The Flood by John Creasey Read Free Book Online

Castle. Sir Gabriel warmly appreciates the services which Mr. Woburn rendered—”
    Woburn broke in: “This is Robert Woburn speaking. How is Miss Davos?”
    “Mr. Woburn in person, sir?” The voice took on a new note of respect; the speaker’s manner wasn’t exactly pompous, but it wasn’t far short. “I am happy to tell you that Miss Davos is resting comfortably.”
    That was something.
    “May I tell Sir Gabriel—”
    Woburn broke in again: “I’m not sure that I can come tonight, I’ve an appointment here at nine o’clock.” He didn’t want to sound abrupt, but knew that he did. “What does Sir Gabriel want, do you know?”
    “Frankly, sir, no,” the unknown man said. His voice was almost too precise. “I am sure that he would be extremely grateful if you could spare a little while – it is less than twenty minutes’ journey from the farm to this spot. If it would be of any assistance, I’m sure that Sir Gabriel would gladly send a car.”
    Woburn hesitated. Then: “No,” he said. “I’ll come.” He rang off on a warm: “Thank you, sir,” and thrust his hands into his pocket. A moment ago he had thought of possible calls that he didn’t want to miss, but they didn’t really matter. He had two hours to get through, and they weren’t going to be pleasant. Being on his own here it would be much worse than driving to the Castle, and if he went to the Castle he would probably see Eve again.
    As he moved across to the kitchen door, he knew that he wanted to; very much.
    Old Jamie was out of sight, but within earshot; the grunting told Woburn he was over by the pigsties.
    “Aye, I’ll keep an eye on things,” he promised, “what time do you say you’ll return, Mr. Woburn?”
    “Soon after eight, Jamie.”
    “I’ll tell them,” Jamie promised.
     
    Soon, Woburn sat at the wheel of his own M.G. He started off, going too fast, and saw Jamie standing and watching him. He waved, and slowed down; there was no sense in breaking his neck. He reached the main road, leading to the village in one direction and the Castle in another. There were no people about, no cars or cyclists, and he would have expected a crowd. Perhaps the police were keeping them back. He reached the cross-roads, and saw two motor-cycle police patrols, and as he slowed down at one man’s wave, he also saw Reggie’s two-stroke machine, leaning against the fence where he had left it.
    The motor-cyclist was the one who had been so shaken earlier.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said, “the road’s blocked, no traffic allowed this way today. Can’t understand how they let you come through, there’s supposed to be—”
    “I’m from Dog’s Head Farm.”
    “Oh. Oh!” The youthful, weather-beaten face had a startled look. “Mr. and Mrs. Robertson went by not long ago, but it’s just a waste of time, as I told them. Did you want to see them?”
    “I’m heading for Ronoch Castle.”
    “Oh, the Castle. Nothing to stop you doing that, sir, although there’s another barrier before you get to the main road. They’ll let you through, though, shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
    Woburn started the engine. “That’s fine. See that motor-cycle goes into Gimmick’s garage, will you?”
    “Aye, there’s no need to worry, I’ll see to it. Terrible thing, isn’t it?” the patrolman said. “I still don’t really believe it happened.”
    Woburn didn’t speak.
    He turned right, along the gravel road from which Eve had come this afternoon. It was narrow and winding and hilly, and cut out of the hillside, so that one could see down to the left, but on the right see only the hewn rocks. He had driven along here only once before, and he had a clear recollection of seeing the great castellated Castle. Ronoch Castle – built by a wealthy fool to spite a faithless wife, in the middle of a vast stretch of moorland, with a background of mountains, with lochs and streams; a village was within its walls, and it had been derelict until, a