A Darker Place by Jack Higgins Page B

there.”
    “When the weather is right,” Katya told them.
    They went through the city to Greenwich, following the river. Monica said, “London seems never-ending.”
    “It all changes quite soon now,” Katya said, and she was right, for beyond Gravesend, with the rain that had threatened starting to pour, they moved into a bleak landscape of fields and marshland edged by mudflats swallowed up by the waters of the Thames estuary.
    Way beyond, half glimpsed through the mist and rain, ships moved out to sea. Katya said, “Look, way over there on the horizon is something you seldom see these days. A lightship, permanently moored on chains.”
    “So strange, this place, and so close to the city,” Dillon said. There were reeds now higher than a man, the road a raised causeway, and they came to a village of a dozen old-fashioned seaside wood bungalows, mostly painted green, with corrugated iron roofs. It looked totally desolate, not a soul in sight.
    “Who on earth lives here?” Monica asked.
    “No one, my dear,” Svetlana told her. “They are holiday homes for rent. People get their supplies from Gravesend or perhaps Rochester.”
    “And you must remember to fill up with petrol there, too,” Katya said.
    “But who on earth would want to holiday here?” Monica laughed.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Dillon said. “It takes all sorts. Dickens wrote about Gravesend and Rochester, as I recall.”
    “Bird-watchers come here all the time,” Katya said. “For people who like that sort of thing, it’s a paradise. In the old days, very ancient times, there were Saxons here, then outlaws of one kind and another hiding in the marshes. Closer to our own times, certainly in the time Dickens knew it, there were smugglers.”
    They came to a track on the right, turned along it, and arrived at a five-barred gate bearing a painted sign: “Holly End.” They entered a large farmyard, surfaced with shingle, fronting a barn and a two-story farmhouse that was surprisingly large. It had a slate roof and shuttered windows.
    Katya turned off the engine, got out, found a key, and opened the blue painted front door. “I’m only here to check the place,” she said. “But come in, by all means. There’s a pub at All Hallows, quarter of a mile away. We’ll lunch there.”
    Dillon helped Svetlana out, gave her his arm, and they went inside. The hall was dark, and there was a smell of damp. “Four bedrooms upstairs,” Katya said. “Sitting room to the left, kitchen to the right, and bathroom directly ahead. It’s an ugly bitch of a place during the winter, and everything’s covered, so there’s not much to see.”
    She went upstairs, and Dillon and Svetlana went into the sitting room. The furniture had all been covered by old-fashioned gray drapes. “Like shrouds, aren’t they? One could imagine a corpse on each chair,” Svetlana said.
    Dillon laughed. “It’s being so cheerful keeps you going, I can see that.” He helped her across to the kitchen, which was normal enough, though old-fashioned, and she sat at one of four chairs at a large wooden table. “And Kurbsky loved this place?”
    “Always, even in weather like this. It was the marsh he liked, plowing through the reeds, he and Kelly with shotguns looking for wildfowl.”
    They could hear Katya’s steps upstairs through the ceiling. Monica said, “A dead world. It makes me uneasy. Those people who came here in the past must have had little choice in the matter. Refugees, outlaws.”
    “I think that’s what Alexander adored about it. Perhaps the feeling that he resembled in some way all those people who had gone before,” Svetlana said.
    “But nothing lives here. It’s a place of shadows, quietly passing, only an illusion,” said Monica.
    Katya had heard her as she came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. “There is life here and everywhere, believe me, fish in those creeks in the marsh, crabs, shellfish, geese in the winter from Siberia, wildfowl in