We had covered perhaps half the distance back to Shirning when Josella noticed the smoke. At first sight it might have been a cloud, but as we neared the top of the hill we could see the grey column beneath the more diffused upper layer. She pointed to it, and looked at me without a word. The only fires we had seen in years had been a few spontaneous outbreaks in later summer. We both knew at once that the plume ahead was rising from the neighbourhood of Shirning.
I forced the half-track along at a greater speed than it had ever done on the deteriorated roads. We were thrown about inside it, and yet still seemed to be crawling. Josella sat silent all the time, her lips pressed together and her eyes fixed on the smoke. I knew that she was searching for some indication that the source was nearer or further away, anywhere but at Shirning itself. But the closer we came, the less room there was for doubt. We tore up the final lane quite oblivious of the stings whipping at the vehicle as it passed. Then, at the turn, we were able to see that it was not the house itself, but the wood-pile that was ablaze.
At the sound of the horn Susan came running out to pull on the rope which opened the gate from a safe distance. She shouted something which was drowned in the rattle of our driving in. Her free hand was pointing, not to the fire, but towards the front of the house. As we ran further into the yard we could see the reason. Skilfully landed in the middle of our lawn stood the helicopter.
By the time we were out of the half-track a man in a leather jacket and breeches had come out of the house. He was tall, fair, and sunburned. At the first glance I had a feeling I had seen him somewhere before. He waved and grinned cheerfully as we hurried across.
'Mr Bill Masen, I presume. My name is Simpson – Ivan Simpson.'
'I remember,' said Josella. 'You brought in a helicopter that night at the University Buildings.'
'That's right. Clever of you to remember. But just to show you you're not the only one with a memory: you are Josella Playton, author of – '
'You're quite wrong,' she interrupted him, firmly. 'I'm Josella Masen, author of "David Masen".'
'Ah, yes. I've just been looking at the original edition, and a very creditable bit of craftsmanship too, if I may say so.'
'Hold on a bit,' I said. 'That fire – ?'
'It's safe enough. Blowing away from the house. Though I'm afraid most of your stock of wood has gone up.'
'What happened?'
'That was Susan. She didn't mean me to miss the place. When she heard my engine she grabbed a flame-thrower, and bounded out to start a signal as quickly as she could. The wood-pile was handiest – no one could have missed what she did to that.'
We went inside, and joined the others.
'By the way,' Simpson said to me, 'Michael told me I was to be sure to start off with his apologies.'
'To me?' I said, wondering.
'You were the only one who saw any danger in the triffids, and he didn't believe you.'
'But – do you mean to say you knew I was here?'
'We found out very roughly your probable location a few days ago – from a fellow we all have cause to remember: one Coker.'
'So Coker came through, too,' I said. 'After the shambles I saw at Tynsham I'd an idea the plague had got him.'
Later on, when we had had a meal and produced our best brandy, we got the story out of him.
When Michael Beadley and his party had gone on, leaving Tynsham to the mercies and principles of Miss Durrant, they had not made for Beaminster, nor anywhere near it. They had gone north-east, into Oxfordshire. Miss Durrant's misdirection to us must have been deliberate, for Beaminster had never been mentioned.
