by Andrew Garve
It was Ben, listening with close attention, who nodded.
“He left his lodgings in Coalhaven on the morning of August 8th and his landlady understood that he was off to Yorkshire to do a bit of exploring there. His motor bike was found abandoned on the moors a day or two later, but nothing’s been heard of him since.”
“I see,” said Julie, looking more puzzled than ever. “No, I never heard about that—I was away in Dorset early in August.”
“Ah, that would account for it. And your husband didn’t mention him?”
“No,” said Julie.
“He knew Anstey, I believe?”
“I don’t think so.” She frowned. “I wish you’d tell me what all this is about, Inspector. What are you driving at?”
“I’m merely trying to find out, ma’am, about Peter Anstey’s last movements, and that means checking up with all the people who had dealings with him. Now apparently your husband was one of those people. At any rate, someone rang up Directory Inquiries from this house on the evening of August 7th, asking for Anstey’s number to be traced, and afterwards the connection was made for him.”
“Well, that must have been my husband, of course,” said Julie slowly. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, though—he didn’t mention it. I expect it was something to do with politics.”
Ford grunted. “You don’t happen to know if Mr. Quilter himself was interested in potholing?”
“I never heard him say so—in fact I’m sure he wasn’t. Rock-climbing, yes, but not potholing. At least …”
“Yes, Mrs. Quilter—you’ve remembered something?”
“Oh, merely that we went down a big hole in France and he was rather interested in that. But that’s the only time.”
“H’m! I’ll tell you why I asked—it’s just that a rather interesting document has come into our possession.” The inspector slipped his hand inside his breast pocket, drew out an envelope, and carefully extracted a piece of paper. “Would you mind telling me, ma’am, whether you’ve ever seen this before?”
Completely bewildered, Julie took the stained, yellowing sheet, looked at the faded ink marks, and turned it over to see if there was anything more legible on the other side. “No,” she said, “I haven’t seen it before. What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s a bit the worse for wear, I’m afraid,” said Ford, “but it seems to be some sort of plan of an underground cave.”
“Really?—I’d never have known.” Ben had joined her and she held it up so that he could see it too. “What makes you think that I might have …? “Suddenly she stopped and gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why, our name’s on it!”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s hard to make out without a magnifying glass, but those words are actually “Joseph Quilter, Bleathwaite Hall, 1855.” It’s obviously something to do with the family, and that’s why I asked you whether you’d seen it.”
Ben said: “Mind if I take it over to the window, Inspector? I’d like to have a closer look.”
“That’s all right, sir, but please handle it carefully.” He turned back to Julie. “So you’re quite certain, Mrs. Quilter, that you’ve never come across it, eh?”
“Positive, Inspector. How did you get hold of it?”
Ford looked at her as though he were debating whether to tell her. Then he said: “It was in a wallet that belonged to young Anstey. The wallet was washed up on the seashore at Blean yesterday morning.”
“Washed up! “Julie felt a sudden tug of apprehension. “You mean—he was drowned?”
“Possibly—we can’t say.” Ford took the document back from Ben. “I suppose, Mrs. Quilter, you’ve never heard of any pothole around these parts, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said soberly.
“And there’s nothing on this paper that suggests to you where the place might be. Perhaps you’d just take another look?” He held it in front of her, pointing. You see, this is obviously the section—looking through the pothole, as you might say—here’s the surface of the ground.…” He glanced at her face and saw that what he was saying didn’t mean a thing to her, and smiled. “No? Ah, well, I can’t say I’m surprised. We’ll have to see what the experts think about it.…”
He picked up his hat and turned to the door. “That’s all then, thank you—I’m sorry to have bothered you just at lunchtime. We’ll have to hope that Mr. Quilter turns up soon—perhaps he’ll be able to help us. Good-day, ma’am. Good-day, sir.”
“Good-bye, Inspector,” said Julie, in a very subdued voice.
Chapter Twelve
She stood by the window as the car drove away, lost in thought. Ben waited, watching her gravely. If anyone had the key to the riddle, she had.
Presently she turned, her face pale. “So something has happened to him,” she said.
“Easy, honey!—there’s no point in meeting trouble halfway. I’d say there was darned little to go on.”
“There’s more than you think, Ben. The morning I left for Dorset, Laurence was looking through some old family papers and that plan was just the sort of thing he might have found. I’m certain that’s where it came from—if he’d had it before I’d have known about it.”
Ben nodded. “I’m with you so far.”
“Well, then he rang this man Anstey—he must have known about his interest in caves, I don’t know how—and they must have gone off on some stupid expedition.…”
“You mean to find the pothole?”
“I should think so. If Anstey was an expert he might have known where to look for it.”
“I don’t see how—not from what was on that paper. Anyway, it was the other guy’s wallet that was found—there’s nothing to suggest your husband was there. Maybe he just loaned the plan to Anstey.”
Julie shook her head. “Laurence would have wanted to go, too—he hadn’t anything else to do just then, and he’d have loved it. Besides, there’s something else I’ve remembered. I’m pretty sure now that Laurence had someone staying here that weekend—an extra bed was slept in and a lot of whisky was drunk, as though he’d had another man around. I expect he asked Anstey over and then they went off together.”
Ben shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, but there’s still no reason to suppose your husband was involved in any accident. On the contrary, all the evidence is against it. According to that policeman, Anstey disappeared on the 7th of August—whereas your M.P. was around until about a week ago.”
“I know,” said Julie, frowning. “I don’t understand that, either. The fact remains that they did go off somewhere together and Anstey’s apparently drowned and Laurence has disappeared. There must be some connection, surely?”
Ben was silent for a while. He could understand Julie’s fears—it wasn’t exactly reassuring to hear about something being “washed up” when you were worried about a missing person. Still, there were all sorts of pieces that didn’t seem to fit anywhere. He had an orderly mind and he felt he’d like to think it all over quietly before committing himself to a view.
“I still think there’s no point in worrying at this stage,” he said gently. “What say we forget it for a bit?—I could do with that lunch you promised me.”
“Oh, yes, Ben, I’m sorry. I’ll try to be sensible—it’s just that all this is getting me down a bit. It drags on so.” She made an obvious effort and smiled. “We won’t talk about it for the rest of the day.”
Once they were away from the cottage her anxiety soon dispersed. They stopped at the Plough and Julie introduced Ben to Joe Martin, the landlord, and they had a couple of drinks, and though it was getting late Mrs. Martin produced a satisfactory meal. After that Julie took Ben on the promised tour of the district. It was like old times, sitting beside him in the jeep with her hair blowing and knowing there were hours ahead of them. The shadow of Laurence had faded and they were happy again in each other’s company. They talked about all the things that they’d had to hurry over because of the Laurence business—their parting, and their feelings, a
nd what Ben had done in Switzerland; and when they had covered that ground they lived some of the days in France all over again in memory. The only thing they didn’t talk about was the future, because the time was inopportune and anyway there was no need.
They visited Wordsworth’s cottage, dined at Ambleside, and got lost in the dark on the way back over the fells, so that it was well after ten when Ben deposited Julie at her front door.
“I’ll be round first thing in the morning,” he said, as he kissed her good-night. “Maybe for breakfast! Sleep well, and don’t worry.”
Julie smiled and said that she’d do her best not to. She felt comfortably tired and pleasantly muzzy. Once she got to bed, “however, her brain became more and more active until she felt she’d never sleep. Now that she was alone, she too had begun to think about some of the pieces that didn’t fit. Why, she wondered, had Laurence not, told her about Anstey and the pothole—to make a secret of a thing like that seemed ridiculously schoolboyish. Could they have discovered something important?—something so important that he could even tell that fantastic story about Brenda rather than give it away? But if that were so, why had he lied about Brenda before?
For an hour she groped for answers, wide-eyed and restless, until at last her brain grew numb with tiredness. It was no use thinking about it any more. Either Laurence would turn up soon, and explain it all, or the police would find his body as they’d found Anstey’s wallet and then it would hardly matter anyway.
She must have slept in the end, for at some period of the night she had a dream. It was confused, but very vivid. She was in the jeep, with Ben and Brenda and Adam Johnson, and they were driving along a straight road lined with poplars, and Ben was saying that that must be Rocamadour right ahead and Johnson was urging them to turn back and suddenly a huge black pit opened in front of them and they went toppling over with a fearful crash …
Julie woke with a stifled cry, the sounds still echoing in her ears. For a moment or two she lay in a bath of sweat, listening to the beat of her heart. Then she slowly relaxed. It was all right—she had had a nightmare, that was all. Hardly surprising after what had happened. All the same, that noise had been so clear that she could hardly believe she hadn’t heard it. So near, too. Almost like someone dropping something in the room. She sat up in the dark, listening, trying to see into the blackness, all her senses alert. She wasn’t usually a timid person, but as she listened, motionless, she began to have a horrible feeling that someone was there with her. She felt her flesh creep. By an effort of will she made herself stretch out a hand and switch on the bed-lamp. She gave a sigh—the room was empty. She felt angry with herself—really, it was absurd to have night fears at her age.
Suddenly she stiffened. Someone was moving about downstairs—she was sure of it. She looked at her watch—it was just three o’clock. The thought of burglars flashed through her mind, but she dismissed the notion—things like that just didn’t happen in Cumberland cottages. It must be Laurence!—it couldn’t be anyone else but Laurence.
With pulse racing she slipped out of bed, pushed her feet into her slippers, wrapped herself in a dressing gown and tiptoed out on to the landing. There was a line of light at the bottom of the kitchen door—he was in there, walking about. She heard the soft thud of the “fridge” door being shut. Evidently he didn’t realise that she was in the house. He probably thought she was still at the flat.
She was wondering how she could announce her presence without startling him when the kitchen door opened and he came into the hall and switched on the light.
“Laurence!” she called, in a low tense voice.
He swung round with a gasp and stared up at her. For a moment she could hardly believe that it was he. In the glare of the light his face was a white mask, sheet-white, with two cavernous pools of eyes. His hair was in disorder, his face bearded, his clothes filthy.
She took a step down towards him. Suddenly, without a word, he turned and bolted back into the kitchen. Before she had even reached the hall she heard the back door slam.
She rushed after him, through the kitchen and out into the: cobbled yard. “Laurence!” she cried in an agonised voice “Laurence, come back! Oh, please come back!”
Somewhere away to the left she could hear the noise of running footsteps and the slither of falling stones. He must be going up the bank. She stumbled blindly after him in the pitch darkness, colliding with obstacles, shedding a slipper,-but too frantic to care. She reached the bank herself and scrambled up it, dragging her dressing-gown free from a clinging bramble. At all costs, she mustn’t lose him now. She climbed out on to the track and raced up it in the direction he had taken. She could hear nothing except the pounding of her own heart and lungs. She stopped for a second, listening. He must be running on the grass. “Oh, God!” she gulped, and ran on blindly until she could run no more. It was no use—she had lost him. In this darkness and these hills she hadn’t a chance.
With a sob she turned and rushed back to the cottage. Her thoughts were in turmoil. This was worse than any nightmare—it was real, and indescribably horrible. She must have help, and quickly. She flung herself upon the phone and frantically agitated the receiver hook;
It seemed an age before the operator answered, and another age before she heard Joe Martin’s voice, slow and heavy with sleep. It took him some time to grasp what she wanted, but at last he sensed her urgency and went off to wake Ben. Julie sat trembling by the phone.
At last!—the familiar, comforting voice. “What is it, Julie? What’s the trouble?”
“Ben! Laurence has been here. Something awful’s happening, I know it is. Please come.”
“Okay, honey,” he said crisply, “I’ll be right over.”
She dropped the receiver back on its rest with a gasp of thankfulness. For a while she was too overcome and breathless to move. When she felt a little recovered she got up and went into the kitchen. There was a broken milk bottle on the floor—that was what she must have heard upstairs and a frightful mess everywhere. She was still gazing helplessly at the scene when the jeep’s engine roared outside and she went to let Ben in.
Chapter Thirteen
For a moment she clung to his reassuring bulk, her body shaking as though she had a fever. He held her tight, soothing her. Then his glance took in her torn dressing gown, her bare scratched feet, the traces of blood and bramble on the hem of her nightdress.
“Why, you poor kid …! Here, let’s go in and get you warm.” He half-carried her into the sitting-room and switched on the electric fire.
“I’m all right, Ben, really I am,” she protested. “I want to tell you what happened …”
“It’ll keep for a while,” he said firmly. “You’ve had a pretty bad shock.” He made her tell him where he could find a rug and some brandy. After he’d cosseted her a little the shivering stopped and the colour began to creep back into her cheeks.
“That’s much better, honey. Okay, tell me about it.”
“Oh, Ben,” she burst out, “I hardly knew him, he’d changed so much. His face was quite blanched and his eyes had a terrible unearthly sort of look, and he was bearded and horribly dirty. He seemed scared of me, too—he wouldn’t speak—not a word—he just rushed away.”
“Tell me from the beginning,” said Ben gently.
She took a deep breath and started again. “You see, I’d had a nightmare …” She told her story coherently now, from the moment she’d woken up until she’d lost Laurence on the hillside. “And Ben,” she concluded, “I know what he came for. Food! He’s taken bread, and tins from the pantry. Oh, it’s too horrible—he looked like a hunted beast, Ben, like an animal caught stealing that thinks it’s going to be whipped He’s thin and ragged and … oh, my God, I can’t bear it. I’d sooner he were dead.”
Ben took her hands. “Now listen to me, honey, you’ve got to snap out of this. It won’t help, and you’ll make yourself ill.”
“Ben, it’s easy to say that, but how can I when I kn
ow something dreadful is happening to him and I can’t do anything about it. You didn’t see him, you don’t realise—he looked scarcely human. He must have been hiding in the hills all this time, half-famished …” She looked pitifully into Ben’s eyes, as though begging him to contradict her thoughts, and then it all came pouring out. “Ben, I’m afraid he’s lost his reason. I can see now how it’s been coming on—all that strange behaviour in France and that crazy business over Brenda and now this hiding away and letting himself get into such a state. He’s never been a normal sort of person, but now I think he’s had a complete breakdown.”
Ben was silent, turning that over. “I guess that could be it,” he said after a while. “Maybe it’s the best we can hope for.”
She looked startled. “Why do you say that?”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “I’ve been doing some thinking this last hour or two, trying to make sense out of the bits of information we’ve got. We know he contacted Anstey. We’re pretty sure they went on an expedition together. Immediately afterwards Anstey disappeared, and it’s fairly obvious something unpleasant happened to him. But it wasn’t an ordinary disappearance. His wallet was washed up off this coast but his bike was found in Yorkshire. I hardly knew where Yorkshire was until I had a look at my map to-night, but it’s a heck of a way from here. That suggests some pretty fanny business to me. It suggests that Anstey came to grief around these parts and that the bike was used as a blind to conceal the truth.”
Julie stared at him, but said nothing.
“And that’s not all,” Ben went on unhappily. “Your husband tried to cover up the whole episode. He kept his meeting with Anstey a secret, even from you. He didn’t breathe a word about the plan of the pothole. And afterwards he was in pretty bad shape, as though he had a hell of a lot on his mind … For your sake, Julie, I hope I’m wrong, but it seems to me that the only explanation that takes in all those facts is that he himself was responsible for Anstey’s disappearance. If that’s true, then it’s possible to go on and explain other things. What was he doing when he came back from France and was supposed to be with that Brenda dame? I don’t know, but maybe there was a body to be put away some place safe. And now, what with having to lie to you because you showed up too soon, and all the publicity about his disappearance, he feels he daren’t do anything but stay in hiding … What do you say?”
