The Empty House

by Michael Gilbert

  “There’s no reason to think that anything has happened to Mr. Highsmith at all. As soon as he hears the news, he’ll be back.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Certainly. And if you’re shutting up for the day and have got your car here, I wonder if you’d mind running me back to my hotel. It’s at the far end of the town, and I came out without a raincoat.”

  They could see and hear the rain coming down in flung sheets. Water was already trickling under the door.

  “Certainly I’ll run you back. I see my secretary’s gone already. Sensible girl. But I wonder – it’s asking a lot of a comparative stranger, I know, but would you mind coming back with me to my place?” Peter stared at him. “It’s a bungalow a little way outside the town, and it’s rather isolated. I just don’t fancy facing it alone.” Before Peter had time to say anything, he hurried on, “It must be some gang who set fire to our office and killed Mr. Westall. I suppose we’ve offended them in some way. I thought the best thing would be if I went to stay with my married sister at Minehead. Until the police have, well, rounded them up.”

  Having delivered himself of this extraordinary statement, Mr. Quarles sat looking pleadingly at Peter.

  “Of course,” said Peter slowly. “I’ll come with you if you like. I think you’re exaggerating the danger.”

  “I’d be much happier if you would. Just until I can telephone my sister.”

  Mr. Quarles’ car was parked behind the office. Although it was only a few paces from the door, they were soaked as they ran to it. It was like stepping under a shower bath. With wipers going and headlights blazing, they splashed off down the road.

  No gang awaited them in Mr. Quarles’ modest residence. Peter took off his coat and hung it up to dry in front of the electric fire while Mr. Quarles went off to telephone his sister in Minehead.

  He came back looking worried. “They say the storm has affected the line. They’re sure it will be through again quite shortly. I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea while your coat’s drying.”

  His anxiety to keep Peter with him was apparent. Peter looked out of the window. The first fury of the storm had abated a little, but the rain was still sheeting down. He was going to need Mr. Quarles’ car to get him home. His host bustled about getting tea ready, and after tea entertained him with a series of photograph albums. In more than one of them he was able to point out Mr. Westall. Any lingering doubts which Peter might have felt were dispelled. The man he had glimpsed through the window and whom he had later found shot was, without question, Roland Highsmith’s partner.

  But how, why, where had he gone wrong? There was a catch somewhere, if only he could put his finger on it.

  “. . . a very happy family,” said Mr. Quarles.

  “Yes,” said Peter. He was guiltily aware that it was some time since he had actually listened to what Mr. Quarles was saying.

  “I imagine that it’s much the same in your case?”

  “Well—” said Peter. Was Mr. Quarles referring to his own family, or to the firm? He was saved by the telephone bell. The lines to Minehead had been restored. Mr. Quarles spoke to his sister, apparently with satisfactory results, and set about packing a bag. By seven o’clock they were heading back for Cryde Bay.

  With an old raincoat, which Mr. Quarles had loaned him, over his head and shoulders, Peter splashed up the path of the Seven Seas Guest House and opened the front door. Anna was in the hall and had her back to him. She was speaking on the telephone, and the one sentence which Peter heard was certainly not in English.

  As she turned and saw him standing there, there was a clatter of footsteps on the path and Captain Andy, also with a raincoat over his head, arrived at the double.

  “God, what weather!” he said. “I’m soaked.”

  “You told us it was coming,” said Anna. “Next time I’ll believe you.”

  But while she spoke she was looking at Peter.

  “I went out to get us something to eat for supper. Most of the shops shut up when they saw this packet coming. But I managed to get some sausages. We’ll eat in the kitchen. It’s on the sheltered side of the house, and we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak.”

  “Is your brother back yet?” asked Peter.

  “Not yet.”

  The Captain looked thoughtful. “If he’s out on the open moor in this, he’d be well advised to stay put. It’s too big to last. It’ll be over before morning.”

  Anna said, “If I was out there, I’d certainly stay where I was. Marshes and bogs and quicksands terrify me. Can’t I help you with the supper?”

  “You can make the toast,” said the Captain.

  There was a flash of lightning, almost blue in its electrical menace. The Captain started counting: “—eight, nine, ten.” Then the thunder.

  “Still some miles away,” he said, “but coming fast.”

  A second flash, and the hall light went out.

  “Supper by candlelight,” said the Captain. “Lucky I laid in a stock of them.”

  It was a difficult meal. Anna did her best, but it was clear that she was worried about Kevin. Peter was busy with his own thoughts. Fortunately, Captain Andy was in high spirits. The storm seemed to inspire him. Between the flashes of lightning and the answering crashes of the thunder he regaled them with reminiscences of other storms he had seen and suffered.

  “The most comfortable place to be,” he said, “is way out to sea. You can laugh at a thunderstorm when you’re at sea.” Peter had a mental picture of the Captain standing at the helm of his yacht laughing at the thunder. “The worst place to be is in an airplane. You’ve every excuse to be frightened if you run into an electric storm when you’re flying.”

  “I can be frightened in an airplane even without a storm,” said Peter.

  After supper, when the vanguard of the storm had rolled away inland, the Captain armed himself with a torch and went down into the cellar to have a look at the fuses. He returned to report failure.

  “It’s not just us,” he said. “The storm must have wrecked a pylon or something. I’ll get us a cup of coffee. Then, little though I fancy the idea, I have to go out and attend a meeting of the Town Council. There’s an ugly rumour that they intend to make me a councillor. I shall have to quash it.”

  “Why?” said Peter. “You’d make a very good councillor.”

  “I’m not civic-minded, and I’m only here four months in the year. By the way, there’s quite a bit of water in the cellar, but I don’t think it’s doing any harm. If it gets a lot worse, send for the fire brigade. The number’s one of the ones written up over the phone.”

  While he spoke he had been putting on waterproof leggings, raincoat, and an outsize pair of boots. Now he clapped a sou’wester onto his bald head and plodded out into the hall.

  Peter and Anna sat looking at each other. They heard the front door slam shut.

  “Well,” said Peter at last. He was glad of the candles. It would have been a lot more difficult in a blaze of electric light.

  “So you heard?”

  “Yes, I heard. What language was that?”

  “I am a citizen of Israel. I was speaking to other Israelis. Naturally, we spoke in our own tongue.”

  “You and Kevin?”

  “My husband is also an Israeli.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “I see.”

  There was a long silence, broken by the explosions of the thunder. At each thunderclap the candles flickered and their shadows danced in sympathy.

  “You musn’t be angry,” said Anna. “I tried to tell you once. This is war. In war, deceptions are necessary.”

  “And I was the dupe.”

  “But not an unwilling dupe.”

  “Not unwilling,” agreed Peter, with a faint flicker of a smile. “Certainly not unwilling.”

  “You must not be angry with me, because I want your help. And I want it now. We have to find Kevin.”

  “Go out and look for him?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “We should be much more likely to get bogged down than he is. He’s got a Land-Rover with four-wheel drive.”

  “It’s not a question of getting bogged down. I know where he is, and I am fearful for him. Since he has not returned, it seems likely that they have caught him.”

  “But,” said Peter, “If that’s right – Petros has five or six men with him. What could we hope to do?”

  “There is no question of you doing anything. All I ask you to do is to drive me there in your car. If there is anything to be done, I will do it.”

  Peter had a feeling that he was hearing her real voice for the first time. It was the voice of a trained soldier speaking of duty. A voice which invites no argument, brooks no delay. He was far too intelligent not to understand what she was asking him to do. It was nonsense to suppose that he was going to sit in the car and let her go forward into danger on her own. If he agreed, this was the moment when he stepped across the sideline and onto the field. So far he had been a spectator in the secret, violent game that was being played across the wastes of Exmoor. From this point he would himself be a player. The thought filled him with equal measures of alarm and distaste.

  He said, “We’d better rustle up what waterproof clothing we can.”

  Ten minutes later the Savoia was splashing down the road, headed southwest for Bridgetown and the open moor.

  17

  Anna had her head down over the map, which she was studying with the aid of a pencil torch. She said, “When we get to the next turning, we could be in sight of their huts. You will have to turn out your lights.”

  “If I turn out the lights, we’ll end up in the ditch.”

  “Turn out your headlights, then, and go very slowly.”

  They crept along in low gear. After a few minutes Peter said, “I remember that farmhouse. We’re pretty close to the turning up to the camp. We must find somewhere to put the car. Somewhere where it won’t be bogged.”

  They found a place two hundred yards past the farm. It was a gateway leading into a field. Peter said, “Open the gate, if you can. I’ll go past the opening and back the car in.”

  He managed this manoeuvre without disaster. The entrance to the gate felt solid, and sloped outward toward the road. Peter backed the big car far enough in for the gate to be shut again. The hedges on both sides gave cover. He turned out the side lights and locked the doors, and they started out. He noticed that nothing was now said about him staying in the car and Anna going forward alone.

  The rain was lighter, hitting them in bursts as the wind blew it. They kept to the inside of the hedge and marched steadily forward. Peter counted their steps as they went. Four hundred, five hundred. They must be well past the turning up to the camp by now. Six hundred.

  They had climbed two wire boundary fences and burst their way through one hedge. An opening showed on their right. Peter touched Anna on the arm.

  She had found an old windcheater of Captain Andy’s, and was wearing jeans tucked into her socks. Every stitch of her clothing was sodden with water and her feet must have been caked with mud, but she was moving easily, as though night was her element.

  When she felt Peter’s touch, she nodded. They turned through the opening, crossed the road and a deep ditch on the far side, and started to climb. Although uphill, it was easier going, over turf with patches of bracken and heather. Twice Peter put a foot into a rabbit hole and went forward onto his knees. Anna seemed to make her way by instinct.

  When they nearly fell into the open excavation, Peter was able to pick up his bearings.

  He said, speaking quietly, although the wind must have killed any sound at six paces, “This path leads back to the camp. There’s a sharp lefthand turn by a tree just before you get there. Better stop there and have a look.”

  Anna nodded again. They moved quietly forward until they reached the tree. Both of them were seeing better now.

  “That’s the office hut. The barn is beyond it. That’s where they keep the exhibits. And you can just see the caravans, at right angles to the barn.”

  Anna said, “I can see something else.” She pointed. “There. Can you see it?”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “In the doorway of the barn. It’s a man. There. Can you see now?”

  A faint spark of light, quickly gone.

  “He’s a sentry. A bad and careless sentry. He’s smoking a cigarette. Each time he turns his head—”

  “Yes,” said Peter, “I see him now. If they’ve taken the trouble to post a guard in weather like this, I know where Kevin is.”

  “In the barn?”

  “Not just in the barn. As you go through the door, there’s a smaller door on your right. Let me think about it for a moment. Yes. There’s no lock on the inner door. It’s shut by big, old-fashioned bolts at the top and bottom. I can’t remember if the barn door had a lock or not. If anything, it would be a padlock.”

  “If it’s a padlock, the sentry will have the key.”

  “I expect so.”

  “Then stay where you are. I shall not be long.”

  “Hadn’t I better—”

  Anna turned in the darkness and said, with her face close to his: “You have done very well so far, little Peter. Please do as I say. There is no time for arguments and discussions. I understand this work better than you do.” Then she had gone.

  Peter could follow her progress until she was almost up to the barn. Then the small blackness that was the girl melted into the greater blackness of the barn and was swallowed up.

  Five slow minutes passed.

  He thought he saw a flurry of movement in the barn doorway, but no sound reached him. Then, for further long minutes, nothing more. Peter strained his eyes, concentrating on the doorway. But the rain, as it eased, had thickened. It was almost a curtain of mist. He was blind as well as deaf.

  He jumped as Anna loomed out of the darkness. Her breath was coming in harsh gasps and she put a hand on his arm to steady herself. Peter said, “You couldn’t open the door? Kevin wasn’t there?”

  “I opened the door. Kevin is there. You will have to come and help me. Quick, please.”

  Peter followed her down the path. The waiting had stiffened him up and he stumbled once or twice. Anna turned around and said in a venomous whisper, “Watch what you’re doing. There are people very near.”

  Peter saw the man on the ground just in time to avoid stepping on him. He was sprawled flat with head twisted away from them toward the line of caravans parked beyond.

  It was pitch black inside the barn, and the rain on the corrugated iron roof drowned all sounds. Anna flicked on her pencil flashlight once, to show him that the inner door was open, and once again when they were inside.

  When the archaeologists had taken over the barn, they had moved all the farmer’s stuff into the inner room, which was jampacked with rusty machinery, hurdles, and farm rubbish. Kevin was crouching on the floor, with his back against an iron drum. He looked up for a moment at the light, and then his head dropped again, as though there was no strength in his neck.

  “He is not tied,” said Anna, “but he cannot use his legs.”

  “I can walk if you help me,” said Kevin. The words came out thickly.

  They got an arm each under his arms and hoisted him to his feet. He was able to help them a little, but each time he put his feet to the ground they heard him draw his breath in. They had reached the outer door of the barn when the light in the nearest caravan went on, throwing a pale yellow beam through the dancing rain.

  Someone was moving inside the caravan, but he was moving without haste. Anna said, “Come on,” and they stumbled up the track. Peter expected any moment to hear a door flung open, a shout, feet thundering in pursuit. Nothing happened. They moved away with maddening deliberation. “Faster,” said Peter to himself, “for God’s sake, faster.”

  They reached the tree. A few steps more and they were out of sight. Peter could feel the sweat mixing
with the rain and running down his forehead and into his eyes.

  The ascent of the path was a long agony. Anna said something to Kevin in their own tongue and he guessed she was encouraging him. When they reached the excavation, they would turn left and from that point onward it would be downhill and easier going.

  Kevin was weakening. He was becoming more and more of a dead weight between them. Only by an unimaginable effort of courage and willpower had he kept his burned and twisted body moving at all.

  “We shall have to stop,” said Peter.

  “When we get to the ditch,” said Anna between her teeth.

  How they covered the last nightmare stretch Peter never knew. Fortune must have been on their side. One foot in a rabbit hole, a single slip would have wrecked their frail convoy. When they slid into the deep ditch on the near side of the road, it was clear that they could go no farther. They were in a harbour of a sort. They crouched together in the dark.

  When they had got a little of their breath back, Peter said, “Did you kill that man?”

  Anna was busy attending to Kevin. She said, “Yes,” without looking up. Peter wanted to say, “How?” but it was not a question of immediate importance. He supposed that if you knew how to kill people and had the right sort of weapon, it was easy to come up behind a man, in the night and the storm, and break his neck. What was puzzling him was that he was certain he had seen the dead man before. Then he remembered. It was one of the young men who had been in the car outside Miss Wolfe’s house – the car which had followed him down to Sudbury, how many days, how many weeks, how many years ago?

  When he told her, Anna seemed uninterested. “It is very likely,” she said. “His name is Ramon. Stephen is his older brother. It is not important. I am trying to think what we shall do next.”

  “We stay here,” said Peter. “It’s not very comfortable, I agree, but it’s safe. In a few hours it will be light. We’ll stop the first car that comes along.”