The Empty House by Michael Gilbert

sunshine staring through the latticework of the gate. It seemed an innocent enough place. He noticed that someone had cultivated a strip of flowerbeds along the front of the nearest building. There were marigolds and pinks in it, and a fioribunda rosebush flourishing in the chalk soil. In the silence he could hear larks singing.
    A door in the guard hut beside the gate opened and a military policeman came out. He walked across and studied Peter without speaking. Peter took out the letter which Mr. Troyte had armed him with and pushed it through the latticework. The redcap took it, read the name on the envelope, turned it over to make sure there was nothing written on the other side, then stepped back, wheeled around, and made for the large building on the right of the entrance which Peter assumed must be the reception office. The letter, as he knew, was addressed personally to the officer in charge of the Station and was from a senior official in the Ministry of Defence. One of the secrets of Arthur Troyte’s success was knowing useful people in every walk of life.
    Five slow minutes passed. The soldier reappeared, unlocked and opened the gate, ushered Peter inside, locked and shut the gate, and led the way into the building, where he handed him over to a gray-haired lady who sat enthroned behind at a desk inside the door. He conducted him to all of this without speaking a word. Perhaps he was dumb? Peter remembered a story he had once read about a mad scientist who was served by slaves all of whom had had their tongues cut out to prevent them revealing his secrets. Was it possible—?
    No, the gray-haired lady still had her tongue. She said, “Colonel Hollingum may have to keep you waiting a few minutes, sir. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    Peter said he thought this would be a very good idea. The gray-haired lady spoke down the telephone. But when the door at the far end of the hall opened a few minutes later, it wasn’t the coffee. It was a small Indian in a long white coat. He came up to Peter, placing one neatly shod foot in front of the other as softly and precisely as though he were practicing a new dance step. He said, “You must be Dr. Vinograd. I am so pleased to meet you.”
    “Well, no,” said Peter. “My name is Manciple.”
    “You are not Dr. Vinograd? I had a feeling he would be somewhat older. Do not take that as a reflection on you. Youth is a priceless asset. Not something you need apologise for. What is to be your function here?”
    “It isn’t exactly a function. I’m here in connection with the death of Dr. Wolfe.”
    “Dr. Wolfe? Oh. Yes. I have not introduced myself. I am Dr. Bishwas. Dr. Wolfe was my colleague. It was very sad.”
    There was something behind this which Peter found it hard to fathom; a feeling of more meant than was said. He wondered whether perhaps it was because the conversation was taking place within earshot of the gray-haired woman.
    “If you knew Dr. Wolfe well,” he said, “perhaps there is somewhere we could talk in private.”
    “I am afraid – I am very much afraid – that there is nothing private I could tell you. Will you be with us for long?”
    “As long as I have to.”
    “I see, yes. You are staying locally? In Bridgetown perhaps? You are in the good hands of Mr. Brewer. An interesting example of Dravidian survival.”
    At this point the coffee arrived in a plastic cup carried by a sergeant. Dr. Bishwas smiled apologetically and departed as softly as he had come. As Peter was finishing the coffee, a bell sounded. The gray-haired lady said, “That is Colonel Hollingum. He can see you now. The last door on the left.”
    Colonel Hollingum, who rose from behind his desk to greet Peter, looked more like a doctor than an Army officer and more like a civil servant than a doctor. The long white overall which he was wearing could equally have concealed service dress or a black coat and striped trousers. He said, “I hope we shall be able to deal with this