The Smog (5 page)

 

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?”

“I haven't thought seriously about it,” Costain answered. “I suppose it will depend on whether my cottage is—can be decontaminated.” He glanced at Palfrey. “And whether the village ever revives.”

“It can't. It can't possibly. It's been murdered.” Philip's voice became shrill, almost strident. “Instead of pestering us, you ought to be in Whitehall, making sure those murderous warmongers—”

“Philip, please,” remonstrated Storr.

“I've kept quiet a damned sight too long. It's bad enough this terrible thing should happen, but to have Palfrey come and insult you—why, there isn't a man in Whitehall fit to clean your shoes! Go back, Palfrey, and have the plague spot destroyed. Decontaminated—that was certainly the word.” Now he switched his gaze to Costain, his eyes burning, his lips barely opening as he spoke. “The whole area—the whole bloody country wants decontaminating.”

“Philip, I don't think these are the right circumstances for your anti-war diatribe,” said Storr. “Dr. Palfrey, you asked for this meeting and I will be glad to help in any way possible but I haven't too much time.”

“Ah,” said Palfrey, almost inaudibly. He was twisting a few strands of hair round his forefinger, and looked deeply preoccupied. “None of us has and we mustn't waste any.” He patted the strands absently back into place as he went on: “Except for Mrs. Drummond, who is prostrate, you six are the only survivors of the disaster likely to be of use to us in our inquiries. The others were too far away. I explained last night that the British Government has asked me to investigate—”

“Why don't you tell them to close Fulton?” Philip interrupted in the same savage way. “Instead of pestering us, why don't you—”

Palfrey cut across his words with a sharpness which Costain had not heard before.

“Mr. Montefiore, I chose to see you all together here at your home instead of singly, at the police station. But it was on the assumption that I would be discussing the matter with adults.”

Philip opened his mouth wide – then closed it again. Storr turned away with a faint smile on his lips.

“What I would like is to ask a number of questions while we are all together,” Palfrey went on to a more attentively respectful audience. “Then I would like a few minutes with each of you alone. The point of the general questioning is very simple; one of you may say something which will spark some kind of recollection in one or other of the others.” He gave a brief pause, and then asked: “Would you care to sit down?”

Storr and Harrison pulled up chairs, Costain found himself sitting next to Marion, with Griselda on his other side. Storr sat opposite Palfrey flanked by Philip, whose resentment showed thunderously in his expression.

“Has any of you seen any yellow mist in the village at any time?” asked Palfrey.

“I don't recall any,” Storr replied.

“There's the usual autumn mist, and sometimes early mist in the summer,” remarked Marion.

“You should know,” Griselda said, and went on: “My sister is a great believer in early morning breathing exercises in front of an open window, rain or fine, hot or cold.”

“Mist has been fairly thick, sometimes,” Marion told them. “But—yellow? No, I don't remember—” She leaned back in her chair, eyes half-closed, as if trying to remember. “It has sometimes appeared very thick—grey and opaque, Dr. Palfrey. I am not an inveterate early riser, but on nights when I sleep badly I often get up about dawn.”

“My room doesn't overlook the village,” said Storr. “Yours does, Philip.”

“
I've
never noticed anything either yellow or brown.” Philip's voice was sulky.

“Mr. Costain,” Palfrey said. “You're up early every morning, aren't you?”

“I think—” began Costain.

“You know, it
has
been yellow once or twice,” Marion interrupted. “Not thick, nothing like it was yesterday, but yellowish.”

“I was going to say there has been a yellow tinge on some mornings,” Costain said.

“Ah!” exclaimed Palfrey. “Can you say what morning?”

“I remember one day in the winter, just after the first snow, when there were some slippery patches and Joe Taylor had a spill on his motorcycle. He was going too fast, and—”

He stopped abruptly, for Joe Taylor and his son were both dead; both had died yesterday, in their barn, just inside the contaminated area.

“I remember that morning,” Marion put in, quietly. “It
was
more yellow.”

“Did you notice any smell?”

She didn't answer at first, but Costain put in with a slow excitement: “There was a smell of carbon monoxide!”

“
Imagination,
”
muttered Philip.

“The motorcycle ended up in the hedge but its engine didn't stop,” went on Costain. “I remember distinctly. I saw the accident from the top of the hill.”

“I heard the engine,” Marion put in. “I couldn't understand what it was, but Taylor told me afterwards. I could smell the exhaust, too.”

“You—from half-way up the hill?” Griselda was sceptical.

“From half-way up the hill—but it didn't really surprise me,” Marion went on. She had a pleasant voice but it held none of the almost histrionic resonance of her sister's. “With the wind blowing from the village we often get—”

“Farm odours,” supplied Costain drily.

“Well, we
do.
”

“Yes, I know. I will have to find a—” he stopped. It was obvious that everyone of them had the same thought as he: there would never be a chance to experiment, there wasn't a single animal left alive. He moistened his lips.

“I have known the perfume of the blossom from the apple orchard to be very strong, especially in the evenings,” put in Storr, gently. “And that is nearly half a mile away. It does depend entirely on the direction of the wind.”

“You know,” said Marion, slowly, “there
was
a yellowish morning in the village a few weeks ago. I remember it vividly now. The wind had cut in during the night and I was closing the window. The exhaust fumes almost knocked me back.”

“Missed your daily dozen?” asked Griselda sceptically.

“No, I went in the Professor's room—he was in London that week.”

“My room is across the landing, and faces south,” explained Storr, again.

“Was there any smell from the south?” asked Palfrey.

“No.
No!
”
cried Marion, almost excited in her effort to recall everything that had happened. “No smell, but
that
was when I heard the engine popping. And the motorcycle was north from the Manor, and the wind was coming from the opposite direction, so the smell
I
noticed wasn't coming from motorcycle exhaust. Do you know I hadn't realised that before.”

She looked triumphantly into Palfrey's eyes.

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Palfrey. “The smell of the carbon monoxide was coming from the village, then.”

“From between the front of the Manor and the village,” interjected Storr, drily.

“Look here, I'm not being bloody-minded for the sake of it,” put in Philip. “And I can see how one recollection does spark off another, but the smell that Marion noticed might
not
have been carbon monoxide—”

“Carbon monoxide has no smell,” Harrison remarked. It was the first time he had spoken. “Hydrocarbons and oxides of nitrogen combine to make the smell.”

“Well I'm damned!” Philip exclaimed. “You're right. Damn it, Dr. Palfrey, you ought to know something as elementary as that!”

For a moment, Costain thought that the youth might have angered Palfrey, and Storr looked concerned, while Marion actually began to say: “Hush, Philip.”

All Palfrey did was to smile and say: “I should indeed. But the object of this exercise is to find out what all of you know, Mr. Montefiore. I've been in this job for a long time,” he went on, almost self-deprecatingly, “and I'm always fascinated by how much the human memory retains without realising it. And it often needs only the slightest jog to bring a recollection. Here we have a fairly detailed story of what happened one winter morning which most of you had virtually forgotten.”

“It was Friday, February 3rd,” announced Costain suddenly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes—” Marion was eager to confirm it. “It was the day before Philip was due back from hospital. I went to London that afternoon and we drove back next day.”

“I didn't think you'd make it, the roads were so bad,” Philip said in a natural, almost eager way. “I remember you telling me about Joe Taylor.”

“Did you know him?” asked Palfrey.

“I had some trouble with my electrically driven chair,” Philip said, “and he came and helped me put it right.”

“Why did you remember the date?” Palfrey asked Costain.

“It was the day my milking machine broke down and I was afraid I'd be without it for the weekend. I remember now—” Costain paused and everyone watched him intently. “I was surprised there was so much smell in the village when I got back—that would be about eleven o'clock in the morning. But it was quite clear at the cottage.”

“Are you sure?” Palfrey asked sharply.

“Absolutely sure. I went sniffing round my place because I use Calor gas and if there's a leak, it could be dangerous.”

“So what we have established is that the mist had a yellow tinge that morning over the village,” said Professor Storr very quietly. “That there were two sources of a stench, like the exhaust fumes of a car or motorcycle, and one was between the entrance to the Manor and the south end of the village. There is an obvious place where it could have come from.”

Everyone now stared at him.

“Where?” asked Palfrey.

“Geoffrey Drummond's house,” said the Professor deliberately. “Drummond never trusts—” he broke off, then added smoothly: “Drummond never trusted the electricity supply here. We are fed off a small transformer which does let us down from time to time. So he had a small petrol-fired generator, and made his own supplies. I've passed the back of his house occasionally and noticed the exhaust fumes.”

“Have you searched there?” Philip asked, his voice sharp again.

“No,” Palfrey answered, “but everywhere will be searched. Which leads me to a very relevant question, Professor. Are you planning to stay here or will you move for the time being at least?”

“I hope to stay,” Storr answered, with hesitation. “Certainly until I am convinced that there is acute danger of a repetition of what has happened. Why do you wish to know?”

“Because I want to have the Manor and the ground searched thoroughly,” Palfrey replied. “Had you been planning to move, then I would have waited. As it is, the quicker the better.” He was twisting strands of hair about his forefinger again, and watching Storr. But it was from Philip that the outburst came, he was right back in his savage mood.

“Of all the bloody nerve! You're telling us you suspect us at the Manor. Why, before I'd let anyone search—”

“Don't be absurd,” Professor Storr interrupted sharply. “Of course we are under suspicion and of course the authorities must search. The sooner it is done and Dr. Palfrey is reassured, the better it will be for all of us. How long will you need, Palfrey? Do you know?”

“I should imagine at least a day,” Palfrey estimated.

“How soon can you start?”

“Within an hour,” answered Palfrey. “We should be able to finish inside the house, if not in the grounds, before dark. There is a platoon of Special Service engineers in the village, I can send for them right away.”

“Then please do that,” Storr said. “If there is any assistance any of us can give you please let me know.”

“And then get out of our hair,” growled Philip. There was a long pause, while Palfrey stared at the young man, and then said coldly: “Mr. Montefiore you don't seem to be aware that you are doing more than anyone or anything else to draw suspicion on this house.”