The Vivero Letter. Desmond Bagley

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СКАЧАТЬ which lay snugly on the valley floor looking more like a natural growth than a man-made object. It had been built by a Wheale and Wheales had lived in it for over four hundred years. It was a tradition among us that the eldest son inherited the farm and the younger sons went to sea. I had put a crimp in the tradition by going into business, but my brother, Bob, held on to Hay Tree Farm and kept the land in good shape. I didn’t envy Bob the farm because he was a better farmer than I ever would have been. I have no affinity with cattle and sheep and the job would have driven me round the twist. The most I had to do with it now was to put Bob right on his bookkeeping and proffer advice on his investments.

      I was a sport among the Wheales. A long line of fox-hunting, pheasant-murdering, yeoman farmers had produced Bob and me. Bob followed the line; he farmed the land well, rode like a madman to hounds, was pretty good in a point-to-point and liked nothing better than a day’s rough shooting. I was the oddity who didn’t like massacring rabbits with an airgun as a boy, still less with a shotgun as a grown man. My parents, when they were alive, looked on me with some perplexity and I must have troubled their uncomplicated minds; I was not a natural boy and got into no mischief – instead I developed a most un-Whealeish tendency to book reading and the ability to make figures jump through hoops. There was much doubtful shaking of heads and an inclination to say ‘Whatever will become of the lad?’

      I lit a cigarette and a plume of smoke drifted away on the crisp morning air, then grinned as I saw no smoke coming from any of the farm chimneys. Bob would be sleeping late, something he did when he’d made a night of it at the Kingsbridge Inn or the Cott Inn, his favourite pubs. That was a cheerful practice that might end when he married. I was glad he was getting married at last; I’d been a bit worried because Hay Tree Farm without a Wheale would be unthinkable and if Bob died unmarried there was only me left, and I certainly didn’t want to take up farming.

      I got into the car, drove on a little way, then turned on to the farm road. Bob had had it graded and resurfaced, something he’d been talking about for years. I coasted along, past the big oak tree which, family legend said, had been planted by my great-grandfather, and around the corner which led straight into the farmyard.

      Then I stamped on the brake pedal hard because someone was lying in the middle of the road.

      I got out of the car and looked down at him. He was lying prone with one arm outflung and when I knelt and touched his hand it was stone cold. I went cold, too, as I looked at the back of his head. Carefully I tried to pull his head up but the body was stiff with rigor mortis and I had to roll him right over to see his face. The breath came from me with a sigh as I saw it was a perfect stranger.

      He had died hard but quickly. The expression on his face showed that he had died hard; the lips writhed back from the teeth in a tortured grimace and the eyes were open and stared over my shoulder at the morning sky. Underneath him was a great pool of half-dried blood and his chest was covered with it. No one could have lost that much blood slowly – it must have gushed out in a sudden burst, bringing a quick death.

      I stood up and looked around. Everything was very quiet and all I heard was the fluting of an unseasonable blackbird and the grating of gravel as I shifted my feet sounded unnaturally loud. From the house came the mournful howl of a dog and then a shriller barking from close by, and a young sheepdog flung round the corner of the house and yapped at me excitedly. He was not very old, not more than nine months, and I reckoned he was one of old Jess’s pups.

      I held out my hand and snapped my fingers. The aggressive barking changed to a delighted yelp and the young dog wagged his tail vehemently and came forward in an ingratiating sideways trot. From the house another dog howled and the sound made the hairs on my neck prickle.

      I walked into the farmyard and saw immediately that the kitchen door was ajar. Gently, I pushed it open, and called, ‘Bob!’

      The curtains were drawn at the windows and the light was off, so the room was gloomy. There was a stir of movement and the sound of an ugly growl. I pushed the door open wide to let in the light and saw old Jess stalking towards me with her teeth bared in a snarl. ‘All right, Jess,’ I said softly. ‘It’s all right, old girl.’

      She stopped dead and looked at me consideringly, then let her lips cover her teeth. I slapped the side of my leg. ‘Come here, Jess.’

      But she wouldn’t come. Instead, she whined disconsolately and turned away to vanish behind the big kitchen table. I followed her and found her standing drooping over the body of Bob.

      His hand was cold, but not dead cold, and there was a faint flutter of a pulse beat at his wrist. Fresh blood oozed from the ugly wound in his chest and soaked the front of his shirt. I knew enough about serious injuries not to attempt to move him; instead, I ran upstairs, stripped the blankets from his bed and brought them down to cover him and keep him warm.

      Then I went to the telephone and dialled 999. ‘This is Jemmy Wheale of Hay Tree Farm. There’s been a shooting on the farm; one man dead and another seriously wounded. I want a doctor, an ambulance and the police – in that order.’

      II

      An hour later I was talking to Dave Goosan. The doctor and the ambulance had come and gone, and Bob was in hospital. He was in a bad way and Dr Grierson had dissuaded me from going with him. ‘It’s no use, Jemmy. You’d only get in the way and make a nuisance of yourself. You know we’ll do the best we can.’

      I nodded. ‘What are his chances?’ I asked.

      Grierson shook his head. ‘Not good. But I’ll be able to tell better when I’ve had a closer look at him.’

      So I was talking to Dave Goosan who was a policeman. The last time I had met him he was a detective sergeant; now he was a detective inspector. I went to school with his young brother, Harry, who was also in the force. Police work was the Goosans’ family business.

      ‘This is bad, Jemmy,’ he said. ‘It’s too much for me. They’re sending over a superintendent from Newton Abbot. I haven’t the rank to handle a murder case.’

      I stared at him. ‘Who has been murdered?’

      He flung out his arm to indicate the farmyard, then became confused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to say your brother had murdered anyone. But there’s been a killing, anyway.’

      We were in the living-room and through the window I could see the activity in the yard. The body was still there, though covered with a plastic sheet. There were a dozen coppers, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, a few seemed to be doing nothing but chat, but the others were giving the yard a thorough going over.

      I said, ‘Who was he, Dave?’

      ‘We don’t know.’ He frowned. ‘Now, tell me the story all over again – right from the beginning. We’ve got to get this right, Jemmy, or the super will blow hell out of me. This is the first killing I’ve worked on.’ He looked worried.

      So I told my story again, how I had come to the farm, found the dead man and then Bob. When I had finished Dave said, ‘You just rolled the body over – no more than that?’

      ‘I thought it was Bob,’ I said. The build was the same and so was the haircut.’

      ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Dave. ‘He might be an American. His clothes are American, anyway. Does that mean anything to you?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ