The house was set on its own, surrounded by a few gnarled trees, leafless and black, their branches crusted with white. The track that led off the road across half a kilometre of open field to the house was obliterated by the snow. Only two crooked wooden gateposts gave any clues to its existence. A black crow sat one-legged on the further post, ruffling the black feathers on its wings. It watched suspiciously as Bannerman approached. It had seen him coming for some time, waiting until he was within a few metres before taking clumsily to the air with a loud caw-cawing. Somewhere across the fields another crow answered its call, and then silence descended again.
Bannerman paused for a moment before turning into the track and ploughing through snow that had drifted two to three feet deep along the ridge. It took him nearly ten minutes to reach the house. It was a tall, narrow building with a steeply sloped red-tiled roof. A greying whitewash was flaking on the walls and the green of the shutters had faded and cracked. A rusted rone pipe had stained the wall a blood-red down one side where it ran from the guttering. It was an old house, a survivor of the last war, and it bore the scars of neglect.
Against the north wall the snow had drifted several feet deep, and on the protected south side weeds poked up through the patchy skin of snow that covered the gravel path. In summer it would be a fine place to live. Bannerman stood staring up at it, listening to the quiet. The sunlight fell at an oblique angle through the trees, dappling the south wall. All the shutters were closed tight and the storm doors locked.
He walked around the house trying each of the shutters in turn. At the back there was a yard and a crop of crumbling outbuildings. A slab of snow slid from the glistening tiles on the roof and fell with a thud behind him. The stab of fright that shot through him made him conscious for the first time of the uneasiness that had begun to grow in him. He cast his eyes over the surrounding countryside, looking — for what? He didn’t know. There was nothing to be seen. Not a movement, not a sound. And yet there was the strangest sensation he had of eyes watching him. It was foolish, he knew. It was probably just tiredness.
He went around to the south side and as he reached up for the first shutter he saw that it was not properly closed. Where the two met the wood was splintered and broken. He reached up, for the windows were set just above head height, and pulled them open. The steel-framed windows behind them were opened inwards, the glass on one side broken and jagged. Bannerman felt a rush of both excitement and disappointment. Someone had been here before him, though not within the last twelve hours. For there were no tracks in the snow, and it had stopped snowing the night before.
He stepped back and on the wall below the window he saw the marks left by the intruder’s boots where they had sought a hold to push him up and into the house. Again he turned and looked out across the fields. Still nothing stirred. He threw his holdall into the house and took another two or three steps back and then ran at the window, jumping to get his hands up over the sill. His feet scraped on the wall below as he pulled himself up, first straddling the window ledge and then dropping down into the semi-darkness. He crouched for a while, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the change of light.
The room took shape before him. It was a small bedroom, sparsely furnished. A bed, a dresser and a short bedside table with a lamp. The sheets had been torn from the bed and were strewn across the floor. The pillows and mattresses had been cut open and searched. Horsehair and down lay in clumps all around the bed. The drawers had been pulled out of the dresser and piled untidily on top. Bannerman, still squatting on the floor below the window, accepted even then that his trip to Flanders had been a waste of time. Gryffe’s country house had been professionally searched. He would find nothing. He could not even tell when the search had taken place. It might have been the day before. It might have been a week before Gryffe was shot. But no! The broken wood on the shutters was very fresh. Within the last couple of days perhaps.
He stood up, heavy with disappointment, and the glass from the broken pane crunched on the floor beneath his feet. He picked his way across the room and pulled the door open. It led into the blackness of a short hallway. His fingers fumbled along the wall until they found a light switch. Nothing. Of course, the electricity would be turned off at the mains. He stumbled across the hall and opened another door.
Tiny chinks of sunlight showed around the windows where the shutters fitted badly. They gave enough light for him to see that this was a big room. A sofa, a working desk, two or three wall cabinets, bookcasing, a coffee table. Two large armchairs and an old wooden rocker were arranged around a huge open fireplace. The debris of the search was here too. Papers and books, whole drawers and their contents thrown any-old-where across the floor. Bannerman opened one of the front windows, unhooked the shutters and pushed them out.
Sunshine streamed in and the rush of fresh air invaded the smell of dust and dampness. A few papers stirred in the breeze. Bannerman lit a cigar and stared thoughtfully out across the fields towards the road. What had they been after? Had they found it? Who were they? He turned and walked across the room to sit in the rocker. It creaked as he pushed it gently back and forth, and he let his head fall back on the wooden rest. It was a dead-end. He could see no way beyond it. He would go and see Jansen and Lapointe. But what would they tell him? They would lock him out with tight-lipped smiles and know he knew nothing. He had given Tait the ammunition the man needed to get rid of him, and without a story he had no bargaining power. His future lay ahead of him like a desert. The words of Palin, the drunk, came back to him like a bitter reproach, ‘...someday even bastards like you get put out to grass’.
Bannerman sighed and leaned forward, tipping his ash into the hearth. The contents of a wicker wastebin were strewn across the stone slabs. Even it had been searched. Bannerman bent further forward and picked up a crumpled envelope. He smoothed it out and and looked inside. Empty. The stamp was Swiss and postmarked December. He was about to throw it away when he noticed the address, P.O. BOX 139, BUREAU DE POSTE, PLACE DE LA MONNAIE, BRUXELLES. Bannerman frowned. It had almost slipped his notice and its significance did not dawn on him immediately.
He stared at it for some time before bending over to search for more envelopes. He found several, and all but two were addressed to Gryffe at his London home. The others were addressed to the same box number in Brussels. He got up and started looking around the room for more. Within a few minutes he had found seven. They were all empty. He clutched them in his hand and cursed softly. So Gryffe had been receiving correspondence which he picked up from a box number in Brussels. It was the first real indication of anything secretive about the man’s activities.
Bannerman dropped the envelope on the floor and thought whoever had gone through the dead man’s papers had been careful to remove all his letters. But he had overlooked the tell-tale address on the envelopes. If Gryffe had kept a private box number then he would also have had a poste restante card. It was just possible that the intruder might have overlooked it also, if it was here. But it had to be. For surely if it had been among his personal possessions in Brussels, du Maurier would have told him.