The Smog Read Free Page A

somebody off the train probably they’re not letting anyone else onto the platform.”
    She glanced curiously at the four policemen, a sergeant and three constables, gathered in a loose cordon about the ticket collector’s barrier. As David Costain helped her down from the corridor and they moved together towards the barrier, two men with cameras moved sharply forward.
    â€œJust a moment, Mrs. Drummond.”
    â€œStand still a moment, Mr. Costain, please.”
    â€œWhat—” Costain began.
    â€œCold hearted baskets,” one of the policemen muttered, and quite suddenly all four of the men in uniform gathered about Grace and Costain, as if to shield them from the photographers. Puzzled, at a loss, Grace glanced up at Costain.
    What she saw struck horror through her, reflected from the horror on his face. He actually drew back, and put a hand up to his eyes. Then the sergeant, an elderly man with a clipped grey moustache, said in a tone touched unmistakably with anguish: “You’ve heard nothing, then.”
    â€œHeard about what? ”cried Grace.
    The sergeant said as if to himself: “Of course they haven’t.” Then he braced himself and went on in a flat voice: “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Drummond …” Sorry, very sorry, why? … “We tried to get in touch with you.” Why, why, why? Grace was standing rigid, staring, hardly aware that David Costain was gripping her arm tightly. “Something happened in the village,” the sergeant said. Oh, God, Geoffrey. The children. Oh, God, no. “No one knows exactly what it was, Ma’am, but—everyone died.”
    Died.
    Everyone.
    Everyone in Sane –
    Oh, God, no! Not the children!
    â€œSuperintendent Devine or Chief Inspector Wall were to have been here, ma’am, but they had some last minute instructions from the Chief Constable. So I had to come. I’m very sorry, madam. I can’t say how—”
    â€œSergeant,” Grace interrupted in a voice which sounded strange even to herself, “are you telling me that my—my family has been wiped out?”
    â€œAll—all the village,” the sergeant blurted out miserably, and then his face brightened and he turned towards the ticket collector’s barrier with unmistakable relief. “Here is Superintendent Devine.”
    Grace did not hear what he said. The full realisation came to her with sudden, awful truth, as if a monstrous shadow, formed out of nowhere, was pressing against her whole body with a force which seemed to crush her head, her heart, her vitals. One of the policemen moved forward but it was David Costain who put his arm round her shoulders and saved her from falling. He was still holding her when a man he had seen once or twice when in Winchester came forward; this was obviously Superintendent Devine.
    â€œDr. Wingate’s outside,” he said to the sergeant. “He will look after Mrs. Drummond. Thank you, Mr. Costain, for your presence of mind.” He eased the woman away from Costain and two constables half carried her, while cameras whirred and clicked on both sides of the barrier.
    â€œAre you Mr. Devine?” asked Costain in a low-pitched voice.
    â€œSuperintendent Devine. I—”
    â€œWhat the hell has your sergeant been talking about?” Costain was very pale: as pale as Grace Drummond. “The whole village can’t be dead.”
    â€œI’m afraid it’s true, sir,” Devine asserted. He was a tall, rather plump-looking man, dressed in loose fitting pepper and salt tweeds. “Except for those who were away, or were on high ground. Would you mind telling me why you went to London today, sir?”
    The question came sharply, and Devine’s eyes, rather unimpressive until that moment, suddenly became very bleak, and their gaze penetrating.
    Costain did not reply for a long time. He was aware of glances, avid, compassionate, or averted,