Shroud of Darkness

by E. C. R. Lorac

  When Macdonald went into the yard, he noticed that no smoke was rising from the chimneys and the back door was shut. When he knocked, the only response he got was from a dog, chained up to its kennel. Its barking brought a farm lad out from one of the barns, a tow-haired, rosy-cheeked youth who stared at Macdonald in surprise.

  “I want to see Mr. Burrow,” said the chief inspector. “I heard he’d been away. Is he back home yet?”

  “He came back, but he’s not in,” replied the lad. “I think he’s gone over Sampford Spinney way to see some heifers.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Couldn’t say. Mrs. Burrow, she’s away too, up at Moorcock, so likely he’ll stay out to ’s supper. Jake and me’s got all the milking to do.”

  “Right—then I won’t keep you,” replied Macdonald.

  The chief inspector’s next business was to consult with the county police. He drove back to Plymouth, and was soon in conference with the inspector on duty at police headquarters. This officer, a man of Macdonald’s age named Fordworthy, had already been informed that the C.I.D. man was in his area, for the police are punctilious over such matters.

  Fordworthy, grey-haired, solid, and robust, greeted Macdonald cheerfully. “You’re welcome,” he said heartily. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you. Your chaps came and lent us a hand when we most needed it—‘41, that was. Well, have you found out what you wanted?”

  “Some of it,” rejoined Macdonald. “It’s a longish story, and a damned queer one, too.”

  For the next ten minutes Ford worthy sat back and enjoyed hearing an expert relate the essential facts concerning the assault on Richard Greville and the work the C.I.D. had done on the case.

  “Well, first I’d like to say it’s a fair treat to hear a report told like that,” said Fordworthy. “You’ve got a remarkable lot of facts in a precious short time, Chief.”

  “We’ve been lucky,” said Macdonald. “We’ve had good witnesses who came forward and told clear stories, and they corroborated one another at nearly all points. At a first glance you might have thought it was hopeless to get evidence about a railway journey on an evening like that—I wish you could have seen our London particular. But as it turned out, the fog made people particularly on the qui vive. The platform men at Reading remembered details which they might have forgotten on an ordinary evening. I suppose everybody’s nerves were on edge and they were more alert than usual. The girl—Miss Dillon—remembered details of the journey because it ended as such a nightmare of a journey. But the trouble is, as you can see for yourself, we’ve got a whole variety of possibilities. And one variation pertains to your district.”

  “Yes. I see that, all right. We’ll get that one sorted out for you,” replied Fordworthy. He stopped and pondered, his brows knit over his clear blue eyes. “I remember the story about the boy they found on Roborough Down,” he said. “It was a remarkable story, but there were so many things happening just then, and so many hideous tragedies going on under your very eyes, that you were only too thankful to leave well alone if anything was well. And the Grevilles were good to that boy, by God they were.”

  “Yes, I’ve grasped that, all right,” said Macdonald. “What we’ve got to sort out is where the trouble arose: at what point in his queer history did Richard Greville arouse the sort of animosity which resulted in an attempt to murder him. I don’t think we’ve got the most essential data yet—but I may be wrong.”

  “One of the rummest points in the whole story is the way this Dr. Garstang comes into it,” said Fordworthy.

  “Yes. I found that rather a facer,” agreed Macdonald, “but it’s not so startling when you consider it. Garstang is very well known: his name would be put forward by any informed doctor in response to an enquiry for an able psychiatrist.”

  Fordworthy nodded, and then said: “This psychology business—how much do you believe in it, Chief?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Macdonald slowly. “I might say I’m midway between two opposite poles—complete acceptance and profound scepticism. I’ve heard modem thinkers claim that the development of psychiatric knowledge and practice is the most important contribution ever made to human welfare, because it’s the study of mind. And then I look at the record of mankind in the years since psychology has been practised clinically, so to speak, and I begin to wonder.”

  “By the Lord, it’s enough to make anyone wonder,” broke out Fordworthy. “Is juvenile delinquency decreasing because each of the young varmints is examined by a psychologist? You ask the approved-schools’ staffs what they think—they won’t hand out many testimonials to the psychologists.”

  “Possibly not, but the reforming of young delinquents doesn’t impinge on this case. I do believe it’s true that, given time, a psychiatrist can bring to light facts which a patient has forgotten. I think we’ve got to accept as proven that there is a subconscious mind, and that memories which have sunk into the subconscious can affect a person’s mentality and even their health. If young Greville recovers, and they seem to think he’s going to, this Dr. Garstang may well be able to get him to remember what happened to him in 1941, and where he originated.”

  “And do you expect those facts to solve the present problem—why he was batted over the head in a London fog in 1952?” asked Fordworthy.

  “Again, I don’t know. But I believe that it’s possible that his mental state may have had a direct bearing on the problem. You see, the lad was in an abnormal state, troubled and bewildered by a confusion of half memories which he couldn’t connect up or rationalise. This may have sent him off the rails and made him do things which are foreign to his norm.”

  “I don’t quite get you,” said Fordworthy. “D’you mean that a decently brought up lad like young Greville might go to the dogs so to speak because of this inner conflict, or whatever you call it?”

  Macdonald chuckled. “You may be nearer the truth than you meant,” he said. “Go to the dogs—quite literally: go out for excitement of any kind to get relief from the turmoil of mind which was driving him mad. That would provide one explanation of an aspect of the story which is incomprehensible at the moment: in other words, a link between the line Reeves is chasing in London and the line I’ve been following today.”

  “Well—it’s a bit too psychological for me to cotton on to,” said Fordworthy. “I leave that to you. However, you’ve given me a plain job to do, and I’ll get on with it. Now what about you, Chief? You’ll be staying here tonight?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Macdonald. “I’d meant to, but I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to get young Salcombe to leave his farm for a day or two and come up to London with me. And if he says there’s no one to milk his cows and fodder his stock I’m going to rely on you to produce somebody who’s competent to take the job on for a couple of days.”

  “Well—that’s a facer!” exclaimed Fordworthy.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know most of the farmers who come to market,” said Macdonald. “Possibly it won’t be necessary. Salcombe may have someone he can leave in charge—but he’s coming up to London with me. He can identify Greville—it’s got to be done by somebody who knows him—and he can see Garstang and tell him about Greville, and I shall be there as observer.”

  “Yes . . . I see,” said Fordworthv.

  “Salcombe’s got a telephone. I saw the line crossing his land,” said Macdonald. ’Til have a word with him now, and then drive straight out to him at Long Barrow.”

  “I reckon it’ll take more than a few words to make him leave his farm,” said Fordworthy. “He’s the keenest young farmer in the district.”

  “I can well believe it, but he’s also Dick Greville’s friend,” replied Macdonald.

  2

  Brian Salcombe agreed at once to Macdonald’s request.

  “It’s funny, but I thought about it as soon as you’d gone,” he said. “I might have thought of it earlier, but I was in such a mix-up, trying t
o puzzle things out.”

  “What about your farm?” asked Macdonald.

  “I’ll fix that,” replied Brian. “I’ve got a good lad, and he can come and sleep in for a night or two, and John Worley will come along and see everything’s O.K. It’s not like harvest or haymaking. Just routine as you say.”

  “Good. I’ll drive out and fetch you. Did they teach you to drive a car in the Army?”

  “Did they not. I can drive anything—or almost anything.”

  “Then you can take share and share alike with me and we’ll see if we can make it by midnight.”

  The December afternoon was closing in when Macdonald picked Brian Salcombe up at the gate of Long Barrow about half-past three. “D’you know the road to Exeter?” asked Macdonald, and Brian nodded.

  “A darned sight better than you do, I expect. An uncle of mine had an old van, and business often took him to Exeter—and me with him.”

  “Good. Then you can drive and I can go to sleep if I want to.”

  Salcombe was a good driver: Macdonald didn’t have to keep an eye on him for long to discover that. He handled a strange car with the certainty that only comes from experience, he drove on his own side of the road, and he took no chances, but he was the reverse of a loiterer. It was a clear evening, and they made good speed. Once he had decided that Salcombe knew his onions, Macdonald sat back and enjoyed being driven, while his mind worried away at the different threads of his problem. Brian got them around Exeter so neatly that Macdonald hardly noticed the city.

  “Honiton, Yeovil and A. 30?” asked the young farmer.

  “Good enough,” said Macdonald, glancing at his watch: it was now five o’clock. “We’ll pull up at the first filling station which has a cafe, get a cup of tea, and then I’ll take over for a bit.”

  They reached Yeovil, with Macdonald driving, just after six, changed places again, and Brian drove on to Salisbury, where they wolfed down sausage rolls and jam tarts at a convenient café, and then Macdonald said he would drive again. It wasn’t very long before Brian was fast asleep. Macdonald guessed that he’d been up by six o’clock that morning to get the milking done, and that he’d done the sort of day’s work in the open air that makes all farmers drowsy by the time they get a chance to sit down. Basingstoke, Staines, and then the approaches to London: cars, lorries, busses, Green Line coaches, bicycles. Macdonald drove on steadily, skilfully, his hands and feet responding automatically to traffic and traffic lights, pedestrians and policemen. It wasn’t much after eleven o’clock when he pulled up outside the block of riverside flats where he lived, and Brian Salcombe was still asleep. Macdonald shook him before he woke up. “Sorry. Where are we?”

  “London. This is where I live. Bundle out. There’s a bed of sorts for you.”

  “Here, shan’t I go and find a room somewhere? You don’t want to be bothered with me.”

  “I shall be much less bothered having you safely in my own place than wondering if you’ve got knocked over the head or fallen under a bus hunting a bed in London—so heave yourself out.”

  “Put the car away?” enquired Brian.

  “No. I may have to go out again.”

  “Christmas! You do believe in working,” yawned Brian.

  Macdonald seized his arm, shoved him through a swing door, across a brightly lighted lobby and into an automatic lift, a shining, silent, swiftly moving cage. Seeing the big, fair, weatherbeaten lad in that ultramodern box of chromium and high-glaze panelling, Macdonald couldn’t make up his mind whether Brian made the lift look ridiculous or the lift made Brian look so. They got out and walked down a long corridor with identical front doors on both sides of it: owing to the floor covering, their steps made no sound and the place was curiously silent.

  “Cripes—this place’d give me the jitters: it’s not human,” said Brian.

  “You get used to it,” said Macdonald. “It took me quite a time, but now I don’t even notice that it’s a repeat pattern on a large scale. I better warn you that every corridor is identical, so if you get out at the wrong floor you’ll be in a muddle. Hullo, I’ve got a visitor.”

  There was a tall, narrow window at the far end of the corridor, and a man stood there, looking out. In spite of the fact that it was nearly midwinter, he had managed to open the window, so that the cold air from outside was defeating the very efficient central heating system of the huge block.

  “Hullo, Reeves. You’ll be getting some bitter protests from my fellow warreners if you freeze the corridor.”

  Reeves chucked his cigarette out of the window and closed the latter. “Sorry, but these corridors get me nearer to being frightened than anything that’s happened since the V.2.s, Jock. They’re superefhcient, superheated and generally reminiscent of a communal tomb.”

  Macdonald unlocked the door of his flat—it was the last door on the left.

  “You two chaps seem in complete agreement over the amenities of one of the most convenient blocks of flats in London,” he said. “This is Brian Salcombe: he’s come up to see his friend in St. Monica’s Hospital—name of Richard Greville. Peter Reeves, Salcombe, a friend of my own.”

  “Put it here, mate,” grinned Reeves, holding out his hand. “You’re right about the lifts and corridors: they’re enough to send a good chap wrong, but look out of this window—it makes up for the architectural dentistry in the approaches.”

  Still completely bemused, Brian went to the wide, uncurtained window and looked down: far below he saw the Thames swirling past the embankment, shining under London’s lights, the flood tide lapping the river wall, and a moored chain of barges bobbing in midstream.

  “Losh—it’s pretty good,” he said, “but I shouldn’t care to swim in it . . .”

  Macdonald laughed. “I tried it—once, and once was enough. The river police fished me out half drowned, with another chap in tow. Now you’re going to bed, laddie. There’s always a bed ready and waiting. Do you want some food, or a drink?”

  Brian gave a huge, face-splitting yawn.

  “Go to bed, mate,” advised Reeves. “I’ll bring you in a cup of tea with a spot of something in it before you’ve got your boots off.”

  Brian was too sleepy to argue. He found himself propelled into a bedroom, the pyjamas and washing gear produced from his own haversack; by the time he was turning in Reeves appeared with the promised cup of tea.

  “Get outside this and it’ll be morning before you know it,” he said, “as far as it can be said that there is a morning in London at this time of year.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Brian. “Are you a cop too?”

  “Sure. C.I.D. Metropolitan Police. You’ll be well looked after. By the way, I rang the hospital half an hour ago. They say Greville’s still doing nicely—quite comfortable, I was told. They’re as proud of him as they would be of flourishing quads.”

  “It’s no end decent of you——” began Brian.

  “That’s O.K. What we call routine. That contraption works the light. Good night and all that.”

  Reeves went back to the sitting room, where Macdonald was deep in an armchair, the teapot beside him, and a bottle of scotch beside that.

  “I feel I’ve earned that one,” he said. “How’s things your end?”

  “So-so. Let’s have yours first,” replied Reeves.

  Once again Macdonald set out his facts, tersely, in the main, though he described Moorcock so that Reeves became vividly aware of the grey farm buildings and the wind-bent trees in the little hollow high up on the moor. He was silent for a moment or two when Macdonald had finished speaking.

  “Quite a story, Jock. What was it you said earlier on—something about not getting obsessed by the racketeer boys in the setup? ‘It may be something quite different, some private hate.’ Well, it looks as though there might be ‘private hate.’ ”

  “There often is,” said Macdonald. “And in this case there’s a vein of abnormality running through the story. When I was up there at Moorcock, talking first to tha
t frail old woman who adored the boy, and then to the bitter young woman who hated him, the pattern seemed likely enough. However hard you try not to be affected by environment, it’s bound to count in arriving at a judgment, whether it’s the moor or the back streets of Paddington. And now, what’s yours? You didn’t come and wait in that corridor you dislike so much just for the pleasure of hearing me talk about Dartmoor.”

  “Quite true,” said Reeves, “though when I had your message saying you’d be back by midnight, I thought you’d probably make it a spot earlier. My bit’s not so good. I said that this case might be remarkable because there was an indication of a witness to the murder—the chap under the trolley. Well, I think we’ve got him. He was picked up on the permanent way this morning, just outside Westbourne Park Station. Fallen out of a train apparently. He was alive—more or less—when they picked him up. I spent most of today sitting beside his bed, just in case he uttered. He died about six o’clock.”

  “Without uttering?”

  “He only said a few words anybody could understand, and they came out quite clearly: ‘Five hundred, by tomorrow.’ ”

  “How did you satisfy yourself he was the chap you think he was?”

  “His coat,” said Reeves. “He’d squirmed through that muck under the barrow or trolley or whatever it was. A sample was scraped up and sent to the lab: paraffin, lubricating oil, tar, stone dust from the shifted kerbstone, and a dab of dextrine paste—the adhesive they slap railway labels on with. I sent his coat up to the lab, and they got the same mixture from the stain in front of it and from his trouser legs as well. They were the only clothes he’d got. He was broke.” He sat for a moment in silence, and then went on: “The local chaps let me know about the casualty as soon as it was reported—thought I might be interested. By gum, I was. I went for his clothes at once—and it came off.”