The Glass Cage An Unconventional Detective Story by Colin Wilson a.b.e-book v3.0 / Notes at EOF Back Cover: Nine Violent Deaths. Nine Quotes From Blake. draw Damon Reade into a strange and baffling mystery that interrupts his self-imposed isolation and plunges him into a compelling clairvoyant connection with a maniacal killer! "Enraged and stifled with torment He threw his right arm to the North And his left arm to the South." Just these words from Blake. No sign of a body, but the tide was still running high. A few hours later they found parts of a body in a sack near Vauxhall Bridge. "Literate and enthralling. Far beyond the conventional mystery." -- The Hollywood Reporter This low-priced Bantam Book has been completely reset in a type face designed for easy reading, and was printed from new plates. It contains the complete text of the original hard-cover edition. NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED. THE GLASS CAGE A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with Random House, Inc. PRINTING HISTORY Published in New York by Random House, Inc., and in London, England by Arthur Barker Limited. Random House edition published May 1967 Bantam edition published July 1973 All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Copyright © 1966 by Colin Wilson. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: Random House, Inc., 203 East 30th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022 Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National General company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10019. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA For Jonathan and Sue Guinness and to the memory of John Cowper Powys PART I It had been bright and clear as he left Keswick; but as he crossed the Styhead Pass two hours later, the air smelled of rain. Five miles away, the cold expanse of Wastwater looked like a sheet of metal. The rain clouds had covered the top of Scafell, but the snowline still showed below them. He sat down on a granite boulder, allowing the paratroop rucksack to rest against the slope of the hill behind it. The skin of his back exhaled warm moisture. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned, feeling the pleasant ripple of energy along the shoulder muscles. If it had not been for the threat of rain, he would have removed the rucksack and slept for half an hour, lulled by the sound of the wind and the cries of sheep on the side of Green Gable. In this place, looking north toward Skiddaw and south to the lowlands and the Irish sea, he always experienced an active sense of the benevolence of nature, a desire to become a rock pushing its shoulders into the hills. The first drops of rain blew against his face. He stood up reluctantly and readjusted the pack. It contained groceries and a heavy volume called A Treatise on Cosmic Fire, bought in Keswick for one and sixpence. A mile above Wasdale Head, he struck off the footpath over the slopes of Lingmell, his head now bowed into the fine rain. He crossed a stream, removing his shoes and socks and walking with care on the sharp stones. The water was icy; although it was only six inches deep in the middle, he felt the pain biting into the calves of his legs, making him swear aloud. Sitting on the opposite bank and pulling on his shoes, he became aware of someone watching him from a few feet away. A youth with a dark gypsy's face was grinning at him; the smile was as mirthless as the baring of a dog's fangs. "Morning, Jeff." The youth said, "Cold?" "Frozen. I must put the stones back sometime." There had been stepping stones across the stream, but it became a torrent every winter and carried them away. He stood up, asking, "How's the wife?" "She's dead. Last night." "Oh? I'm sorry." The youth shrugged. He evidently felt that no further explanation was necessary. Pointing to the stream, he said, "Give me a call. I'll help you." "Thank you." As he walked on across the hill, the youth called, "Someone after you." He turned. "Where?" "In the post office an hour ago." "Who was that?" The youth shrugged and turned away, but when he was a hundred yards off, he called something else. Most of the words were carried away by the wind and the noise of the stream, but the last word sounded like "policeman." Half a mile below his own cottage, a man's voice called, "Mr. Reade." It was Jeff's father. He came out from behind the stone wall. There was nothing in the field beyond, so he must have been waiting. He said without preliminaries, "Your goat ate our beans." "I'm sorry. I tied her in the shed." The dark face was as loutish as his son's, but more cunning. The left eye had a cast that gave his smile a disquieting air of malice. He stood there, grinning. Reade said finally, "Where is she?" "Tied in my shed." "Did she do much damage?" "Can't tell yet. They're all shoots. Few bobs' worth I reckon." He felt in his pocket, took out a leather purse, and removed half a crown. He asked, "Will that cover it?" "Reckon so." The hard hand closed over the money and pocketed it unceremoniously. Reade did not miss the glint of humor in the eyes. He said, "I'm sorry to hear your daughter-in-law died." The man shrugged. "Her own fault. She took 'em of her own free will." He turned away, then added over his shoulder, "I'll bring the goat over. Reckon she need milkin'." "Thank you." The cottage felt cold. He poked out the ashes from under the logs and turned the charred sides upward. Then he poured paraffin on the logs and ignited it. The blaze was welcome. Afterward he went to look at the rope in the open shed outside. He half expected to find that it had been cut through, but the frayed ends showed that it had been gnawed. As he stood looking at it, he heard the goat's bleat. Bowden came in through the gate, leading her by a length of electrical wire tied to her collar. Without speaking, he released her, waved his hand, and went out the gate again. Reade took her into the cottage to milk her; she stood quietly near the fire, the steam rising from her flanks, as he squeezed the milk into a basin. As he milked, she relieved her bowels onto the sheet of brown paper that he had spread behind her for that purpose. When he had finished, he set down the bowl on the table and carefully folded the paper, then took it out to the sanitary pit at the end of the garden. When he came back, the goat was sleeping on the coconut matting in front of the fire. For the next half hour he busied himself preparing vegetables for a beef stew that would last for a week. The meat had been cooked days before. Outside, the noise of the wind was audible above the sound of the stream that ran down the rock face twenty feet from the cottage. This meant that it would probably rain for the rest of the day. (In winter it would have meant a storm, probably hail or snow; but then it had to contend with the thunder of a waterfall from November until March.) He was so intent on slicing the carrots and onions that he failed to hear the knocks on the door. The wind that sucked smoke across the room made him turn. The dark-coated man who stood in the doorway called, "Anyone home? May I come in?" "Please do." He hastened across to close the door. "Mr. Damon Reade?" "Yes. Do sit down. Take your coat off. Are you wet?" Observing the man's look of surprise as the goat heaved herself to her feet, he said, "Come on, Judy, outside. We've got a visitor." The man said, "I don't mind." The goat went reluctantly outside, and then cantered through the rain to the open shed. "No, but I'm afraid she stinks when she's wet. I don't notice it, but other people do. Do you mind if I go on making this stew? It's nearly ready." "Not at all. Please do, sir." "I shan't be long. I just want to get some water." He picked up a bucket and took the oilskin hat from beside the door as he went out. The rain was now heavy. He held the bucket under the waterfall, allowed it to fill to the brim, then carried it carefully back to the house without losing any water. The man watched this performance with interest. "I suppose the water's quite all right for drinking?" "Oh, perfectly. It sometimes gets a little muddy in winter, but it's all right if you let it settle for half an hour. There's nothing up there but rock." He gestured vaguely in the direction of Scafell Pike. The man watched him as he poured the chopped vegetables and meat into the iron cooking pot, then hung it on the iron spike that projected from the back of the fire.