The Flood (4 page)

“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 green 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.”

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 his 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.

He sprang over the side of the car, on the right. The man in that hedge was scrambling through now, and they were almost level with each other; the fatal thing would be to allow the other to get behind him. The first man, only ten feet away, was rushing along with the upraised cudgel.

Woburn had no weapon.

There was loose gravel at the side of the road.

He stooped down and snatched a handful and flung it into the nearer man’s face; flung a second at the man with the cudgel. He heard the gasp as the gravel struck the first man, and then turned and ran.

He heard the men scrambling, then footsteps on the road.

He heard a shout: “
Get him!”

He turned his head, and saw both of them, this side of the M.G. now, and one of them held not a cudgel but a gun. That couldn’t be mistaken. The narrow road was an aid to shooting, and the man could hardly miss; he was only thirty feet away.

There was a gap in the rocks which rose above Woburn, and inside the gap he might find cover.

Woburn leapt towards the gap, as he heard the crack of the shot. Nothing touched him. Now rocks hid him; and he had won back hope. The gap was an old quarry, with a path leading back to the road a hundred yards farther on. Big rocks dotted it. He didn’t pause to think, didn’t even wonder what this was all about; he just had to save his life. Every rock was shelter; every patch of clear ground a torment. He kept treading in holes and on stones, but nothing tripped him up.

He heard another shot.

He didn’t even look round. The pounding of the blood in his ears and of his own feet made the only sound. Then, he reached the road again; just ahead, it curved sharply, and he dared glance round.

Both men had climbed up on to the rocks above the road, to a point where they could see him the moment he went farther. One would wait up there, the other chase him out of this place of safety.

A man began to scramble down the rocks.

Woburn couldn’t fight a man with a gun; even stones—

He heard the sharp beat of a motor-cycle engine.

There was the smashed radiator and bumper of the little sports car to prove everything that Woburn said, and there was the huge boulder, too. The nearest loose boulders like it were a mile away; this one had been rolled to the point of greatest danger. The motor-cyclist patrolman made sure of that before he radioed a message for Campbell. Then he drove along the road, but there was no sign of the two men. Woburn tried to describe them, but it wasn’t easy. The man on his left had just been a shape, but the one who had run towards him had been short with a low, wrinkled forehead, a pointed chin. But it was expression more than feature which Woburn remembered.

“Better get back to the cross-roads, sir,” the motor-cycle patrolman advised, “the Inspector would like ye to meet him there. Were you going to the Castle for anything important?”

“It can keep,” Woburn said.

“You could telephone from the A.A. box.”

“Ah, yes,” Woburn said. “Good thought. Thanks.” He wanted to be pleasant; he wanted to be grateful; but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but fierce, burning anger, and now he had someone to rage at. Two men, one whom he would know again and one whom he wouldn’t, had tried to kill him. First to crash, then to batter him to death and, when both attempts had failed, to shoot him.

Kill at all costs—

Why?

On the back of the patrol-machine, he soon reached the A.A. box. Campbell’s car was coming along from the road to the village. An emergency post had been set up as near the fallen road as the police thought safe to venture, and rescue parties were already finding their way down the village itself. Small boats were moving where streets had been, and the grim task of recovering the bodies had started. Behind Campbell’s car came an ambulance, moving slowly.

Campbell looked shaggy and solid, and more in command of himself; brisker, too.

“Hallo, Mr. Woburn, hear you’ve run into some trouble.”

“It was waiting for me,” Woburn said.

“Like to do something for me?” asked Campbell, almost bluffly. “Keep the report confidential, sir. Harris.”

The patrolman said smartly: “Yes, sir?”

“I don’t want a word of this to anyone else. Make out your report yourself, and give it to me personally. Don’t report to the sergeant at the station. Is that all clear?”

“All clear, sir.”

“Um, thanks,” said Campbell, and turned to Woburn again. He looked as if he were searching for the exact words. “Mr. Woburn, I’m sorry I can’t be more free with my information, but we’re verra worried about what’s happened, verra worried indeed. I had an urgent request from the Home Office when I telephoned you, and I was asked to make sure you didna give any details to anyone except the gentleman who’ll be coming at nine o’clock.” He looked at a big steel watch on a hairy wrist. “Plenty of time, it’s only half past seven. The instructions were verra emphatic, sir, and while no one said anything about such an attack as this happening, I think my instructions apply to that as well. Confidential, sir,
top
secret.”

Woburn didn’t speak.

“And if you’d be good enough to co-operate—”

“I can keep my mouth shut, if it’s necessary,” Woburn said. He didn’t like the turn this had taken, didn’t like talk of the Home Office, which put it on a much higher level of significance; but the Home Office and police officers didn’t talk like this without good reason. “That needn’t stop you looking for the swine, need it?”

“It need
not.”
Campbell was emphatic. “I took the report from Harris on the radio-telephone, and gave immediate orders. And we should catch ‘em, too. All roads leading to Wolf village are blocked, police barriers to keep the sightseers away,
and
the Press. I’ll check at Ronoch Castle, too. Can’t watch all the roads for people on foot, of course, but we’ve motor-cycle patrols on the go all the time, I think we’ll get ‘em all right. You don’t intend to leave the farm again tonight, sir, do you?”

Something in his manner suggested that he really meant: “You’re not to leave the farm again.” Woburn was on the point of acute irritation, the phrase: “I’ll go as and when I please” was actually on his lips, when another car came along, and he recognised the old farm Morris. In a flash, Campbell was forgotten. He swung round towards the car, a fierce hope in him.