In Spite of All Terror

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In Spite of All Terror Page 10

by V M Knox


  ‘I’ll go now, if you don’t mind, Clement,’ Phillip said. ‘I would like to get him to the mortuary as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course. And thank you for all your assistance, Phillip.’

  Clement stood back on the pavement and watched the car drive away. He and Constable Matthews returned to the station. From the duty desk Clement called the police station in Lewes. ‘Could I speak with Chief Inspector Arthur Morris?’

  Clement explained the situation then hung up. ‘They said they would be here in about an hour.’

  ‘I am grateful to you, Reverend. I know it will look bad for me. I was the only one here at the time, but I never heard anything. I’m a bit hard of hearing. And I have no idea how the thief got into the safe. You need both sets of keys to do it.’

  Clement saw the constable’s eyes glance at the safe keys hanging on the hook on the wall opposite the desk.

  ‘Perhaps we should find Stanley. If for no other reason than that he is Russell’s next of kin.’

  ‘Of course. Good idea, Reverend.’ Matthews reached for his policeman’s hat. ‘Doctor Haswell put the time of death about an hour ago. That would make it half past ten. About the same time Stanley came to see his father. Doesn’t look good for him either, does it?’

  Locking the police station door, they walked towards Stanley’s cottage on the edge of the village. But it was the list that occupied Clement’s thoughts. Was that why Inspector Russell had been murdered? Perhaps he had disturbed someone opening the safe? That implicated the man walking beside Clement and he couldn’t imagine that. Besides, no-one knew about the list, except himself and the Inspector. Clement considered whether Russell had told anyone about it. Or even opened it. Had the murderer just killed in cold blood once the safe had been opened? Clement quickened his pace. He needed to get to the Operational Base without further delay. But the Chief Inspector from Lewes Police would be suspicious if he went missing as well as Stanley, especially as he could not prove his involvement with the Auxiliary Units without the list. Clement understood now why Gubbins had been so insistent. But he also wondered if any of it now mattered. The Germans were invading, and he was looking for Stanley. He was annoyed with Stanley. And he was annoyed with himself for including the silly boy in the first place.

  He opened the gate and strode towards the front door of Stanley’s cottage.

  Constable Matthews knocked.

  No answer.

  Without waiting Clement marched around the cottage to the rear, his anxiety and his temper rising. The back door was ajar. ‘Stanley?’ he shouted entering the small scullery. Bending, he made his way into the house. Stanley was standing in the living room by the fireplace, a suitcase at his feet and his Fairbairn Sykes knife in his hand. Despite Stanley’s tight grip on the blade, Clement could see the red fluid oozing between the chubby fingers.

  ‘Stanley?’

  ‘Reverend?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Clement asked, his eyes fixed on the blood-stained knife.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vicar. I cannot be involved any more. You’d better take my kit. It’s upstairs.’

  There was another knock on the door.

  ‘Oh! She’s come to the front,’ Stanley said.

  Chapter 12

  Clement sat in the police station waiting area and watched Constable Matthews remove the hand cuffs from Stanley’s thick wrists. A few minutes later, Stanley disappeared along the corridor escorted by the constable. Clement could hear doors being opened and closed.

  Constable Matthews reappeared. ‘Chief Inspector Morris says you can see Stanley now, Reverend. But just for ten minutes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Following Matthews along the increasingly familiar corridor, Clement entered one of the previously closed doors that led to the two cells at the rear of the building. He stood in front of the cell door and peered through the tiny hatch. Stanley was sitting on the bunk bed, his tie, shoe laces and belt removed. Clement sighed. He thought Stanley looked a tragic figure. Physically large, with pale skin, light blue eyes and red hair, the lad had been the butt of many porcine jests during his youth. He watched as Stanley stood then paced the confined space, his loose shoes scuffing over the brick floor. But while Clement saw Stanley’s agitation, it didn’t appear to have much to do with his current situation. He seemed distracted, almost joyous. There was a grin on his face like a child at Christmas. Clement turned and walked back to the second office where Chief Inspector Morris sat reading the constable’s report.

  ‘Excuse me, Chief Inspector, could I speak with Stanley Russell inside the cell?’ he asked.

  Chief Inspector Morris lifted his gaze from the papers. ‘You are in Military attire today because…?’

  ‘Home Guard exercises.’

  Morris nodded. ‘Would you be carrying a weapon under that jacket?’ Morris asked, his gaze on Clement’s uniform.

  Clement shook his head, thinking of his knife that was concealed under his trousers.

  ‘I will have to lock you in, so just for a few minutes, Reverend Wisdom.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Morris stood and together they walked to the duty desk to retrieve the cell keys. The Chief Inspector seemed to Clement to be the antithesis of Inspector Russell. Morris was evidently careful and thorough but entirely without bombast. In fact, a quiet, almost sedate manner was the first impression. Intentional or not, it was reassuring. But it concerned Clement that Morris may think it an open and shut case. Although Stanley had, for now, only been detained, and not yet formally arrested for the murder of his father, he was obviously the main and probably the only suspect. And being caught with the blood-smeared knife in his grasp was bound to lead to his conviction.

  The heavy cell door swung open and shut behind him. The lock rotated. Clement sat on the bunk. ‘Listen to me, Stanley. We only have a few minutes. Who did you think was at your door? Who were you waiting for?’ He remembered the suitcase. ‘Where were you going?’

  Stanley tapped his nose with his index finger. ‘I’m sorry, Vicar. I cannot be in the group anymore.’

  ‘Stanley! Do you realize how serious this is?’

  ‘I have to go. How long is this going to take? I have to get back to the house.’

  ‘Stanley, you do know you have been detained, pending investigation, for the murder of your father?’

  Stanley stopped his pacing and stared at him.

  Clement could see the confusion on the lad’s face. ‘Your father was found murdered this morning. By me. Here. In his office. His throat was cut. Guerrilla style, Stanley. Done by someone who knew what they were doing. With a large knife. Doctor Haswell says it happened about the time you came to see your father. You were overheard arguing.’

  Stanley sat down on the bunk and leaned his head on the brick wall behind him. ‘We are getting married. We are leaving Fearnley Maughton, Vicar. She just left to pack her bag. But I need to go soon as she’ll be back at the cottage.’

  ‘Why were you holding the knife, Stanley?’ Clement pressed.

  ‘I thought while she was getting her things, I should return my kit to you. But I couldn’t find the knife.’ Stanley leaned forward. ‘When I did, it was covered in blood. I thought she must have found it and been playing with it. She could be hurt. That’s it. She’s hurt. That’s why she is taking so long. I need to find her.’

  ‘Where did you find it, Stanley?’

  ‘In the scullery drawer, with the other knives.’

  ‘Do you always have the back door unlocked?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stanley said shrugging. ‘I got nothing worth stealing.’

  Clement’s mind was reeling. It would be easy to enter the house unobserved and drop the knife into the drawer. He sat back on the bunk bed, his mind processing the facts as he knew them. He glanced at Stanley. He didn’t believe Stanley had killed his father. But whoever did wanted Stanley to take the blame. And what of the girl? Had she just taken fright at the idea of eloping with Stanley and run away, or had she committe
d murder? Either way, what the girl had done was contemptible. But why would Elsie Wainwright kill David Russell?

  ‘Stanley, there is something I must tell you,’ he said and told Stanley about Elsie’s empty room.

  ‘Of course the room is empty, Vicar,’ Stanley said. ‘She went to pack her things.’

  ‘But she didn’t return to the cottage, Stanley. That was the arrangement, wasn’t it?’

  ‘She is hurt, I tell you. We are going to be married. She loves me.’

  In that moment, Clement despised Elsie Wainwright.

  ‘I will only ask once, Stanley, because I want to hear it from you,’ Clement said. ‘Did you kill your father?’

  ‘No, Vicar! But if I’m going to swing for it, then I wish I had. But I wouldn’t have killed him like that.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Now that I know how to kill, if I had killed him, I would have bashed the bastard’s head in. Not cut his throat. He wouldn’t have suffered for more than a second. Not enough for what he did to me and my mother.’

  Clement stared at Stanley, the image of the wide spread legs and ferocious swing of the blade Clement had witnessed at Coleshill bursting from his memory. Physical and mental abuse. Both mother and son. Hatred. Years of it. Hatred didn’t make precision cuts, no matter how gory the end result. When a man killed with anger, the attack was...how did Major Bannon describe it? Frenzied. There would have been blood all over the room. Clement frowned for regardless of whether the attack was frenzied or premeditated, there just wasn’t enough blood. Such a violent injury would have sent blood spurting forward. In his mind’s eye, Clement could see the grotesque windpipe surrounded by raw flesh. Such an attack not only cut the windpipe but also the main arteries of the neck. Why was the blood confined to Russell’s neck and not all over the office? He pondered the girl. Could Stanley be protecting Elsie? Even if he asked, Clement knew Stanley would not say. Stanley was in love and he would swing for the girl if he believed she had done it. ‘I believe you,’ Clement said. ‘But I have to go, Stanley. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll pray for you.’ He stood and went to the cell door.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Vicar. And I know Elsie will be here for me,’ Stanley said. But already Clement could hear the doubt creeping into Stanley’s voice.

  Constable Matthews unlocked the cell door. Clement stood in the doorway. He nodded and smiled at Stanley, but his heart was sinking. He wanted to share his thoughts with Chief Inspector Morris. There was so little time. Everything now was dependent upon the speed of the German advance.

  Clement knocked on the door to the Chief Inspector’s office. ‘Thank you for allowing me to see Stanley.’ He glanced at the clock on Morris’s desk. The men would be assembled now and wondering where he was. ‘I have something I must attend to now, but could I speak with you further about Stanley?’

  Morris stood. ‘Could I trouble you, Reverend, to show me where exactly you found the body?’

  Clement glanced again at the clock; he was already late, but Morris would be suspicious if he failed to assist. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’

  They walked into Russell’s office and Clement told Morris what he had seen and done. The Chief Inspector said little as Clement retold his account of events. But he felt certain the man would check it all against the constable’s statement.

  ‘Is Constable Matthews alright?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘This is a small village, Chief Inspector. We all know each other, and our Constable has had quite a shock. And he is elderly and a bit deaf.’

  They walked back along the corridor to the glass partition door and Morris held it open. ‘So I understand. Constable Matthews is too close to this investigation, so I have arranged for Constable Newson from Lewes to assist me with Inspector Russell’s death. We will be in Fearnley Maughton for the duration.’

  Clement shook hands with Morris but he could see the man’s attention was on a set of keys hanging on the wall opposite the duty desk.

  ‘Do you know what those keys open,’ Morris asked.

  Clement nodded. ‘I suppose anyone who has asked Inspector Russell to keep anything in the safe in his office would have seen those keys. But to open the safe, two keys are required. At least, that is what Constable Matthews told me.’

  Morris tilted his head. ‘Where is the second key kept?’

  ‘I don’t know. It is just what Constable Matthews told me.’ Clement thought of the key he had seen in David Russell’s pocket but he did not know what it opened, so he had not actually lied.

  Morris nodded. ‘Why were you here this morning?’

  ‘I came to ask the Inspector if he knew where Stanley was.’

  ‘You needed Stanley because?’

  ‘He is a member of the Home Guard of which, as you can see, I am group leader. I am organising exercises, in view of the recent increase in German bombardment.’

  Clement turned to leave. Morris remained staring at the keys on the wall.

  Chapter 13

  Even though it was now after one o’clock, Clement needed to retrieve Stanley’s pack. Striding to the end of the street, he entered Stanley’s cottage from the rear. He glanced around the scullery, looking for the cutlery drawer. The utensil drawers were under the bench right beside the back door. He stared at it realizing that as long as the door was unlocked - and it always was - anyone could have placed the blood-smeared knife there. They didn’t even need to enter the house to do it.

  He went upstairs to Stanley’s bedroom. The bed occupied almost all the space. It was roughly made, the blanket askew and creased. In his mind’s eye Clement saw the neat bed at The Crown. Wedged against the wall was the pack. He pursed his lips. Their packs were to be hidden away from prying eyes and Stanley had left his kit where anyone in the room could not only see it, but have access to it. Reaching for it, Clement swung it over his shoulder and returning downstairs, left by the rear door.

  It was just after two o’clock when he approached the location of the Operational Base in Maughton Forest. Off to his left he heard a rustle in the bushes. He stopped, falling to the ground. He had no weapon immediately available to him other than his knife. Stanley’s Sten Gun was in the pack, but it would take him too long to open it, assemble and load the weapon. Beside which, the noise would give away his position. He lay, motionless, in the first of the autumn leaves. With his nose pressed into the decaying leaf matter, he moved his left leg, bending his knee, his left hand feeling for the blade. Without a sound, he grasped the dagger and lifted his head, his eyes scanning the woodland. Up ahead the early afternoon sun shone through the trees, the gentle light flickering on the foliage. Squinting, he scanned the forest ahead. His ears strained for any noise. A falling leaf caught the dappled sunlight as it fluttered earthwards. He saw it bounce then fall. Screwing his eyes tight, he focused on the spot. He could just make out the trip-wire stretched across the forest floor at about ankle height. It crossed the path and went off into the bushes on the right side of the track near a remnant of Roman stonework half-concealed in the foliage. Grasping the knife to his chest he rolled sideways off the path and into the bushes at its edge and waited. Nothing stirred. He stood and hunching low, ran through the trees before falling again to the ground about ten feet away from the ruin. He could see the wire. It was wrapped around the base of a tree but he could not see any explosive. Staying in the low shrubs, he skirted the site, approaching it from higher in the woodlands. Crouching beside the remains of the moss-covered ancient wall his eye followed the wire. It was secured to an explosive device at the base of the tree on the high side making it invisible from the forest path. Waiting he listened, the Fairbairn Sykes blade still in his grasp.

  ‘Clement!’

  It was Peter’s voice; quiet and sharp.

  Peter Kempton stood there, his Sten gun in his hands. The man had twigs and branches all over his clothes. Peter made a sweeping gesture. Clement heard the moveme
nt behind him. Reg Naylor stood. The man had been hiding in a copse higher up the slope. The disguise had been perfect. Clement had crawled right by Peter yet had not seen him. And Reg would have had Clement in his sights since he arrived in the woods. He only hoped the Germans were as distracted as he was.

  They walked in silence, about ten feet apart, further along the hillside then higher to the trees and the Operational Base. Peter placed a hand on a tree stump and pulled it sideways. Beneath it was the small trap-door opening to their underground bunker and one by one they descended the stairs into the subterranean base.

  The long, narrow, arched tunnel was sectioned into a living area with a table and chairs and a several bunk beds. Near the entry steps, sectioned off and behind the blast door, were the latrine on one side and the stove on the other. The flu rose from the stove, through the bunker and into a hollowed out tree trunk above ground to disperse the smoke and cooking fumes. Beyond the living space was the supply and weapons store and at the far end was the emergency escape door. Numerous lamps hung from wooden beams along the narrow tunnel. Clement put Stanley’s pack down and sat at the table.

  ‘What news?’ Peter asked. ‘We assumed something had gone wrong.’

  Clement told them about Stanley.

  ‘I thought he would pop that bastard one day,’ Clive said.

  ‘I don’t think he did it,’ Clement said. ‘I think he is covering for the girl.’

  ‘That slip of a girl couldn’t have done it. Besides, why would she?’ Clive replied.

  ‘I have been asking myself the same question,’ Clement said.

  ‘And the invasion?’ Peter asked.

  Clement shook his head. ‘I know nothing more than you do. So we maintain a watch and patrol tonight. We could be here for a while, so we better settle in,’ he said, his mind still on Stanley. But right now there was little he could do. The group had been activated. Killing the invading enemy came first and Stanley would have to wait.

 

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