The Empty House (5 page)

“Such as?”

“Stag hunting and otter hunting,” said Key with a grin which showed a fine set of predator’s teeth. “I expect your anti-bloodsports yourself?”

“What makes you think that?”

“My brother told me at school you had a reputation for being anti-everything.”

“I’ve mellowed with age,” said Peter. “These Exmoor sheep are very independent.”

“It’s no good blowing your horn at them. The only way to make them move is to ram them.”

Bridgetown lay in a fold in the ground, overlooked by shoulders of moorland to the south and west, falling away toward the coastline to the north. It looked like a ship anchored in a sea of green waves. As they ran down toward it, the sun looked out for a moment through the scudding clouds and lit up the white walls and red roofs of the cottages clustered around the square gray church.

“Lovely,” said Peter.

“Not bad,” said Key. “A bit isolated in winter. Last January we were cut off by snow for a week. My place is at the far end of the main street. If you come along tomorrow, I’ll see if I can do something about the seat. And that’s the hotel. Dave Brewer runs it. Don’t be put off by his appearance. He looks like an aboriginal cave-dweller, but he’s a very nice man really.”

Peter was glad he had been warned. The proprietor of the Doone Valley Hotel was a formidable figure, almost as tall as Peter, twice as thick and covered, at every visible point, with hair. He seized Peter’s case in one large hand and rolled ahead of him into the hotel.

It was sizable for a village inn. There were eight keys hanging on hooks on a board in the hall. Mr. Brewer selected one of them and led the way up, the stairs creaking under his weight. “Along the end here,” he said. “Number eight. It’s a nice room. A young man had it last week. An artist. He was planning to stay with us a fortnight, but the rain druv him off. It’s all right if you’re thinking of walking. A drop of rain doesn’t hurt if you’re walking.”

It was difficult to imagine that rain would have any effect on Mr. Brewer. He looked as impervious to water as an otter. Sensing a question mark at the end of the last comment, Peter said, “I expect I shall get in a bit of walking. It’s really business has brought me down.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Brewer. “Something to do with that accident at Rackthorn Point perhaps?”

“You’re right,” said Peter. “But how did you guess?”

“When you said business, I thought it must be that. We’ve had a heap of people through in the last few days. Police and soldiers and such-like. A nasty thing to happen. They ought to put a proper iron fence all along the cliff. Not just a couple of sticks you could break by leaning against ‘em. That’s the bathroom and lavatory. Come down when you’re ready and have a drink before your supper.”

Peter unpacked the few things he had brought with him and stood for a moment looking out of the window. He was not sorry that the object of his visit had been so summarily discovered. It would save embarrassment, and might even be helpful. Apart from the obvious move of visiting the Biological Warfare Research Station, where he would probably be told nothing and might not even be admitted, he had formed no sort of plan. The more people who knew what he was up to, the better for him. They would certainly want to talk about it, and he might learn something.

At this point he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the washbasin and burst out laughing. The whole trip was nonsense. If the police and the Army, with their resources, were unable to discover the truth about what had led to a distinguished biologist driving himself over a two-hundred-foot cliff, what chance was there that he, Peter Manciple, was going to do better? He had a shrewd suspicion that he had been given the job as a pretext for a week’s holiday. Arthur Troyte might not know the truth of what had happened a month before in a small hotel in Surrey; that was a secret between Peter and his doctor. But Troyte might have noticed the effect which it had had on Peter’s work, and decided, in his shrewd way, to do something about it.

Peter washed his face and hands, combed his long, fair hair out of his eyes, and went downstairs. There was only one occupant of the lounge, a middle- aged man with a short, pointed gray beard and gold-rimmed glasses. Peter felt safe in assuming that this was Professor Petros, the famous archaeologist. He introduced himself.

The Professor said, in the clear, unaccented English which at once proclaimed him a foreigner, “Our host was telling me that you had come in connection with that sad accident last Wednesday. You would perhaps be connected with the newspapers?”

“Not exactly,” said Peter. “I’m connected with the people who carried an insurance policy on Dr. Wolfe’s life. They sent me down to—”(what on earth could he say without sounding ridiculous?)—”to have a look into the matter.”

The Professor considered this reply, and then said with a gentle smile, “Yours must be an interesting sort of profession, Mr. Manciple. But tell me, unless I am being indiscreet, what exactly do you expect to find? I believe that all hope has now been abandoned of recovering the car. The body may, of course, be washed ashore, but I am told that even that is unlikely.”

“You’re an archaeologist,” said Peter. “I imagine that you often dig holes in the ground without having much idea what you’re going to turn up.”

“That is a good debating answer. It is true that one has often little idea what one will find. But an archaeologist does not dig at random. He relies on a great number of indications and pointers which his experience interprets for him.”

“I expect that all investigators get the same sort of instinct,” said Peter. “I can’t claim a great stock of it yet. Did you know Dr. Wolfe?”

“I have met him. He came here sometimes in the evenings. Accompanied by one or other of his male nurses.” The Professor smiled.

“You mean the guards from the Army establishment?”

“There were two of them who seemed to have particular charge of Dr. Wolfe. One of them, a man called Lewis, was the poor fellow who was run down by a motorist.”

“I didn’t hear about that.”

“It was a sad coincidence. It happened on the same day that Dr. Wolfe died.”

“Have they found the person responsible?”

“A policeman was here making inquiries.” The Professor smiled again, dryly. “He is said to have a clue. Myself, I think it was a passing motorist. The man may never be discovered, but he will suffer from a guilty conscience for the rest of his days.”

“Man?”

“Certainly. Did you ever hear of a hit-and-run case involving a woman? It is always a man. Men are such cowards.”

“I can see you are a student of human nature. Can you offer any explanation of Dr. Wolfe’s death?”

“Naturally, we have all discussed it in every aspect. Various suggestions have been put forward. I have my own ideas. Here is our host. May I offer you a drink? I usually take a glass of dry sherry before dinner.”

“I’d like the same. Thank you.”

“Then two dry sherries. And will you join us?”

“Not just now,” said Mr. Brewer. “I’ve got to lend a hand pushing the Manserghs’ car. It’s packed up just down the road. I told them if they want to go gallivanting about on Exmoor, they ought to take horses, not a motor car.” He surged out.

“The Manserghs are a charming young couple,” said the Professor, “and very adventurous. They spend their time exploring the moor. It is connected with some book. Mr. Mansergh explained it to me, but I did not quite follow it. Here are our drinks. Good health.”

“Cheers,” said Peter. “Do you want anyone to help with the pushing?”

“I can manage,” said Mr. Brewer. He looked capable of picking a car up in one hand.

“You were saying,” said Peter to the Professor, “that you had your own idea of what happened to Dr. Wolfe.”

“It is a very simple idea. Not at all romantic, as some of the ideas I have heard put forward. I think that he suffered from a sudden blackout. Men who sit using their brains all day are susceptible to such attacks. They are not usually serious. They correspond to cramp in the human body. They are a warning that the muscles of the brain are being over-used. It was a sad trick of fate that such an attack should occur at that precise point. You have studied the place for yourself.”

“Not yet. But I’ve looked at it on the map and what I can’t make out is why he went that way at all. The track only leads back to the Cryde road. If he wanted to go to Cryde, it would have been much simpler to turn right at the road junction and not go up the path.”

“True,” said the Professor. “It is a mystery. One to which we are now never likely to know the answer. Here are the Manserghs, I think.”

He stood up, moving smoothly out of the deep armchair, Peter noticed. Perhaps he was not as old as he had seemed at first sight.

“Allow me to introduce you. Anna Mansergh, Mr. Manciple.”

“That’s not right,” said the girl. “If you introduce me by my Christian name, you must tell me his.”

“A serious gaffe,” agreed the Professor.

“Peter,” said Peter.

“That’s better. What’s that you’re drinking? I’d better get one for myself. Dave has covered himself with mud pushing our poor old car into the yard. He is a pet. I seem to have got a lot of mud on myself, too.”

She looked down at her legs. She was wearing jeans tucked into jodhpur boots, and a windcheater open at the top to show a scarlet polo-necked sweater underneath. Her hair, which came down in a thick wave to her shoulders, was black. Her nose was short and straight. Her eyes were blue and alive. Peter thought that it was a long time since he had seen a more attractive girl.

If she realised that he was staring at her, she seemed unperturbed by it. Possibly she was used to men staring at her. She said, “Dave tells me you’re down here to investigate poor Dr. Wolfe’s accident. You must tell me about it after dinner. I’d better go and see how Kevin’s coping with the car. And I’ll have to change. They’re not fussy here, but I can’t sit down to eat covered in Exmoor mud.”

When she had gone, Peter remained standing, staring after her. When he turned, he found the Professor looking at him.

“An attractive girl, don’t you think?”

“Very.”

“An old Irish family, I believe. You will find her brother interesting, too.”

“Her brother?”

“Kevin,” said the Professor dryly, “is her brother. Not her husband.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “I see. Well. Thank you for telling me.”

There were four tables in the dining room. One was occupied by two middle-aged ladies who said little and ate with a steady application which implied that they thought they were paying a lot for their meal and were determined to get their money’s worth. Beyond them was a couple with a girl of ten who read a comic throughout the meal and let her parents get on with the latest round in what was evidently a running fight. The Manserghs had a table in the window. Peter shared the remaining table with the Professor.

During the course of the meal he introduced the subject of cars. The Professor said, “Certainly I would agree to an exchange. The car that I have is a monster. It devours petrol. I accepted it only because, at the time, it was the only one available. A small Austin will suit me much better. After all, I use the car only to take me backward and forward to the site. We will go tomorrow morning to Mr. Key’s establishment and effect the exchange. Are you interested in archaeology?”

“Interested, but totally unknowledgeable.”

“Perhaps you would like to run out and look at the work we are doing. That is to say, if your programme allows you time for relaxation.”

“Relaxation is one of the things I have come down here for,” said Peter. As he said it, his eyes were on the table on the window. The level rays of the setting sun were picking out copper lights in Anna’s black hair.

“You must appreciate,” said the Professor severely, “that there are fundamental differences between the archaeology of the Middle East and that of Great Britain. The Minoan era—”

The Minoan era lasted through the savoury. When they moved out into the lounge for coffee, Peter manoeuvred himself into a chair alongside Anna.

“Your job must be very exciting,” she said.

“In what way?” said Peter cautiously.

“In every way. Being a detective, I mean.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Brewer has got it all wrong. I’m an insurance assessor.”

“It amounts to much the same thing, doesn’t it? You go round asking questions and finding things out.”

“If you put it that way, I suppose I do,” said Peter. “But this isn’t really a normal sort of job. Mostly I spend my time sitting in other people’s offices, reading their accounts and trying to spot the joins. Here it’s different. I have to try and come to some conclusion as to what did happen when Dr. Wolfe drove over the cliff. Whether it was an accident or suicide, or what.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“By talking to people who knew him.”

“So
that’s
why you’re talking to me, is it?”

Peter wanted to say, “I’m talking to you because I think you’re the most wonderfully attractive girl I’ve ever met,” but he knew that if he said anything of the sort he’d start blushing.

“Did you know him well?”

“He came in here on one or two evenings. We talked a bit.”

“Did he talk about his job?”

“In a general sort of way. We all knew he was working in that place up the road and it must have been something to do with biological warfare – whatever that means. Mostly we talked about other things. Chess, for instance.”

“You played chess with him?”

“I couldn’t possibly have played him. He’d have been much too good for me. But we talked about it. And about bits of France we’d both been to. And about Exmoor. He was a great help to Kevin in his work.”

Kevin, who was helping the ten-year-old girl finish a crossword puzzle, looked up when he heard his name and smiled. He had the same bone structure and the same blue eyes as his sister.

“What work is that?”

“Kevin is doing a book about the Doones. I expect you’ve heard of them?”

“Certainly I’ve heard of them. I was at Blundell’s and I read
Loma Doone
twice. The first time as a duty, the second time for pleasure.”