Robert Goddard - Sight Unseen

Umber stepped back onto the lawn before the stretching red fingers reached him. He sank to his haunches and stared at the lifeless, crumpled figure in front of him, at Jeremy's tousled blood-flecked hair, at the upturned palm of his nearest hand, cradled as if to receive some gift.

Umber thought of Jane Hall, standing in the cemetery above Marlborough, mourning her daughters and comforting herself with the knowledge that at least she still had a living, breathing son. Soon, all too soon, she would have that comfort snatched away from her.

Umber had done nothing to save the daughters. And now his action, for reasons he did not properly understand, had destroyed the son.

'Oh God,' he murmured. 'Oh dear God.'

The car engine burst suddenly into life. Umber looked round and saw Wisby reversing the car away from him. It bumped up onto the lawn, then Wisby slammed it into forward gear, swerved round onto the drive and accelerated down the slope towards the gates.

Umber's reactions were addled by shock. He could not comprehend what was happening. Where was Wisby going? What in God's name did he think he was doing?

The probable answer hit Umber like a blow to the face. He jumped up and, skirting the pool of blood that had spread from Jeremy's body, ran across the drive and up the steps to the front door.

It was wide open. In the hall, on the console table, the silver tray stood empty.

Wisby had stopped at the foot of the drive, waiting for the gates to open after the car had crossed the sensor-cable. The gates swung slowly and smoothly. The car idled. Umber started running down the drive, certain he would be too late, but running anyway, his feet pounding on the tarmac.

The car started forward as soon as there was a large enough gap between the gates for it to pass through. Wisby pulled straight out onto the road and put his foot down. The car sped away. It was out of sight before Umber reached the gateway.

Umber's last few strides carried him out onto the road. He stared despairingly in the direction the car had taken – back the way they had come earlier. The gates were fully open by now. A few seconds later, they began to close again.

Umber had still not moved when they clanged shut behind him.

Umber walked south along the Waterworks Valley road through the encroaching dusk. Forward motion was the only strategy he was able to settle on. He had set off from Eden Holt telling himself he would flag down a car or call at the next house he came to in order to raise the alarm. He had done neither. He could have climbed the gates and phoned the police from Eden Holt, of course. Failure to do so had already set his course for him.

Jeremy Hall was dead. Nothing could restore him to life. The ugly truth was that Umber's dread of the consequences of Jeremy's death was stronger than the duty he felt to report it. Naturally, he would report it. But not from the scene. Not there and then. Not in any way that required him to account for his part in it. As yet, he was unable to do that even to himself.

After two or three miles, he reached the village of Millbrook, where Wisby had turned off the coast road on their way from St Helier. There was a call-box by the junction. Umber went in, dialled 999 and asked for the police.

'There's been a suicide at Eden Holt, a house in Waterworks Valley,' he said, ignoring requests for his name and location. And then he promptly rang off.

He crossed the road and waited at the bus stop. He knew he was on the route of the half-hourly service to the Airport. And he knew for a rock-solid certainty that the Airport was where Wisby would have headed, fearing an encounter with Umber if he lingered on the island. He had what he wanted, after all. Not all of it, of course. Not the full explanation he might have been able to extract from Jeremy Hall. But he had the vellum-bound Junius. And no doubt he was determined to keep it.

The bus route to the Airport, as Umber also knew, ran through St Aubin. He did not get off, telling himself it was better if Chantelle heard the news from the police. That way, she could happily assume for a few more hours at least that Jeremy would return to her. Umber could only pray he would not see her in the street as the bus passed through. And his prayer was answered.

There was no sign of Wisby in the check-in area at the Airport. A word at the information desk revealed there were several flights to various British destinations he could already have left on. No doubt he had taken the first available one, whether it was to Gatwick, Bristol or even Manchester. But had he left at all – rather than returned to St Helier, if only to collect his belongings from his hotel? Umber prowled the car park, inspecting numerous lookalike hire cars, until he found one whose rear tyres were smeared with mud and grass from a recent lawn-skid. That clinched it. The bird had flown. Perhaps he had checked out of his hotel earlier, guessing he might need to make a hasty getaway after their meeting with Jeremy. Umber suspected Wisby had intended all along to spring some kind of double-cross as soon as the Juniuses' authenticity had been confirmed. A glance at the books from ten feet away was hardly sufficient for Umber to do that, but Wisby had clearly decided to settle for it in the suddenly and savagely altered circumstances.

Umber had been so close to laying his hands on the fabled special copy of the 1773 Junius and reading what Griffin had described to him twenty-three years previously as 'an illuminating and more than somewhat surprising inscription' that he could scarcely believe he had let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He knew why, of course. He knew the reason only too well. The sight of Jeremy Hall lying dead in a spreading pool of blood burst into his mind whenever he closed his eyes. It had not been enough to stop Wisby, however. It had not been enough even to make him hesitate.

It was the galling thought of Wisby studying the inscription over an in-flight drink that suddenly alerted Umber to the one question above all he should have put to Vernon Garrard – but had failed to. He rushed back into the terminal building and made for the payphones.

It was way past Quires' probable closing time. But a book dealer is always open to offers. The recorded message at Quires gave an out-of-hours number to try. Umber rang it – and Garrard answered.

'David Umber here, Mr Garrard.'

A sigh. 'I rather thought our business was concluded, Mr Umber.'

'There's a question I forgot to ask. Just one.'

Another sigh. 'Very well. What is it?'

'What was the inscription in the Junius?'

'Inscription?'

'You must have inspected the book before selling it. Especially since you hadn't even known it was in stock.'

'Ah. I see. Well, yes, I cast my eye over it, naturally, as you say, if only in order to set a price.'

'And?'

'It's rather odd, actually. Both you and Mr Wisby neglected to raise the point.'

'Exactly. But now we've been able to compare notes. So, what was the inscription?'

'There wasn't one.'

'No inscription?'

'None.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure there wasn't. But as to whether there had been… '

'What do you mean?'

'The fly-leaves had been torn out of both volumes, Mr Umber. That's what I mean.'

Umber booked a seat on a morning flight to Gatwick and took the bus back to St Helier. It was Thursday evening. A glance at his watch reminded him that he could even then have been sitting with Marilyn Hall in the theatre, watching All's Well That Ends Well, with her stepson alive and none the wiser. But there was only one rule in the game of consequences: you could never go back. Jeremy Hall was dead. And his death made one thing certain. All was not going to end well.