The Empty House
The Empty House
First published in 1979
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1979-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755105249 | | 9780755105243 | | Print | |
| | 075513186X | | 9780755131860 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755132238 | | 9780755132232 | | Epub |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
“The plot,”
wrote Keating, “
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings.”
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
“I always take a latish train to work,” he explained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”.
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
The empty house was quiet. The street outside was quiet. Even the sea was quiet. As Peter wrote, the light grew and the sounds of day began to steal back. Away down the road a door slammed and footsteps clattered on the pavement. A boy came past on a bicycle, whistling. A car started up.
By the time he reached the last page of his report, the sun was over the horizon in the east. The first long, slanting rays were reflected off the sea and threw a pattern of dancing light onto the ceiling. He switched off the table lamp.
It was customary to end a long report with a summary of its conclusions. In this case, it presented no difficulty. Peter wrote: “Total certainty can only be achieved if the body is recovered and fingerprints and dental details are matched. But, in view of the facts which have now come to light, there cannot be any further room for doubt that Dr. Wolfe is dead, and that one of the causes of his death was drowning. The sum secured by the policy will therefore have to be paid to his sister, Lavinia.”
A tiny piece salvaged from the wreckage.
He blotted the last page, shuffled all the pages together, inserted them in the envelope, and sealed it.
Colonel Bob Hay came out of the back door of Rackthorn Farm and started off up the slope toward Culme Head.
It was the first day of July. It had been raining all day, as it had been raining for most of the previous month, signalling the start of the wettest summer recorded in the annals of the West Country for forty years.
The late-evening sun was out now, throwing a slanting light onto the dripping ferns and the lumps of black rock which stood up through the sodden turf.
The Colonel climbed steadily. He was making for the hillock which rose, like one of twin breasts, fifty yards short of the cliff edge. It was crowned by a heap of stones and a wooden post with a curiously shaped iron basket on top. When he reached this vantage point, the Colonel turned to look back.
Below him, in the valley, brown and full from the rain, the River Culme ran to its outlet in Rackthorn Bay. The tide was almost high, and he could just make out the ruffle of water which indicated the position of the bar, an arm of sand exposed at low tide and almost blocking the mouth of the bay.
“Dangerous place,” he said to himself. “You could cross it now, and for an hour either side of full tide. You’d come to grief if you tried it much sooner, or much later.”
He looked up at the iron basket, visualising it full of tarred wood and throwing a lurid light across the bay. It had been a favourite device of the wreckers to extinguish the true beacon and light a false one, luring ships onto the needle- sharp rocks at the foot of Rackthorn Point.
“Wicked devils,” said the Colonel.
At a point on the other side of the bay where the cliff came down to water level, there was a line of parked caravans. A track ran up behind them. From where he stood, the Colonel could follow it as it headed up toward the point and then swung away out of sight behind a clump of trees, emerging down and disappearing in the direction of Cryde.
Inland, he could see a mile or more of the road from Cryde to Huntercombe and, almost due south of where he was standing, the point where the byroad from Bridgetown joined it. He watched a car coming up the byroad and wondered whether it would swing right or left. In fact it did neither. It crossed the main road and set off up the track toward the caravan site.
The Colonel unslung the field glasses which he was carrying over one shoulder, and focused them on the car. For the moment it had gone out of sight behind the farm buildings. Now it emerged again. A dark-blue Vauxhall saloon of the old, heavy, four-door type. Impossible at that angle to see who was in it, but he got a distinct impression that the seat beside the driver was unoccupied.
The car passed the line of parked caravans without slowing, and went on up the track, disappearing at the top behind the clump of trees. “Wonder where he’s heading for,” said the Colonel. “If he’s making for Cryde, why didn’t he take the main road? There’s nothing else up there to stop for. Admiring the view, perhaps?”
When it came, the noise was muted by distance but horribly distinct. For a full five seconds the Colonel stood staring, as though, if he looked hard enough, he could see through the screen of trees. Then he started to run down the hill.
As he reached the farmhouse, a younger man came out, carrying a light sporting rifle. He said, “Something up?”
“A car,” said the Colonel. His voice was coming in jerks. “Didn’t see it go over. Heard it. I’m going up to look.”
As he spoke, he was unhitching the small boat alongside the landing stage.
“Oars,” said the young man.
“Can’t wait. Use the boathook.””Any idea who it was?”
“Recognised the car. Couldn’t see who was in it. Could be Alex Wolfe. Better get through to Western Command and ask them to send someone over. As quick as you can.” Using the boathook as a makeshift paddle, the Colonel sent the boat skimming across the twenty yards of troubled water. The tide was just making against the current, judging matters with the skill of long practice, he laid the boat against the landing stage on the other side, threw a loop of rope over a projecting stump, jumped out, and trotted off up the path toward the caravan site. The whole manoeuvre had taken him less than half a minute. By the time he landed, the young man had disappeared into the house. A middle-aged man wearing shorts and a bush shirt came out of one of the caravans. The Colonel said, “If that’s your car, I wonder if you’d help. Run me up the track. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“Sure,” said the man. “I thought I heard something. I was coming out to look. Hop in.”
“Steady when you get to the top. Don’t want you over, too.”
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “I’m a cautious type. I think we’ll stop here, shall we?”He pulled his car to one side of the track and they got out. At this point the track ran out toward the cliff, swung to the right some way short of the edge, and then began its bumpy descent in the direction of Cryde Bay. A line of white posts marked the cliff edge.
It was only too clear what had happened.
From the point where the track turned, a line of tyre marks showed on the turf. They could picture the frantic braking, but the treacherous ground had offered no grip. One of the white posts had gone, carrying with it a length of rail; another was leaning outward at an angle over empty space.
The Colonel walked cautiously forward and peered over the edge. Two hundred feet below him the water surged and eddied, blue and green and white- crested, between the fangs of rock. With a harsh scream a seagull took off from the edge of the cliff and volplaned down in a graceful curve toward the sea.
