Free The Empty House by Michael Gilbert

logic, but of instinct. It seemed essential to get them down on paper. A Latin tag, learned and forgotten in his schooldays, came into his mind: “Litem scripta manet.” That was true. Words spoken floated away on the breath that uttered them, but the written word endured, for better or worse.
     
    Half an hour later the first part of the report had been written, placed unsealed in an envelope, and addressed to Arthur Troyte. He put it away in his briefcase. He could finish it in the morning. There were still a few minutes left.
    He took out another piece of paper and wrote on it: “I am going out, at his invitation, to meet Dr. Bishwas of the Biological Warfare Research Station, at the southwest corner of the perimeter fence. I have no idea what he wishes to tell me.” This note he also sealed up in an envelope and propped it against the looking glass on the shelf above the fireplace, where it would be obvious to the first observer. Then he went out, locked the door of his bedroom, pocketed the key, and went quietly downstairs.
    There were voices in the lounge. He could distinguish the pedantic tones of Professor Petros and he heard Kevin say something in reply. As he slipped out of the door at the back, he thought he heard Anna laugh.
    He found the turning which Dr. Bishwas had indicated. It was a roughly macadamised track running between high banks, and there were signs that its most recent users had been a herd of cows. After a few hundred yards it opened out and he could see, on his left, the boundary lights of the Research Station. When he reached the corner of the fence, he saw Dr. Bishwas standing beside the track.
    The Doctor came across as he stopped, and said, “Might I suggest that you turn out your headlights? There is sufficient light for you to see. We have only a short way to go. Thank you. If you drive straight along the track, you will find a building. It is, I fancy, a barn for the cattle, but in this weather they stay out all night. We shall not be disturbed.” The Doctor gave a disconcerting giggle, and Peter realised that he was in a state of extreme nervousness.
    They drove on in silence until a darker patch in the darkness around them indicated the position of the barn. Peter switched off the engine and they both climbed out. The Doctor went ahead and pulled open the door of the barn. He had produced a flashlight, which he shone into the interior of the building.
    “Come in, Mr. Manciple,” he said, “and dispose yourself. What I have to tell you may take some little time.”

 
7
    The barn was warm with the stored heat of a summer day. Peter sat on an upturned crate inside the door. Dr. Bishwas perched himself on the edge of the half-floor above him and sat there enthroned and grave, like a teacher preparing to discourse to his disciple.
    “I assumed,” he said, “from the length of time you were together this morning, that Colonel Hollingum told you very little.”
    “He spent most of the time giving me a number of reasons why he could tell me nothing.”
    “He is a good man by his own lights, although his lights are not mine. He sometimes seems to me”—Peter could tell that Dr. Bishwas was smiling in the darkness—”like a master who has been left in charge of a class of children who are cleverer than he is. He wields the physical power, but knows that mentally his charges are beyond him. He is a simple soldier. In so far as he understands what is going on, he disapproves of it, or so I think. But a soldier does what he is told. That is a comfort to him. Also, perhaps, he can persuade himself that what he is doing is not aggressive. The object of the research is defensive: to prepare countermeasures against the possibility of attack by others. Between the wars, did you know, your country produced some of the most virulent poison gases in the world. The establishment which perfected them was known as the Anti-Gas Warfare Station at Winterbourne Gunner, near Salisbury. Anti-gas –