by John Creasey
“I haven’t thought seriously about it,” Costain answered. “I suppose it will depend on whether my cottage is—can be decontaminated.” He glanced at Palfrey. “And whether the village ever revives.”
“It can’t. It can’t possibly. It’s been murdered.” Philip’s voice became shrill, almost strident. “Instead of pestering us, you ought to be in Whitehall, making sure those murderous warmongers—”
“Philip, please,” remonstrated Storr.
“I’ve kept quiet a damned sight too long. It’s bad enough this terrible thing should happen, but to have Palfrey come and insult you—why, there isn’t a man in Whitehall fit to clean your shoes! Go back, Palfrey, and have the plague spot destroyed. Decontaminated—that was certainly the word.” Now he switched his gaze to Costain, his eyes burning, his lips barely opening as he spoke. “The whole area—the whole bloody country wants decontaminating.”
“Philip, I don’t think these are the right circumstances for your anti-war diatribe,” said Storr. “Dr. Palfrey, you asked for this meeting and I will be glad to help in any way possible but I haven’t too much time.”
“Ah,” said Palfrey, almost inaudibly. He was twisting a few strands of hair round his forefinger, and looked deeply preoccupied. “None of us has and we mustn’t waste any.” He patted the strands absently back into place as he went on: “Except for Mrs. Drummond, who is prostrate, you six are the only survivors of the disaster likely to be of use to us in our inquiries. The others were too far away. I explained last night that the British Government has asked me to investigate—”
“Why don’t you tell them to close Fulton?” Philip interrupted in the same savage way. “Instead of pestering us, why don’t you—”
Palfrey cut across his words with a sharpness which Costain had not heard before.
“Mr. Montefiore, I chose to see you all together here at your home instead of singly, at the police station. But it was on the assumption that I would be discussing the matter with adults.”
Philip opened his mouth wide – then closed it again. Storr turned away with a faint smile on his lips.
“What I would like is to ask a number of questions while we are all together,” Palfrey went on to a more attentively respectful audience. “Then I would like a few minutes with each of you alone. The point of the general questioning is very simple; one of you may say something which will spark some kind of recollection in one or other of the others.” He gave a brief pause, and then asked: “Would you care to sit down?”
Storr and Harrison pulled up chairs, Costain found himself sitting next to Marion, with Griselda on his other side. Storr sat opposite Palfrey flanked by Philip, whose resentment showed thunderously in his expression.
“Has any of you seen any yellow mist in the village at any time?” asked Palfrey.
“I don’t recall any,” Storr replied.
“There’s the usual autumn mist, and sometimes early mist in the summer,” remarked Marion.
“You should know,” Griselda said, and went on: “My sister is a great believer in early morning breathing exercises in front of an open window, rain or fine, hot or cold.”
“Mist has been fairly thick, sometimes,” Marion told them. “But—yellow? No, I don’t remember—” She leaned back in her chair, eyes half-closed, as if trying to remember. “It has sometimes appeared very thick—grey and opaque, Dr. Palfrey. I am not an inveterate early riser, but on nights when I sleep badly I often get up about dawn.”
“My room doesn’t overlook the village,” said Storr. “Yours does, Philip.”
“I’ve never noticed anything either yellow or brown.” Philip’s voice was sulky.
“Mr. Costain,” Palfrey said. “You’re up early every morning, aren’t you?”
“I think—” began Costain.
“You know, it has been yellow once or twice,” Marion interrupted. “Not thick, nothing like it was yesterday, but yellowish.”
“I was going to say there has been a yellow tinge on some mornings,” Costain said.
“Ah!” exclaimed Palfrey. “Can you say what morning?”
“I remember one day in the winter, just after the first snow, when there were some slippery patches and Joe Taylor had a spill on his motorcycle. He was going too fast, and—”
He stopped abruptly, for Joe Taylor and his son were both dead; both had died yesterday, in their barn, just inside the contaminated area.
“I remember that morning,” Marion put in, quietly. “It was more yellow.”
“Did you notice any smell?”
She didn’t answer at first, but Costain put in with a slow excitement: “There was a smell of carbon monoxide!”
“Imagination,” muttered Philip.
“The motorcycle ended up in the hedge but its engine didn’t stop,” went on Costain. “I remember distinctly. I saw the accident from the top of the hill.”
“I heard the engine,” Marion put in. “I couldn’t understand what it was, but Taylor told me afterwards. I could smell the exhaust, too.”
“You—from half-way up the hill?” Griselda was sceptical.
“From half-way up the hill—but it didn’t really surprise me,” Marion went on. She had a pleasant voice but it held none of the almost histrionic resonance of her sister’s. “With the wind blowing from the village we often get—”
“Farm odours,” supplied Costain drily.
“Well, we do.”
“Yes, I know. I will have to find a—” he stopped. It was obvious that everyone of them had the same thought as he: there would never be a chance to experiment, there wasn’t a single animal left alive. He moistened his lips.
“I have known the perfume of the blossom from the apple orchard to be very strong, especially in the evenings,” put in Storr, gently. “And that is nearly half a mile away. It does depend entirely on the direction of the wind.”
“You know,” said Marion, slowly, “there was a yellowish morning in the village a few weeks ago. I remember it vividly now. The wind had cut in during the night and I was closing the window. The exhaust fumes almost knocked me back.”
“Missed your daily dozen?” asked Griselda sceptically.
“No, I went in the Professor’s room—he was in London that week.”
“My room is across the landing, and faces south,” explained Storr, again.
“Was there any smell from the south?” asked Palfrey.
“No. No!” cried Marion, almost excited in her effort to recall everything that had happened. “No smell, but that was when I heard the engine popping. And the motorcycle was north from the Manor, and the wind was coming from the opposite direction, so the smell I noticed wasn’t coming from motorcycle exhaust. Do you know I hadn’t realised that before.”
She looked triumphantly into Palfrey’s eyes.
“Thank you very much indeed,” said Palfrey. “The smell of the carbon monoxide was coming from the village, then.”
“From between the front of the Manor and the village,” interjected Storr, drily.
“Look here, I’m not being bloody-minded for the sake of it,” put in Philip. “And I can see how one recollection does spark off another, but the smell that Marion noticed might not have been carbon monoxide—”
“Carbon monoxide has no smell,” Harrison remarked. It was the first time he had spoken. “Hydrocarbons and oxides of nitrogen combine to make the smell.”
“Well I’m damned!” Philip exclaimed. “You’re right. Damn it, Dr. Palfrey, you ought to know something as elementary as that!”
For a moment, Costain thought that the youth might have angered Palfrey, and Storr looked concerned, while Marion actually began to say: “Hush, Philip.”
All Palfrey did was to smile and say: “I should indeed. But the object of this exercise is to find ou
t what all of you know, Mr. Montefiore. I’ve been in this job for a long time,” he went on, almost self-deprecatingly, “and I’m always fascinated by how much the human memory retains without realising it. And it often needs only the slightest jog to bring a recollection. Here we have a fairly detailed story of what happened one winter morning which most of you had virtually forgotten.”
“It was Friday, February 3rd,” announced Costain suddenly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—” Marion was eager to confirm it. “It was the day before Philip was due back from hospital. I went to London that afternoon and we drove back next day.”
“I didn’t think you’d make it, the roads were so bad,” Philip said in a natural, almost eager way. “I remember you telling me about Joe Taylor.”
“Did you know him?” asked Palfrey.
“I had some trouble with my electrically driven chair,” Philip said, “and he came and helped me put it right.”
“Why did you remember the date?” Palfrey asked Costain.
“It was the day my milking machine broke down and I was afraid I’d be without it for the weekend. I remember now—” Costain paused and everyone watched him intently. “I was surprised there was so much smell in the village when I got back—that would be about eleven o’clock in the morning. But it was quite clear at the cottage.”
“Are you sure?” Palfrey asked sharply.
“Absolutely sure. I went sniffing round my place because I use Calor gas and if there’s a leak, it could be dangerous.”
“So what we have established is that the mist had a yellow tinge that morning over the village,” said Professor Storr very quietly. “That there were two sources of a stench, like the exhaust fumes of a car or motorcycle, and one was between the entrance to the Manor and the south end of the village. There is an obvious place where it could have come from.”
Everyone now stared at him.
“Where?” asked Palfrey.
“Geoffrey Drummond’s house,” said the Professor deliberately. “Drummond never trusts—” he broke off, then added smoothly: “Drummond never trusted the electricity supply here. We are fed off a small transformer which does let us down from time to time. So he had a small petrol-fired generator, and made his own supplies. I’ve passed the back of his house occasionally and noticed the exhaust fumes.”
“Have you searched there?” Philip asked, his voice sharp again.
“No,” Palfrey answered, “but everywhere will be searched. Which leads me to a very relevant question, Professor. Are you planning to stay here or will you move for the time being at least?”
“I hope to stay,” Storr answered, with hesitation. “Certainly until I am convinced that there is acute danger of a repetition of what has happened. Why do you wish to know?”
“Because I want to have the Manor and the ground searched thoroughly,” Palfrey replied. “Had you been planning to move, then I would have waited. As it is, the quicker the better.” He was twisting strands of hair about his forefinger again, and watching Storr. But it was from Philip that the outburst came, he was right back in his savage mood.
“Of all the bloody nerve! You’re telling us you suspect us at the Manor. Why, before I’d let anyone search—”
“Don’t be absurd,” Professor Storr interrupted sharply. “Of course we are under suspicion and of course the authorities must search. The sooner it is done and Dr. Palfrey is reassured, the better it will be for all of us. How long will you need, Palfrey? Do you know?”
“I should imagine at least a day,” Palfrey estimated.
“How soon can you start?”
“Within an hour,” answered Palfrey. “We should be able to finish inside the house, if not in the grounds, before dark. There is a platoon of Special Service engineers in the village, I can send for them right away.”
“Then please do that,” Storr said. “If there is any assistance any of us can give you please let me know.”
“And then get out of our hair,” growled Philip. There was a long pause, while Palfrey stared at the young man, and then said coldly: “Mr. Montefiore you don’t seem to be aware that you are doing more than anyone or anything else to draw suspicion on this house.”
Philip glowered, but made no retort. Palfrey turned towards the door and Costain and Storr followed him. Storr went ahead and opened the door, and Palfrey stepped outside.
He stood absolutely still, staring down.
The tops of the houses and the church tower had disappeared again, hidden by a thick yellow pall. Worse, far worse, a pale yellowish smoke seemed to be rising out of dozens, hundreds, of cracks and crevices in the drive and in the grassy banks which lined the drive, so that even the gates of the Manor were invisible.
Chapter Seven
The Discovery
“Oh, my goodness,” Marion exclaimed from just behind the men. “Look!”
“Now we’ll have to get out,” Griselda said, with a break in her voice. “Stephen, you can’t insist on staying.”
“Everyone out the back way, at once,” Palfrey ordered. “Costain, will you drive my car to the back? Professor, will you—”
He did not complete what he was going to say, for several masked men broke through the smog, dim figures at first, then more sharply defined. As they drew near, the first man pushed his mask to one side and called out: “Dr. Palfrey! We can’t contain this—get everyone away at once.”
“They’ve already started,” Palfrey said. “Do you know where the stuff is coming from?”
“It seemed to start near the gates of the Manor,” the man answered. “For God’s sake—”
He broke off, kicking against a stone and pitching forward – and as he did so a wisp of the smog rose up from the spot where he had tripped. Then Costain, almost by the car, saw a little puff of smog near the car itself. The fumes bit into his throat and he started to cough.
Marion Kemble was just behind him, and wrenching the passenger door open he turned and pushed her roughly in, then ran round to the other side, and grabbed the wheel. The key was in the ignition. All about them, on higher ground as well as low, the puffs of smog were getting thicker and more frequent. Griselda sprang to the car and scrambled in the back as Costain started off.
He glanced towards the porch and saw that Palfrey was wearing a small mask, not much different from a hospital mask, but with goggles which fitted snugly. Other men with more conventional masks had emerged from the smog, but the most awful sight was the little spiral clouds of smog which rose everywhere until one joined with another to make a blanket of evil smelling fumes that crept slowly but remorselessly towards the Manor.
Palfrey raised an arm, waving the car away. Costain put on speed, relieved at seeing the gravel ahead and the grass on either side free from the clouds of vapour.
“I don’t know whether that man’s a fool or a genius,” Griselda remarked.
“I don’t know whether to hate him or admire him,” said Marion. “Do you know him well, Mr. Costain?”
“Know Palfrey well?” asked Costain, startled. “I’d never met him until yesterday. I’d heard of him, of course.”
“What do you think of him?” asked Griselda.
Costain took his time in answering, knowing that if he were ever to make the right impression with these two members of Storr’s household, this was the great opportunity. He turned out of a side entrance onto the narrow road which led sharply upwards, reached the top, saw the other car half a mile ahead, and a stretch of clear sky and lovely countryside, an unbelievable contrast with what lay behind them.
“On the whole,” he answered at last, “I think he frightens me. Almost as much as the smog,” he added with a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl.
“How does he frighten you?” inquired Marion.
“I think h
e’s utterly ruthless and will let nothing get in his way,” Costain answered.
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Griselda, and the tone of her voice added a strange, almost prophetic warning to all that Costain had said.
Palfrey was not thinking of them.
His mask was effective enough for the time being but he knew that he would not have to stay in this atmosphere long. The clear goggles were darkened by the polluted air, and although he could see within a radius of a hundred yards, beyond that there was only the thick, slowly stirring smog. It carried him back to the days of his boyhood, to days of London’s pea soupers, but there was something much worse about this, a sinister, uncanny element that struck terror to the heart.
And he knew how bright and fresh was the air beyond it.
Half a dozen men were moving about, all of them with what looked like mine detectors, and each stopped at one or other of the tiny cracks in the ground from which the smog seemed to come, and held the ‘detector’ over it. They were measuring the density and taking samples which would be analysed in the laboratories at Fulton. The irony of the fact that Fulton was so near was never far from his mind; nor was the possibility that, in spite of the assurances of the authorities there, this poisonous gas was a result of some unofficial experiment.
But why and how did it come out of the ground?
He walked through the gateway of the Manor and turned right, towards the village. He knew it fairly well, now, for he had spent much of the night here – and he did not think that he would ever be free from the effects of the macabre horror of this village of the dead.
How many bodies had been taken away by now?
The man who had come to warn the group in the Manor joined him, and pointed downwards. His meaning was obvious; there were no outlets of smog on the macadamised surface of the roadway, or on the paths. A red pillar box built into an old brick wall faced him on the right, with the familiar ER on it and the times of collections black on white enamel.
