The Empty House

by Michael Gilbert

  They wrangled about this for some minutes. Anna said, “Aren’t you forgetting that he was writing a novel, not a guidebook? He could make things up and put them where he liked.”

  “I don’t entirely go with that,” said Captain Andy. “Blackmore was the first of the documentary novelists.”

  Kevin looked up sharply. Then he said, “The second, surely. Defoe was the first.”

  “Defoe was a journalist. Blackmore was a schoolmaster. At least, if he wasn’t actually a schoolmaster, he wrote like one.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” said Anna.

  “Nothing to his discredit. I’ve met good schoolmasters and bad ones. It’s just that when they write, they seem to think they ought to work in a bit of instruction.”

  Peter said, “Matthew Arnold was a sort of schoolmaster. But he was a bloody good poet, too. ‘The sea is calm tonight, the tide is full, the moon lies fair.’”

  Everyone thought for a moment. Kevin said, “’The Forsaken Merman.’”

  Andy said, “No. It’s ‘Dover Beach.’ There’s a bit in it, I remember, about the grating roar of pebbles when the tide hurls them up the beach. Very graphic, I thought that when I read it. Most of the beaches round here are pebbles.”

  “If I remember rightly,” said Kevin, “ ‘Dover Beach’ proves Andy’s point. The first bit’s description, but wasn’t there a moral at the end of it?”

  “’Ah, love,’” said Peter, “’let us be true To one another! For the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain: And we are here as on a darkling plain, Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. ‘”

  “I wish I could remember poetry,” said Andy. “I can do bits I learnt when I was a kid, but you seem to lose the knack as you grow up.”

  “I wonder what he meant by ‘ignorant armies,’” said Anna.

  “The armies of the night,” said Kevin.

  There was a long silence after that. It was so quiet that they could just hear the waves turning over the shingle at the foot of the cliff.

  Kevin broke the silence by struggling to his feet out of the low chair where he was sitting and saying, “I’m for bed. I spent last night in the back of a Land-Rover. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  A little later Captain Andy, too, yawned and got up. He said, “I’ll lock up now. But in case you two were planning to go out for a moonlight stroll, there’s a spare back-door key in the drawer of the table in the hall. Barometer down two points more. We’re in for a real blow.”

  “I wonder why he should think we might be going out for a moonlight stroll,” said Peter.

  “He’s not blind,” said Anna. They listened to the Captain pottering about, putting things away and locking doors. When they heard him going upstairs, Anna came over and shared Peter’s chair with him. There wasn’t much room in the chair, but in a way this made everything more agreeable.

  When they had settled down, Anna said, “Say that bit again. About the ignorant armies.”

  Peter said it again.

  “Poor old Arnold,” said Anna. “He certainly had got the grumps. No joy, no love, no light, no peace. Everyone barging round in the dark, wondering who was going to hurt who next. I wonder what had upset him. Did he have an unhappy love life, perhaps?”

  “I can’t remember whether he had a love life at all. There was one chap he was very fond of, but he went off to Florence and died young.”

  “Homo, I suppose.”

  “You’ve got a filthy mind,” said Peter. “This was strictly a spiritual friendship.”

  “I’ve got a very dirty mind,” agreed Anna. Some time later she looked at her watch and said, “You’ll have to be starting.” Then she put both arms right around him and said, “Be careful.”

  The night was dark and heavy with the mounting pressure of the coming storm. Peter, who was wearing soft-soled shoes and a dark pullover, padded quietly through the empty streets. As he was turning into the road by the station, he caught sight of a policeman, and saw the glow of his flashlight as he examined the shop doors at the far end of the road. His first reaction was to dive into a doorway, but he realised that if he was caught there, it really would look suspicious. He switched to the opposite pavement and walked boldly on. The policeman ignored him.

  Five minutes later he was slithering down the steep bank behind the house in the Chine. He had met no one. There was a light on in the kitchen. The end of the chase was in sight.

  As he stood on the path outside the kitchen door, brushing the sand and leaves from his clothes, it occurred to him to wonder, for the first time, just exactly what he was going to say. Experience had taught him that when interviewing a stranger the opening gambit was most important. The traditional “Dr. Wolfe, I presume”? Or was that impertinent? Perhaps “I have been so looking forward to meeting you.”

  He knocked on the door, gently at first and then more firmly. Nothing happened. The house seemed to be completely silent. There were two possible explanations: either Dr. Wolfe had gone to bed and had forgotten to turn out the kitchen light, or he had gone out and was intending to return.

  Peter tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He opened it gently and stepped in. The bearded owner of the house was seated in a tall-backed wooden chair at the head of the kitchen table. He was staring placidly at Peter, who thought for a moment that he was about to say something, but only for a moment. He had been shot, five or six times, in the chest. The heavy bullets which had nailed him to the chair had made a black puddle of his shirt front.

  Peter wrenched his eyes away and felt for something to hold himself up. His fingers closed on a cold surface and he found he was clinging to the edge of the sink.

  He began to think, painfully as though the shock had affected the motor inside his head. He had told himself, a few minutes before, that the end of the chase was in sight. In sight? For God’s sake, it was finished. Was there anything left for him to do? As his brain began to work again, his senses cleared and he heard the cars coming. There were more than one, and they were coming fast.

  Peter went out through the kitchen door, leaving it half open, threw himself at the bank, and started to scrabble up it. Going up was more difficult than coming down. He had reached the wire when he heard the cars stop, heard doors opening and slamming shut, and footsteps running up the path. He jerked himself under the wire and lay flat in the deep bracken.

  Someone was coming around the back of the house. He caught a glimpse of a policeman’s helmet. The footsteps stopped. A voice which sounded quite close to him shouted, “In here, Sergeant, round the back.” More footsteps hurrying. Peter turned over onto his front and started to wriggle.

  By the time he reached the top of the bank, the tempo of the activity below him had slowed. People were talking, not shouting; walking, not running. Lights were being turned on in upstairs rooms. Peter crawled on hands and knees to the cinder path. When he got there, he tried to stand up, but his legs were unstable and his heart was beating double time. He was tempted to sit down, but realised that if he did so he might not get up in a hurry.

  “Walk,” he said. “Walk, and keep walking.”

  It took him five minutes to reach the station and another ten to get to the Seven Seas. He had seen no one, and, as far as he could tell, no one had seen him.

  Anna was in his bed. She sat up when he came in, switched on the bedside light, and said, “Good lord, Peter, what’s happened?”

  Peter sat down on the end of the bed and started to giggle. There was an edge of hysteria behind the laughter.

  Anna said coldly, “If there’s a joke, you might share it.”

  “Not really a joke,” said Peter. “Just a thought. Husband coming back late from the office. Wife waiting up for him, says, ‘What have you been up to, dear? You look all in.’ “

  “You look as
if you’ve been for a cross-country run.”

  Peter started to take off his trousers. “They don’t look too good,” he agreed.

  “I’ll brush them properly in the morning. Get undressed and come into bed. Whatever’s happened, don’t worry about it.”

  With one of her arms around him and her body pressed up against his, it was easy to tell her everything, and when he had told her, it was easy to stop worrying; and easy to go to sleep.

  16

  When Peter woke up, the light was back in the sky. He lay still, for fear of waking Anna, who was sleeping peacefully beside him.

  In the distance the clock of St. Barnabas’ Church beat out four muffled strokes. A few hours’ sleep had cleared his mind of the last dregs of shock and emotion.

  He had started thinking again.

  Most of his thoughts were on Anna and on Kevin. He had long since ceased to believe that they were at the Doone Valley Hotel by chance. Anna had said a lot of things to him, many of them loving and most of them probably lies. But on one occasion, provoked by him, she had spoken the truth. He was sure of that. It was when she said to him, “Your life belongs to everyone in your world.” And more specifically, “You’re given it so that you can do something for your people.” Who were her own people? Surely not the wild Irish of the north, among whom she claimed to have spent her youth. And to what cause was she wedded so passionately that she would give her life for it?

  He looked down at the face on the pillow beside him. Sleep strips away the daytime mask. The stern tyrant becomes indecisive; the mild pedant becomes a stubborn fool. This was the face of a fighter, no question. But a fighter in what war?

  Anna stirred in her sleep and muttered something unintelligible.

  He thought about her last words to him: “Don’t worry.” Was there anything to worry about? It was with a feeling of liberation that he realised that his job was surely done. Sooner or later that bullet-riddled body would be identified as Dr. Wolfe. He had an idea that all workers in confidential government employment were fingerprinted. Once the identity of the body was firmly established, it would point only too clearly to Wolfe’s killers.

  Peter’s own employers would be pleased, too. Since Dr. Wolfe had died on dry land, the insurers would not have to pay out on their policy. The only person to suffer would be his sister, Lavinia. She and her family of dogs.

  He fell asleep again on this comfortable thought, and was awakened by an exclamation from Anna. She had got out of bed and was looking out of the front window. She said, “I’m beginning to think you shouldn’t have run away. It would have been much more sensible to stay put.”

  “And let the police find me?”

  “Why not? They could never had supposed that you shot him.”

  “I did what my instincts told me to do. They said, ‘Scarper.’ So I scarpered.”

  “Your instincts gave you bad advice.”

  “I didn’t want to be involved in a murder case.”

  “How do you know you’re not involved?”

  “I’m only involved if they find out I was there.”

  “And suppose they do.”

  “How can they? No one saw me, going or coming back. I’m fairly sure of that.”

  “What about that policeman?”

  “He didn’t even turn round when I went past.”

  “He didn’t need to turn round. He could see your reflection in the shop window.”

  Peter stared at her. He said, “You’re full of uncomfortable thoughts this morning. Anything else?”

  “When you went into the house, were you wearing gloves?”

  “I haven’t got any gloves.”

  “What did you touch?”

  “The door handle, I suppose. And, oh, yes, when I saw Dr. Wolfe’s body, I grabbed the edge of the sink.”

  “You’ll have left plenty of prints behind.”

  “Suppose I did. How do you suggest they’re going to identify them? My prints aren’t on record. They’d have to suspect me first. And why should they?”

  “I don’t know why they should,” said Anna. “But ten minutes ago a policeman walked up to the door and rang the bell. He’s talking to Captain Andy now. No, he’s finished. He’s going.”

  Peter shot out of bed and across to the window. A solid blue-clad back was disappearing out of the front gate.

  “Good God,” said Peter. “I wonder what he wanted.”

  “Get dressed, and we’ll find out.”

  They found Captain Andy finishing his breakfast. Kevin, it appeared, had departed in search of Mother Melldrum’s cave.

  “The policeman?” said Andy. “I sent for him. We had a burglary last night. You were in very late. You didn’t hear anything, I suppose?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Peter. “How did he get in? What did he take?”

  “He got in by busting open my office window. He turned all my papers upside down, and took nothing at all. There’s an old cigarette case missing, but I might have lost that somewhere else.”

  “Why would a burglar want to look through your papers?”

  “He might have been looking for money,” said Anna.

  “I keep my money in the bank,” said the Captain. “Too many bad types about these days. Did you hear what they did to Roland Highsmith?”

  “Did to him?” said Peter with a sinking feeling.

  “Not to him. He’s away on holiday. To his office in Exeter. They burnt it down. It was on the eight o’clock news.”

  “Who on earth would do a thing like that?”

  “Search me.”

  “It could have been an accident, I suppose.”

  “Not according to what they said on the news. The people who did it must have taken most of the night about it. They went through every room, including the strongroom. Turned all the papers out onto the floor and soaked them in petrol, then set light to the place. It went up like a Guy Fawkes bonfire. Lucky it was a corner house and the wind was the right way or it would have taken out half the street. According to what it said on the news, the inside was red hot.”

  “Poor Mr. Highsmith,” said Anna. “Suppose he doesn’t hear about it.”

  “Someone’s sure to tell him. Never any shortage of people to give you bad news. If you want a bathe you’d better grab one this morning. It’ll be your last chance for a bit, I reckon. ‘Build up slow, big blow.’”

  A line of black clouds was forming out to sea, as solid and clear-cut as a range of hills, with a few dirty rags flying above the crest. The pressure of the coming storm and of his own uncertainties combined to keep Peter on edge. The news of Dr. Wolfe’s killing must surely be out by now. The morning papers would have missed it, and the earliest London evening papers only got to Cryde Bay by teatime. There was not much conversation at lunch. Anna seemed to have her private worries.

  At four o’clock Peter walked down to the station to see if the London evening papers had arrived. The solitary taxi driver in the forecourt aroused himself from slumber long enough to say, “No papers today. Strike or something.” Peter walked back into the town. By the time he got there, the sky was black.

  As he was passing Messrs. Highsmith and Westall, a police car drew up and Mr. Quarles got out of it and walked into the office. Peter caught a glimpse of his face as he crossed the pavement. He looked white and shaken. On a sudden impulse, Peter followed him in.

  Mr. Quarles turned, recognised him, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m closing the office. I can’t handle any business now.” He collapsed into a chair and sat there, his mouth opening and shutting, as though he had more to say but someone had shut off the sound.

  Peter slid home one of the bolts in the street door and came and sat down beside him. After a few minutes Mr. Quarles seemed to pull himself together a little. Peter said, “I wonder if you’d care to tell me what’s happened. 1 can see you’ve had a shock.”

  “It’s too much. My heart isn’t strong. I shall have to go away. As soon as I can get hold of Mr. Highsmith
. I shall have to ask him to find someone else. A younger man. You’re not, by any chance, a qualified solicitor yourself?”

  “No. But I’m an old friend of Mr. Highsmith’s. I was talking to him only a day or two ago.”

  “Terrible,” said Mr. Quarles. “You heard about the fire. It was on the wireless.”

  “Yes, I heard about the fire.”

  “And then this, on top of it.”

  “I’m not sure that I understand.”

  “His partner, Mr. Westall. Shot down. Murdered in cold blood. I had to see him. Mr. Highsmith being away, I was the only person they could turn to. I’m sorry to be making such a fuss about it, but you do understand, don’t you? It was the one thing coming on top of the other.”

  Peter said, in a voice almost as shaken as Mr. Quarles’, “Are you telling me that—did Mr. Westall live at number eight, the Chine?”

  “Certainly. Mr. Highsmith bought it for him when he had that nervous breakdown last month. He thought it would be a nice place for him to retire to. Peace and quiet.” Mr. Quarles nearly choked on the thought. “And now this.”

  As he spoke, a violent gust of wind, coming straight from the sea, shook the flimsy framework of the house. It was the advance guard of the storm. Mr. Quarles seemed past caring. If the building had folded up around him, it would hardly have added to his sense of catastrophe.

  Peter said, “I suppose you knew Mr. Westall well?”

  “Oh, very well. He’s only grown that beard since his illness, but I had no difficulty in recognising him. None at all.”

  “When you say that Mr. Highsmith bought the house for him, I take it you mean that he did the legal work?”

  “The conveyancing, yes. He handled it all himself from the Exeter office. He was a very considerate man. Look what I’m saying! He was a very considerate man. Wasn’t that a stupid thing to say? It sounds as though I thought Mr. Highsmith was dead, too.” When Peter said nothing, Mr. Quarles looked up, the panic clear in his eyes. “You don’t think—”