Robert Goddard - Sight Unseen

'Mr Umber?' Both men turned at the call. 'One of you two Mr Umber?' It was the serving girl leaning out through the door of the cafe. "There's someone on the phone for you.'

Umber exchanged a glance with Wisby, then stood up and hurried into the cafe. The girl pointed towards the telephone at one end of the counter, receiver dangling off the hook. Umber picked it up.

'Hello?'

'That you, Shadow Alan?' It was Jeremy Hall. There was, of course, no-one else it could have been. His voice was slightly slurred, as if he had been drinking.

'Yes. It's me. Why aren't you here?'

'Wisby with you, is he?'

'Yes. As you arranged. I repeat: why aren't you here?'

'I thought about it and decided we ought to meet somewhere more… private.'

'Where?'

'The old man's place. With him and Marilyn away, it's nice and quiet. I'm there now. Wisby knows where it is. Come on over. I'll wait for you.'

'OK. But, Jeremy, you ought to know Wisby and I aren't -'

'Save it. I don't want to hear. Remember the day we first met, do you?'

'Of course.'

'There was a kestrel above us. I saw it. Turning and turning in the sky. Did you see it?'

'I don't think so.'

'Predator or prey. We're one or the other. You want your Junius, Shadow Man? You come and find him.'

Wisby had parked his hire car on the other side of the harbour. By the time they had reached it and got onto the dual carriageway heading out of town, twenty minutes had passed, testing both men's patience.

'I smell a rat,' said Wisby as he accelerated well beyond the sedate island-wide speed limit of 40 mph. 'He never intended to meet us in St Helier, did he?'

'Maybe not. But what difference does it make?'

'If he's planning to play some kind of trick on us…'

'What kind could he play? I thought you had him where you wanted him.'

'I do. But despite that he seems to be calling the shots. Which is worrying. Distinctly worrying.'

They turned inland halfway round the bay and headed north along a winding road through a tree-filled valley – Waterworks Valley, according to Wisby, named on account of its several reservoirs. Sunlight sparkled on the still blue water and the bright yellow drifts of daffodils in the roadside meadows. Oliver Hall had chosen a picturesque corner of Jersey to retire to.

Wisby slowed as they rounded a bend. A gated driveway led off the road to the left, climbing through landscaped grounds towards a large house set amongst trees. A sign at the foot of the drive identified it as Eden Holt.

'This is it,' said Wisby. He pulled up in front of the gates, lowered his window and pressed a button set next to an intercom grille on a post. 'Let's see if he's going to let us in.'

He was – without even bothering to confirm it was them. The gates swung slowly open. Wisby drove through and started up the slope towards the house.

Most of the building had been out of sight from the road. It was set on a shelf of land halfway up the side of the valley, commanding an expansive view of the rolling Jersey countryside. An elegantly meticulous recreation of a three-storeyed Queen Anne mansion, with porticoed entrance, mullioned windows and high, slender chimneys, its clean-cut grey stone glistened opulently in the sunshine.

The drive ran between the house and a wide, oval lawn towards a tree-screened triple garage. Jeremy's motorbike was standing in front of the garage, propped at an angle, sunlight shimmering on its petrol tank. Wisby stopped short of the balustraded steps that led up to the front door and turned the engine off. They climbed out into crystalline air and suspended silence, which the slamming of the car doors pierced like muffled gunshots. The two men exchanged a glance of mild puzzlement that Jeremy had not come out to greet them, but, as they started up the steps, they saw that the broad, green, dolphin-knockered door was ajar. It was a greeting – of sorts.

Wisby pushed the door open, giving them a view of the hall – a vast chequerboard of black and white marble tiles leading to a curving staircase. Doors stood open to ground-floor rooms on either side. But Jeremy did not step out of any of them, aware though he must have been that they had arrived.

'Where is he?' muttered Wisby. 'What's he -'

'Look,' Umber cut in. 'Look, man.'

Umber's gaze had drifted round to the console table standing against the wall a little way along the hall – and had gone no further. There was a silver tray on the table, intended for post, perhaps. There were no letters lying on it. But it was not empty.

Two small books, held together by a rubber band, had been placed on the tray. The books' smooth white covers identified their binding as vellum. And the gold-lettered titles on their spines identified them as particular, exclusive and unquestionably unique.

'That's them, isn't it?' Wisby asked, glancing at Umber.

'Oh yes.' Umber nodded. 'That's them.' And it was. There could be no doubt. There had only ever been one vellum-bound gilt-titled Junius, specially prepared to the author's specification and left for him by Woodfall at one of their secret coffee-house delivery points early in the month of March, 1773. Left – and later collected. 'At last,' Umber added, in a dreamy murmur. 'At long – What was that?'

He whirled round at a sound behind him: a sharp, metallic ping. Almost at once, there was a second ping and, this time, he saw what had caused it. A small pebble struck the roof of the car as he watched and bounced off. Another pebble followed.

Umber rushed down the steps onto the driveway and looked up, backing away towards the lawn as he did so. There were dormer windows set in the grey-slated roof, their lower halves obscured by a parapet running round the edge of the roof. In the centre of

the parapet, directly above the front door, was a pediment. Jeremy Hall was leaning nonchalantly against its sloping left-hand side. He nodded, as if satisfied now he had got some attention, and tossed

the remaining pebbles into the gully behind the pediment. Then he propped one foot on the parapet and gazed down.

'Spotted what's waiting for you in the hall, Shadow Man?' he called.

'Yes,' Umber replied.

'Take them. They're yours.'

'We want more man the books,' shouted Wisby as he caught up with Umber. 'You know what my terms are.'

'Oh yes,' Jeremy shouted back. 'I know.'

'Come down. Let's talk. Like we agreed.'

'Like you demanded, you mean. Remember the

kestrel, Shadow Man?'

'Yes. But -'

'Predator or prey. We're one or the other. Never both.' He seemed to look beyond them, into the distance. 'There's so much air up here. So much sky. And everything's so very, very simple.'

'Come down,' shouted Wisby.

'All right,' Jeremy responded. 'I will.'

In that second, Umber knew what Jeremy was going to do. He stepped forward. And so did Jeremy. Out into the empty air beyond the parapet. Out into a place he could see so clearly. Out – and down.

Umber closed his eyes an immeasurable fraction of a second before Jeremy hit the ground. But the sound of the impact – the squelching thud of flesh and bone on tarmac, the fricative last gasp of breath forced from Jeremy's mouth – was no easier to bear than the sight of it would have been. Umber could not keep his eyes closed for ever. When he opened them, he knew what he would see. And already, before he did so, he knew of the other death it would call to his mind. The mangled body; the wine-dark blood; the stillness and the silence: as it had been for the sister so it was now for the brother.

Umber opened his eyes.

By a small, scant miracle, Jeremy had fallen with his face angled away from them. Only the tide of blood seeping from his smashed body, carried towards Umber by the camber of the drive, declared his death as an unalterable fact.