Stars between clouds were like confetti thrown up into the sky that had stuck, each with a bulb inside. We went gently upwards on dimmed lights. Water that ran between the concrete strips of the paved lane was an inch or two deep in places. I stopped a mile short of the cottage and parked under a chestnut tree after turning the car round. I changed into wellingtons. ‘You stay here, Mr Clegg.’
‘You can rely on me.’
‘Have this two-two rifle. It isn’t loaded, but at the sight of it nobody’ll take a chance. Stand ten yards from the car so that they don’t catch you inside. But I don’t suppose you’ll see anybody.’
‘I hope not. I’ll do the humanly possible, though.’
I didn’t altogether like that. ‘Can you drive?’
‘I had a car for thirty years.’
I slid two shells into the shotgun. ‘Can you get the car back down the lane if I don’t show up in an hour?’
‘I expect so.’
I buttoned my green overcoat to the neck and put the heavy duty air pistol in my pocket. ‘If you can do that, you can get it to Upper Mayhem in Cambridgeshire.’
I wrote the address, and he looked at the paper. ‘I should be able to.’
I played it like a bloke on the cinema. ‘Come on, Dismal. Don’t make a sound, or I’ll cut your tail off.’
We trod carefully so as not to splash in hidden pools, and I got used to the dark by keeping the two hedge-tops in view. Dismal was so quiet I thought he had disappeared, but every few seconds I saw his shadow moving against my wellingtons. The track around the house was a quagmire. Rain was endemic in these parts. If I’d brought the car down it would have sunk without trace.
I looked in through the window. The main room was lit by a gas lamp hanging from the middle beam. A large wood fire burned in the grate, a black kettle on top spouting steam. Percy Blemish sat in an armchair reading. Crockery was on the table, with a few tins and packets of food. It seemed a shame to disturb such domestic orderliness. Percy as a caretaker, and his wife as a housekeeper, had found their places in life, and I wondered why it had taken so long.
I banged at the door, but he must have thought it was another bout of wind. He only responded when I tapped on the window. ‘Who is it?’
I told him, and at the same time tried the door. ‘Lord Moggerhanger sent me to deliver some stuff.’
He opened up, pointing a revolver at my face, which I did not like. ‘Put that thing down.’ Had I escaped the skill of quick-firing Two-two, only to fall at a sluggish bullet from Percy Blemish? The thought didn’t bear thinking about. I stepped aside. Dismal launched himself at Blemish’s chest. In pushing past, I swung and kneed him in the groin. He went flying towards the fire, but was quick enough to get off a shot which hit the wall just under the ceiling and sent plaster all over the room.
It wasn’t the nearest I’d been to death, but it was close. I turned to make sure Dismal was safe. He guarded the door, tail flicking with nervous anger as he looked at Blemish lying in a heap. A sharp piece of ricochetting dust had hit me at the temple, and the liquid trickling onto my best overcoat was blood. I thumped Blemish for good measure, regretting that I had changed into wellingtons. My overcoat had cost nearly two hundred quid. ‘You stupid prick. Get up.’
Another such bullet and I’d be on the floor bleeding to death. At the best I’d have an agonised journey up the lane, pulled on a blanket through the mud. Then again, a stint in hospital might get me a few weeks rest. I remembered Blaskin telling me about his spell after he had lifted a suitcase and busted a gut. The nurses often laughed as they remembered his stentorian scream up and down the corridors of the private clinic where he went to have his hernia pushed back: ‘You know I’m not going to last till morning: wank me off!’
Stop woolgathering, I told myself just in time, as Blemish made a move towards a carving knife on the table. I banged down on his wrist and it fell to the floor. Dismal leapt across the room, his canine spikes grazing my wrist. I pointed to the door. ‘Stay outside.’ He walked away, pleased with himself.
I turned to deal with Blemish, and lifted the shotgun. ‘Next time, you’ll get this across your chops.’ I pushed him into the armchair. ‘You might even stop both barrels.’ But I wasn’t getting through to him with such threats. He wore a collar and tie, a Fair Isle pullover, a tweed jacket and flannel trousers — the Master of Peppercorn Cottage. His grey eyes and downturned lips made an expression of murder. ‘Lord Moggerhanger said I wasn’t to let anybody in.’
I told him who I was. He’d obviously been notified.
‘Cullen?’
‘Yes, you old fool.’ I picked up the book he had been reading, offended at seeing it on the floor. I read the title: A Knife in Your Guts. So that was it. There was a shelf of them across the room. The silly bastard had driven himself even crazier on a surfeit of Sidney Blood, that swine of an author who had a lot to answer for. I threw it back on the floor.
‘Why didn’t you say so, Smiler?’
He tried to grin, in genuine Blood fashion.
‘The Boss said you’d give me a rough time.’
His face lit up like Eddystone lighthouse in a gale. ‘He did?’
‘Told me you was a hard case. Said I might have to kick the door down and go in shooting. If I could get close enough. There’s a Dormobile up the lane, full of the boys. He was taking no chances, after you cut up two of his best men last week.’
He got up to smooth his clothes. ‘If I do my job well I might be able to go back to my wife in Ealing.’
‘The rats blew town.’ I hadn’t noticed any, unless our rowdy entrance had scared them off. ‘How come?’
He looked at me with unblinking eyes. ‘I declared war. Traps and poison. They became discouraged. I played a flute and caught one alive. I stunned it, and hung it upside down till it died. Rats are very sociable and intelligent. They could do nothing about their colleague’s awful fate because I stayed close. We made a pact that they only come back when I’ve gone.’
I swabbed blood from my face. If he scared me it was only because I thought that in taking care of myself I might end up killing him. ‘You nicked me. What makes you so hasty with the rod?’
‘Can’t be too careful.’ He took a medicine bottle from the shelf, poured some into a glass, and drank it straight off. ‘Shoot first and ask later. I’m a hasty man, Mr Cullen.’
Someone was walking upstairs. ‘I’ve come for him.’
‘Mr Smith won’t go. He’s a very sociable and intelligent person. We’ve had some long talks. He told me about socialism. He’s a progressive chap.’
‘He’s going to make progress now. The Boss told me to take him for a walk.’
His face was pasty and his smile was no smile, though he did his best. ‘A walk?’
‘He wants insurance. He knows too much. I’m to take him for a stroll up the primrose path and show him his face in the water. You know what that means?’
He laughed. ‘Concrete shoes?’
I held out my hand. ‘Gi’ me the key, and I’ll bring him down. But don’t say anything. Get me?’
He nodded. The stairfoot door was locked. I turned to see Blemish reaching for the gun again, and butted him so hard he scooted against the table. Half a dozen tin pans fell on the floor. His features scrunched up like those of a little boy hit by his teacher. ‘I don’t like you.’
‘Nobody does. I don’t even like myself.’