The Smog Read online

  “I was just thinking about that. Wasn’t Storr or anyone of them hurt?”

  “No. But they raised the alarm,” Palfrey said.

  “Oh.”

  “They’re in Winchester, now,” Palfrey volunteered. “They moved of their own choice because of the danger that the smog level would rise. A few wisps of smog certainly reached the house, but hardly enough to notice—not half as much as you would find in any big city street where there’s been a lot of traffic, and running engines during traffic hold-ups. Do you know Professor Storr?”

  “I’ve met him, as the milkman,” Costain muttered.

  “The others?”

  “Only to say good morning or good evening. I—” Costain had a sudden recollection of those moments when he had watched Marion Kemble at the window. “I—would have liked to have known them better, but even if I’d been willing I doubt if they would have been.”

  “Kept themselves to themselves, did they?”

  “Very much so,” Costain confirmed. “Palfrey—” again he broke off.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you implying that they might know something about what happened?”

  “I don’t think I was implying it, but it would be an odd man who didn’t wonder,” Palfrey replied drily. “Costain, stop looking down there and look at me, will you?”

  Slowly, as if the yellow pall exerted a mesmeric effect on him, Costain obeyed. He sensed his own pallor, and his lips and mouth were dry. It was as if he could see the filthy stuff rising, gradually creeping up the sides of the valley; covering and smothering all living creatures; as if he could see the men and women and children gasping, clutching at their throats, could see them collapsing. These were things he saw reflected in Palfrey’s clear eyes, until the visions vanished and he saw only Palfrey. There was nothing at all to suggest weakness or vagueness in Palfrey now.

  “In the letter I read earlier was a report on you,” stated Palfrey. “It covered your movements today, it covered your life up to the time of your family’s deaths. It covered your navy and merchant navy career as an engineer. I am quite satisfied that you can help to discover the truth about what happened down there. It will be extremely dangerous. It will take all your time and demand absolute dedication. By sheer chance you are the only man who is likely to be able to help, because you are the only man acquainted with the Professor and his household who has a rational and understandable common interest and also has background knowledge of the way smog is made.”

  When Palfrey stopped, everything, every hurt, seemed to be drawn out of David Costain by the sudden realisation that he could help; that at long, long last he could have a reason for living.

  He felt an almost ungovernable impulse to say yes, immediately; but the habit of years and an instinctive caution in him made him pause; and inevitably out of the hesitation came the question: “How long may I have to think about it?”

  “Not much more than twelve hours,” Palfrey answered, promptly – as if the question had long been anticipated. “It would be highly improbable, almost indicative of suspicion of them, if you didn’t see Storr, the Kemble women and the other two men tomorrow morning. And it’s nine o’clock now.”

  Costain looked away from him down into the valley which concealed that village of death.

  “Can we talk again at nine in the morning?” he asked.

  “We’ll meet and talk over breakfast,” Palfrey declared, and again Costain had the impression that he had anticipated and answered that question long ago. “Be advised by me on one thing, will you? Take one of these pills.” He shook a tablet from a small phial onto his hand, and held it out. “One of these before you go to bed and you’ll sleep like a top but have no hangover. You need sleep,” he added grimly. “While you can get it.”

  Chapter Five

  The Answer

  Costain slept with the deepness of exhaustion, without stirring, without opening his eyes and beginning to think and brood, as once he had done so often. He woke a little after eight o’clock, with a slight headache, turned – and saw a tea tray, the water in the jug still steaming. He struggled up, poured out, sipped and looked about him. This room, which he had hardly noticed the night before, was small, pleasantly furnished, with flowered chintz at the windows and a matching bedspread. His clothes were folded neatly on a stand. If he had done that, it had been from reflex action.

  Slowly, he began to think of what he had seen or heard, but the main impact was over. He had a heavy feeling of depression, that was all. He went into an adjoining bathroom and found a safety razor, new blades, soap and a brush; now he was sure that someone had been in here while he had slept.

  He was ready by ten minutes to nine, and while he wondered whether to wait for Palfrey or go downstairs, the bedside telephone rang. It was almost uncanny.

  “Costain,” he announced.

  “How nearly ready are you?” asked Palfrey.

  “Already dressed, and more or less in my right mind.”

  “Good man. Down the stairs, the room on your left at the foot. I may be delayed a few minutes.”

  “That’s all right.” Costain put down the receiver, glanced at himself in the mirror and adjusted his tie, shrugged his jacket into position, and went out. A radio played, not far away, and a woman laughed. So he wasn’t the only inmate. Inmate? He went down narrow carpeted stairs, already judging this to be a fairly modern house. The door of the room at the foot of the stairs was open and he went in, to find a breakfast table set for two, a hotplate on a polished mahogany sideboard, coffee bubbling in a percolator. At one place, back to the window which overlooked a lawn and flower beds radiant in summer colours, were several morning newspapers, folded, placed so that the front page headlines of each were visible. He stood staring down:

  MYSTERY GAS WIPES OUT VILLAGE, said The Times.

  HORROR IN HAMPSHIRE, said the Telegraph.

  VILLAGE WIPED OUT BY GAS, stated the Express.

  98 DEAD IN VILLAGE TRAGEDY, said the Mail.

  MYSTERY OF VILLAGE OF THE DEAD, said the Guardian.

  ENGLISH VILLAGE WIPED OUT, the Sketch announced.

  PLAGUE? suggested the Mirror, starkly.

  Costain read only a few lines at the beginning of each article. Only the Mirror, using the whole of its front page, made an out and out accusation against the activities at Fulton.

  “We have known for years that death by microbe and poison gases with hideous lethal effect has long been the subject of experiment at Fulton. Now one of England’s most beautiful villages, within a few miles of these laboratories of death, has been wiped out. It is useless for the government to talk of coincidence. We must take no risks with Britain or the British people. The Fulton plague spot, not the beauty of Britain, must be wiped out.”

  He put the newspaper down, and heard the front door open at the same time. A moment later, Palfrey stepped in.

  He was dressed exactly as he had been the night before, but now his jacket and trousers were rumpled, as if he had slept in them. He was fresh-shaven, however, and his manner was brisk and alert.

  “Coffee?” he asked, and pressed a bell as he picked up the percolator. “And they’ll bring in breakfast. Sleep well?”

  “Very.”

  “Good. Made up your mind?” Palfrey held out a cup of coffee in a strong and steady hand.

  “One question,” Costain said, taking the cup.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you say that I am the only one who might be able to insinuate myself into the Manor household?”

  “Who else can?” asked Palfrey, and then he raised his hand. A young girl brought in a laden tray on which were eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, butter and marmalade. These she distributed neatly on the table and withdrew.

  “Grace Drummond,” Costain suggested.

  “What makes
you think that in her present state of shock she would be the slightest use?” asked Palfrey. “If she came round from sedation in time to try, do you think I could possibly put this to her, or that she would understand or even be able to think clearly about it? If she had the faintest idea that Professor Storr was responsible for the death of her family, do you think she could hide it for one moment?”

  As he spoke, he helped himself liberally from one of the dishes.

  “Do help yourself,” he urged.

  “All right,” Costain said, “it was a thoughtless question—there was no sense in it. Do you still want me to help?” He took an egg and some bacon, then turned back for a piece of dry toast.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” asked Palfrey.

  “For one thing, my reasoning powers aren’t very impressive, are they?”

  Palfrey smiled, very faintly.

  “In this instance, no,” he admitted. “And while it would help if they were always impressive, they aren’t essential. Your job is to observe even the most trifling detail, and report. You will be given precise instructions how to get in touch, of course. You should at no time ask questions unless they arise naturally out of a conversation, nor are you to look for anything at all unless on specific instructions from Z5. But I’ll give you a comprehensive list of instructions once we know you are willing to help.”

  “What would stop me, now?” asked Costain.

  “If the Professor decided to move away from The Manor,” answered Palfrey. “If he does, it would be a natural enough thing to do—natural if he decided to close the house up, for instance. If he stays then it will suggest he has a very good reason for being there.”

  “Yes,” agreed Costain, somewhat glumly. He did not say so, but the prospect of being able to help materially seemed to have receded very much in the past few minutes. “Have you seen Mrs. Drummond this morning?” he asked, annoyed with himself because he had taken so long to think of her.

  “She is still under heavy sedation,” Palfrey answered. “If there proves to be any way you can help her, I won’t lose any time letting you know.”

  “Thanks.” Costain knew that he had to be satisfied with that. He had lost his appetite, but Palfrey ate steadily, more as an obligation than with enjoyment. “I see the Mirror blames Fulton, and the other newspapers hint at it being an escape of gas from some research unit there.”

  “It will be interesting to see whom the Professor blames,” said Palfrey drily. “He has returned, temporarily I think, to the Manor. We have an appointment with him there at half-past ten.” Then anticipating the obvious question, he went on: “I asked to see all those who might be called survivors together, so that I can question you all at the same time. It will give you an added common interest. I told them I would pick you up at your hotel.”

  “So you’re not attempting to conceal your interest in Storr,” remarked Costain.

  “Only an idiot would try to,” retorted Palfrey. “When we meet, just be as much yourself as you can, there’s no need to take any lead from me. You were annoyed by Devine last night, weren’t you?”

  “I certainly was.”

  “No reason why you shouldn’t say so,” Palfrey told him. “Make it seem as if you and I only met this morning. Just play it by ear.”

  After a long pause, Costain pushed his chair back abruptly.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, this seems to me a lot too serious to be played by ear.”

  “My dear chap,” Palfrey remonstrated mildly. “There’s absolutely no other way for you to do it. Either you can or you can’t. If you can, you may help us to work miracles. If you can’t, then you won’t be any use at all. The sooner we find out, the better, don’t you think?”

  Costain nodded. He was nettled, although he had to agree with the simple common sense of Palfrey’s argument. Now he seemed to carry an added burden: at all costs he had to prove himself, for if he failed Palfrey he would be a man lost in the wilderness.

  At ten past ten, they set out.

  At twenty-five past, they stopped at the spot where the village could be seen, and as he looked down Costain saw the tops of some of the houses, the church tower, an ancient tree in the churchyard. On the roads leading into the village there were barricades; policemen and military were in charge. And ambulances were lined up, at least five of them.

  “So they’re taking the bodies away,” Costain said, and he felt sick again. “What will there be—a mass burial?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Palfrey said. “It will depend on the relatives. How does it affect you this morning?”

  Costain drew a deep breath before saying slowly: “If I can help to find who is responsible, it will make the past ten years seem worthwhile.” He looked down at the village, and then espied a large car approaching from a main road, and being stopped by one of the barricades.

  “That’s Storr’s Rolls Royce,” he said. “We won’t be long getting started, anyway.”

  As they drove towards the house, Costain found himself staring at the window where Marion Kemble had stood the morning before, yesterday – God! Yesterday morning. It seemed an age, a generation ago. The window was closed now; every window was. There was a stronger than usual smell of exhaust fumes, particularly noticeable when they got out, in front of the porch. As they stepped to the door, it was opened by an elderly man, whose age was probably nearer seventy than sixty. His hair was almost white, his lean, lined face set in worried lines. Costain knew him as Arthur Harrison but knew little about him.

  “Mr. Harrison,” Palfrey said.

  “Come in,” said Harrison. “The Professor won’t keep you many moments. We have only just arrived ourselves. Mr. Costain.” He bowed slightly, pleasant and affable in manner and speech. “Please come into the study.”

  Costain had never been inside before, and was pleasantly surprised by the spaciousness and grace of the hall, at one end of which ran a half circular staircase, carpeted – like the hall – in pale grey. There was no time for him to do more than take in the pictures, landscapes and portraits, before Harrison led them into a room on the left which overlooked the front grounds. It was high ceilinged, with bookshelves in each of the wide recesses on either side of a huge fireplace. There was a large, flat-topped desk, and four leather armchairs placed around it. The room, which had a richly figured carpet, had a curiously unlived-in appearance.

  “Do sit down,” said Harrison. “I will tell the Professor you are waiting.”

  “Mr. Harrison,” said Palfrey.

  “Yes?”

  “What is your position here?” inquired Palfrey.

  “I am Professor Storr’s confidential aide” answered Harrison, with cold politeness. “If you wish for further details I am sure you understand that I would have to consult the Professor before giving them.”

  “Mr. Harrison,” Palfrey said gravely, “I am not at all sure you understand the seriousness of what has happened. In the face of this disaster, nothing is confidential.”

  Harrison said, more coldly still: “Indeed, sir?” Without another word, he went out.

  Costain was startled to see the way Palfrey’s stern expression gave way to a smile as the man disappeared. “Not much change there,” he remarked. “I wonder how long he has worked for the Professor.”

  On the instant, Professor Storr appeared, and Costain’s first, almost bewildered reaction was surprise at the handsomeness, even the regality of his appearance. He was smiling, too, with a touch of the urbanity which was so characteristic of Palfrey.

  “For over twenty years,” he declared, “and I assure you nothing is ever going to make him disloyal. If he had reason to believe I was directly responsible for what happened yesterday, I am sure he would never tell you.”

  Storr looked at Palfrey almost challengingly, yet with some hint of amusement.

 
; “And were you responsible?” Palfrey asked with a bluntness which astonished Costain and made Professor Storr go still as a statue.

  Chapter Six

  Storr

  As the two men stood in open challenge, Costain was aware of movements out of the corner of his eye, and in spite of the tension, glanced round. Harrison was now behind a wheel chair in which sat the youngest member of the household, Philip Montefiore. By him were Marion and Griselda Kemble. Griselda taller, lean-faced, almost hawklike, Marion a little thickset, full-bosomed – as he so well knew – with lively blue eyes in a pleasant but not particularly beautiful face. Griselda was much the more striking. They were staring at Palfrey, and Costain turned away and then was struck suddenly by the expression on the young man’s face.

  He was looking at Palfrey, his glance one of unabashed hatred.

  Slowly, the tension relaxed, and Storr said quietly: “If I weren’t aware of the strain you are working under, I would resent that question very much. No—I was not even remotely responsible for what happened here.”

  “That bloody plague spot at Fulton—” the young man began, his voice showing that he was as English as the Kembles.

  “We can talk about that later, Philip,” Storr interrupted, and turned to Costain, who had a distinct impression that Palfrey deliberately allowed him to take over. “Good morning, Mr. Costain. I don’t think we’ve met except casually. Do you know my nephew, Philip Montefiore? and my secretaries, Marion and Griselda Kemble?” There were nods and half-smiles all round – except that Marion’s smile was wider, her expression the most amiable. “Mr. Harrison I believe you do know.”

  “We’ve met,” Costain said.

  “Nothing like enough, I’m afraid,” Storr replied. “We have been very busy and preoccupied here but we should really have taken some part in the social life of the village. By ironic chance, only last weekend we were discussing the possibility of an ‘at home’.” His manner was as relaxed and easy as it could be. “After this disaster—” He spread his hands. “What will you do, Mr. Costain?”