her stop and stare. With a rush of excitement Ellie realized she might – just might – have stumbled upon the answer.

  9

  ‘Nobody thought of checking their food.’

  Ellie studied Kelso’s face, waiting for a reaction. He shook his head as though refuting her theory, but it did little to dampen her enthusiasm.

  ‘Don’t you see, if one of the Preece family had died, they would have had to perform an autopsy; I’m sure they would have found traces of lysergic acid in their digestive system.’

  ‘But the whole canal would have been contaminated for . . .’

  ‘Not necessarily. Look, when I crossed that field today, the old man, the same one we passed yesterday on his allotment, was dipping a watering can into the canal, stream or waterway, whatever you might call it. I spoke to him and he told me it was normal practice for gardeners to use that water for their vegetable crops.’