The Flood (5 page)

One look at Jenny’s face killed that hope.

Campbell said: “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, Mr. Woburn, but—”

“I’ll be at the farm until I’ve seen this man from London.” Woburn’s voice was harsh as he promised that.

“Bob,” said Bill Robertson, a little after half past eight, “I think I ought to take Jenny to see my sister.” His sister lived in Scourie, and the two families got along well. “I don’t think anyone can help her like another woman. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“May come back, may stay the night,” Robertson said.

“Do whatever helps most, Bill.”

“In a way,” Robertson said, picking his words with great care, “it’s a help that you’re here. You’ll never know how much she looked forward to your coming. She often said: ‘I can’t believe I’ll have the three of them together again, my three men’.” Robertson’s jaws worked. “Hang on a bit, won’t you? We want you about.”

“I’ll be here, Bill.”

Robertson nodded, and moved off. A few minutes later, he took Jenny out by the front door. She wasn’t wearing a hat, but was dressed just as she had been when baking, except for the plastic apron. She carried a coat. The evening was warm, and the sun not yet set so far north as this. Woburn stood and watched as they went to the car, now parked at the front of the farmhouse, and he saw a uniformed policeman move from a corner of the house. Not far away, a police patrolman, on a motor-cycle, went slowly past, turned, and passed again.

Jenny and Bill Robertson disappeared.

Woburn went into the back of the house, the kitchen which was used more than any other room; living-room, kitchen and parlour. There was the big cream-coloured Aga cooker, the old, comfortable chairs, the open larder door, the big earthenware crock of milk, the cake tins tightly lidded, a dish of the small jam tarts she had made that afternoon. Some scones, too.

A man moved, at the end of the farmyard; it wasn’t Jamie, but another policeman.

Woburn said, in a soft voice: “They’re guarding me as if I were worth a fortune. Or—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but it was sharp in his mind: or as if his life were in danger.

Two policemen at the front, one at the back, a ceaseless patrol – what was it all about? When would he know?

It was twenty minutes to nine.

He felt hungry, and was irrationally annoyed with himself. He went into the larder, cut two slices off a home-cured gammon, and two slices of crusty white bread; Jenny still made her own. There were the jam tarts, too. He selected three. He picked up a small dish of clotted cream, and remembered how Reggie liked to put a big dob on a jam tart, and pop the whole into his mouth, invariably getting a sharp:

“Reggie, when
are
you going to grow up?”

Woburn put the tarts back.

He was finishing the second sandwich, and the grandfather clock in the hall was striking nine, when a car pulled into the front drive.

So at least the man from London was punctual.

The car was a black Jaguar. The man at the wheel wore a light grey suit, and, when he got out, Woburn saw that he was taller than average, a lissom type of man in beautifully cut clothes, with his fair hair glinting golden in the evening sun; even from a distance, it looked silky, and it curled a little at the temples and on the forehead. To look at, something of a dandy. He didn’t move towards the farmhouse at once, but waited for another man to get out of the car – from the back.

Woburn, grim-faced and hard-eyed, would have said that he was past any further jolt; that it would take a great deal to move him from his present mood of livid hatred – against two men, against the very nature which had brought this disaster to the Highlands, as if life here were not already hard enough. Yet, his mood did change, and as he watched the man get out of the back of the car, he actually shook his head in disbelief. The man must be seven feet tall, and had vast shoulders. The first was at least six feet tall, and yet had to look up at the giant, who not only caught but held Woburn’s attention as the couple walked towards the farmhouse.

Woburn opened the door quickly, and watched.

The giant wore dark brown; his tailor must have felt that he was cutting a suit for a statue twice life size. Yet he was not at all ungainly. He had brown hair, cut rather short, his features were good and regular, and their size did not make them even slightly grotesque; he was just big, in a friendly-looking way. That thought came as they drew near enough for Woburn to study his expression, and to see the gentleness in it.

The shorter man spoke.

“Is it Mr. Woburn?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very good to wait in for us,” the man with fair hair said, as if he were really conscious of the favour. “And for being so patient. My name is Palfrey, Dr. Palfrey, and this is an associate of mine, Mr. Andromovitch.”

Woburn’s gaze was drawn to the big man’s. ‘Something-vitch’, which made him Russian. He had grey eyes, flecked with brown; large, clear, browny grey. When he smiled, Woburn noticed how ridiculously well-shaped his lips were.

“Good evening, Mr. Woburn.” The greeting came formally, and it was impossible to say that he had any accent.

“Good evening,” Woburn said, and realised that he was standing in the doorway like a dummy, and made no effort to admit them. He stood aside. “Come in, will you?”

The front room of the farmhouse was on the right of the stone-paved hall. Long, with wide, shallow windows, it was Jenny’s pride. Along one wall a fine dresser, the oak almost black from years of polishing, held china which was hundreds of years old. Brasses and copper sparkled on the walls, and one copper warming-pan, catching the sun as it came in at a corner window, glowed like the sunset itself. Everything here was old, most of it was oak. The curtains were of rich blue velvet, the carpet a Persian. Here were chairs large enough for the huge man, too.

Woburn motioned to the chairs, and asked: “What can I get you to drink?”

“Thanks, but we’re fine,” said the man who had announced himself as Dr. Palfrey.

Woburn wanted a drink, now that he had thought of it; wished that he had made sure that Bill had gone out with a whisky under his belt.

“Please yourself,” he said, “I’m having a whisky and soda.”

Palfrey smiled. “If that’s the case, I’ll join you.”

“And Mr.—?”

“Andromovitch,” said the giant, carefully. “I would very much like a cold beer, if it is possible.”

“There’s plenty,” Woburn said.

The beer was in a little room off the larder; one which kept very cool. He fetched it. He echoed the giant’s pronunciation of his own name: “Andromovitch.” With that sentence, too, the man had shown a slight accent, but nothing very pronounced. Of the two Palfrey’s voice was at least as deep, perhaps deeper. In his way, Palfrey was unexpectedly impressive.

The name Palfrey had a familiar ring about it.

Woburn went back and poured the drinks, took them round, and then sat on the arm of a chair. Palfrey was in a small chair near the window, Andromovitch deep in an armchair by the huge fireplace.

“Good health,” Palfrey said, and sipped. “Ah.” Now, he made Woburn look at him. His eyes, grey-blue, had an intentness one couldn’t forget. His chin might be a little small, almost weak, and his shoulders slightly rounded, but neither of those things mattered; here was a man of unusual stature. “Mr. Woburn,” he went on, “I’m sorry that we’ve mystified you. It was our fault, and not the Inspector’s. He doesn’t know, and there’s no reason why anyone should, why we regard this grievous news from the village as a form of national emergency. However, he had been asked to report by telephone to the Home Office if anything remotely resembling a crab which spurted water was found, and he was very prompt. I’d been asked to investigate similar phenomena, for the Home Office, and – well, as you will know, I flew up here at once. On the way down we heard of the attack on you, and arranged for immediate steps to be taken to try to make sure of your safety, because you may be an extremely important witness.”

Palfrey said all this quietly and without particular emphasis.

“And we should be grateful if you would tell us the story again,” he went on. “From the time you first noticed anything unusual, to the time when you came back here. The incident on the road this evening can be fitted in later.”

“It may not have anything to do with the water,” Woburn said.

“It could have,” Palfrey said.

Woburn sipped his drink. He had told Jenny, and it had been easy, but he hadn’t known everything then. Now, it was a hideous story; the tale of the death by drowning of two or three hundred people, including Reg and including ‘her’ sister.

He reached the specimen ‘thing’.

Palfrey was sitting up, more erect; and smoking.

“These crab-like things,” he said, “how big were they?”

“A little larger than a child’s hand,” Woburn answered.

“Would you mind describing them again?”

“They had a shell, but it can’t be very strong, it crushes more easily than a crab’s,” said Woburn. “The shell is rather like a hood – the thing looked rather like a round shaped crab. Muddy grey in colour. Had eight legs – more like little tentacles than legs and feet.” He paused. Then: “That’s about all.”

“Thank you.” Palfrey left it to Woburn to go on.

“They were a muddy grey colour, as I say, under and over. The one I saw on its back had a kind of jelly inside – that’s what it looked like, anyhow. In fact if it weren’t for the shell I’d say they looked as much like jellyfish as anything. The kind you get a lot of in the Pacific, especially around the east coast of Australia.”

“I know the things,” Palfrey said.

“The grass was crawling,” Woburn went on, and shivered. “The astounding thing was the way they burst. The water shot out with such force that it hurt – that dog almost went mad! – and I swear that there were gallons of water from each one of them.” He bent down and rolled up his trouser leg. “It bruised my leg as if I’d fallen heavily.”

He pointed.

Palfrey said: “Yes,” and got up. He was ‘Dr.’ Palfrey, Woburn remembered. Was it doctor of medicine? He bent down and peered at the slight discoloration of the flesh.

“As far as we know,” he said, standing up, “it’s ordinary water. Simple H20.” For a moment he looked and sounded almost vague. “How long have you been down here, Mr. Woburn?”

“Ten days.”

“Had you seen any of these crustaceans before?”

“No.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“I’m positive,” Woburn asserted.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Only Campbell. Miss Davos saw them, of course.”

“One of the things I’m going to ask is that you don’t say a word about them to anyone else,” Palfrey said. “But we can come to that later. Do you know Miss Davos well?”

“We’d never met before,” Woburn answered.

Something about the way Palfrey looked at him suggested doubt. It was a probing, questioning look; the big Andromovitch had it, too.

“You’ve never been to Ronoch Castle, I gather,” Palfrey said at last.

“I only arrived in England eleven days ago,” Woburn told him. “One night in London, off the ship from New York, and I came straight down here. It’s my first visit home for five years. I’d heard about the Castle being sold and the Davos family being there, with a big zoo, but—”

“Did you know anything about the Davos family?”

“Only what my sister and her husband told me,” said Woburn, “and that was so little that I didn’t even know there was a daughter.”

There had been two, remember.

Palfrey said: “I see. And Miss Davos saw some of these things?”

“Yes.”

“Did she see any burst?”

“One, at least – the one that fell on her lap, and I threw over.”

“Did she give you the impression of being under any kind of strain when she first arrived at the A.A. box?”

Woburn said: “No, not at first. She was certainly under a strain after what we saw down in the valley, though. At first I thought it was shock, but soon found out that it was more than that.” He was increasingly aware of a tension in the two men, and he made himself go on quite calmly, although they passed something of the tension on to him. “Then she told me that her sister had been in the village.”

Palfrey nodded, and asked: “Did you see anyone else near Red Deer Point, Mr. Woburn?”

“No.”

“Would you have seen them, if any had been near?”

“I think so. Not many people go over the cliffs to the loch. Parties of hikers do, sometimes, but mostly they go through the village. That’s my brother-in-law’s opinion, not just mine. Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters a great deal,” said Palfrey. “You know we’ve been at pains to prevent you from talking to the Press. We want to make quite sure that you don’t say a word to anyone. We want to make sure that Miss Davos doesn’t, either.”

“But why?” Woburn asked roughly. “What difference can it make?” He remembered the boulder and the two men who had tried to kill him in the lane; and that had been a different way of making sure that he didn’t talk. He jumped up, and smacked a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. “What’s it all about? Who
are
you? By what authority can you tell me I mustn’t speak about this?”

“We can show you our authority, a little later,” Palfrey said, “but we’d much rather avoid any form of compulsion.” He gave a little, placating smile; unexpectedly, it calmed Woburn. “Have you any theory about what happened, Mr. Woburn?”

The big Russian moved, for the first time.

Woburn picked up his glass and sipped. Then, he gulped. He didn’t quite know how to put what he had to say into words; in one way, the idea seemed fantastic. In another, it was feasible.

He said abruptly: “All I can think of is that millions of those crawling things were crushed at the same time. The water was like an explosion. If you’d seen the force of the water in that dog’s mouth – well, it must have broken its jaw. I’ve been thinking about it. Nearly driven me crazy. I know you’ll think I
am
crazy, but—”

“Not crazy at all,” Palfrey interrupted. “Very sane. That is exactly what did happen. Millions of the
octi
– the name given to them, it doesn’t mean anything particularly – were inside the cliff. They burst. The force of the water erupting from them undermined the cliff. You’ve seen the result.”

Palfrey was sitting down, and his voice was very quiet, almost gentle. He gave his words no emphasis, just let them carry their own. With every sentence, he brought an added sense of awe and horror.

“It isn’t the first time this has happened, Woburn.” By dropping the formal ‘Mister’ Palfrey seemed to be taking Woburn further into his confidence, to break down a barrier that had been created between them. “How long have you been in the country, do you say?” “Less than two weeks.”

“Then you wouldn’t have seen this one,” Palfrey said, and took an envelope out of his pocket. He handed it to Woburn, whose hands were unsteady as he opened it.

Inside, were newspaper cuttings, the top one from the
Daily Clarion,
there were a dozen of them, altogether. Woburn read:

ISLAND DISAPPEARS OVERNIGHT

He clamped his jaws together as he read on:

Inhabitants of the Western Isles, especially those on Mull, woke up to a shock yesterday morning. A small, uninhabited island five miles from the main island on the western side, had disappeared. About a quarter of a mile north to south and rather more east to west, the highest point in the island was over two hundred feet above sea level. Nothing was heard to explain the disappearance, and geologists suggest that there was a fault in the earth’s crust just beneath the island, which caved in. The shock was not severe enough to be felt on any of the seismographs, however.

The fact remains that where rocks rose and grass and wild flowers and a few trees grew two days ago, today there is only the sea.

Woburn finished reading.

Horror had touched him enough before; now it was much worse. He moved back to his chair, but didn’t sit down.

He said: “A few weeks ago, an island in the Adirondacks disappeared. You know – in the lake district of New England.” It hurt when he gulped. “I read about it. Twenty people were drowned. It was in the middle of one of the big lakes, and vanished overnight. No witnesses survived. Do you think—”

“We’ve had men investigating in that district for years,” Palfrey said. “No reports of
octi
being found there after the disaster, but we’ve had reports from other places.”

Woburn made himself ask: “Where?”

“In the South Pacific, a small group of islands north of the Samoa group vanished. That was the first we heard. There was one survivor, a trader whose ship was tied up to the jetty of the main island. He says he was invaded by the
octi,
and – he preserved one long enough for it to be examined.”

Palfrey stopped.

Woburn poured himself out another drink.

“A whole
group
of islands?”