He said briefly: “Someone has to make decisions.”
“At first, I didn’t think you would be the kind who would, properly. Then last night I could see I was wrong about you.”
It was not, he decided, the concupiscence{111} which shocked him in itself, but its presence in this context. Pirrie, he was sure, must have been a cuckold{112} for some time, but that had been in London, in that warren of swarming humanity where the indulgence of one more lust could have no real importance. But here, where their interdependence was as starkly evident as the barren lines of what had been the moors, it mattered a great deal. There might yet be a morality in which the leader of the group took his women as he wished. But the old ways of winks and nudges and innuendoes were as dead as business conferences and evenings at the theatre—as dead and as impossible of resurrection. The fact that he was shocked by Millicent’s failure to realize it was evidence of how deeply the realization had sunk into and conditioned his own mind.
He said, more sharply stilclass="underline" “Go and take over that case from Olivia. She’s had it long enough.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Just as you say, Big Chief. Whatever you say goes.”
On the edge of Witton Moor they found what John had been looking for—a small farm-house, compact and isolated. It stood on a slight rise, surrounded by potato fields. There was smoke rising from the chimney. For a moment that puzzled him, until he remembered that, in a remote spot like this, they would probably need a coal fire, even in summer, for cooking. He gave Pirrie his instructions. Pirrie nodded, and rubbed three fingers of his right hand along his nose; he had made the same gesture, John remembered now, before going out after the gang who had taken Ann and Mary.
With Roger, John walked up to the farm-house. They made no attempt at concealment, and strolled casually as though motivated by idle curiosity. John saw a curtain in one of the front windows twitch, but there was no other sign that they had been observed. An old dog sunned himself against the side of the house. Pebbles crunched under their feet, a casual and friendly sound.
There was a knocker on the door, shaped like a ram’s head. John lifted it and dropped it again heavily; it clanged dully against its metal base. As they heard the tread of feet on the other side, the two men stepped a little to the right.
The door swung open. The man on the other side had to come fully into the threshold to see them properly. He was a big man; his eyes were small and cold in a weathered red face. John saw with satisfaction that he was carrying a shot-gun.
He said: “Well, what is it you want? We’ve nought to sell, if it’s food you’re after.”
He was still too far inside the house.
John said: “Thanks. We’re not short of food, though. We’ve got something we think might interest you.”
“Keep it,” the man said. “Keep it, and clear off.”
“In that case…’ John said.
He jumped inwards so that he was pressed against the wall to the right of the door, out of sight of the farmer. The man reacted immediately. “If you want gunshot…’ he said. He came through the doorway, the gun ready, his finger on the trigger.
There was a distant crack, and at the same time the massive body turned inwards, like a top pulled by its string, and slumped towards them. As he fell, a finger contracted. The gun went off crashingly, its charge exploding against the wall of the farmhouse. The echoes seemed to splinter against the calm sky. The old dog roused and barked, feebly, against the sun. A voice cried something from inside the house, and then there was silence.
John pulled the shot-gun away from under the body which lay over it. One barrel was still unfired. With a nod to Roger, he stepped over the dead or dying man and into the house. The door opened immediately into a big living-room. The light was dimmer and John’s gaze went first to the closed doors leading off the room and then to the empty staircase that ascended in one corner. Several seconds elapsed before he saw the woman who stood in the shadows by the side of the staircase.
She was quite tall, but as spare as the farmer had been broad. She was looking directly at them, and she was holding another gun. Roger saw her at the same time. He cried:
“Watch it, Johnny!”
Her hand moved along the side of the gun, but as it did so, John’s own hand moved also. The clap of sound was even more deafening in the confinement of the room. She stayed upright for a moment and then, clutching at the banister to her left, crumpled up. She began to scream as she reached the ground, and went on screaming in a high strangled voice.
Roger said: “Oh, my God!”
John said: “Don’t stand there. Get a move on. Get that other gun and let’s get this house searched. We’ve been lucky twice but we don’t have to be a third time.”
He watched while Roger reluctantly pulled the gun away from the woman; she gave no sign, but went on screaming.
Roger said: “Her face…”
“You take the ground floor,” John told him. “I’ll go upstairs.”
He searched quickly through the upper story, kicking doors open. He did not realize until he had nearly finished his search that he had forgotten something—that had been the second barrel and, until the shot-gun was reloaded, he was virtually weaponless. One door remained. He hesitated and then kicked this open in turn.
It was a small bedroom. A girl in her middle ’teens was sitting up in bed. She stared at him with terrified eyes.
He said to her: “Stay here. Understand? You won’t get hurt if you stay in here.”
“The guns…’ she said. “Ma and Pa—what was the shooting? They’re not…”
He said coldly: “Don’t move outside this room.”
There was a key in the lock. He went out, closed the door and locked it. The woman downstairs was still screaming, but less harshly than she had been. Roger stood above her, staring down.
John said, “Well?”
Roger looked up slowly. “It’s all right. There’s no one else down here.” He gazed down at the woman again. “Breakfast cooking on the range.”
Pirrie came quietly through the open door. He lowered his rifle as he viewed the scene.
“Mission accomplished,” he commented. “She had a gun as well? Are there any others in the house?”
“Guns or people?” John asked. “I didn’t see any other guns, did you, Rodge?”
Still looking at the woman, Roger said: “No.”
“There’s a girl upstairs,” John said. “Daughter. I locked her in.”
“And this?” Pirrie directed the toe of one shoe towards the woman, now groaning deep-throatedly.
“She got the blast… in the face mostly,” Roger said. “From a couple of yards range.”
“In that case…’ said Pirrie. He tapped the side of his rifle and looked at John. “Do you agree?”
Roger looked at them both. John nodded. Pirrie walked with his usual precise gait to where the woman lay. As he pointed the rifle, he said: “A revolver is so much more convenient for this sort of thing.” The rifle cracked, and the woman stopped moaning. “In addition to which, I do not like using the ammunition for this unnecessarily. We are not likely to replace it. Shot-guns are much more likely equipment in parts like these.”
John said: “Not a bad exchange—two shot-guns and, presumably, ammunition, for two rounds.”
Pirrie smiled. “You will forgive me for regarding two rounds from this as worth half a dozen shot-guns. Still, it hasn’t been too bad. Shall we call the others up now?”
“Yes,” John said, “I think we might as well.”
In a strained voice, Roger said: “Wouldn’t it be better to get these bodies out of the way first—before the children come up here?”
John nodded. “I suppose it would.” He stepped across the corpse. “There’s generally a hole under the stairs. Yes, I thought so. In here. Wait a minute—here are the cartridges for the shotguns. Get these out first.” He peered into the dark recesses of the cubby-hole{113}. “I don’t think there’s anything else we want You can lift her in now.”