Game Without Rules
Game Without Rules
First published in 1967
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1967-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 075510532X | | 9780755105328 | | Print | |
| | 0755131916 | | 9780755131914 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755132289 | | 9780755132287 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
"The plot,"
wrote Keating, "
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings."
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
"I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.".
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
Everyone in Lamperdown knew that Mr. Behrens, who lived with his aunt at the Old Rectory and kept bees, and Mr. Calder, who lived in a cottage on the hilltop outside the village and was the owner of a deerhound called Rasselas, were the closest of close friends. They knew, too, that there was something out of the ordinary about both of them.
Both had a habit of disappearing. When Mr. Calder went he left the great dog in charge of the cottage, and Mr. Behrens would plod up the hill once a day to talk to the dog and see to his requirements. If both men happened to be away at the same time, Rasselas would be brought down to the Old Rectory where, according to Flossie, who did for the Behrens’, he would sit for hour after hour in one red plush armchair, staring silently at Mr. Behrens’ aunt in the other.
There were other things. There was known to be a buried telephone line connecting the Old Rectory and the cottage; both houses had an elaborate system of burglar alarms, and Mr. Calder’s cottage, according to Ken who had helped to build it, had steel plates inside the window shutters.
The villagers knew all this and, being countrymen, talked very little about it, except occasionally amongst themselves toward closing time. To strangers, of course, they said nothing.
That fine autumn morning Rasselas was lying, chin on ground, watching Mr. Calder creosote the sharp end of a wooden spile. He sat up suddenly and rumbled out a warning.
“It’s only Arthur,” said Mr. Calder. “We know him.”
The dog subsided with a windy sigh. Arthur was Mr. Calder’s nearest neighbour. He lived in a converted railway carriage in the company of a cat and two owls, and worked in the woods that cap the North Downs from Wrotham Hill to the Medway; Brimstone Wood; Mole-Hill Wood; Long Corse Shaw; Whitehorse Wood; Tom Lofts Wood; and Leg of Mutton Wood. It was a very old part of the country and, like all old things, it was full of ghosts. Mr. Calder could not see them, but he knew they were there. Sometimes when he was walking with Rasselas in the woods, the dog would stop, cock his head on one side and rumble deep in his throat, his yellow eyes speculative as he followed some shape flitting down the ride ahead of them.
“Good morning, Arthur,” said Mr. Calder.
“Working, I see,” said Arthur. He was a small, thick man, of great strength, said to have an irresistible attraction for women.
“The old fence is on its last legs. I’m putting this in until I can get it done properly.”
Arthur examined the spile with an expert eye and said, “Chestnut. That should hold her for a season. Oak’d be better. You working too hard to come and look at something, Hound?”
“Never too busy for that,” said Mr. Calder.
“Let’s go in your car, it’ll be quicker,” said Arthur. “Bring a torch, too.”
Half a mile along a rutted track they left the car, climbed a gate and walked down a broad ride, forking off onto a smaller one. After a few minutes the trees thinned, and Mr. Calder saw that they were coming to a clearing where wooding had been going on. The trunks had been dragged away and the slope was a litter of scattered cordwood.
“These big contractors,” said Arthur. “They’ve got no idea. They come and cut down the trees, and lug ’em off, and think they’ve finished the job. Then I have to clear it up. Stack the cordwood. Pull out the stumps where they’re an obstruction to traffic.”
What traffic had passed, or would ever pass again through the heart of this secret place, Mr. Calder could hardly imagine. He saw that the workmen had cleared a rough path which followed the contour of the hill and disappeared down the other side, presumably joining the track they had come by somewhere down in the valley. At that moment the ground was a mess of tractor marks and turned earth. In a year the raw places would be skimmed over with grass, nettles, bluebells, kingcups and wild garlic. In five years there would be no trace of the intruders.
“In the old days,” said Arthur, “we done it with horses. Now we do it with machinery. I’m not saying it isn’t quicker and handier, but it don’t seem altogether right.”
He nodded at his bulldozer, askew on the side of a hummock. Rasselas went over and sneered at it, disapproving of the oily smell.
“I was shifting this stump,” said Arthur, “when the old cow slipped and came down sideways. She hit t’other tree a proper dunt. I thought I bitched up the works, but all I done was shift the tree a piece. See?”
Mr. Calder walked across to look. The tree which Arthur had hit was no more than a hollow ring of elm, very old and less than three feet high. His first thought was that it was curious that a heavy bulldozer crashing down onto it from above should not have shattered its frail shell altogether.
“Ah! You have a look inside,” said Arthur.
The interior of the stump was solid concrete.
“Why on earth,” said Mr. Calder, “would anyone bother—?”
“Just have a look at this.”
The stump was at a curious angle, half uprooted so that one side lay much higher than the other.
“When I hit it,” said Arthur, “I felt something give. Truth to tell, I thought I’d cracked her shaft. Then I took another look. See?”
Mr. Calder looked. And he saw.
The whole block – wooden ring, cement center and all – had been pierced by an iron bar. The end of it was visible, thick with rust, sticking out of the broken earth. He scraped away the soil with his fingers and presently found the U-shaped socket he was looking for. He sat back on his heels and stared at Arthur, who stared back, solemn as one of his own owls.
“Someone—” said Mr. Calder slowly, “—God knows why, took the trouble to cut out this tree stump and stick a damned great iron bar right through the middle of it, fixed to open on a pivot.”
“It would have been Dan Owtram who fixed the bar for ’em, I don’t doubt,” said Arthur. “He’s been dead ten years now.”
“Who’d Dan fix it for?”
“Why, for the military.”
“I see,” said Mr. Calder. It was beginning to make a little more sense.
“You’ll see when you get inside.”
“Is there something inside?”
“Surely,” said Arthur. “I wouldn’t bring you out all this way just to look at an old tree stump, now would I? Come around here.”
Mr. Calder moved around to the far side and saw, for the first time, that when the stump had shifted, it had left a gap on the underside. It was not much bigger than a badger’s hole.
“Are you suggesting I go down
that
?”
