by V M Knox
All around him, Clement saw carnage. He saw a line of bodies, evacuees from London. The ARP Warden wanted them kept separate for identification purposes. Returning to the inn, Clement brought a stretcher outside and laid it on the ground beside the body of Emma Clarke. Looking around for able men to help him carry the deceased, he saw John Knowles standing, staring open mouthed at the scene.
‘John!’ he called.
The man seemed dazed.
Clement called again.
‘She’s dead,’ Knowles muttered. ‘She came looking for me.’
Clement realised with horror what the man was saying. Looking up he could see the body of Margaret Knowles lying face down on the footpath outside what was left of Peter Kempton’s office. Clement felt utterly ashamed. He had failed John. By forgetting him, even though only temporarily, the man had sought comfort from the church but found it in The Crown. And John's wife had died because of his forgetfulness. ‘The child?’
‘At home with a neighbour,’ Knowles responded.
‘Can you help me carry stretchers, John?’
The man nodded. ‘But we take her first,’ John said pointing to his wife.
Together they placed Margaret's body on a stretcher. Beside Clement a lengthening queue awaiting treatment was forming outside The Crown. Gladys, the girl from Stanley’s shop, was sitting by the door to the inn, bandaging the less injured and checking names against Mary’s roll.
For several hours Clement alternated between carrying the dead to All Saints and praying with the dying and injured. Battersby arrived in the village, although Clement wasn’t sure how or when the man had arrived, but he had gone straight to his task of comforting the wounded.
By late afternoon all the injured had been taken to Lewes Hospital and a silence had descended over the village. Fearnley Maughton was shattered. Thin plumes of smoke rose from the destroyed rubble. Buildings could be repaired but nothing would eradicate the memory. In his mind’s eye Clement could see their faces. People he had known for years. Gunshot wounds wreaked such devastation. He closed his eyes remembering the jagged and bloody, raw and gaping wounds of brutality. The burns victims had impacted his mind most; the hideous charred blackness of burnt flesh. For those who survived, theirs was the long and silent suffering of enduring pain and disfigurement.
He sat with Battersby in the dining room at The Crown. He could see the elderly man’s exhaustion. Clement learned he had come from Lewes in one of the ambulances and he was grateful for the practical and spiritual assistance.
‘There is a bed for you at the vicarage,’ Clement said. ‘I cannot thank you enough for all your help. With Mary away, I could not have done it without you.’
‘Thank you, but no. One of the ARP wardens is giving me a lift back to Lewes. It is a sad day for the village and for our nation,’ Battersby said sipping some tea. The old cleric sighed. ‘Should I come tomorrow?’
Clement nodded. ‘I will telephone my wife and ask her to return. As you know I have some Home Guard business that cannot be ignored, and I may have to be away for a few days. I’m sorry to put so much on your shoulders, Battersby.’
‘I know you have other duties. You do what you need to, Clement.’
It was just on sunset when he scribbled a note for the team telling them that he would not be back before Thursday night. It was longer than he had anticipated but he knew Peter would follow the routines they had learned while at Coleshill. Placing the note into the dead letter drop collection point, Clement then returned to the vicarage.
For over ten hours he had ferried the dead, prayed with the dying and the living and done whatever he could to assist. But he knew that, as their vicar, his greatest use to them was in the future. Dealing with trauma, both physical and mental, always led to anger and seeking someone to blame. And the first one they held responsible was God. But that would only be, if they, as a village, and a nation, had the luxury of time to apportion blame. If the Germans were invading...Clement didn’t want to think of what horrors lay in store for them. He, presumably, would be dead.
As he closed the door to the vicarage, Clement realized he had been awake for thirty-six hours. He felt physically and emotionally numb. Nineteen bodies lay on the stone floor in his church, six of them evacuees. He felt the tragic irony; they had come to Fearnley Maughton to escape dying in London. He slumped into the chair in his study.
During the time he had spent with John Knowles, Clement had ascertained that John, despite his cryptic comment to Stanley in The Crown about his “special army friends”, really didn’t know anything about the Auxiliary Units. Clement closed his eyes, the image of Margaret Knowles lying dead on the street etched in his mind. His thoughts went to the infant. The child would need John now. Clement hoped his words at the public house about judging the child would find resonance with John. During their repeated trips into the church he had offered to baptize the infant. Although if the Germans occupied England Clement wasn’t sure what he would be baptising the child into. Would the Church of England survive?
He pulled himself from the chair and trudged along the corridor to the kitchen. Filling the kettle, he told himself he was too exhausted to philosophize tonight. He put a heaped scoop of tea in the pot. It was extravagant but this night he needed it. He poured the milk into a jug as the faces of the dead, people he knew, flashed in his memory. What did small children know of the Nazis? When the Germans did invade and drove into Fearnley Maughton, he would seek revenge for the little children. He closed his eyes. He was tired. Was he right to think such thoughts? He remembered Gubbins’s words about killing. But killing the enemy because they were the enemy was one thing. Killing for revenge went against everything his vocation represented.
The front door bell sounded hard, interrupting his thoughts. He made the tea and reached for another cup. ‘Coming!’ he shouted.
Putting the tray in his study, he turned out the hallway light and went to open the front door. There stood Chief Inspector Morris.
‘Reverend Wisdom. Could I have a word?’
‘Of course,’ he said. In all that had happened he had forgotten Stanley and the dead constable.
‘Please,’ Clement said gesturing towards one of the winged armchairs in his study. ‘I’m sorry the room is so cold. My wife is away at present seeing to her elderly sister. But at least I can offer you a cup of tea.’
‘Thank you.’ The policeman sat down. ‘Reverend Wisdom, could I ask you a direct question? Are you involved in anything other than clerical duties?’
Clement’s mind raced as he poured the tea. He could not answer directly. Handing the cup to Morris, he poured his own tea and sat in the other chair. ‘I am group leader of the Home Guard here in Fearnley Maughton.’
Morris sipped the tea. ‘Is Stanley Russell also involved?’
‘He was in the Home Guard.’
‘Was, Reverend Wisdom?’
The silence was as cold as the room. ‘I’m sorry but I cannot discuss it.’
Morris nodded. ‘Constable Newson was killed with a nine-millimetre bullet at close range. Would you like to tell me what you know about it?’
Clement had nothing to hide but he wondered how Morris knew he had been there.
‘I did go into the police station,’ Clement began, and he told Morris what he had seen. The man listened as Clement told him about the dead constable and that Stanley was not in his cell.
‘And you left the police station exactly as you found it?’
Clement nodded.
‘Did you retrieve the Fairbairn Sykes knife from the evidence cupboard?’
There was another silence.
If his activities had been so easily spotted by the outsider from Lewes, Clement wondered if Gubbins should dissolve the group and elect a new leader. ‘No,’ he replied.
Another minute passed without comment. He watched Morris sip his tea.
‘My father was a Vicar,’ Morris said, eventually.
‘Really?’
&nbs
p; ‘Could you have gone to the police station during the raid and arranged for Stanley Russell’s escape?’
‘Despite what I, or anyone else for that matter, may be called upon to do to defend our nation, Chief Inspector, our country’s enemy is Germany, not English police constables.’
Clement bit his tongue as he thought about what he had been asked to do to Inspector Russell. For one second he pondered Morris’s fate. But Chief Inspector Morris was in Fearnley Maughton, not Lewes. Perhaps the investigation into Russell’s death had prevented Morris from suffering the same fate.
Morris took another sip of tea but Clement noted the man’s expression had not changed. ‘I grew up on the Wellington Estates in Stratfield Saye, in Hampshire. I was named after Arthur Wellesley, a man of extraordinary insight. And a nose, a large one as it happens, for predicting future needs. Reverend Wisdom, I do not want to know what you and Stanley Russell were or are involved in. But Stanley Russell is in very serious trouble. Especially if the man had access to special and unusual weapons. If you have any idea where he could be, I must insist you inform me without delay. If Stanley Russell, or you for that matter, is relying on classified wartime activities to pervert the course of justice, I would have to arrest you both pending investigation. Or until ordered otherwise.’
Morris’s intense, authoritative brown eyes were staring at Clement.
‘Whilst I cannot discuss any other role I may or may not have, Chief Inspector, I must tell you that I do not believe Stanley Russell killed his father.’
‘Why?’
Clement told Morris about Stanley’s childhood. ‘Such anger once unleashed would be violent. Emotion, not reason, takes control and hatred would make for a frenzied attack.’ David Russell’s office flashed into his mind. ‘But I will tell you something I thought was odd.’
Morris tilted his head, the eyebrow slightly raised.
‘I know this will sound strange, especially from a man of the cloth, but there was just not enough blood. I served in The Great War, and I have seen what bayonet wounds do to necks.’
Morris nodded. ‘I think you are right.’
Clement waited but Morris didn’t add anything to his remark. Clement knew that everything pointed to Stanley’s guilt. He felt sorry for the gullible lad, especially when it came to Elsie Wainwright. And Clement felt responsible for getting Stanley involved in the first place. ‘Perhaps you should know, Chief Inspector, that Elsie Wainwright, our recently arrived district nurse, has also disappeared from the village. We could have done with her nursing skills today. She may be completely innocent. She may even be dead herself, either from German dive bombers or some other foul play. But in light of what I told you about the relationship between Stanley and Elsie, it would appear that they have vanished together as Stanley had originally intended. It could also explain the empty room and the open safe.’
He watched Morris process the information.
‘Why would that be?’ Morris asked.
‘Constable Matthews heard Stanley and his father arguing about money. Inspector Russell did keep money in the safe. I saw some. But if Stanley wanted his inheritance, why did he leave more than a few five pound notes in the safe? It must have been a tidy sum.’
‘Did you see anything else in the safe, Reverend?’
Clement shook his head. ‘There were some papers, but I do not know what they were.’
Morris placed his cup on the nearby table but said nothing.
Clement wondered about Morris’s silences. They were palpable. ‘I saw that the safe was open, Chief Inspector. But, I swear before Almighty God, that I did not take anything from it. And I’m sorry I didn’t mention Elsie’s disappearance sooner. But with all that happened today, I forgot about it. What will you do now?’
‘Arthur, Reverend. We will be seeing quite a bit of each other over the next few weeks, I have no doubt.’
‘Then you should call me Clement.’
Morris smiled but remained silent.
‘You think Stanley did it, with the assistance of the girl?’
‘It certainly looks that way.’ Morris made to stand. ‘Well, it has been a long day. Thank you for the tea.’
Morris reached for his hat and moved towards the study door. ‘I will be staying in Fearnley Maughton for a few days at The Crown. If Stanley should contact you or you have any other information, no matter how insignificant you may think it, please tell me as soon as possible.’ He paused. ‘If Stanley Russell is innocent, Clement, then we have a very cunning murderer who could still be here in Fearnley Maughton.’
Morris must have seen his expression of alarm. ‘If Stanley Russell did have an accomplice who shot Constable Newson, that person, whether male or female, would have to have access to a weapon which uses a nine-millimetre bullet.’
Clement’s mind raced to Stanley’s pack. He had not checked to see if the Sten gun was actually in the kit bag.
Morris went on, ‘Furthermore, if Stanley Russell had such a weapon and if Elsie and he were planning an elopement, it is probable that the girl was waiting for just such an opportunity to stage a rescue. But did that rescue include premeditated murder? Either way, given what was happening outside today, no-one would have paid much heed to two people running through the streets. Well, I’ll say good night.’
Clement switched off the hall light and opened his front door. The strong moonlight flooded into the front hall, the pale grey-blue glow lighting up his front garden and the gate to Church Lane.
They shook hands. There was an honesty about Morris that Clement very much liked. He was pleased for Stanley that Morris was investigating the business. If Stanley was innocent there was a greater chance of proving it with a man like Arthur Morris on the case. Clement stepped back to close the door but Morris held his gaze.
‘It may not surprise you, Clement, that while Fearnley Maughton was being bombed today, I was in Lewes at the hospital. I attended the post-mortem of Inspector Russell. He was shot with a gun using a nine-millimetre bullet.’
Chapter 16
Wednesday 18th September
Despite his exhaustion, Clement found it difficult to sleep. Eventually he rose and opened the curtains wondering about his men, and whether the Germans had landed during the night. A pale blue sky greeted him; the early morning sun was highlighting the changing leaves of the trees in the churchyard. He checked his watch. It was not quite seven o’clock, but despite his anxiety about the invasion, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Chief Inspector Morris had told him last night. All the evidence pointed to Stanley’s guilt. And to Elsie as his accomplice. Yet, Clement really didn’t believed that Stanley had murdered his father. Clement was, however, now convinced that whoever had killed David Russell wanted Stanley to take the blame.
Clement’s thoughts turned to Constable Newson. His death had not been due to a shot fired at random from an enemy aeroplane; it was cold-blooded murder. And at close range. That took either terrifying courage or psychopathic insanity. Could Elsie have done such a thing? Could Stanley? Clement visualized the hole in the constable’s head. Subsonic bullets. Special. Such specialized ammunition was not available to farmers or gamekeepers. Clement thought again about his team. But he knew these men. He had known them for years and had hand-picked them. He trusted them with his life. Al-though Reg Naylor had been a big revelation with his skill and aptitude for sniping. Young George had set up the trip wires and Clive the explosives. Even Peter, who had an aptitude for disguise and stealth, could have returned to the village at any time. All of them had the skill to move in and out of the village without being seen. But why would any of them kill David Russell, a man they had all known for years? There was no motive. And what of Constable Newson who none of them knew?
Clement stared through his window feeling wretched. How could he doubt his team? Good and decent men who had put duty ahead of personal safety.
He wanted to speak with Johnny, although, Clement didn’t know what Johnny could do. He believed jus
t sharing his thoughts would be helpful then, perhaps, he should tender his resignation, if such action was permitted. But above all, he wanted to hear Mary’s voice.
Walking into the front hall, he dialled Gwen’s number, forgetting the earliness of the hour.
‘Hello?’ a man’s voice said.
‘Oh! Sorry. I must have telephoned the wrong number,’ he said and rang off. Still holding the receiver in his right hand, he depressed the dial tone buttons and redialled the number. He had phoned that number so many times he knew it by heart. The lines were evidently crossed. He rang again.
‘Hello?’
‘Mary?’
‘Is that you Clement? Hello?’
‘Mary, it’s Clement,’ he shouted. ‘I’m sorry to call so early, I hope I haven’t woken Gwen.’
‘Clement? The line is so bad at this end.’
Clement stepped down from the bus and looked along Lewes High Street. Everything here looked normal to him. Why had the Stuka strafed Fearnley Maughton and not Lewes, that was so much bigger and more economically important? He looked up at Lewes Castle. Perhaps the proximity of the high Keep to the roadways had prevented the plane from flying low over the town. He walked towards the town centre and purchased a newspaper, turning it over and scanning each page. There was no mention of invasion and no pictures of high-ranking German officers standing on the steps of the Houses of Parliament. He felt utter relief.
He strode down the hill towards the railway station, the newspaper under his arm. As he passed Lewes Police Station he thought of Stanley. He knew a nationwide alert had been posted for him and the girl. Had she led him astray? Had war or love driven Stanley to dishonesty? Did his actions include murder?
Clement stood on the platform as the train pulled into the station. The slender ankles stepped from the train and he embraced her.
‘I heard about the village. What a terrible thing. I can hardly believe it,’ Mary said.
‘I’m so pleased you are back. It has been hectic since the bombing and it is taking its toll on poor old Battersby. There are twenty-two funerals to arrange. Three of the burns victims died in Lewes Hospital. I still can’t believe it. And this business with Stanley. I think you could well have been right about the girl, Mary.’