The Land God Gave to Cain Read Online Free PDF Page A

technically impossible—”
    â€œHe was more than two thousand miles outside of normal range. Of course,” he added, “there’s always the chance of freak reception, even at that distance, and just in case, I’m having inquiries made of all ham operators in Canada. I’ve also asked for a full report from Ledder. I think you can be quite sure that if any transmission was made on the twenty-ninth, then we’ll find somebody who picked it up.”
    The Inspector nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep these notebooks for the time being.” He picked them up off the table. “I’d like to have them examined by our experts.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t mind.” It seemed useless to say anything more. And yet … My eyes strayed to the map of Labrador. He’d forced himself to his feet in order to look at it. Why? What had been in his mind?
    â€œI don’t think it’s necessary for us to trouble Mrs. Ferguson after all,” the Inspector was saying. They went down the stairs then and I showed them out. “I’ll let you have these back in a day or so.” The Inspector indicated the exercise books in his hand.
    I watched them as they walked out to the police car and drove away. What had he meant by saying he’d like to have them examined by experts? But, of course, I knew, and I felt as though in some way I had let my father down. And yet, if the men were dead … I went back into the parlour to be faced with my mother’s reproachful gaze and Mrs. Wright’s eager questioning.
    But there were other, more practical things to think about, and with the funeral the sense of grief pushed everything else into the background of my mind.
    It wasn’t until the morning I was leaving to return to Bristol that I was reminded of the strange message that had caused my father’s death. The postman brought a registered package addressed to me, and inside were the log books. There was also a letter, impersonal and final: I have to inform you that the Canadian authorities have been unable to obtain any confirmation of the message claimed to have been received by your father, Mr. James Ferguson, on. 29th September. Our experts have examined the enclosed, and in view of their report, and the statement by the only survivor that the two remaining members of the party are dead, the Canadian authorities do not feel that any useful purpose can be served by resuming the search. However, they wish me to express their appreciation, etc., etc .
    So that was that. The experts—psychiatrists presumably—had looked at the log books and had decided that my father was mad. I tore the letter savagely across, and then, because I didn’t want my mother to find the fragments, I slipped them into my suitcase, together with the log books.
    She came to the station to see me off. Ever since that visit from the police she had never once referred to the cause of my father’s death. As though by tacit consent we had avoided any reference to the message. But now, just as the train was about to leave, she gripped my hand. “You’ll let that Labrador business alone, won’t you, Ian? I couldn’t bear it if you …” The whistle blew then and she kissed me, holding me close that way she hadn’t done since I was a kid. Her face was white and tired-looking and she was crying.
    I got in and the train began to move. For a moment she stood watching, a small, lonely figure in black, and then she turned quickly and walked away down the platform. I often wonder whether she knew in her heart that she wouldn’t see me again for a long time.

II
    I had forgotten to get anything to read and for a time I just sat there, watching the backs of the houses until London began to thin out and the green fields showed beyond the factory buildings. I was thinking about my mother and our parting and the way she had referred again to