“An actuary’s job is to evaluate things. He had tables which show you how long you can expect to live. That sort of thing.”
“Interesting,” said Mr. Knight. “I’d like to have a peep at mine sometime.”
“One of the first things I can remember him telling me was that the average man will live six times as long as his dog, five times as long as his cat, three times as long as his horse, and half as long as a giant turtle. For weeks after that I was plaguing him to show me one.”
“A giant turtle?”
“An average man. In my own mind, I’d pictured him walking down the street, leading a horse and a dog and carrying a cat, with the giant turtle waddling beside him.”
Mr. Knight laughed and said, “Children do say strange things. The other day my granddaughter asked me—hello, this looks like the call you’ve been waiting for. Better take it in the office.”
Roger’s voice came thinly over the wire.
“I’ve got the information you want,” he said. “DS 16384 is the title number of a house at Cryde Bay. The address is number eight, the Chine. The title was first registered in March of this year, so it’s impossible to tell how long the previous owner had had it. The present registered owner is Roland Thomas Highsmith. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “That makes sense, and thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Roger.
Peter went to find Mr. Knight.
“Certainly you can stop on,” said Mr. Knight. “No one wants to start a motor run at this time of day, not in this sort of weather. I’ll let you have a room next to mine, in the private part. You’ll have no trouble there. I’ve got a dog called Butcher sleeps in the passage. Half Alsatian, half Doberman, and all the worst characteristics of both.”
“It’s extraordinarily kind of you,” said Peter.
“Well, I wouldn’t do it for everyone. But I was fond of your father. And I remember the first time you came here with him. You can’t have been more than twelve or thirteen; and you said, in that funny squeaky voice of yours, ‘Isn’t this a nice hotel!’ I’ve never forgotten that.”
Comforted by the snuffling of Butcher outside his door, Peter fell asleep quickly. When he woke up, he guessed that it was between four and five in the morning. The gray light was beginning to show through the uncurtained window. The silence was absolute. It was an hour when dangers seemed many and comforts few; but he was in a curious mood of resolution. He was the average man. His years were numbered in the records.
There had been a morning, at about the same cold hour, also in a hotel bedroom, when his courage had altogether failed him. He had imagined that he held the keys of his destiny in his own hands, and he had been wrong. He was not going to make the same mistake again.
12
Next morning Peter drove north, following the winding and wooded valley of the Exe almost to its headwaters, topping the watershed at Wheddon Cross and descending by the Avill Valley toward the coast.
The sun was shining bravely as though apologising for the previous day, and the countryside, between the noble tower of Dunkery Beacon to port and the Brendons to starboard, was a sight to gladden the eye. Most of Peter’s thoughts were on his car, which was behaving oddly. He knew nothing about the internal-combustion engine except that it absorbed regulated doses of petrol, oil, and water. He hoped that it would carry him safely back to civilisation.
He only just made it. The engine finally died as he was descending the last steep hill from Dunster to the coast road. His impetus carried him to the road junction, where he saw a garage sign and coasted in.
“A bit of luck,” he said.
“Something wrong?” said the mechanic.
“Something is undoubtedly wrong,” said Peter. “The engine has been making protesting noises for the last five miles and has now gone on strike.”
The mechanic, a gnomelike man dressed in greasy overalls, disappeared head first into the engine and emerged to report a cracked distributor.
“No good trying to patch it,” he said. “Soon break up again. Needs a new part.”
“Oh, dear,” said Peter. “Will that take very long?”
“Pick it up today at Carrick’s in Minehead. Could have her ready for you tomorrow morning, with a bit of luck. Day after, if they have to send to Taunton for it. Lovely machines, these Savoias.” He stroked the car on the nose as if it had been a horse. “Temperamental, though. Where are you making for, might I ask?”
“I was hoping to get to Cryde Bay.”
“No trouble. Take the train.”
“Train?”
“Dunster station. Straight ahead of you, about half a mile.”
“Oh. Fine,” said Peter. He got his small overnight bag out of the back of the car. “I’ll be staying the night in Cryde Bay if I can find someone to put me up, and I’ll give you a ring from there tomorrow.”
“Might be difficult to find a place. Be impossible next week, when the school holidays start. Fills right up then.”
Peter thanked him and strolled down the deep-banked lane which led to the station. Small, fluffy clouds were chasing each other across the sky, and the birds were singing. He felt that he was entering one of his lucky periods. How gallantly his car had carried him! How easily it might have let him down on a wild and deserted stretch of Exmoor!
These feelings survived even the discovery that he had an hour and a half to wait for the slow train which stopped at Cryde Bay. He had seen from the map that this was a modest-sized coastal resort about five miles to the east of Cryde and serviced by a switch line.
When he got there, Cryde Bay railway station was asleep in the sun. The only sign of life was an aged taxi cab parked in the forecourt. The driver, too, seemed to be asleep, but looked up when he heard the sound of Peter’s approach. When he detected that Peter was not a potential fare, he went to sleep again so decisively that Peter hardly liked to disturb him, and wandered past him and out into the town.
On the promenade he found a more helpful inhabitant, a brisk lady with a shopping bag, who said that she knew all the guesthouses were full up, but he might try the Seven Seas because she’d heard that it was only just opening for the season.
When he got to it, Peter liked the look of the Seven Seas. It was tucked away at the far end of the sea front at a point where the road started to run up the cliff. There were steps leading down from it to a shingly beach and an old jetty with a cabin cruiser moored on the far side. He marched up the front path and rang the bell.
For a long time nothing happened, but there were certainly sounds of movement at the back. He leaned on the bell. This produced an oath from the interior, followed by footsteps. Then the door opened. The proprietor of the Seven Seas Guest House and Peter Manciple inspected each other. Neither seemed displeased with what he saw.
“Anderson,” the man said. “Known by all as Captain Andy, though I never was captain of anything more than that cockle-shell down the steps.”
He was a man of middle size with a brown and open face and a bald patch on the back of his head. Peter introduced himself.
“You’re the first swallow that makes a summer,” said Andy, “and I hope it’s going to turn out a bloody sight better one than it’s been so far. You haven’t got any children with you?”
“No children.”
“That’s all right, then. We’re not exactly organised for children as yet.”
He led the way down the passage and into what was going to be a dining room. At the moment the tables and chairs were piled against one wall and painting was in progress.
“Peach emulsion paint on the walls, and ivory white on the strips of wood between. It should be tasty, don’t you think?”
“Very tasty,” said Peter. He eyed the brushes wistfully. “I suppose I couldn’t—”
“Why not?” said the Captain. “That wall’s dry, you can start on the wooden bits.”
The rest of the moming passed pleasantly. They knocked
off for a late lunch, cooked by the Captain and eaten in a very well-equipped kitchen. Over lunch the Captain, feeling perhaps that some explanation was due, said, “I wasn’t really intending to open up until Monday week. But I thought you looked like a chap who doesn’t mind roughing it a bit.”
Peter, his mouth being full of bacon omelette, nodded to signify that he didn’t mind roughing it.
“I got left this house by my aunt. I used to come and stay here when I was a kid. It was too nice a house to sell, but I couldn’t afford to give up my business – I run a catering firm up in Luton. So I came to this arrangement with my partner. He takes charge of the business from Midsummer Day till Michaelmas. I come down here and open up for the school holidays. Always have a crowd of children. Noisy little bastards, but fun to have around. We’ve got regulars by now, come year after year. The first lot aren’t due till Monday week, so we’ll be quiet enough till then. Were you thinking of staying for long?”
“For a day or two, anyway,” said Peter. “My plans are a bit unsettled. Is there anything I can help you with after lunch?”
“I was planning to run a buffer over the floor of the lounge and wax it. It’s a one-man job, really.”
“Then I’ll take a stroll around the town. By the way, do you know a place called the Chine?”
“It’s at the other end of the front. A sort of split in the cliff. There are one or two nice old houses tucked away in it. You weren’t thinking of buying one of them, perhaps?”
“You never know.”
“Because if you are, you ought to have a word with Highsmiths.”
“Highsmiths?”
“The solicitors.”
“I thought they were an Exeter firm.”
“So they are now. But they started here. Young Roland Highsmith was born and bred in Cryde Bay. 1 knew him well in the old days. He opened his first office on the promenade here. Of course, there wasn’t enough work to keep him here. As soon as he got going, he moved up to Exeter, but he kept the office here. There’s one of his assistants, a Mr. Quarles, looks after it. He knows all about the local properties. You have a word with him. Mention my name.”
Peter promised to do that. Even though he had no intention of buying a house, it occurred to him that it might pay him to have a word with Mr. Quarles.
“Captain Andy sent you?” said Mr. Quarles. “Very happy to help if I can. It isn’t an easy place to buy a house. They get snapped up as soon as they come on the market.”
“He did mention that there might be one in the Chine.”
“There was a house going in the Chine. The one at the far end. It belonged to old Mrs. Mottistone. A real old dragon she was. It’s been sold now, though. I rather think our Exeter office handled it. If you do see anything you want, we’d be glad to help.”
Peter thanked him, and made his leisurely way along the front. An offshore breeze was slicing the tops off the little waves in the bay and he could see one or two small boats taking advantage of it.
The Chine was a natural fault in the cliff which cut off the west end of the town. To the right it ran straight down to the sea, making a deep-water inlet flanked on the near side by a thin strip of shingle. To the left it was serviced by a small and badly made-up road which twisted away out of sight between banks covered with fern and heather.
Houses had been built, higgledy-piggledy, wherever there was a flat space large enough to hold one. At the far end the road turned sharply to the left. Peter had counted seven houses, and reckoned that Number 8 must be the one which was just coming into sight. He wondered whether it was wise to show himself. But, after all, why not? Casual strollers must come up the road from time to time. He turned the corner.
If Mrs. Mottistone had been a dragon, she had chosen herself a dragon’s lair. Number 8 was not an attractive house. It was larger than the others he had passed, built of red brick which time had darkened to the colour of stale blood, and was so wedged under the lips of the Chine that it must be in shade for three quarters of the day. The windows at the back could get no sunshine at all. The windows which faced the road were, all but one, shuttered.
Peter took in the details at a glance and without slowing his pace. He had seen two other things. The single unshuttered window, to the right of the front door, was a few inches open at the top, which seemed to argue human occupation. And there was a flight of steps, leading up at the far end of the Chine, which suggested a useful alternative way of approach.
The strip of garden in front of the house was rank grass backed by an overgrown bed of Aaron’s rod and a creeping plant with long, fork-shaped leaves which Peter thought might, appropriately, be dragon’s-tongue. He walked past and climbed the steps. These brought him out onto a cinder path which ran alongside an abandoned stretch of railway line. This must be the line which had once continued along the coast toward Porlock.
In due course, the path took him back to the station forecourt. The single taxi still stood there, and the driver still seemed to be asleep. Peter found a cafe on the front which sold him a cup of coffee for a price which would, a few years before, have bought him an entire meal. He then located the post office in a back street, and telephoned his mother from one of the two callboxes outside it.
His mother cut short his explanation of where he had been and what he had been doing. She said, “I advise you not to mention the place you are telephoning from.”
“Why on earth not?”
“This house has been under day and night surveillance since you left.”
“Oh, dear.”
“And I think it very probable that our telephone has been tapped.”
“Do you really think—”
“I am not sure. But every time I lift the receiver to answer a call, I hear a distinct click. Your father once told me that this was a clear sign that the call was being intercepted.”
“All right,” said Peter patiently. “I won’t tell you where I am, beyond saying that it’s somewhere on the North Devon Coast, and that I’ve found a very pleasant place to put up for a few nights.”
“When will you be home?”
“It might be quite soon.”
“You have done what you set out to do?”
“I think so,” said Peter. “With any luck I’ll know for certain by tonight. Look here, Mother, if you’re really worried, why don’t you go to the police?”
His mother said, “You can hardly realise how stupid that suggestion sounds. When will you understand? The police are on the other side. They know what they are doing. They are assisting them.”
“All right,” said Peter with a sigh. “Look after yourself. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Not what you might call much night life in Cryde Bay,” said the Captain when Peter told him that he meant to take a walk around the town after dinner. “There’s a cinema, or there’s a pierrot show in the Palais de Danse. I went last week, but I couldn’t understand half the jokes. The audience seemed to like it.”
Peter chose the Bijou Cinema, and sat through a film he had already seen in London. It was nearly eleven when it finished and he walked out into a clear, cool night. The moon was not yet up, but there was a luminous quality which he had noticed at other seaside places and which seemed to be the light off the sea reflected into the black and starlit bowl of the sky.
The station forecourt was deserted. Even the taxi driver had departed to continue his sleep at home. The path by the railway was easy to locate, and Peter padded along it quietly. He had worked out a rough plan of action. When he got to the Chine, he avoided the steps, which would have taken him to the front of the house, and moved instead to the right, feeling his way along the upper slope, knee deep in ferns and already damp with dew.
In the quick glance which was all that he had allowed himself when passing the place that afternoon, he had noted that the descent at the back of the house was not really precipitous. If he took his time, he had no doubt he could clamber down it. As long as there was no dog in the h
ouse, he should be quite safe. If he was spotted, he had two possible exits. He could circle the house and decide at the last moment whether to bolt up the steps or down the Chine.
It took him longer than he had anticipated, because, when he was halfway down and fully committed, he ran into a wire fence buried among the tall ferns. To climb over it would be difficult and would make a noise. In the end, he lay flat on his back and scraped a sufficient hole in the sandy soil to wriggle under the bottom strand. Once he was clear he rolled over onto his face, held the wire with both hands, stretched his long legs out, and let himself slither down the last few feet onto the stone-flagged path. Here he stopped to shake some of the sand out of his clothes, and to listen.
At that moment a light went on in one of the back windows. Peter cowered. It was a few breath-stopping seconds before he realised that the light had nothing to do with him. The occupant of the house had come into the kitchen and was moving about in an unhurried way which indicated no alarm.
Keeping well back in the shadow, Peter raised himself cautiously.
The man was standing behind the table, half facing him. He was using an old-fashioned can-opener to attack what looked like a can of soup. He was of middle height, and Peter put his age at about forty. The only remarkable thing about him was his beard. It looked to be exactly the sort of beard which a moderately hirsute man might have succeeded in growing in the space of ten days. It already concealed both sides of his face from the cheekbone down to the point of the chin.
The can-opener slipped and the man bared his teeth.
Peter edged slowly backward into the darkness. He had seen all that he’d come to see. If, as he suspected, the man was alone in the house, this would be a safe moment to make his exit by the front.
He had circled the house and was on the point of making a dash for the front gate when he heard footsteps approaching. Someone was coming up the road, not strolling but walking in the purposeful way of a man who is making for a definite objective. Peter drew back in the shadow of the house and waited.
The Empty House Page 11