by John Creasey
“The military are trench-digging,” Woburn said. “The worst trouble is that they don’t know what they’re up against.”
“You mean, those. . . things?”
“Yes.” If she knew about them would she speak with such horror? “They’ve a name for them,” Woburn told her.
“Octi.”
“Octi,” she repeated, and added as if to herself: “Of course, because they’ve eight legs. It’s as good as any name.” She moistened her lips. “Don’t the authorities know what they are?”
Did she?
Could she fool him so easily?
“I just don’t know,” confessed Woburn helplessly. “I was questioned for an hour or more last night, in two spells, and I should say they just haven’t the slightest idea of what’s behind it. These octi seem to burrow beneath the ground, and then burst. It—” he broke off.
“Did a man named Palfrey question you?”
He was surprised, but managed to hide it. “Yes, Why?”
“He came here last night,” Eve explained. “Questions, questions, questions! As if he needed to ask me – if I’d known anything to help, I would have told him at once. My own sister—”
She broke off.
Woburn thought desperately: “Is she telling me the truth, or is she lying?”
The maid came in, with the coffee in a silver pot: milk, cream, biscuits. She put this all down on a small table by the window, and went out without a word. Eve sat down, to pour out, asking the usual formal question – that was the worst of this, the odd formality. A kind of stiffness was coming back, too, Woburn was aware of the early feeling; that he was intruding on private grief, and should never have come.
He asked abruptly: “How is your father?”
She didn’t answer.
He thought perversely: “I just go from bad to worse. I’ve got to get out of here.” With the thought came recollection that the bridge was up and the portcullis down. He couldn’t see the entrance from this spot but Eve could; she was sitting and looking out of the window.
“My father is very ill,” she said, at last. She turned to face him. “The shock of Naomi’s death—” she broke off.
“For some reason, he blames himself. You see, he— he sent her into the village.”
As Bill Robertson had sent Reggie.
“He’s sent her time after time, day after day,” Eve went on. “I tried to tell him he can’t possibly blame himself, that there wasn’t the slightest known danger, but – he seemed to go mad.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and he knew now what had been the trouble with her; she carried the memory of her father’s grief as well as the hardness of her own. “I can see him now. He just walked round and round the room, this room, he kept crying out Naomi’s name, he kept calling upon God to strike him down, he—”
She couldn’t go on; but she had not tried to hide the fact that she had told her father about him and the octi. So if Palfrey was right and the attack had been to stop him from describing the creatures, then Davos had known and could have sent the would-be killers.
Woburn spoke into the silence.
“Where is your father now?”
“In his room.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“There is a resident doctor here,” she said, “a friend of my father. He says there is nothing to be done, it is a severe case of shock.” She raised her hands, helplessly, and stared out of the window again. “I wanted to leave here, but he won’t go.”
Woburn said: “If the octi come nearer—”
“I know,” Eve said, “I was terrified during the night. I spent most of the time watching them digging the trench.” So she had known about that. “You can see over the whole of the peninsula from the top windows, you could see Wolf, until yesterday. But my father won’t go, and now he’s prostrate. I haven’t seen him this morning.” She had more control over herself, but looked less strained; the outburst had done her good. “Will you have – more coffee?”
He hadn’t touched the first cup.
“No, thanks.” He drank, quickly, took a biscuit from a silver dish with a lace doily, but watched her all the time. He had a job to do, remember, and Palfrey had told him that it was up to him. The issue was simple enough: to find out whether Sir Gabriel Davos knew anything about them.
Davos might know the secret of the octi.
Surely his daughter didn’t.
Get at the facts he knew. Davos had collapsed and shut himself away – the kind of thing that might happen if he were suffering from remorse as well as grief; if he knew that the octi, under his control, had killed his daughter.
A long shot. . .
Woburn stood up, so sharply that it startled her. He moved towards the window. The portcullis was still down, but that didn’t affect him as it had done. His heart was thumping. This wasn’t his kind of job, he was likely to bungle it – he wanted to fling out a charge against her father.
Could he find a way to make her tell what she knew? Could he frighten or shame her?
He took out a cigarette, forgetting to offer his case. She sat looking at him with a curious kind of expectancy.
He said: “Miss Davos, Palfrey did one thing I haven’t told you about. He terrified me. You know what it was like when we saw the village go. He made me think that whole towns might go like the village did. His questions made one thing obvious: he suspected that people controlled the octi, that it wasn’t just a natural phenomenon.” He broke off for a moment, to draw deeply at the cigarette. “Palfrey thinks it possible that the octi are by-products of some research – deep sea research, possibly.”
“I have the same fears,” Eve said huskily, “and – I hardly know what to think, what to fear.”
Woburn kept silent; watching her.
She said in that hurt voice: “Be honest with me, please. Brutal, if need be. Do you, does Palfrey, suspect my father?” She closed her eyes, as if fearful of seeing Woburn’s expression, and forced herself to go on. “The thought makes me feel dreadful, but— he isn’t normal, he just isn’t normal. I’ve feared that for a long time, but I’m only now beginning to dread—”
She sat there, quite erect, her hands clasped in front of her. When she spoke again it was in a whisper which Woburn could hardly hear.
“Not my father,” she prayed. “I can’t believe that he would have sent Naomi if he had known. He couldn’t have known.”
She opened her eyes again: and the pain in them was a hurt in itself. Unexpectedly, her voice was firmer.
“What is the truth, please? Do you know that my father has anything to do with these things?”
Woburn said jerkily: “No, I don’t know. I think Palfrey suspects. That’s all. When you told me how desperately upset your father was – I wondered, too. But I don’t know him. Would he usually show – show his emotions like that?”
“No,” Eve said.
“If he knew what had caused the landslide—”
“But he couldn’t have known,” Eve cried, “I can’t bring myself to believe that he could!” She stood up, very quickly; and a plate and biscuit, on her lap, slid slowly to the floor. Woburn made a grab, to try to save it; he failed, but didn’t think that Eve noticed it. “I know a way to find out,” she said flatly, and so told Woburn that at heart she believed that it was true. “I will go and accuse him.” She pressed her hands against her forehead. “I’ll go and make him tell me whether—”
She broke off.
Woburn said sharply: “No, you can’t do that.”
“I can and I will find out,” she said.
“I believe you will,” said Woburn, gently, “but not like that. Whatever part your father had in it, he’s grief-stricken now.” He let that sink in; and help her. “And if he knows nothing, the thought that you suspect him will make him feel far worse. One child dead. One ready to think that he—”
She caught her breath.
Woburn went on almost fiercely: “Isn’t there a way to find out before you speak
to him? If you know for certain, it would make a lot of difference to what you said. And did.”
She just stared.
“Can’t you see that?” he insisted. “Surely—”
“Yes,” she admitted, slowly. “Yes, it—”
She broke off, but not because of her thoughts. Something was flying, by the open window. The fluttering of wings was just audible. A dark shadow flitted across the window, but when he looked round swiftly, Woburn saw only two white doves, alighting on the top of the portcullis.
Two – white – doves.
Eve was now staring at them. Her right hand was at her mouth. He could see the pressure of her teeth in the fleshy part of her forefinger. He could feel her tension. The fact that when he had first come here and when he had first met her she had been so aloof, so self-controlled, so empty of the outward signs of emotion, made the effect of this worse.
She was on the point of hysteria, because of two white doves.
She snatched her hand from her mouth.
“No,” she breathed, “it can’t be, it can’t be true.” She stared at Woburn, and looked as if she were going mad in front of his eyes.
11
Woburn found himself staring out of the window at the doves. They perched there without moving now, as if waiting for the sun to move and shine upon them. The emblem of purity – which had this shattering effect on Eve.
It would have been better had she burst out crying, had she screamed, or shown the outward signs of hysteria; but apart from that one outburst, she didn’t make a sound. She just stood looking out – not at the portcullis, but at the two birds.
Woburn broke a long, taut silence.
“If you’d tell me what it is,” he said, “I might be able to help.”
Slowly, she turned to face him.
“What. . . what did you say?”
“If you’ll tell me what it is,” Woburn repeated, “I might be able to help.”
“I feel as if I were going mad,” she said. “As if I cannot stand it any longer. The worry, the suspicions, the fears, the dread.” She was talking to him, but in a low-pitched whisper. “It has gone on for so long. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t dream of this. How. . . how could I dream of it?”
He said: “Tell me what’s frightening you, Eve?”
“Frightening,” she echoed. “ Frightening. Yes, that’s right – it has terrified me. My father’s – illness. His oddity. His belief in. . . in himself.” She stopped, to stare out of the window towards the portcullis and those birds of peace, and then she shivered again and whispered: “Oh, no!”
He moved towards her.
“Eve!” He gripped her shoulders tightly. “You’ve got to tell me why you’re frightened. You’ve got to tell me now.”
She was shivering, and didn’t try to speak. He knew that for a while it was futile to try to make her. His arms slid from her arms to her back. She leaned against him, as if she hadn’t the strength to support herself. This woman, once so remote and aloof, remote from the world he knew, was crouched in his arms and sobbing, and he could feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her body.
Outside, the sun moved until the doves were touched with its brightness.
Then, he heard a raucous sound, which struck some echo of memory, but one he couldn’t place. The sound was repeated. Obviously Eve heard it; he could feel her flinch. She cried less bitterly, now, but didn’t move. He didn’t want her to move. A peacefulness had come upon him, and he knew that it would go the moment he let her go. Here, was a kind of sanctuary. He knew that they were like two human ostriches, with heads in the sand; but that didn’t matter.
The raucous sound—
He remembered! Peacocks, calling. There had been the two outside.
Two doves.
Two peacocks, one with magnificent plumage, the other with the drab feathers of the female.
No!
Woburn almost shouted the word, almost thrust Eve away from him, because the shock was so savage and so complete. Two white doves, two peacocks, and an idea so bizarre, so unbelievable that he could feel the single word rising up inside him, coming from his vitals.
No!
Eve Davos moved, slowly, and then looked up at him. She was still in his arms, as if equally reluctant to break the spell of the illusion. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks were smeared, she had a little-girl look, with her ruffled hair and the shiny patches, even the smeared lipstick.
She didn’t speak, just freed herself, and turned to her chair. She picked up her handbag, and opened it; took out a compact, and looked at herself. She did all this slowly, more automatically than with purposefulness. She dabbed at the wet marks with a lace handkerchief; then dabbed powder; then ran a comb lightly through her hair. Now and again she glanced at Woburn.
She finished.
“Will you. . . will you come with me?” she asked in a husky voice; it had no strength in it. “I want to show you something else.”
“All right,” Woburn said. “Is it far?”
“Upstairs.”
“Shall we meet anyone?”
“We might meet servants,” she said, “and we might meet Dr. Faversham.” She made no further comment, but turned towards the door.
No one was in this hall.
She didn’t lead the way to the staircase, with its great steps widening towards the hall, but to a doorway; he had assumed that it led to another room. She opened the door to a small lift, large enough for three people at most.
“Which button?” Woburn asked.
“The tower.”
There were five buttons in all: ‘basement’ the lowest, ‘the tower’ the highest. He pressed. The door closed automatically and they went up slowly and without a sound. They had to stand very close together. A few minutes ago she had been in his arms; now, she looked as if she were a million miles away.
The lift stopped.
Woburn opened the door, and they stepped into a small room, surrounded by windows. ‘Room’ was hardly the right word, it was so small. Two small easy chairs, a small table and a vase of roses were there, with several magazines in a stand. The parquet flooring wasn’t covered, but polished; Woburn felt himself slip.
The windows, six in all, seemed high above the rest of the Castle, as remote as Eve was now from him. At first, nothing was in sight but the great mountains, the rocks, and the clear blue sky; all trace of mist had gone. Eve took a step towards the nearer window, and as he followed, he could see buildings, all in keeping with the Castle, and just beyond it, in the mouth of the glen. Stone walls, heavy slate roofs, massive doorways, small windows – all these built against the high outer wall itself. There was a vegetable garden; peaches and vines on one of the walls; a small private maze; a rose garden which must have occupied half an acre, and blazed with more colour than Woburn had ever seen.
Beauty.
Near this glorious patch, visible from up here but not from lower down, was the beast.
Then, Woburn knew that he was right; and she was, also.
Beyond the Castle wall was another which enclosed an area of several square miles. Placed against one section of this outer wall were dozens of steel cages, as one would see at a zoo. Some animals were roaming, some were in the cages. Beyond the outer wall, deep in the glen, were other animals. Woburn could see wild beasts: monkeys, gorillas, lions, tigers, panthers – animals almost beyond number. There were sheep, buck, zebra; gazelles, small animals he didn’t recognise – not one or two, but in hundreds. Most were sleeping in the shade, or lying still, but a few grazed, and others strode up and down with ceaseless prowling. None seemed to make a sound.
Among all these were men walking about quite freely, and apparently unafraid.
There were the aviaries near the wall. The sun shone on the plumage of rare birds; on beauty almost as great as the colours of the rose garden. The colours moved as the birds darted about in their cages.
None of these seemed to make any sound; there was no so
und at all from the outside; just that of Woburn’s own breathing, and of Eve’s. She was less calm, now. Her breast was rising and falling as she fought for serenity, but the thing which had frightened her before was coming back; a kind of horror which he could understand only too well.
In a corner, were two baby elephants.
Near them were giraffes which could not be more than two or three months old, ungainly, and still without their markings.
Woburn felt Eve close to him, drawn by that dread, by the sense of horror shared.
There was the lion and the lioness; the leopard and the leopardess.
Here were beast and bird, male and female, in this great valley, two by two.
Eve didn’t move away from Woburn, but her hand closed about his arm.
She said: “You see?”
Woburn said painfully: “Everything.”
“Everything,” she agreed. She gripped his arm more tightly. “He’s been collecting these for. . . years. Two of what he regards as the noblest, the most beautiful, the strongest or the most rare – of all animals and birds which can live here. Just his hobby. We went hunting big game. We went deep sea fishing. We travelled the world. We had a crew of naturalists with us. We had Professors. We collected birds and beasts and fish, and insects and reptiles, but – no snakes.”
Her grip hurt.
“No snakes,” she repeated, with a catch in her breath. “Savage beasts, even reptiles, but – none of them – poisonous. He breeds sheep here, to feed his creatures. There is a compound for rabbits, too, he has walled off the whole glen to make it a great animal reserve, and I thought it was just an idea for a grandiose zoo.”
Woburn said: “I think I can see. All these beasts living together, the finest of their kind. A world without. . . poison,” he finished, and the word nearly choked him. “Clean.”
“Yes.”
He asked: “Are they all tame?”
She didn’t answer, but asked: “What time is it?” and looked at the watch on her wrist. “I broke it yesterday,” she said, “it caught in a bramble. What time. . . is it?”
