by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
The Plague of Silence
First published in 1958
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1958-2013
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 John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2013 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.
ISBN EAN Edition
0755123840 9780755123841 Print
0755133951 9780755133956 Kindle
0755134354 9780755134359 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.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.
Book I
Chapter One
THE FIRST VICTIM
It was not known until long afterwards, and in fact she had only a small place in the official records, but little Jane Hill was the first victim in England.
Larry Hill slowed down as he drew near the cottage on his bicycle, and waited with unashamed eagerness for a movement at a window or at the back door. He was on time, and Jane was usually on the look-out for him. This evening there was no sign of her. He gave a little grimace, told himself that it was absurd to be disappointed, and swung his leg off the bicycle as the front wheel drew within an inch of the newly-painted green gate. Everything about the cottage looked fresh and attractive – woodwork, brasswork, windows, even the tiles, although in fact they were over two hundred years old. At the back there was a patch of them which Larry had not yet cleaned; it would be the last job of renovating the cottage in the three years since they had bought it.
He whistled a song, quite sure that in a moment Jane would appear, at window, door or corner; little Jane, who looked absurdly young to be a married woman with a four-year-old son.
Suddenly, Larry caught his breath.
Young James was spending a week with his grandmother, having a seaside holiday in perfect weather, and with three days still to go. Surely nothing had happened at Bournemouth?
Of course not; Jane would never have gone off without telling him, or sending a message. The office people would always pass a message through to die men in the warehouse and on deliveries. It was absurd to worry, and also absurd to think that the idyll would go on for ever. But he longed to see Jane, with her fair hair and bright eyes and the complexion which looked almost too perfect. An art dealer in the town had once said that she belonged on a chocolate box, but he didn’t know how she glowed with vitality.
Larry reached the corner of the cottage, wheeling the bicycle, frowning now because all but the birds were silent. Behind him was the lawn which he had cut last night, and the flower beds filled with antirrhinums only just beginning to flower; Jane’s planting. Hers was the flower garden, his the lawns and the vegetables. He did not even glance at the rows of peas in flower, the sturdy scarlet runners already knee high, the beds of onions, carrots and potatoes in their half acre. He lodged the old black bicycle against the shed which housed it, the firewood, logs and most of the things they stored. He went towards the back door with its small tiled porch. The ladder still stood against the corner, and he planned to get up on the roof for a couple of hours tonight. By the weekend the job would be finished; the realisation of a golden dream.
The back door was closed, although on an evening in early summer Jane usually had it open, for the late sun came in. This was Tuesday; ironing day.
Larry opened the door and stepped into the kitchen: the brightness of stainless steel, of tiles, of everything as modern as it could be except for the big smokeless fuel stove, one of the earliest type, which he intended to replace soon. They’d have more money to spare now that the main work was done.
Jane had been ironing.
A chair was close to the ironing board, and over a big clothes horse their clothes were draped, dazzling white as the sun poured upon them. A pile of clothes waiting to be ironed lay in a heap on the kitchen table; mostly his underwear. The electric iron stood on end, as if Jane had left all this in a hurry. In fact it was just as it would have been had she known it was him coming, and had jumped up to go and meet him.
The kitchen door was open.
This led into the one large downstairs room, with its small windows, its two ancient oak beams, its old fireplace; that fireplace had been the thing which had made them decide to buy the cottage. Now it was surrounded by burnished brasses and gleaming copper pieces; it was the Hills’ boast that nothing in this room was less than a hundred years old, and much of the furniture was Tudor.
Larry stepped across the uneven wooden floor, with its three skin rugs, to the door in the corner which led to the stairs and the front door.
It was almost dark there; little daylight reached the old staircase.
“Jane!” Larry called.
There was no answer.
Uneasily, he began to climb the stairs. It did not seriously occur to him that he might find Jane in trouble here, and his hazy thoughts were all about young James, the possibility that a message hadn’t reached him, even that he’d passed Jane on the way. He reached the little square landing. Here were three rooms: the child’s bedroom, theirs, and the tiny bathroom. Neither of the bedrooms was big, but both were big enough. The bathroom was an amateur’s triumph; practically everything had been done by Larry and Jane: even the plumbing. He’d had it checked by a friend at the factory, and it had been fully approved.
Larry looked into their bedroom, the door of which was ajar.
“I wish to goodness I knew—” he began, and then stopped abruptly, for he thought he heard a sound. He swung round,
and his face cleared.
“Is that you, Jane?”
There was no answer and no repetition of the sound, which had been rather like a muted cry. Perhaps she was hurrying back along the road, having misjudged the time. He had to remind himself that it was crazy to think that she would always be waiting on the very tick of six o’clock.
He heard the sound again, and realized that it was nearer than he had first thought. He strode out and into the boy’s room.
No. Empty.
He heard the sound again, undoubtedly a little strangled cry, and thrust open the bathroom door, feeling a choky kind of fear.
There was Jane, lying on the floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring at him, her lips were working.
He went swift as a hawk towards her and dropped on his knees, saying in a hoarse, frightened voice: “Janey, what is it, what’s happened?” It was an accident of some kind. She’d hurt her back. Oh God, she’d hurt her back! What must he do? Be careful, don’t move her too much until he was sure what had happened. How had it happened? What did that matter?
There she lay, with his hands upon her now, in her silent fear.
“Janey, what is it?” he asked desperately. “Where does it hurt?”
Her mouth worked, and he knew that she was trying to answer but could not. She could not speak. It was some kind of stroke, some kind of paralysis of the throat, too. In her eyes was fear of unnamed things. She tried to get up, but there was no strength in her.
“Don’t try to move,” Larry said. “Just nod or shake your head. Are you hurt?” She shook her head a fraction. No? “Did you fall?” she shook her head again. “Can’t you move?” Lunatic question, and she shook her head. But did she really know what he was asking? “Am I hurting you?” He was feeling gently over her arms, her legs, then slid a hand beneath her back and ran his fingers along the spine; everything seemed normal, and she kept shaking her head with a fractional movement, as if even that was more than she could do. She was deathly pale, and her eyes unusually bright, but there were no outward signs of injury or of sickness.
Paralysis …?
“I’m going to lift you and carry you to the bed,” Larry said very carefully. “If I hurt you, close your eyes, and I’ll know.” With infinite care he slid both arms beneath her and lifted. She did not close her eyes as he carried her into the bedroom with its low ceiling, its oak rafters, the big double bed, the uneven, creaking floor. Habit was a strange thing: for a moment he was tempted to hold her with one arm and turn back the bedspread with his free hand; but he did not; just laid her down gently.
“Listen, Janey,” he said carefully, “I’m going to ask one of the Carters to come and wait with you, and then I’m going to the village. I’ll telephone Dr. Dimmock, and I know he’ll come just as soon as he can. One of the Carters will be here in ten minutes, too, so don’t worry. Understand?”
She nodded. But there was something in her expression which he didn’t understand, as if she was pleading for something. Then her lips moved and she made a little sound, a kind of whimpering. What did she want? What—
Fool. Water!
“Water?”
She nodded.
Crazy fool. Of course she wanted water. What about some brandy? There was no reason why he shouldn’t give her brandy, was there? First he fetched water and held the glass to her lips, but she could not drink, and he had to tip the glass slightly. He saw a fluttering movement at her throat as she tried to swallow, but even that seemed too much for her.
“I’m going to get you a spot of brandy,” he said, and straightened up. Then he heard the sound of a car engine not far off. His eyes lit up. “That’ll be Dave Carter! I’ll be back in two shakes.”
He swung round and went headlong down the stairs, ducking because the ceiling was too low for his six feet, ducking again beneath the front-door lintel as he went out. He shouted when he saw the old Austin, the only car which passed the cottage regularly: this was a dead-end road. Only tradespeople came down, apart from the Hills and the Carters, and they came mostly during the day. The car was a fifteen-year-old model, useful for the little market garden work the Carters did; but its noisy engine might drown all cries.
“Dave!” Larry bellowed. “Dave!” and went tearing towards the gate. It was just possible that Carter wouldn’t notice him, but usually he looked this way, to wave if anyone was about. “Dave!” Larry shrieked, and the car jolted. Carter glanced round as if in surprise and alarm, and the car slowed down.
“Hallo, Larry, is something the matter?” Carter was a slow-speaking man in the middle fifties, balding, strong and weather-beaten.
“Dave, Jane’s—Jane’s had some kind of a stroke. She can’t move or speak, she—” Hill had to pause for breath as he opened the gate. “Can you—take me into the village so that I can—phone Dr. Dimmock?”
“I certainly can,” Carter said, and proved that his slowness of speech was no indication of the speed with which his mind could work. “Is anyone with Jane now?”
“No, I wondered if you—”
“The best thing to do,” said Carter with great understanding, “is for you to take the car, Larry, and go into the village. I’ll go and see how Jane is. If she’s not too bad, I’ll take your bike and go and fetch Mabel. You need a woman there.” He was already getting out of the little car; standing upright, he was scarcely higher than Larry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry too much, Larry, these things often aren’t so bad as they seem.”
“No,” Larry said gruffly. The important thing was the car. “Thanks, Dave, thanks a lot.” He got into the car and drove to a patch of grass where he could turn; driving was second nature to him, for he was always at the wheel of a Wide World Food van. “Thanks, Dave!” he called again, as he passed the gateway. Carter was already halfway towards the open front door.
Now all that mattered was getting hold of Dr. Dimmock. Dimmock wasn’t due to visit Conne, the village, until the day after tomorrow; his home and surgery were in Lauriston, twelve miles away. He might be out on his rounds now, or at a surgery, anywhere.
If not Dimmock, then who?
“Cross that stream when I get to it,” Larry muttered. He saw the village church with its square grey tower only a mile ahead, and the roofs of the houses just beyond. A telephone box was outside the little post office in the middle of the village. Larry slowed down. Children were playing, men and women were already busy in their gardens, two farm horses stood beneath the shade of an oak tree, with their great handsome heads over a gateway. The sun was warm but it wasn’t too hot; a perfect summer’s day, with everything quite normal.
Had he coppers for the prepayment box?
Yes.
He gave the number, still in a kind of ferment. First a child answered; then a woman with a curt voice who said she wasn’t sure whether the doctor was in. Who wanted him? If he held on, she would find out. Disapproval and pessimism were in the tone of her voice, it was almost possible to believe that she was resentful. Then came the thing Larry had almost given up hoping for: Dr. Dimmock’s deep voice.
“Hallo, Larry Hill,” the doctor greeted. “I thought it was time I had another call from you, but I expected it to be from your wife.”
What the devil was he talking about?
“Doctor, can you possibly come and see my wife right away? She’s had some kind of a stroke, and can’t move or speak. I just got home and found her.”
“Steady a moment,” Dr. Dimmock said in a brisker voice. “Now, tell me more about it.”
There was so much and yet so little to tell, and every word took precious time,
“I don’t know what to make of it, but don’t worry, it doesn’t sound too bad,” Dimmock said. “I can’t come myself, but I think my colleague can, I’ll make sure that he’s in. Hold on.” Dimmock went off the line, and Larry leaned against the side of the
kiosk, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his forehead, then licking his lips. He felt sick as he waited, and Dimmock seemed to be an age.
In fact it was only two or three minutes before he spoke again.
“You there, Hill? … Yes, Dr. Korven will come out at once, and I think you’d better meet him by the village Post Office, or he’ll lose his way.”
Thank God!
“I’ll wait here myself,” Larry said, huskily. “I—I can’t thank you enough, doctor.”
“No need to thank me for anything,” Dr. Dimmock said, “but there’s one thing you ought to know. Dr. Korven is my new assistant, but sometimes patients are a little surprised to find a coloured doctor. You can place absolute reliance on Dr. Korven, though.”
“Provided he’s a doctor and he’s coming straight away, nothing else matters,” Larry said.
“He’ll be on his way in five minutes,” Dr. Dimmock promised. “If I were you, I’d go across the road to the Wheatsheaf and have a drink. It will make waiting easier, and you sound as if you could do with a pick-me-up.”
That was so like Dimmock.
“Good idea, doctor,” Larry said, “I will. Thank you again, I really am grateful.”
He rang off, and stared along the winding road towards Lauriston, estimating that this Dr. Korven would take at least twenty minutes to get here. A coloured man. What did that mean? A negro, or an Indian?
What did it matter?
All that mattered was getting Jane better.
If she got worse …
Larry had a whisky and soda, was chaffed by two of the villagers because he seldom came into the Wheatsheaf, told them what had brought him, and that Dr. Korven was on his way. No one had yet seen Korven, but a farmhand said almost casually:
