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.
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.