by V M Knox
Chapter 24
Morris opened the train door and they stepped onto the platform of Lewes Station. Clement glanced at the station clock. It was just before seven.
‘Are you returning to Fearnley Maughton tonight, Arthur?’
‘Yes. Can I offer you a lift?’
‘Thank you. That would be most kind.’
‘Could you give me half an hour or so while I attend to some paperwork?’
‘Of course. In fact, I’ll use the time to visit some more of the injured at the hospital.’
‘I’ll collect you from there then. Around half past seven.' Arthur said.
They walked away from the station and separated, Morris going on into the town. Clement turned left, up the steep hill towards the hospital. The girl - Jane as they were now calling her - occupied his thoughts. Had it not been for the air raid in London and the chance meeting with Nurse Anne Chambers, Clement would never have questioned the girl’s identity.
Clement stared down at his feet as he walked, his mind sifting the facts as told to him by Anne Chambers. Anne had said that Elsie’s death was three years ago. He slowed, his gaze still on his boots. Surely, if there was a connection between the real Elsie and Jane, it could only be coincidental. If not, and Jane was a German collaborator, then arranging for the death of her look-a-like implied a complex and sinister plan that had been implemented years previously.
Clement began to wonder what could be so important to commit murder, install an impostor and wait three years? Three years ago the war had not even begun. He thought of the man with the classified job in Elsie Wainwright’s life and the Naval installation Clement now knew about at Cuckmere Haven. Had it been there three years ago? If so it would be important enough for the Germans to want to know about it. Had Jane taken the money from the safe, Clement may have thought her just a thief. Now he wasn’t so sure. Looking up, he realized he was standing in front of the old stone gates of the hospital. He walked towards the front entrance.
Reaching forward to grasp the handle of the door, Clement stopped and turned. Off to his right he saw the Doctor’s car parked in the front. Clement shook his head. He hadn’t seen much of Phillip, but, Clement surmised that since the attack on the village, the man had been kept busy. He checked his watch. Arthur had told him to be at the hospital’s front door at half-past seven. It didn’t give him much time, but he wanted to see Mrs Faulkner again. He opened the heavy, glass-fronted hospital door. The smell of ether and floor wax filled his nostrils as he walked down the corridor, his gaze on the shiny blue and white striated linoleum.
He stayed with the old lady just five minutes. She had expressed her gratitude that he had visited her twice in one day. But something the old lady had said worried him. Clement made his excuses and left the bedside. Quickening his step, he hurried towards the Matron’s office. ‘Can you tell me where Doctor Haswell is, Matron?’
‘I haven’t seen him all day, Reverend Wisdom.’
‘I saw his car parked out the front this morning, and it is there now. He must be here. Could you find out if he is in the hospital?’
‘Is something wrong, Reverend?’
'I just need to speak to him,' Clement replied but he could hear the panic in his voice. He cleared his throat trying to suppress his rising fears for the man’s safety. His mind flashed to the day the fighter strafed the village. Phillip had been a tower of strength. By the grace of God, he had been in his garden when the second bomb landed on the Anderson Shelter. The Matron picked up the telephone and Clement waited while the woman rang every ward.
No-one had seen him.
Clement left the Matron’s office and hurried down the corridor towards the front door. He could hear the woman running behind him.
He walked towards the car. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. He peered in the driver’s side window, but Haswell wasn’t there. Then he placed his hand on the engine. It felt cold. ‘We must telephone Chief Inspector Morris.’
‘Do you think something has happened to Doctor Haswell?’
‘Matron, could you find out if anyone saw the doctor arrive? And don’t touch the car!’
Clement ran back into the hospital and headed straight for the switch-board operator. He felt his heart pounding in his ears. As he waited for Arthur Morris to answer the telephone, his mind raced. Something insidious was happening around him, its tentacles enveloping him and those he knew and cared for. George’s dead body flashed into his mind. Everything was connected, Clement just didn’t know how. Arthur’s steady logical mind would bring reason. He ended the call and went back outside.
Within minutes Morris and a constable stepped from the police car.
‘What is it, Clement?’ Arthur asked.
He nodded in the direction of Phillip’s car. ‘Doctor Haswell’s car. It was parked here this morning, I saw it. And it is still there. The engine is cold. And no-one in the hospital has seen him today.’
The hospital door opened and the Matron joined them. ‘I asked the Evening Supervisor to check with all the Ward Sisters, Chief Inspector. They all say that Doctor Haswell has not been in the hospital since lunchtime yesterday.’
Morris turned and walked towards the car. ‘Did you touch the car, Clement?’
‘I looked in, then touched the bonnet but when I saw nothing, I telephoned you.’
‘Matron, could you ask your staff if anyone saw the doctor leave the hospital on Friday?’ Morris asked.
The Matron nodded and left.
Morris opened the driver’s door and looked in.
‘Anything?’ Clement asked as Morris checked the car’s interior.
Morris closed the door. ‘Nothing unusual.’ Walking around the car, Morris reached for the latch to open the car’s boot.
The lid lifted.
Morris reeled back.
Clement stepped forward and stared in. A dark haired man in a navy overcoat with epaulettes lay coiled in the boot, his hands bound behind his back, a bullet hole between the eyes.
Neither Clement nor Morris spoke. Clement couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s face: the grey-white pallor of death, the out-of-place, repellent purple hole between the eyes, the dishevelled hair. He screwed his eyes shut. In his mind’s eye he could see George lying on the forest floor staring heavenward in death, the exact same gunshot wound; life terminated in an instant. In the midst of life we are in death, so the Order for the Burial of the Dead said. Clement had never before realised just how profound those words were. He blinked and forced himself to look again at the man in the boot of Phillip Haswell’s car.
Clement stared at the coat, the rankless epaulettes: the vagrant. The deceased was not old. Neither was he a boy. This man was of enlisting age. Clement ran his eye along the contours of the body. From what he could see, the man appeared to be in good physical condition with little evidence of malnourishment. Nor did he appear unkempt. Only the navy coat with epaulettes alluded to this man being the vagrant seen by his men in Maughton Forest. His eye looked along the trousers to the shoes. The soles showed no sign of excess wear and despite the beginnings of a beard about the man’s face, Clement was not convinced the deceased was a vagrant at all. If the man had deserted, it was recent.
Leaning forward Clement looked at the man’s hands. Bruising around the wrists indicated that he had been bound before death. The nails were short and from what he could see, clean. Clement looked again at the face. Did the beard suggest the man had fled into the forest? And if so, why?
Morris closed the boot. ‘Clement, when the Matron returns, would you ask her to contact the Coroner? And Constable, please arrange for the car to be moved into the police yard.’
The constable nodded and left.
Clement could see Arthur Morris’s was deep in thought and didn’t interrupt the man’s steady concentration. The Matron reappeared on the steps and Clement went to speak with her.
He rejoined Morris by the car and waited for the Chief Inspector to look at him.
‘Do you know the deceased man, Clement?’
‘Not one of mine. He could be the vagrant my men saw, although other than the beard, this man does not look like a vagrant to me. The sighting of a homeless man wearing a navy coat with epaulettes was in our report to Gubbins.’ Clement stopped speaking. ‘Of course, that report did not reach him.’ He paused. ‘Two deaths because of a report?’
Morris pursed his lips. ‘It would appear so. And both killed at the same location. And possibly the same time.’
‘How do you know that?’ Clement asked.
Morris sprung the latch on the boot again and reaching in, placed his hand on the dead man’s coat. Lifting the fabric, Morris pointed to several leaves in varying stages of decomposition stuck to the man’s coat and socks.
‘The second bullet!’
Morris nodded. ‘I think it likely.’
‘Why didn’t the murderer remove the bullets this time?’
‘Good question, Clement. And as I said at the time, I believe our murderer wants us to know something. It is almost like he is leaving clues for us. He is undoubtedly aware of your subterranean base.’ Morris squinted his eyes. ‘But does he want to be identified?’
‘He wants to be caught?’
‘Not quite what I said.’ Morris replaced the man’s coat and closed the boot again. ‘I do not believe there will be any more murders. Whatever the murderer or murderers came for, they now have.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because Jane has disappeared. I believe she was brought into the village for a reason, and whatever that reason was, it has either already transpired or it is no longer relevant. But first we must identify this man. Then we can work on the motive.’
Clement swallowed hard. ‘And Phillip Haswell?’
‘I don’t know, yet.’
Clement watched Morris scrutinize the vehicle, the stern gaze tracing every contour. Did Morris suspect Phillip Haswell? How was Phillip implicated and why had he advertised for a nurse in The Times? Surely Morris was right in thinking that a local girl would have been more appropriate. Phillip would, equally surely, have known that.
‘Do you have any ideas where Jane has gone?’ Clement asked.
‘None, yet.’
Clement said good night to Arthur and walked up Church Lane. He felt bone weary. One death was shocking. But four was too many for a murderer to remain at large. If Arthur was right, the murderer wanted to be identified, although not caught. But how could the murderer remain uncaptured once identified? Only leaving England would safeguard such a man.
And, what of Phillip? Clement could not bring himself to think of a fifth death. Or was it six? His thoughts turned to Stanley. Like George, a good and decent young man who had not deserved such a fate. George’s cold body flashed before Clement’s eyes again. The stare. The finality of murder. He felt overwhelmed by what was happening around him. He would never forget it. Cold-blooded murder had nothing to do with defence.
And now Phillip was missing.
Clement let himself into his home. The hallway was dark. For a horrible moment his heart jumped. ‘Mary?’ he shouted. He made his way to the kitchen and switched on the light. A note sat propped against the mustard pot on the kitchen table - Mary had gone to Windsor during the day and was not returning till Sunday by the late train. The hours spent underground with Anne Chambers and the ghastly discovery in Phillip’s car had combined to delay him. He folded the note and let it fall onto the tablecloth, feeling wretched.
He made his supper and carried it to his study. Sipping the warm drink, he remembered the hot brown drink in London’s underground. Leaning his head against the antimacassar, he closed his eyes. Jane and another had killed David Russell. And Constable Newson. And by assisting Stanley to escape, Stanley had, in absentia, taken the blame for the murder of his father and the constable from Lewes.
Clement took another sip. If Jane and her accomplice had implicated Stanley for the murders, why would they want Stanley with them? Was he a hostage? As far as Clement knew, when people were taken as hostages, a demand of some kind followed. And, again as far as he knew, no such demand had been received. Besides, with Stanley’s father dead who would pay the ransom?
Clement stared into the cold fire place. Had the gullible lad gone willingly? Clement knew Stanley loved the girl. He reflected on the day he had spoken with Stanley in the cell at the police station. Stanley had been prepared to hang for the girl. Would he commit murder? Did that also include George’s murder?
Clement refused to believe it. Stanley had been used as surely as the real Elsie Wainwright. But where was Stanley? Clement placed the cup onto the tray and closed his eyes, melancholia settling into his heart. He now accepted the heavy realization that Stanley was probably dead and may never be found. He could hear the clock in the hall, ticking by the seconds. Death had no use for time. He opened his eyes. ‘May never be found,’ he said aloud. The realization hit him. Clive’s words that night at the Operational Base reverberated in his mind. What had Clive said? “If it had happened during the raid, no-one would be any the wiser”. Clive had been referring to the murder of David Russell, but had it also been the fate of the son?
Chapter 25
Sunday 22nd September
The telephone was ringing. Clement threw back the bed covers and pushed his feet into his slippers. Reaching for his dressing gown, he pulled the garment on as he descended the stairs. The house was still in darkness and he had no idea of the hour.
‘Hello?’
‘Clement. I’m sorry to disturb you so early. Can you be dressed and outside in fifteen minutes?’
‘Arthur?’ Clement mumbled.
‘I would like your assistance with something,’ Morris told him.
‘Actually, Arthur I wanted to see you today. I’ve been thinking about Stanley. I am concerned that he might have met the same fate as the others.’
‘I’ll be around in fifteen minutes.’
Morris rang off and Clement replaced the receiver. He wandered into the kitchen to check the time. The overpowering weight of anxiety about Stanley and now Phillip made Clement feel old. Almost by instinct, he filled the kettle and placed it on the stove then lit the gas. Walking to the sink, he splashed his face with icy water, the freezing liquid penetrating his flesh. With his realization about Stanley, he prayed that Arthur had not found Phillip dead in some squalid place, for whatever Arthur had to say to him at four o’clock in the morning could not be good.
Twelve minutes later Clement was outside. A light breeze brushed his unshaven face and he shivered. It was still dark, but he could hear the familiar sound of the swaying trees that surrounded All Saints. He pulled his coat around him. Winter approached. Bad times were always endured better in the summer months. He heard the light footsteps and turning saw the familiar silhouette of Arthur Morris walking up Church Lane towards him.
‘What has happened?’ Clement asked in a low voice.
‘I received a telephone call late last night from your Commander Winthorpe, Clement. Jane has been sighted.’
‘Stanley?’ Clement asked, hoping to hear his suspicions were wrong.
Morris shook his head.
‘Where is she?’ he asked. But he was wondering why Johnny had telephoned Morris with the news.
‘She was spotted on a train and is being followed. But that is only partly why I called you. I need your assistance, Clement. Rather, I need you as a witness.’
He stared at Morris uncertain what was coming next. ‘How can I help, Arthur?’
‘I want to break into someone’s house.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I realize it is unusual, but I don’t want prying eyes and I don’t have time for official documentation.’
‘Whose house?’
‘Phillip Haswell’s.’
It was the name Clement dreaded hearing. ‘You think he is dead too?’
>
Morris looked away, down Church Lane. ‘You mentioned that there was something you wanted to ask me about, concerning Stanley Russell?’
‘It was something one of my men said,' and he told Morris about Clive's remark.
Morris stood staring into the night sky. ‘You could well be right.’
‘What do you expect to find in Phillip’s house, Arthur?’ he whispered, closing the gate to the vicarage.
‘I would just like to see inside the house. And as I said, there is no time for official documentation to be sought.’
Clement felt the hollow anxiety of dread. ‘You think his body is there?’
Arthur didn’t reply.
They walked down Church Lane. It was only a short distance. No-one was yet in the street and the black-out curtains in the neighbouring houses were still drawn. Clement looked down the High Street to the village green. Even though the moon was waning, there was sufficient light by which to see. Behind him he heard a door open. He spun around and saw the large, young constable from Lewes standing in the police station doorway.
Morris motioned to the constable, who without waiting for further instructions, walked towards the front door of Phillip’s house. The large man slammed his shoulder several times into the surgery door. A minute later the old, panelled door gave way under the constable’s considerable force, the timber door-jams splintering around the lock.
The constable then straightened his jacket and returned to the police station, closing the door. Clement followed Morris into the house.
The corridor was dark and cold. A strong draught flowed through the house, the open door to the street turning the hallway into a wind tunnel. Clement shivered. A window somewhere was rattling. He remembered the damaged rear wall. Morris flicked on a torch and Clement followed the Chief Inspector into the surgery at the front of the house.
The room looked as though it had been cleaned since Clement had seen it last. A makeshift kitchen had been set up in the corner. Arthur’s torch scanned the floor. But Phillip Haswell was not in his surgery. They turned to leave the room.