A Hole in the Ground

by Andrew Garve

  “I’ll say it isn’t. If you really mean what you’re saying, it’s serious. You see, I happen to be getting married next week, and if you’re going to spread rumours like this around, some people are going to get extremely annoyed.”

  “Getting married! You!”

  “Yes, me. Have you anything against it?”

  “But …” Julie subsided into a chair. “But how can you? Laurence definitely told me he was with you the week before last. I—I’m going to divorce him.”

  “What, and name me as co-respondent? Really, this is too much. Are you mad, both of you?”

  Julie stared at her. “Do you mean it’s not true?”

  “Of course it’s not true—I’ve never heard such outrageous nonsense,”

  “But …”

  “My dear girl, I’ve just come back from a fortnight with my fiance’s people in Cornwall. If your husband was with anyone, it was with someone else. And if he’s told you it was with me I think he’s behaved like an absolute swine.”

  “What about the other times?”

  “What other times? The only affair I ever had with Laurence was about ten years ago—long before you ever knew him.”

  “He told me twice before that he’d been away with you. Since the war.”

  “It’s an absolute lie. Why, I haven’t even seen him for at least five years. The whole thing’s monstrous. To-morrow I shall go and see my lawyer.” She turned angrily to the door.

  Julie looked completely mystified. “I hardly know what to say—I don’t understand it at all. It seems—well—inadequate to apologise, but I am terribly sorry. Please forgive me. I’d believed him, you see, and I had to find him …”

  “If I were you,” said Brenda, “I shouldn’t bother!” She stalked out, and the clatter of her high heels quickly died; away.

  Julie closed the door and sank into her chair again, utterly bewildered. She had no doubt whatever that Brenda had spoken the truth—her whole manner had been completely convincing. Why, then, had Laurence tried to involve her? What was the point? All Julie could think of was that he might have been trying to shield someone else, but if so he had been incredibly reckless and stupid, for he must have known that the lie would be exposed almost at once.

  Her thoughts went back to the scene in the cottage. She remembered now that it was actually she who’d first mentioned Brenda’s name—Laurence had simply agreed. And now that she came to think of it, he hadn’t agreed very readily. He’d hesitated—and no wonder! No wonder, either, that he’d been so anxious for her not to start divorce proceedings! It made her feel a little sick to recall his emotional pleading, his certainty that they could do better in the future. It began to look now as though he’d merely wanted to prevent her uncovering the truth.

  But what was the truth? Had he been away with a woman at all? Julie was beginning to doubt it. She’d been too upset in the Lakes to consider the matter coolly, particularly when he’d admitted it, but now she wondered. He hadn’t looked as though he’d been having a holiday with a girl. He’d looked scruffy, and he’d been wearing frightfully old clothes—as though he’d been off on his own somewhere. But if there was no woman in the case, and he’d just seized on that as a handy explanation, what on earth had he been doing during all that time when he should have been in France? What was he hiding from her? And what had he been biding on those former occasions when he’d been unable to account for his movements and had confessed so humbly to infidelities that he hadn’t committed?

  She felt hopelessly at a loss. The trouble between them had seemed simple and rather sordid, and now it seemed neither. It didn’t look as though she had any grounds for divorce after all, but she had more grounds for worry. Something very odd was going on, and the mystery of his present whereabouts was still unsolved.

  She passed a wretched night, revolving fantastic theories, and by morning she had made up her mind to go to the cottage. It was there that he was most likely to turn up and she now felt it imperative to see him again. She rang Jane, who sounded agitated. The broadcast message, it seemed, had had no result so far. All the morning newspapers, she said, had some reference to it, and she thought the “evenings” would be following up the story. One of the political correspondents had already been on the phone asking if it was true that Laurence Quilter had been offered a post. There must have been a leak somewhere. Julie told her of her own plans and left the flat before the newspapers could start worrying her. She caught the morning train from Euston with time to spare and by late afternoon she was once more back at the cottage.

  Her fears for Laurence’s safety had returned during the journey, and she made a quick nervous tour of the house. Her more melodramatic imaginings were soon disproved—at least he hadn’t cut his throat in the bath or hanged himself from a beam. The place was in almost exactly the same condition as when she had last seen it. The bed was still unmade, the kitchen was in the same chaotic state—nothing at all had been done. The only difference was that the papers and mail had piled up again. Laurence had evidently left very soon after she had. He hadn’t taken much with him, either. She could find no case missing, no coat or mackintosh, none of his suits. Indeed, after going over the cottage with a fine comb she decided that he must still be wearing the same old flannel trousers and disreputable sports jacket, and that all he’d taken was his rucksack. That seemed to settle it—he was walking.

  She spent a busy hour putting the cottage to rights and then got the station wagon out and drove down into Blean to see if the local police had heard anything. Her old friend Sergeant Barrett was on duty behind the desk and he greeted her cordially. He hadn’t any news, though. Apparently the county police had been making inquiries at all the inns and hotels in the district, but so far without success.

  “I was wondering if he might have had an accident,” said Julie anxiously. “I suppose it isn’t possible to organise a search party?”

  “Not much use till we’ve some idea where he is,” said; Barratt. “I shouldn’t worry, Mrs. Quilter—he knows his way about the hills. He’ll turn up, all right.”

  “I hope it’s soon, that’s all.”

  The sergeant nodded. “I see from the papers there’s some job waiting for him. I’m glad of that—he’s earned it. Now don’t bother yourself—we’ll find him. I’ll give you a ring directly we hear.”

  Julie thanked him warmly and drove back to the cottage. As she switched the engine off her eye fell on the speedometer and she gave a little frown. Surely that mileage couldn’t be right? She remembered that the night they’d driven back from the meeting in Blean the speedometer had registered under seventy thousand. Now it read 72,100. Laurence couldn’t possibly have done two thousand miles in that short time. She thought about it for a moment and decided that she must have misread the figure the first time. No point in making things more complicated than they were already.

  The evening passed slowly. Once the sound of a car brought her rushing to the door, but the caller turned out to be a young reporter from the Coalhaven Mercury who said he was “on the story.” She asked him in and offered him a drink, glad of his company, but there was little she could tell him and even less he could tell her. When he had gone she rang up Jane, but in London also there was no news.

  Next morning the telephone started ringing before she was up and went on almost without a pause. There was a call from the Blean police, wanting to know if by any chance Laurence had turned up, and one from Jane, and one from the P.M.’s office, and one from Adam Johnson. It all seemed frightfully futile, thought Julie—everybody was asking everybody else and no one knew a thing. There were calls from the Manchester offices of three national newspapers, sympathetic in tone but with an underlying zest, as though they thought there might be good copy. Two more reporters called and one, to Julie’s indignation, asked her if it could all be a “publicity stunt.” In the end she got tired of explaining that she knew nothing, nothing at all, and walked up the hill to get a little peace. She took a book a
nd some cigarettes and settled herself beside the Pikes for a quiet hour.

  It was nearly lunch time when she went down again. As she approached the house she heard the sound of a car hooter from behind the barn. Another reporter, she thought. Or perhaps it was the police.… She quickened her pace a little:

  Suddenly she stopped in her tracks, her heart almost turning over. It must be a hallucination, it couldn’t be.… Then she saw him plainly, standing by the jeep, looking up at the cottage as though he weren’t quite sure whether he’d come to the right place.

  “Ben!” she shrieked, and raced down the grassy bank.

  Chapter Eleven

  He swung round, and his face broke into a huge smile. “Hello, there!” He held out his arms invitingly and she flung herself into his embrace, hugging him in ecstatic relief. “Ben!—oh, Ben!—can it really be you?” She Was laughing and almost crying. “Ben, I can’t believe it—what are you doing here?—I thought you were hundreds of miles away. Oh, Ben, how did you know I needed you? Let me look at you—let me feel you.”

  He held her away from him. “I’m real, honey. Take it easy—I’ll be here for a couple of minutes. Gee, this sure makes the trip worth while.”

  She still clung to him. “Oh, Ben, darling, I’ve missed you so much. I was such a fool—I’ve never stopped thinking of you. I didn’t know.… It’s been so awful, Ben, everything’s gone wrong. I’m so miserable—and so happy. Oh, God. I am an idiot!”

  “My, you are steamed up! Just relax, will you?”

  “I still can’t believe it’s you. How did you know I was here? How did you find your way? What brought you?”

  He grinned. “Seismograph! The instrument showed a pronounced disturbance around these parts, and by heck it was right.”

  “Oh, Ben, I don’t understand—I thought we should never; see each other again.”

  “That was how I figured it too, honey, but the Fates seem to be working on our side.”

  “What happened?”

  “To me? Well, I went off to Switzerland, feeling kind of low, and drifted around for a day or two trying to kid myself I was liking the scenery. It wasn’t any use, though—all I could think of was the golden lights in your eyes. I reckoned I’d be better off in London where I knew a few people, so I shipped the jeep over from the Hook yesterday morning and about the first thing I saw when I got into town was this.”

  He produced a crumpled evening paper and she ran a nervous eye over the headlines. “MacArthur Flies to Front”—“Explosives Stolen from Army Dump”—“Meat Ration up 2d.” Nothing there. Ah! “M.P. Mystery. Broadcast Appeal.” She read it through, bat it was already old news.

  “See what I mean? Well, I hadn’t intended to look you up, much as I wanted to, but when I read that I thought it was kind of queer, especially after all that funny business in France, so I got your phone number from the London Directory and called your apartment. There wasn’t a reply, of course, and then I figured that if that guy of yours had been staying up here when he disappeared, as the paper said, it was likely you’d be up here too. So I asked a policeman at Marble Arch how to get to Cumberland and he pointed this way and here I am. Quite a trip it was, too—who said England was small?”

  “Oh, Ben, you must have driven all night. I am a selfish pig—can I get you anything? ”

  “I could use a drink, honey—I guess that’s all I need. I had a snack at a roadside dump. Matter of fact, I quite enjoyed the trip.” He followed her into the house and watched her get the glasses. “Gosh, Julie, it’s good to see you again. I’ve been only half alive, and that’s the truth. I kept telling myself I’d get over you in a week or two, and I knew darned well I hadn’t a hope. Well—here’s to our reunion!” He clinked his glass against hers. “And now suppose you do some talking. Has your M.P. really disappeared?”

  “I don’t know what’s happened—I wish I did. I think I’d better start from the beginning …”

  “It’s a good place,” said Ben, settling back in his chair.

  “Okay, shoot!”

  She sat on the arm beside him and told him everything—how she’d tried to find out where he’d gone to when she got. the last telegram in France, and how furious she’d been, and all about her row with Laurence and her decision to divorce him and her miserable days in town. Ben gave her hand a reassuring squeeze once or twice over the tough bits but he didn’t attempt to hide his satisfaction at the way things had worked out. It was only when she came to her conversation with Brenda that he sat up sharply and stared at her.

  “Why, that’s about the screwiest thing I ever heard. What do you suppose he was playing at?”

  “I don’t know,” said Julie slowly. “But I think now that he must have been in some sort of trouble—I think something had happened that he couldn’t tell me about and that when I suggested he’d been with Brenda he jumped at it as a way out.”

  “She seems to have been an alibi for him all along.”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Julie, he’s never actually been in trouble, has he? With the police, I mean?”

  “Good gracious, no! He’s always been terribly conscientious and law-abiding.” She gave a rueful smile. “He even fusses sometimes over our black market whisky.”

  “Well, it sure looks as though he’s been up to something he shouldn’t.”

  “I’m afraid for him, Ben. He’s been behaving in such a, peculiar way for so long, and it’s days since anyone spoke to him. If he were all right I’m sure something would have been heard of him by now.”

  Ben studied her anxious face. “And it worries you a lot?”

  “Yes, it does. I can’t help it. Don’t misunderstand me, Ben—it’s only that—well, this is something I feel I’ve got to see through to the end.”

  “Fair enough, honey. I guess we’ll see it through together. He’ll probably show up soon.”

  Julie glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly one o’clock now—let’s just see if there’s anything about him on the wireless and then I’ll take you to a nice place for lunch. I’m sure you must be famished.” She slid off the chair arm. “Oh, Ben, you can’t imagine how different I feel now that you’re here.” She bent and kissed him lightly and then looked round for the radio. “It must be upstairs,” she said. “I won’t be a minute.”

  She was away some time, and when she came back she looked puzzled. “That’s queer—it’s gone.”

  Ben’s eyes swept the room. “It can’t have done, honeys—what’s it like?”

  “It’s a little blue portable—wait, I’ll have another look.”

  She went out again and he heard her rummaging about in various rooms. She even went outside to the barn.

  “No, it’s definitely gone,” she told him when she returned. “I’ve looked everywhere. What an extraordinary thing!—Laurence must have taken it with him.”

  “Maybe he wants to keep track of the situation wherever he is.”

  She gave him a startled look. “That sounds horrible—just as though he’s a criminal on the run. It is queer, though—surely no one would go off walking with a radio set. It’s really quite heavy.”

  “Maybe he isn’t walking—maybe he went by car.”

  “His own car’s out there now, and if he’d used any other we’d have heard about it. And he’d certainly have been noticed at the station …”

  “What about telling the police? It might help them to find him.”

  Julie looked at him doubtfully. “Yes, I suppose I ought to. I know what we’ll do—we’ll go and eat at the Plough, that’s a nice little inn just down the lane, and we’ll fix up a room for you there, and then we’ll go on to the police station afterwards. ”

  “Okay. And after that I suggest you take your mind off the whole business for a while by showing me some of this swell countryside of yours.”

  “I’d love to, if you’re not too tired.”

  “Tired!—with you!” He took her in his arms and kissed her with passion.

&nb
sp; Then, with equal suddenness, be let her go as a car engine sounded outside. “It seems like you’ve got more visitors,” he said.

  Julie glanced out of the window. A blue saloon had pulled up beside the jeep and a man was just getting out. He was big and square-built and he was wearing a raincoat and soft hat.

  “I’m frightened,” she said. “Every time anyone comes now I’m frightened …” She went out into the hall and opened the door.

  The man raised his hat. “Mrs. Quilter?”

  Julie nodded.

  “Ah!—I wonder if I might have a word with you?” He handed her his card and she read “Detective Inspector John Ford, Criminal Investigation Department, West Cumbria County Constabulary.”

  “Have you news of my husband?”

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am, I’m sorry. It’s about another matter I’d like to speak to you.”

  “Oh!” Julie hardly knew whether she was relieved or disappointed. “Well, please come in.” She led the way into the sitting-room. “This is Inspector Ford, Ben. Mr. Benson Traill, a friend of mine.”

  “How d’ye do, sir?” said Ford, with a nod and a quick shrewd look.

  “I’m fine,” said Ben. “Okay if I stick around, or is it private?”

  Ford glanced at Julie and hesitated. “I’d like him to stay,” she said.

  “Very well, ma’am, I’ve no objection.” He dropped his hat on to the settee and gave a preparatory cough. “Mrs. Quilter, I’m inquiring into the disappearance of a man named Peter Anstey.”

  She nodded and waited, wondering what on earth this apparent irrelevance could have to do with her.

  “The name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Ought it to?”

  “Well, there’s been quite a bit about him in the local paper,” said Ford cautiously. “He was the science master at Coalhaven Grammar School—young fellow in his late twenties, dark, well set-up.” He paused expectantly, but when Julie’s face still appeared blank he went on: “He was one of those chaps who explore underground caves in their spare time—potholers, I believe they call themselves.”