by John Creasey
He sprang over the side of the car, on the right. The man in that hedge was scrambling through now, and they were almost level with each other; the fatal thing would be to allow the other to get behind him. The first man, only ten feet away, was rushing along with the upraised cudgel.
Woburn had no weapon.
There was loose gravel at the side of the road.
He stooped down and snatched a handful and flung it into the nearer man’s face; flung a second at the man with the cudgel. He heard the gasp as the gravel struck the first man, and then turned and ran.
He heard the men scrambling, then footsteps on the road.
He heard a shout: “ Get him!”
He turned his head, and saw both of them, this side of the M.G. now, and one of them held not a cudgel but a gun. That couldn’t be mistaken. The narrow road was an aid to shooting, and the man could hardly miss; he was only thirty feet away.
There was a gap in the rocks which rose above Woburn, and inside the gap he might find cover.
Woburn leapt towards the gap, as he heard the crack of the shot. Nothing touched him. Now rocks hid him; and he had won back hope. The gap was an old quarry, with a path leading back to the road a hundred yards farther on. Big rocks dotted it. He didn’t pause to think, didn’t even wonder what this was all about; he just had to save his life. Every rock was shelter; every patch of clear ground a torment. He kept treading in holes and on stones, but nothing tripped him up.
He heard another shot.
He didn’t even look round. The pounding of the blood in his ears and of his own feet made the only sound. Then, he reached the road again; just ahead, it curved sharply, and he dared glance round.
Both men had climbed up on to the rocks above the road, to a point where they could see him the moment he went farther. One would wait up there, the other chase him out of this place of safety.
A man began to scramble down the rocks.
Woburn couldn’t fight a man with a gun; even stones—
He heard the sharp beat of a motor-cycle engine.
There was the smashed radiator and bumper of the little sports car to prove everything that Woburn said, and there was the huge boulder, too. The nearest loose boulders like it were a mile away; this one had been rolled to the point of greatest danger. The motor-cyclist patrolman made sure of that before he radioed a message for Campbell. Then he drove along the road, but there was no sign of the two men. Woburn tried to describe them, but it wasn’t easy. The man on his left had just been a shape, but the one who had run towards him had been short with a low, wrinkled forehead, a pointed chin. But it was expression more than feature which Woburn remembered.
“Better get back to the cross-roads, sir,” the motor-cycle patrolman advised, “the Inspector would like ye to meet him there. Were you going to the Castle for anything important?”
“It can keep,” Woburn said.
“You could telephone from the A.A. box.”
“Ah, yes,” Woburn said. “Good thought. Thanks.” He wanted to be pleasant; he wanted to be grateful; but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but fierce, burning anger, and now he had someone to rage at. Two men, one whom he would know again and one whom he wouldn’t, had tried to kill him. First to crash, then to batter him to death and, when both attempts had failed, to shoot him.
Kill at all costs—
Why?
On the back of the patrol-machine, he soon reached the A.A. box. Campbell’s car was coming along from the road to the village. An emergency post had been set up as near the fallen road as the police thought safe to venture, and rescue parties were already finding their way down the village itself. Small boats were moving where streets had been, and the grim task of recovering the bodies had started. Behind Campbell’s car came an ambulance, moving slowly.
Campbell looked shaggy and solid, and more in command of himself; brisker, too.
“Hallo, Mr. Woburn, hear you’ve run into some trouble.”
“It was waiting for me,” Woburn said.
“Like to do something for me?” asked Campbell, almost bluffly. “Keep the report confidential, sir. Harris.”
The patrolman said smartly: “Yes, sir?”
“I don’t want a word of this to anyone else. Make out your report yourself, and give it to me personally. Don’t report to the sergeant at the station. Is that all clear?”
“All clear, sir.”
“Um, thanks,” said Campbell, and turned to Woburn again. He looked as if he were searching for the exact words. “Mr. Woburn, I’m sorry I can’t be more free with my information, but we’re verra worried about what’s happened, verra worried indeed. I had an urgent request from the Home Office when I telephoned you, and I was asked to make sure you didna give any details to anyone except the gentleman who’ll be coming at nine o’clock.” He looked at a big steel watch on a hairy wrist. “Plenty of time, it’s only half past seven. The instructions were verra emphatic, sir, and while no one said anything about such an attack as this happening, I think my instructions apply to that as well. Confidential, sir, top secret.”
Woburn didn’t speak.
“And if you’d be good enough to co-operate—”
“I can keep my mouth shut, if it’s necessary,” Woburn said. He didn’t like the turn this had taken, didn’t like talk of the Home Office, which put it on a much higher level of significance; but the Home Office and police officers didn’t talk like this without good reason. “That needn’t stop you looking for the swine, need it?”
“It need not.” Campbell was emphatic. “I took the report from Harris on the radio-telephone, and gave immediate orders. And we should catch ‘em, too. All roads leading to Wolf village are blocked, police barriers to keep the sightseers away, and the Press. I’ll check at Ronoch Castle, too. Can’t watch all the roads for people on foot, of course, but we’ve motor-cycle patrols on the go all the time, I think we’ll get ‘em all right. You don’t intend to leave the farm again tonight, sir, do you?”
Something in his manner suggested that he really meant: “You’re not to leave the farm again.” Woburn was on the point of acute irritation, the phrase: “I’ll go as and when I please” was actually on his lips, when another car came along, and he recognised the old farm Morris. In a flash, Campbell was forgotten. He swung round towards the car, a fierce hope in him.
One look at Jenny’s face killed that hope.
Campbell said: “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, Mr. Woburn, but—”
“I’ll be at the farm until I’ve seen this man from London.” Woburn’s voice was harsh as he promised that.
“Bob,” said Bill Robertson, a little after half past eight, “I think I ought to take Jenny to see my sister.” His sister lived in Scourie, and the two families got along well. “I don’t think anyone can help her like another woman. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“May come back, may stay the night,” Robertson said.
“Do whatever helps most, Bill.”
“In a way,” Robertson said, picking his words with great care, “it’s a help that you’re here. You’ll never know how much she looked forward to your coming. She often said: ‘I can’t believe I’ll have the three of them together again, my three men’.” Robertson’s jaws worked. “Hang on a bit, won’t you? We want you about.”
“I’ll be here, Bill.”
Robertson nodded, and moved off. A few minutes later, he took Jenny out by the front door. She wasn’t wearing a hat, but was dressed just as she had been when baking, except for the plastic apron. She carried a coat. The evening was warm, and the sun not yet set so far north as this. Woburn stood and watched as they went to the car, now parked at the front of the farmhouse, and he saw a uniformed policeman move from a corner of the house. Not far away, a police patrolman, on a motor-cycle, went slowly past, turned, and passed again.
Jenny and Bill Robertson disappeared.
Woburn went
into the back of the house, the kitchen which was used more than any other room; living-room, kitchen and parlour. There was the big cream-coloured Aga cooker, the old, comfortable chairs, the open larder door, the big earthenware crock of milk, the cake tins tightly lidded, a dish of the small jam tarts she had made that afternoon. Some scones, too.
A man moved, at the end of the farmyard; it wasn’t Jamie, but another policeman.
Woburn said, in a soft voice: “They’re guarding me as if I were worth a fortune. Or—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but it was sharp in his mind: or as if his life were in danger.
Two policemen at the front, one at the back, a ceaseless patrol – what was it all about? When would he know?
It was twenty minutes to nine.
He felt hungry, and was irrationally annoyed with himself. He went into the larder, cut two slices off a home-cured gammon, and two slices of crusty white bread; Jenny still made her own. There were the jam tarts, too. He selected three. He picked up a small dish of clotted cream, and remembered how Reggie liked to put a big dob on a jam tart, and pop the whole into his mouth, invariably getting a sharp:
“Reggie, when are you going to grow up?”
Woburn put the tarts back.
He was finishing the second sandwich, and the grandfather clock in the hall was striking nine, when a car pulled into the front drive.
So at least the man from London was punctual.
6
The car was a black Jaguar. The man at the wheel wore a light grey suit, and, when he got out, Woburn saw that he was taller than average, a lissom type of man in beautifully cut clothes, with his fair hair glinting golden in the evening sun; even from a distance, it looked silky, and it curled a little at the temples and on the forehead. To look at, something of a dandy. He didn’t move towards the farmhouse at once, but waited for another man to get out of the car – from the back.
Woburn, grim-faced and hard-eyed, would have said that he was past any further jolt; that it would take a great deal to move him from his present mood of livid hatred – against two men, against the very nature which had brought this disaster to the Highlands, as if life here were not already hard enough. Yet, his mood did change, and as he watched the man get out of the back of the car, he actually shook his head in disbelief. The man must be seven feet tall, and had vast shoulders. The first was at least six feet tall, and yet had to look up at the giant, who not only caught but held Woburn’s attention as the couple walked towards the farmhouse.
Woburn opened the door quickly, and watched.
The giant wore dark brown; his tailor must have felt that he was cutting a suit for a statue twice life size. Yet he was not at all ungainly. He had brown hair, cut rather short, his features were good and regular, and their size did not make them even slightly grotesque; he was just big, in a friendly-looking way. That thought came as they drew near enough for Woburn to study his expression, and to see the gentleness in it.
The shorter man spoke.
“Is it Mr. Woburn?”
“Yes.”
“You’re very good to wait in for us,” the man with fair hair said, as if he were really conscious of the favour. “And for being so patient. My name is Palfrey, Dr. Palfrey, and this is an associate of mine, Mr. Andromovitch.”
Woburn’s gaze was drawn to the big man’s. ‘Something-vitch’, which made him Russian. He had grey eyes, flecked with brown; large, clear, browny grey. When he smiled, Woburn noticed how ridiculously well-shaped his lips were.
“Good evening, Mr. Woburn.” The greeting came formally, and it was impossible to say that he had any accent.
“Good evening,” Woburn said, and realised that he was standing in the doorway like a dummy, and made no effort to admit them. He stood aside. “Come in, will you?”
The front room of the farmhouse was on the right of the stone-paved hall. Long, with wide, shallow windows, it was Jenny’s pride. Along one wall a fine dresser, the oak almost black from years of polishing, held china which was hundreds of years old. Brasses and copper sparkled on the walls, and one copper warming-pan, catching the sun as it came in at a corner window, glowed like the sunset itself. Everything here was old, most of it was oak. The curtains were of rich blue velvet, the carpet a Persian. Here were chairs large enough for the huge man, too.
Woburn motioned to the chairs, and asked: “What can I get you to drink?”
“Thanks, but we’re fine,” said the man who had announced himself as Dr. Palfrey.
Woburn wanted a drink, now that he had thought of it; wished that he had made sure that Bill had gone out with a whisky under his belt.
“Please yourself,” he said, “I’m having a whisky and soda.”
Palfrey smiled. “If that’s the case, I’ll join you.”
“And Mr.—?”
“Andromovitch,” said the giant, carefully. “I would very much like a cold beer, if it is possible.”
“There’s plenty,” Woburn said.
The beer was in a little room off the larder; one which kept very cool. He fetched it. He echoed the giant’s pronunciation of his own name: “Andromovitch.” With that sentence, too, the man had shown a slight accent, but nothing very pronounced. Of the two Palfrey’s voice was at least as deep, perhaps deeper. In his way, Palfrey was unexpectedly impressive.
The name Palfrey had a familiar ring about it.
Woburn went back and poured the drinks, took them round, and then sat on the arm of a chair. Palfrey was in a small chair near the window, Andromovitch deep in an armchair by the huge fireplace.
“Good health,” Palfrey said, and sipped. “Ah.” Now, he made Woburn look at him. His eyes, grey-blue, had an intentness one couldn’t forget. His chin might be a little small, almost weak, and his shoulders slightly rounded, but neither of those things mattered; here was a man of unusual stature. “Mr. Woburn,” he went on, “I’m sorry that we’ve mystified you. It was our fault, and not the Inspector’s. He doesn’t know, and there’s no reason why anyone should, why we regard this grievous news from the village as a form of national emergency. However, he had been asked to report by telephone to the Home Office if anything remotely resembling a crab which spurted water was found, and he was very prompt. I’d been asked to investigate similar phenomena, for the Home Office, and – well, as you will know, I flew up here at once. On the way down we heard of the attack on you, and arranged for immediate steps to be taken to try to make sure of your safety, because you may be an extremely important witness.”
Palfrey said all this quietly and without particular emphasis.
“And we should be grateful if you would tell us the story again,” he went on. “From the time you first noticed anything unusual, to the time when you came back here. The incident on the road this evening can be fitted in later.”
“It may not have anything to do with the water,” Woburn said.
“It could have,” Palfrey said.
Woburn sipped his drink. He had told Jenny, and it had been easy, but he hadn’t known everything then. Now, it was a hideous story; the tale of the death by drowning of two or three hundred people, including Reg and including ‘her’ sister.
He reached the specimen ‘thing’.
Palfrey was sitting up, more erect; and smoking.
“These crab-like things,” he said, “how big were they?”
“A little larger than a child’s hand,” Woburn answered.
“Would you mind describing them again?”
“They had a shell, but it can’t be very strong, it crushes more easily than a crab’s,” said Woburn. “The shell is rather like a hood – the thing looked rather like a round shaped crab. Muddy grey in colour. Had eight legs – more like little tentacles than legs and feet.” He paused. Then: “That’s about all.”
“Thank you.” Palfrey left it to Woburn to go on.
“They were a muddy grey colour, as I say, under and over. The one I saw on its back had a kind of jelly inside – that’
s what it looked like, anyhow. In fact if it weren’t for the shell I’d say they looked as much like jellyfish as anything. The kind you get a lot of in the Pacific, especially around the east coast of Australia.”
“I know the things,” Palfrey said.
“The grass was crawling,” Woburn went on, and shivered. “The astounding thing was the way they burst. The water shot out with such force that it hurt – that dog almost went mad! – and I swear that there were gallons of water from each one of them.” He bent down and rolled up his trouser leg. “It bruised my leg as if I’d fallen heavily.”
He pointed.
Palfrey said: “Yes,” and got up. He was ‘Dr.’ Palfrey, Woburn remembered. Was it doctor of medicine? He bent down and peered at the slight discoloration of the flesh.
“As far as we know,” he said, standing up, “it’s ordinary water. Simple H20.” For a moment he looked and sounded almost vague. “How long have you been down here, Mr. Woburn?”
“Ten days.”
“Had you seen any of these crustaceans before?”
“No.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I’m positive,” Woburn asserted.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“Only Campbell. Miss Davos saw them, of course.”
“One of the things I’m going to ask is that you don’t say a word about them to anyone else,” Palfrey said. “But we can come to that later. Do you know Miss Davos well?”
“We’d never met before,” Woburn answered.
Something about the way Palfrey looked at him suggested doubt. It was a probing, questioning look; the big Andromovitch had it, too.
“You’ve never been to Ronoch Castle, I gather,” Palfrey said at last.
“I only arrived in England eleven days ago,” Woburn told him. “One night in London, off the ship from New York, and I came straight down here. It’s my first visit home for five years. I’d heard about the Castle being sold and the Davos family being there, with a big zoo, but—”
“Did you know anything about the Davos family?”
“Only what my sister and her husband told me,” said Woburn, “and that was so little that I didn’t even know there was a daughter.”