The Empty House (20 page)

“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—”

“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?”

“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.

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.”