by John Creasey
Ten minutes later, a dozen police had arrived, including Inspector Campbell, big, tweed-clad, almost completely bald and obviously shaken. There were the ambulance men, two doctors and four nurses.
Woburn himself felt dazed and dizzy from the reaction, just muttered, “see you later,” to Eve, and watched her go. She hadn’t spoken; now she gripped his hand and gave a strangled “Thank— thank you,” and then turned away and allowed herself to be helped into a police car.
Then came Campbell, with his questions, a doctor with brandy, the doctor again with a sharp instruction: “It’s time ye took a spell, Mr. Woburn. Ye can answer more questions later on this evening, if needs be. Will ye arrange for a car to take Mr. Woburn back to the farm, Inspector?”
Campbell said: “Aye, for sure.” His pale eyes looked shadowed. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Woburn. If there’s anything at a’ I can do, you’ll let me know.”
“Of course,” said Woburn. He had told Campbell about the ‘crabs’ but that had made little impression; they had to be seen.
Woburn felt better as he neared the farm. Jenny would have a shock, and he wanted to pull himself together, anyhow. He got out of the car, half expecting Jenny to come hurrying; but she didn’t. No one was at hand. This was Thursday, the two dairymen were out, the one maid in Scourie. His brother-in-law wouldn’t come back until seven or even eight o’clock. Only an old shepherd, now odd job man, would be about.
Jamie.
The unbelievable thing was that Jenny should have been here, busy with her cooking, while it had all happened.
“Manage all right now, sir?” the driver asked.
“Perfectly, thanks.”
Hadn’t Jenny heard the car, or was he wrong in thinking that she would come hurrying to see who it was? Woburn walked towards the kitchen door, glancing at his watch; it was half past five and he had been gone about two hours. He was at the door, which stood ajar, when he heard Jenny’s voice.
“Is that you, Bob?”
“All present and correct, ma’am,” he said, and felt a sharp relief. He pushed the door wider open. Jenny was coming from the hall, brisk and eager and obviously anxious.
“Bob!” she exclaimed.
“It’ll all wash off,” he said.
“You look as if you’ve been rolling in mud!”
“It rolled on me.”
“What did happen?” she asked, and the anxiety showed again. “I had a telephone call from Scourie, they said there’d been a landslide in Wolf, I was afraid you’d got mixed up in it. And—”
“I did,” said Woburn, and forced a grin. “Just skirted the trouble, though. It hasn’t been so good—”
He told her.
He felt more relief from tension, as he sat in an old rocking chair in the kitchen, a cup of tea by his side and a large slice of rich fruit cake, than he had had all the time. Jenny was that kind of person. He had never known her any other way; Jenny for comfort. His earliest memory, as a toddler, was of Jenny soothing, bathing injuries, helping. And she had always been a wonderful listener. He talked, now, with a vividness which brought the picture home to her; he could tell that by her expression. He felt the words coming out, and could do nothing to stop them. He told her everything; the creatures in their crunchy shells, the seething water, the way it had burst out of the hillside. He told her of the smashed buildings and he told her of the little child.
“I’m glad it was you who saw it, not Reggie,” Jenny said at last. “We’re going to have bother with Reggie. There’s a lassie in the village he’s sae fond of.” She paused. “I think he is really fond of her, tae, it’s going to hairt him. It’ll be the first time he’s really been hairt, too.” She paused again, then looked into Woburn’s face intently: “Did all the village go?”
“Everything; everyone who was there.”
Jenny stood up, slowly.
“I suppose it’s no use talking about it,” she said, “and you ought to get a bath, dear. I hope Bill and Reggie aren’t late tonight, but they won’t be when they hear of this. They’re out on the south side of the glen, cutting the corn, it’s been such a lovely day—”
She broke off.
Woburn stood up, without speaking. The mud had caked on him, and he was more conscious of it now than he had been all the time. He was stiff, too. There was the big bruise at his knees and others on his elbows which he hadn’t noticed.
“I’ll put a clean towel out for you,” Jenny said, and went ahead of him.
Everything seemed to take twice as long as usual, and all hint of light-heartedness had gone. Woburn felt as if it would be impossible to recover the mood in which he had left the farm; as if he had stepped out of one age into another.
He heard the telephone bell ring, three times.
He was half an hour in the bathroom, and then he dressed in a pair of slacks, heel-less slippers and a T-shirt, and went downstairs. The bruise at his knee was still painful.
He was in the wide, stone-flagged hall when the telephone bell rang again.
“I’ll answer it,” he called.
Jenny appeared. “It’s probably another newspaper,” she said.
“Newspaper?”
“The Globe, the Cry and the Clarion all telephoned from London while you were in the bath,” she explained. “Some daft lad in Scourie was wi’ the police told the papers ye were on the scene. I told them that you wouldn’t be home until late tonight, I thought if you did want to talk to them, you could ring them back.” Her voice was low-pitched, the anxiety was still in her. “Of course, if you’d rather—”
“Tell whoever it is that I’m out, will you?” Woburn asked.
She passed him, nodding.
He wished he could shake off the flatness, a kind of emptiness, but there it was.
“It’s Hamish Campbell,” Jenny said, more brightly, “the Inspector. You know him. He’d like a word with you.”
“Oh, would he?” Woburn said, and forced a smile as he went to the telephone. “Hallo, Mr. Campbell.”
“Sorry to worry ye so quickly,” the Inspector said, “but this is rather an urgent matter.” He hesitated, and seemed to be swallowing words. “Aye, so it is. We’d be very grateful if you would say nothing to anyone, not even the newspapers, about what you saw, until we say it’s all richt . . . . Just a minute.” Now Woburn guessed that the other man was on two telephones at the same time. “Hallo again – sorry to keep breaking off. The thing is, ugly rumours could get about, and we don’t want them to, until the experts have had a chance to see what’s happened and what those creatures are. Can we rely on you to say nothing?”
“I didn’t intend to talk, anyhow,” Woburn said.
“Oh, that’s fine! Thank ye very much, er— now will ye hold on just a minute?” There was another pause, and during it, a car turned into the farmyard; probably Bill Robertson’s old Morris. “There’s one other thing,” Campbell went on hurriedly, “can you be at the farmhouse tonight at nine o’clock? A gentleman from London would very much like to discuss this with you, and he’ll give you the okay to talk. That all right?”
Woburn was still too preoccupied to be puzzled.
“I’ll be here.”
“Fine,” said Campbell, “that’s guid! Have your word you won’t talk to the Press or anyone . . . Guid! Thanks very much.”
When he rang off, Jenny had gone. Woburn pushed open the kitchen door, and saw her at the window, waving. So Bill and Reggie were home. He wondered why the police and this ‘man from London’ regarded it as so important that he shouldn’t say a word, and who was coming at nine o’clock. He wished he’d asked Campbell if he knew how Eve Davos was, too, but he could find that out later.
Bill was approaching, with his slow, deliberate footsteps. A dog came frisking up with him.
“Down, Fuzz,” Bill Robertson said, in his deep, comfortable voice, “and don’t come tearing about the kitchen.”
He pushed open the door, a stocky, broad-shouldered man, taking off an old g
reen pork-pie hat, his movements deliberate and yet not clumsy. He had clear, keen grey eyes and a face that told of sun and storms, winter and summer. He had spent much of his life, including his childhood, in the south of England, and sounded more English than Scottish.
“Hallo, Jenny,” he said, “thought I’d give you a shock and get home early! Hallo, Bob.” He was comfortable-looking, obviously contented, dressed in breeches and gaiters in spite of the heat. “That harvester from Gimmick’s was no damned good, I feared it wouldn’t be. Given us trouble all day.” Obviously he didn’t know what had happened at Wolf, and he wasn’t yet sensitive to the atmosphere. “Tea been made long?” he asked, glancing at the brown teapot on the Aga.
“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Jenny said, and looked as if Bill’s return had driven some of the fears away. She went towards the teapot. “Where’s Reggie?”
“Isn’t he here?” asked Bill Robertson, surprised. “I sent him down to the village this afternoon, to see if they had a spare chain link at Tom’s place. Told him to come straight back here if they hadn’t one, we’d have to wait until—”
He broke off.
Now, he sensed the atmosphere; could see the dread which had clutched at his wife. Woburn felt that same dread. It struck savagely, like a physical thing.
“Now, Jenny, what’s the matter?” Robertson asked, and moved quickly towards her, stirred to alarm by her expression. “Jenny, love, what is it?”
Jenny stood quite still, one hand raised in front of her, as if to keep him off; and to fend fear away.
“What – time – did – he – go?” she asked, and each word was uttered slowly, and with great effort.
“It’d be about half past two or three, I suppose. But Jenny, what is it? What—”
He was stunned to silence by his wife’s expression.
Woburn said: “There’s been – disaster in the village.” He had to say something to break this spell. He had seen the way Eve Davos had looked when she had told him of her sister, but that had been nothing compared with Jenny’s expression now.
He knew that he would never forget it.
Robertson said almost roughly: “Disaster? What’s all this about, can’t you give it to me straight?”
“Reggie,” Jenny whispered, into the tense silence which followed. “Reggie, Reggie.”
5
Woburn watched the old car move off, taking Jenny and her husband on their useless journey. Nothing would keep them away. They would go as near the submerged village as the police would let them, and Jenny would know a greater agony, but she would feel that whatever she did. There was no way to help her.
The car disappeared.
Woburn turned savagely away from the kitchen window. It was only ten minutes since his brother-in-law had returned, and the change in Bill had to be seen to be believed. Two people, confident in their love for each other, with one son who meant their future; and that son dead.
Woburn felt anger burning inside him, but it was a senseless, frustrated anger. He couldn’t level it against anything or anyone, except – those crawling creatures which he could see whenever he closed his eyes and took himself back to the motor-cycle journey, and the journey with Eve Davos.
The telephone bell rang.
“Oh, to hell with you!” he said aloud, and slammed the door. But the ringing went on and on and he picked up the receiver. “Hallo?”
“Is Mr. Robert Woburn there, please?” This was a local call, obviously.
“Who wants him?”
“Sir Gabriel Davos would very much like to, if he could, call on you this evening,” the man said. “I am speaking for Sir Gabriel, from the Castle. Sir Gabriel warmly appreciates the services which Mr. Woburn rendered—”
Woburn broke in: “This is Robert Woburn speaking. How is Miss Davos?”
“Mr. Woburn in person, sir?” The voice took on a new note of respect; the speaker’s manner wasn’t exactly pompous, but it wasn’t far short. “I am happy to tell you that Miss Davos is resting comfortably.”
That was something.
“May I tell Sir Gabriel—”
Woburn broke in again: “I’m not sure that I can come tonight, I’ve an appointment here at nine o’clock.” He didn’t want to sound abrupt, but knew that he did. “What does Sir Gabriel want, do you know?”
“Frankly, sir, no,” the unknown man said. His voice was almost too precise. “I am sure that he would be extremely grateful if you could spare a little while – it is less than twenty minutes’ journey from the farm to this spot. If it would be of any assistance, I’m sure that Sir Gabriel would gladly send a car.”
Woburn hesitated. Then: “No,” he said. “I’ll come.” He rang off on a warm: “Thank you, sir,” and thrust his hands into his pocket. A moment ago he had thought of possible calls that he didn’t want to miss, but they didn’t really matter. He had two hours to get through, and they weren’t going to be pleasant. Being on his own here it would be much worse than driving to the Castle, and if he went to the Castle he would probably see Eve again.
As he moved across to the kitchen door, he knew that he wanted to; very much.
Old Jamie was out of sight, but within earshot; the grunting told Woburn he was over by the pigsties.
“Aye, I’ll keep an eye on things,” he promised, “what time do you say you’ll return, Mr. Woburn?”
“Soon after eight, Jamie.”
“I’ll tell them,” Jamie promised.
Soon, Woburn sat at the wheel of his own M.G. He started off, going too fast, and saw Jamie standing and watching him. He waved, and slowed down; there was no sense in breaking his neck. He reached the main road, leading to the village in one direction and the Castle in another. There were no people about, no cars or cyclists, and he would have expected a crowd. Perhaps the police were keeping them back. He reached the cross-roads, and saw two motor-cycle police patrols, and as he slowed down at one man’s wave, he also saw Reggie’s two-stroke machine, leaning against the fence where he had left it.
The motor-cyclist was the one who had been so shaken earlier.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, “the road’s blocked, no traffic allowed this way today. Can’t understand how they let you come through, there’s supposed to be—”
“I’m from Dog’s Head Farm.”
“Oh. Oh!” The youthful, weather-beaten face had a startled look. “Mr. and Mrs. Robertson went by not long ago, but it’s just a waste of time, as I told them. Did you want to see them?”
“I’m heading for Ronoch Castle.”
“Oh, the Castle. Nothing to stop you doing that, sir, although there’s another barrier before you get to the main road. They’ll let you through, though, shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
Woburn started the engine. “That’s fine. See that motor-cycle goes into Gimmick’s garage, will you?”
“Aye, there’s no need to worry, I’ll see to it. Terrible thing, isn’t it?” the patrolman said. “I still don’t really believe it happened.”
Woburn didn’t speak.
He turned right, along the gravel road from which Eve had come this afternoon. It was narrow and winding and hilly, and cut out of the hillside, so that one could see down to the left, but on the right see only the hewn rocks. He had driven along here only once before, and he had a clear recollection of seeing the great castellated Castle. Ronoch Castle – built by a wealthy fool to spite a faithless wife, in the middle of a vast stretch of moorland, with a background of mountains, with lochs and streams; a village was within its walls, and it had been derelict until, a few years ago, Sir Gabriel Davos had bought it.
It was the talk of the Western Highlands; one of the first things he’d been told about. Davos, the Castle, and his zoo! Up here, remote from the world, another millionaire owner had brought animals from all over the world; it was the largest private zoo in Britain, perhaps in Europe.
Woburn drove round and round the bends, often at a crawl. The fall on the left was very steep; and hi
s nerves weren’t good. For the first time since he had carried Eve Davos up the hill, he began to sweat.
He turned a corner.
Just round it lay a boulder that stood as high as the front of the car. It sat squarely in the middle of the road, and he hadn’t a chance to squeeze through on either side, hadn’t a chance to stop before he hit it. He didn’t think, except of the dread danger of crashing down that hillside, perhaps bursting into flames, but his reflexes worked like lightning. Foot stabbing on brake, hand at hand-brake handle, shoulders back and body tense to stand the shock and save himself from smacking his head on the windscreen.
Crash.
He felt the jolt, savagely. It pulled the wheel out of his grasp but didn’t fling him forward enough to do harm. Would he go over? There could only be inches between him and the drop; and it would be a drop to death. He heard the rending sound as the radiator was stove in, but he’d stopped. He’d stopped. He sat quite still, staring at the boulder, at the crumpled radiator, and the hissing steam from the escaping water. He was stuck here. He couldn’t hope for help without walking back for it, and—
What was the boulder doing there, anyhow?
There was the rocky hillside above; there were warnings about falling rocks, but – this looked as if it had been placed there.
He saw a man scrambling over the rocks on the right, about twenty yards ahead of him; and he saw another, crouching below the road and peering over the edge on the left. The scrambling man held a cudgel in his right hand.
Woburn sat there – until the man jumped down. He saw the face clearly; he had seen men look like it often enough before: Japs in Burma, Chinese in Malaya, for instance, and you didn’t live long if you failed to recognise it. This was an ambush and he was the victim; the only difference between this and one in Malaya was the colour of the skin of the man rushing at him.
The man shouted: “ Get behind him!”
There was the man on the left.
In a closed car, Woburn wouldn’t have had a chance. In the open M.G., there was a slim one. Two to one, and the two armed with cudgels, made odds he could not fight and win. So it was fight or run.
