The Empty House Read online

  “He’s a missing equation himself now,” said Sergeant Rix. “And it isn’t only the Army who are worried. There’s something about an insurance policy. I heard a buzz that he’d insured himself only a few months ago. A hundred thousand pounds, they said.”

  “Who gets it?”

  “There’s a sister somewhere. Plays the cello – in one of those London orchestras.”

  The Superintendent considered this angle of the matter. It didn’t make a lot of sense. It was not inconceivable that man would insure his life and then commit suicide, disguising it as an accident; it had happened in one case he knew about. But that had been for the benefit of a hard-pressed wife and family. Wolfe was a bachelor without known dependents – unless a sister who played the cello could be described as a dependent.

  Very odd.

  Mr. Troyte sent for Peter Manciple, and while he was waiting for him, he got out the policy and studied it again. It was certainly a curious document. Odd in itself; odder still in the light of what had happened. But then, as he had said to Mr. Troyte, odd happenings were part of their trade. Only last year, one of the Syndicate’s clients who owned a garage which was known to be losing money had insured it against fire in a very large sum indeed. It had been burned to the ground two days later. The fire had demonstrably been started by a flash of lightning. “And unless he had a private line to the Almighty—” said Mr. Troyte. “Come in. Oh, it’s you, Peter. I wanted you to have a look at this file.”

  While Peter Manciple studied the documents, crouched forward in his chair with a lock of fair hair falling over one eye, Mr. Troyte studied Peter.

  They had taken him into the business on the recommendation of one of their important clients. When Mr. Troyte had first interviewed Peter, he had been so struck with his apparent frailty that he had insisted on a medical check. The doctor, one of the toughest diagnosticians in the insurance world, had found no fault. “He’s unusually tall,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean that he’s a bad life. Quite the contrary. These long, thin streaks are very durable. He was probably a late developer. Most of his early growth went into his height. When he thickens out a little, he’ll be all right. Nothing wrong with his heart or lungs.”

  Events had shown that there was nothing wrong with his brains, either. He had a remarkable gift for filing away and recalling facts. It was something more than mere memory. As a computer will store facts, producing them to order when the appropriate button is pressed, so could Peter absorb, without seeming effort, the contents of endless reports, documents, statements, and accounts, selecting, without any reference back, the facts that mattered and presenting them in a logical sequence. His report on the notorious Palgrave Marina swindle had already become a classic in insurance circles.

  “I suppose it’s the last clause in the policy that’s worrying you,” said Peter.

  “Right.”

  “Why did we ever accept it?”

  “Look at the premium.”

  “It’s loaded,” agreed Peter. He studied the clauses again, scratching the tip of his nose with the index finger of his left hand. “What it means is that if there is an assumption that the cause of death – or one of the causes – was drowning, the insurers are to pay up without actual proof of death.”

  “Right.”

  “Did he explain why he wanted such an odd clause put in?”

  “Yes. He said that he often had to travel by air, and it might happen that his plane went down over the sea and was never recovered. Or it might only be salvaged years later. Or he might be in a ship that was lost at sea without any evidence of what had really happened to it. It doesn’t happen so often now, with wireless and radar, but it’s still possible. If the body isn’t found, I understand that, strictly, you have to wait seven years before the court will presume death. He didn’t want his sister to be kept out of her money.”

  “Then we shall have to pay up.”

  “There is the usual exclusion clause. If the insured commits suicide within two years of taking out the policy.”

  Peter stared at him. “Do people really think that?”

  “The Army put in a report. A Colonel Hay, a retired officer who was staying in a farmhouse nearby. He was out for an evening stroll. He didn’t actually see the car go over, but he heard it, and he was on the spot within minutes. There’s a copy of his report among the papers. He says that there was no sign of braking. He and an Army friend who was with him were the only people who saw the tracks while they were fresh. The tracks were more or less washed out by a freak storm that night. But both men are quite positive.”

  Peter read through Colonel Hay’s report before speaking again. Then he said, “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to look into it. The whole thing seems altogether too much of a coincidence to be trusted. Here’s this clause. It was drafted by his own solicitors. Their name’s in the file somewhere. Six months after the policy’s written, Wolfe puts his car over one of the very few places on the English coast where it’s probably never going to be seen again.”

  “Can’t they salvage it?”

  “Have a look at Coxswain Bisset’s report.”

  When Peter had read it, he said, “If it was suicide, Wolfe was either a saint or a madman. Either way, it isn’t going to be easy to prove it now.”

  “It isn’t going to be easy,” agreed Mr. Troyte. “It may not even be possible. But there’s a lot of money involved, and we’ve got to make an effort. It’s Friday today. Tomorrow you’d better go and see the sister. Lavinia Wolfe, Candlewick Cottage, Sudbury. She plays in some orchestra.”

  “If she’s the Lavinia Wolfe,” said Peter, “that’s a fairly inadequate description. She’s leading cellist in the London Symphony Orchestra. I heard a recital she gave at the Festival Hall last year.”

  “I expect you’re right,” said Mr. Troyte, tolerantly. “I’m tone deaf, myself. When you’ve got what you can from her, you’ll have to go down to Devonshire. Take your time about it. Ferret round. See what you can find. If you dig up anything, let me know at once. If not, let me have some sort of report by Monday week. Right?”

  “Right,” said Peter. And to his mother, that evening, “It’s the maddest thing. I’m not sure whether it’s a serious investigation, a cosmetic exercise to please our Syndicate, or a buckshee summer holiday.”

  “Perhaps it is all three, cheri,” said his mother. Being a Frenchwoman, she added, “Doubtless you will be able to make a profit from the expenses which you will be allowed. That will be some compensation.” She added, without any change of tone, and almost as though it was part of the same train of thought, “I was followed again today.”

  “Oh, dear. Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. It was a small man with a rose in his buttonhole.”

  “Did you do anything about it?”

  “I considered reporting the matter to the police. But on the previous occasion they were si peu sympathique that I decided not to do so.”

  “It must be very provoking. Is supper ready? I’m starving.”

  “Then you must starve for ten more minutes. Time to drink one glass of that abominably sweet sherry which your uncle gave us.”

  After dinner Peter walked down to the British Legion Club, of which he was one of the many young honorary members. The rain, which had swept up from the West Country on the day before, had cleared off and it was a fresh and sparkling evening.

  At the club he found that Fred Dawlish had put their names down for the billiard table. “Time for a pint before this pair finish,” said Fred. “They’re worse than we are.”

  They finished their drinks, had an inexpert game of snooker, and took a second pint to a table in the corner of the bar.

  “I’m afraid my mother’s got them again,” said Peter.

  “Little men?”

  “That’s right. This one’s got a rose in his buttonhole.”

  “Makes a change. The last one had false teeth and a squint, if I remember r
ightly.”

  “Do you think she ought to see a doctor?”

  “I don’t believe there’s much a doctor can do about it. Would you like me to keep an eye on her? Unofficial like?”

  Fred was a detective sergeant at the local station.

  “It’s very good of you,” said Peter, “but if she found herself being followed about by two men, she really would blow her top. Better leave it alone. Thanks for the suggestion, all the same.”

  3

  Candlewick Cottage was the end one of six which had originally been built for farm labourers but had gone up in the world. Peter tugged the wrought-iron bellpull and was answered by a mixed chorus of barking – treble, tenor, and bass.

  “Quiet, all of you,” said a woman’s deep voice. “Pipe down, Charlie. I mean it. Sambo, if you jump up again, I’ll crown you.”

  The door was opened, and Peter found himself being inspected by a gray- haired woman with a pleasant face and strong nose, a deerhound, a bull terrier, and a Jack Russell terrier. The deerhound, which was stationed on the right, had its head tilted to the left. The bull terrier and the Jack Russell on the left had their heads tilted to the right. The woman, who was not a lot shorter than Peter, was looking straight at him. This gave the whole group an effect of classical symmetry.

  “Miss Wolfe?”

  “That’s right. I’m not going to warn you again, Sambo. You must be something to do with insurance. I’ve been expecting you. Mind your head. These cottages were built for a race of dwarfs.”

  The door opened directly into a sitting room, an untidy place with a large open fireplace, three walls lined with low whitepainted bookcases, and a ceiling of carefully uncovered and varnished oak beams. The tops of the bookcases were a clutter of musical scores, loose sheet music, catalogues, greeting cards, and a metronome.

  “Watch your head,” said Miss Wolfe. “My goodness, you are tall.”

  “Six foot five.”

  “You’d better sit down before you hurt yourself.”

  Peter looked for somewhere to sit. The sofa was now occupied by the deer- hound. The other two armchairs had been claimed by the bull terrier and the Jack Russell.

  “Idle brutes,” said Miss Wolfe. “I try to keep them off the chairs, but it’s a losing battle. The place for dogs is in the stable.” She repeated, “The stable” in a threatening voice. The three dogs looked at her tolerantly. “They know I haven’t got a stable.” She went behind the chair with the Jack Russell in it and tipped it up, sliding the dog off onto the floor.

  “Grab it quick,” she said.

  Peter sat down. The Jack Russel jumped onto his lap.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “He doesn’t worry me. I’m used to dogs.”

  “It’s good of you to say so, but I feel I’m being weak. What I ought to do is to buy a whip. A large whip.” The deerhound, assuming that he was being talked to, thumped his tail against the arm of the sofa.

  “About that policy,” said Peter.

  “I got a letter about it,” said Miss Wolfe. “From the insurance company – I forget their name – and I’ve lost the letter. Or Sambo may have eaten it. Checks, letters, and banknotes. If you leave them lying about, he gobbles them up at once.”

  “It wasn’t a company. The policy was underwritten by a syndicate at Lloyds:”

  “Goodness. That makes me feel like a ship. And are you a—what is the right word? An undertaker?”

  “I’m from Phelps, King and Troyte.” He gave Miss Wolfe his card.

  She looked at it carefully and handed it back. “What does ‘Adjusters’ mean?”

  “Well,” said Peter cautiously, “it’s our job to investigate insurance claims.”

  “And adjust them?”

  “If necessary.”

  “Downward, I’m sure.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “If you adjusted them upward, no one would bother to employ you.”

  Peter had to acknowledge that there was some truth in this.

  “However,” said Miss Wolfe, “there can’t be much scope for adjusting this one. It’s for a definite amount of money, payable in defined circumstances.”

  “It’s the circumstances that I was asked to look into. One of the clauses in the policy was most unusual. I don’t think, in all my experience, I’ve ever seen one like it.”

  “Twenty years? Thirty years?”

  “What—?”

  “You said, in all your experience. The way you said it, it sounded a very long time.”

  “That was pompous,” said Peter. “I’m sorry.” When embarrassed, he blushed very easily. “I didn’t mean it to be. I’ve been exactly two years in this job. All the same, it is an unusual clause.”

  “It was drafted for my brother by his solicitor, Roland Highsmith. He’d every confidence in him, I do know that. They were at Oxford together and have been friends ever since.”

  Peter looked at his file. “That would be Messrs. Highsmith and Westall, Solicitors, of Forebury Street, Exeter.”

  “Right. But I believe that Westall’s an invalid. He’s always away sick, or something. Roland does all the work.”

  “I shall have to have a word with him.”

  “Why? Is there something wrong with the clause?”

  Miss Wolfe put a pair of horn-rimmed glasses onto her strong nose and studied the policy. Peter had realised for some time that her speech and manner were a cloak for a shrewd mind; the sort of mind to be expected of a woman who had made her way to the top in one of the most competitive musical outfits in the world.

  “It’s the way it’s worded,” said Peter. “’If there is an assumption that the cause of death, or one of the causes, was drowning.’” It seems to have been carefully designed for what actually happened. Does it worry you if we talk about this?”

  “I was very fond of Alex,” said Miss Wolfe, “and he of me, I think. But we weren’t close. We wrote to each other on birthdays and at Christmas, but I hadn’t seen him for – let me think – more than three years. Nearly four. You were saying—?”

  “If the policy had said, simply, drowning, there would have been an argument that the impact of the car onto the water must have killed him before he went under.”

  “Then you might have wriggled out of it.”

  “I don’t say we would have. It’s the sort of argument our lawyers might have put up.”

  “Clever old Roland. He thought of that one.”

  “Don’t you see, that’s what makes it all so odd. It almost looks as if he had this particular sort of accident in mind when he drafted the policy.”

  “Not true. The sort of accident they both had in mind was a plane going down over the sea and being lost without trace. The same arguments would apply.”

  “Did he do a lot of flying?”

  “He used to. A great deal. In the last few years he’s usually taken his car across to the Continent and driven about in it. It was easier to shake free of the little men who trailed round after him.”

  Peter stared at her. He thought of his mother. Surely not a second case of persecution mania?

  Miss Wolfe was looking at him over the top of her glasses, which were still perched on her nose. She said, “You don’t know a great deal about my brother, I can see.”

  “Practically nothing. I’d be very grateful for anything you can tell me.”

  “I don’t know the details of the work he was doing. Except that it must have been connected with biological warfare, or he wouldn’t have been at that Hell’s Kitchen in Devonshire. I’m sure he hated it as much as I did.”

  “Then why did he work there?”

  “He was blackmailed into doing it.”

  “Blackmailed? Who by?”

  “By the government. And if you keep looking at me in that unbelieving way, I shan’t say a single word more.”

  “I do apologise. I do, really. It’s just that I was startled. Somehow one doesn’t associate governments with blackmail.”

 
“All governments use blackmail. Some openly. Some more discreetly. This was a particularly unpleasant form of blackmail because it was disguised as charity. What my brother specialised in was genetic research, but jobs in that line were few and far between. When he left Oxford, he filled in time for a year or so teaching science at a public school, but always with his chin on his shoulder. Finally he got what he wanted. It was a junior post at the Molecular Biology Research Unit at Cambridge. While he was there they arranged for him to do a spell at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and he went, on attachment, to Bart’s Hospital. They’ve got a Medical Oncology Unit. He was beginning to be interested in the connection – everyone knows it must exist – between the normal processes of growing older, and the abnormal ones.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Cancer and leukemia are the vicious ones. There are plenty of others. All the knobs and spots and blotches that accumulate as your system gets tired. Like trees.”

  “It sounds fascinating.”

  “It certainly fascinated him,” said Miss Wolfe. “Do you know anything at all about molecular biology?”

  “Not a scrap.”

  “Well, I don’t know much. But some years ago, Alex and I had a holiday together on a farm in Wales. Considered as a holiday, it was a dead loss. It rained almost every day. Alex did a lot of talking and 1 remembered some of it. It seems that everyone has got a personal genetic code. It’s carried by his own private arrangement of biochemicals in cells called nuclei, and the important thing is to find out how the chromosomes are packed into them and then to try and read the pattern of information carried by them. Stop me if I’m boring you. This is nothing to do with insurance policies.”

  “You’re not boring me,” said Peter. He noticed that, now that Miss Wolfe was talking about something that interested her, she had dropped all affectations.