Dennis Wheatley - Black August

'We'll try to the right,' said Gregory, 'must strike something sooner or later, but first let's get clear of this shingle.'

The pebbly foreshore seemed to stretch interminably inland,, hummocks and dips of slippery stones alternating like the waves of a solidified sea, but at last they became firmer and interspersed with small tussocks of coarse grass. The party turned right and trooped wearily along the last embankment beyond which it seemed that the sea never penetrated.

Ann was almost dropping with fatigue but Kenyon had his hand under her arm and was leading her forward into the darkness. Silas was helping Veronica, and Gregory, limping painfully now, was at the head of the party, leaning hard on the shoulder of the faithful Rudd, but suppressing a groan at every step. With bowed shoulders the non commissioned officers and men brought up the rear.

Suddenly a dark blotch loomed up before them. ‘Martello Tower,' Kenyon and Ann heard Gregory mutter, and a moment later the whole party were standing in a group beneath it.

They had not got a torch between them but the lance corporal produced a box of matches; they found the doorway and Gregory followed him inside. In the faint light the walls were hardly perceptible, but the floor seemed reasonably clean and even.

'All right,' he said to Rudd, 'we'll doss down here for the night. Fetch 'em in.'

Everybody was too completely exhausted to grumble at the lack of bedding. In the light of the remaining matches they sorted themselves out and scattered round the walls. The two girls sat down on the hard floor; they had never felt so unutterably tired in their lives before. Kenyon was near them and he glanced at his wrist watch as a match flickered on the far side of the tower.

'It's a quarter past two,' he said.

'When? What day are we now?' asked Veronica.

'Let's see, we left London on Friday, didn't we? Well, it's Monday then.'

lGosh!' she exclaimed rolling over on her side, 'never, ever, at any time, have I been away for such a ghastly week end.'

Gregory's cigarette glowed faintly in the darkness. 'Yes,' he said slowly, unaware that the whole of his audience were now sound asleep, 'but the trouble is that we have failed to make our getaway. We're back in England after all.'

17?

Strange Sanctuary

Dawn came and found the whole party still sunk in heavy slumber. The pale light filtering through the narrow door did little more than lessen the musty darkness in one segment of the tower, and their many hours of exertion, anxiety, and distress had utterly exhausted every one of the survivors. It was well after eight o'clock before the first stirrings among the men showed signs of returning consciousness.

When they awoke it was with no sense of tired limbs refreshed after healthy sleep. They were stiff and sore from a night spent upon the hard concrete without bedding or blankets, chilled through by the damp atmosphere into which the sun never penetrated, and gripped instantly by the sharp pangs of unsatisfied hunger.

Silas looked round the great, circular, vault like chamber. His eyebrows, which Veronica had likened the day before to circonflexe accents, rose, giving a comically Robeyish expression to his large pink face, as he turned to Kenyon.

'Where in the world have we got to now?'

'This is a Martello Tower,' Kenyon replied. He was hopefully but quite uselessly trying to comb back the rebellious auburn curls with his fingers.

'And what would that be?'

'An old fort. There are dozens of them dotted along the East Coast of England, and the South Coast too. They were built when Napoleon threatened to invade England with the army of Boulogne in 1802.' Kenyon rose stiffly to his feet and followed Gregory who was limping towards the door.

Silas smoothed back his thin, rather fine hair over the bald spot at the back of his head and, following them out into the morning sunshine, looked up at the old tower with interest. It stood solitary and grey upon the edge of the shingle, windowless and severe, its sides sloping inwards towards the top; rather like a vast sand castle that some enormous child had deposited upside down out of a gargantuan bucket; the strange relic of military activities in a former age.

Gregory was studying the landscape. Half a mile of rolling shingle separated them from the sea, and to the south the long curving beach swept uninterrupted to the horizon. Behind them spread a mile or more of low, desolate marshland, intersected by watery dykes, then further inland rose gently sloping wooded hills.

They walked round to the north of the tower and Kenyon gave a quick exclamation of delight. The same curving beach of shingle stretched away to infinity before them, and the same low marshlands, but some three hundred yards on a little eminence between the two stood a single row of fishermen's cottages. 'Breakfast,' he added briefly.

'We'll hope so,' Gregory agreed.

'Where would you think we are, General?' Silas inquired.

'God knows, but we'll soon find out.' He settled his impressive cap at a rakish angle over one eye.

Ann came towards them from the tower, pale dishevelled, but smiling. 'This is Shingle Street,' she cried. 'I've often picnicked here.'

'Have you, my dear,' Gregory turned to her quickly. 'And where does Shingle Street happen to be?'

'Suffolk; it's only about five miles from my old home at Orford.'

'I see. Sims was right about that light then. At all events we're a healthy distance from Harwich.'

'Oh, miles and miles,' Ann agreed. 'The nearest town of any size is Ipswich.'

'How far is that?'

'About fifteen miles as the crow flies, but you'd have to cross the river Deben and there isn't any bridge unless you go round by road and then it must be twenty or more.'

'Good! We're not likely to have any trouble from that quarter then. Fane, will you take half a dozen men and reconnoitre the hamlet; see what they can do to help us with supplies.'

'With the greatest possible pleasure.'

All the men had come out of the tower now and were stretching their cramped limbs in the sunshine. Kenyon picked half a dozen lads and set off with them along the foreshore, but evidently their presence had already been noticed by the locals, for as they advanced a small crowd came out to meet them. Several fishermen in dark blue jerseys, an anaemic looking youth in plus fours and a little tubby man with an ancient boater set at a jaunty angle on his round head. The latter seemed to be the spokesman of the party.

Kenyon explained briefly how they had fetched up the night before and were in urgent need of food. The tubby man gave him a whimsical look.

'So's lots of people or my name's not Solly Andrews.'

'Well,' said Kenyon persuasively, 'there are only about twenty of us and we had practically nothing to eat all day yesterday so we should be awfully grateful if you could help us out.'

'What do you say, Jan?' Mr. Andrews looked at a tall fisherman with bright blue eyes and a face tanned coffee brown by constant exposure to wind and sun.

'There's no lack of fresh fish and plenty more where they come from.'

'Well, there you are,' said Mr. Andrews; 'fish if you want it and water to wash it down, but nothing else mind.'

'That suits us splendidly.'

'Right, best bring your party down to the hotel, and I'll tell my girl to put on some whiting and a few herrings.'

'Hotel?' repeated Kenyon in mild surprise, glancing quickly at the single line of twenty or thirty low houses.

'Yes, the Anchor; that's my house and has been these twenty years. I'll be setting up the tables up in the garden.'

"Thanks, Mr. Andrews, it's very good of you. With a smile Kenyon turned away and a few moments later he was reporting the good news to Gregory.

The remnant of the small force was paraded and marched down to the inn, Ann and Veronica following fifty yards behind since the latter declared that she would allow no one to see her until she had had a bath.