by Rennie Airth
River of Darkness
( John Madden - 1 )
Rennie Airth
Rennie Airth
River of Darkness
I'm back again from hell
With loathsome thoughts to sell;
Secrets of death to tell;
And horrors from the abyss.
Siegfried Sassoon, 'To The War-Mongers'
Part One
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Wilfred Owen, 'Anthem for Doomed Youth'
1
The village was empty. Billy Styles couldn't understand it. They hadn't seen a living soul on the road from the station, and even the green was deserted, though the weather was the kind that normally brought people out of doors.
The finest summer since the war!
The newspapers had been repeating the phrase for weeks now as one radiant day followed another, with no end to the heatwave in sight.
But here in Highfield, sunshine lay like a curse on empty cottage gardens. Only the headstones in the churchyard, crowding the moss-covered stone wall flanking the road, gave mute evidence of a human presence.
'They're all at the house,' Boyce said, as though in explanation. He was an inspector with the Surrey police, a thin grey man with an anxious look. 'Word got around this morning.'
Boyce had come to the station to meet Inspector Madden and Billy. In a chauffeured Rolls-Royce, no less! Billy wanted to ask who'd sent it, but didn't dare. With less than three months' experience in the QD he knew he was lucky to be there at all, assigned to a case of such magnitude. Only the August bank holiday, combined with the heavy summer-leave schedule, had brought it about. Scotland Yard had been thinly manned that Monday morning when the telephone call came from Guildford. Minutes later Billy had found himself in a taxi with Madden bound for Waterloo station.
He glanced at the inspector, who was sitting beside him staring out of the car window. Among the lower ranks at the Yard, Madden was reckoned to be a queer one. They hadn't met before today, but Billy had seen him striding down the corridors. A tall grim man with a scarred forehead, he seemed more like a monk than a policeman, the young detective constable thought. An impression that gained strength now each time the inspector's glance fell on him. Madden's deep-set eyes seemed to look at you from another world.
He had a strange history — Billy had heard it from one of the sergeants. Madden had left the force some years before after losing his wife and baby daughter, both in the same week, to influenza. The son of a farmer, he had wanted to return to the land. Instead, the war had come, and afterwards he'd returned to his old job with the Metropolitan Police. Changed, though, it was said. A different man from before. Two years in the trenches had seen to that.
They had cleared the village, leaving the last cottage behind. Rounding a bend in the road, the chauffeur braked. Ahead of them, blocking the narrow country lane and facing a set of iron gates, a crowd had gathered. Whole families were there, it seemed, the men in shirtsleeves and braces, the women wearing kitchen aprons and with their hair tied up in scarves and handkerchiefs. Children stood hand in hand, or else played together on the dusty verges. A short way down the road two little girls in coloured smocks were bowling a hoop.
'Look at them,' Boyce said wearily. 'We've asked them to keep away, but what can you expect?'
The chauffeur blew his horn as they drew near and the crowd parted to let the car through. Billy felt the weight of their accusing stares.
'They don't know what to think,' Boyce muttered.
'And we don't know what to tell them.'
The drive beyond the gates was lined with elms, linked at their crowns like Gothic arches. At the end of it Billy could see a house built of solid stone, clothed in ivy. Melling Lodge was its name. Madden had told him. A family called Fletcher lived there. Had lived there. Billy's mouth went dry as they approached the gravelled forecourt where a fountain topped by a Cupid figure, standing with his bow drawn, sprayed silvery water into the bright sunlit afternoon. Blue uniforms stirred in the shadows.
'We brought a dozen men down from Guildford.'
Boyce nodded towards a police van parked at the side of the forecourt. 'We may want more.'
Madden spoke for the first time. 'We'll need to search the land around the house.'
'Wait till you see the other side.' Boyce groaned.
'Woods. Nothing but woods. Miles and miles of them.'
Madden's glance had shifted to a group of three men standing together in a shaded corner of the forecourt. Two of them wore light country tweeds.
The third sweated in a double-breasted serge suit.
'Who are they?' he asked.
'The old boy's Lord Stratton. Local nob. He owns most of the land hereabouts. That's the Lord Lieutenant with him. Major-General Sir William Raikes.'
'What's he doing here?' Madden scowled.
'He was a weekend guest at Stratton Hall, worse luck.' Boyce pulled a face. 'He's been raising merry hell, I can tell you. The other one's Chief Inspector Norris, from Guildford.'
As Madden opened the car door, Raikes, red-faced and balding, came striding across the gravel.
'About time,' he said angrily. 'Sinclair, is it?'
'No, Sir William. Madden's the name. Detective Inspector. This is Detective Constable Styles. Chief Inspector Sinclair is on his way. He'll be here shortly.'
Madden's glance roamed the forecourt.
'Well, for God's sake!' Raikes fumed. 'What's keeping the man?'
'He's getting a team together. Pathologist, fingerprint squad, photographer…' The inspector made no attempt to disguise his impatience. 'It takes time, particularly on a bank holiday.'
'Indeed!' Raikes glared at him, but Madden was already turning away to greet the older man, who had joined them.
'Lord Stratton? Thank you for sending the car, sir.'
'It was nothing. How else can I help you, Inspector?'
He held out his hand to Madden, who shook it.
His face showed signs of recent shock, the eyes wide and blinking. 'Do you need any transport? I've a runabout at the Hall. You're welcome to use it.'
'Would you mention that to Mr Sinclair? I'm sure he'll be happy to accept.'
'Now see here, Madden!' Raikes tried to force himself back into the conversation, but the inspector ignored him and went on speaking to Lord Stratton.
'There's something I need to know. The woods behind the house, do they belong to you?'
'Upton Hanger? Yes, the ridge extends for several miles.' He seemed eager to help. 'I keep a pheasant shoot over by the Hall' — he pointed in the direction of the village — 'but this side the woods run wild.'
'What's your policy on trespassing?'
'Well, technically it's private property. But the villagers have always had the run of the woods. Over on this side, at least.'
'Would you change that, sir? Make it clear no trespassing will be allowed and ask the police to enforce it.'
'I understand.' Stratton frowned. 'Better to keep people away.'
'I was thinking of the London press. They'll be here soon enough.'
'Boyce!' Chief Inspector Norris spoke.
'I'll see to it, sir.'
'One other thing.' Madden drew Lord Stratton aside. 'There's a crowd of villagers outside the gates.
Could you speak to them? Tell them what's happened here. There's no point in keeping it a secret. Then ask them to go home. We'll be questioning them later.
But they're no help to us standing out there blocking the road.'
'Of course. I'll see to that now.' He set off up the drive.
Watching, Billy could only marvel. How did Madden do it? He wasn't a nob himself, that much was certain. There was a
rough, unpolished air about the inspector that set him apart from the likes of his lordship. But when he talked, they listened! Even Sir William Whatsit, who could only stand there glowering.
'Chief Inspector,' still ignoring Raikes, Madden turned to Norris, 'could we have a word?'
He moved away, and after a moment's hesitation Norris joined him. The Guildford chief was red in the face and sweating heavily in his thick serge suit.
'I'll need some details, sir.'
'Speak to Boyce.' Norris blinked rapidly. 'Good God, man! You can't treat a lord lieutenant that way.'
Madden regarded him without expression. Norris opened his mouth to speak again, then changed his mind. He spun on his heel and rejoined Raikes, who stood with his back ostentatiously turned to them, glaring up the drive at the retreating figure of Lord Stratton.
Madden nodded to Boyce and led the way out of the forecourt around to the side of the house. When they came into a pool of shade he paused and took out a packet of cigarettes. Billy, encouraged by the sight, lit up himself.
'I was told four in the house.' The inspector was speaking to Boyce.
'That's right.' The Surrey inspector took out a handkerchief. 'Colonel and Mrs Fletcher. One of the maids, Sally Pepper, and the children's nanny, Alice Crookes.'
'Who found the bodies?'
'The other maid, Ellen Brown. We haven't talked to her yet. She's in hospital in Guildford. Under sedation.' He wiped his face. 'Brown returned this morning. Mrs Fletcher had given her the weekend off — Saturday and Sunday — but she was due back last night, and the other maid, Pepper, was to have had today off. Brown missed her train — she's got a young man in Birmingham — and only arrived this morning.
She was seen passing through the village, running from the station, looking to be in trouble with her mistress, I dare say. Half an hour later she was back again, not making much sense by all accounts.'
'Half an hour?' Madden drew on his cigarette.
Boyce shrugged. 'I don't know what she did when she found them. Fainted, I would guess. But she had enough sense to get herself to the local bobby. He lives at this end of the village. Constable Stackpole.
He didn't know what to think — whether to believe her, even. He said she was raving. So he got on his bicycle and pedalled like blazes. He rang Guildford from the Lodge. I was the duty officer and I informed Chief Inspector Norris and he rang the chief constable who decided to call in the Yard right away.'
'When did you get here?'
'Just before midday. Mr Norris and I.'
'You went through the house?'
Boyce nodded. 'We didn't touch anything. Then Sir William arrived with Lord Stratton.'
'Did they go inside?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Both of them?'
Boyce looked shamefaced. 'Mr Norris tried to stop them, but… Anyway, they didn't stay long. It was getting to be ripe inside. The heat, you know 'Anyone else?'
'Only the doctor.'
'The police surgeon?'
'No, Stackpole couldn't raise him — he lives in Godalming — so he rang the village doctor.'
'What time did he get here?'
'She.' Boyce glanced up from his notebook. 'Her name's Dr Blackwell. Dr Helen Blackwell.'
Madden was frowning.
'Yes, I know.' Boyce shrugged. 'But it couldn't be helped. There was no one else.'
'Was she able to cope?'
'As far as I can tell. Stackpole said she did what was necessary, confirmed they were all dead. It was she who found the little girl.' He consulted his notebook.
'Sophy Fletcher, aged five. Apparently she's a patient of the doctor's.'
'The child was in the house?'
'Hiding under her bed, Stackpole said. She must have been there all night…' Boyce looked away, biting his lip.
Madden waited for a moment. 'You said "children".'
'There's a son. James, aged ten. He's been spending a few weeks with his uncle in Scotland. Lucky, I suppose, if you can call it that.'
'Do we know if the girl witnessed the murders?'
Boyce shook his head. 'She hasn't said a word since Dr Blackwell found her. The shock, I imagine.'
'Where is she now?'
'At the doctor's house. It's not far. I sent an officer over there.'
'We must get her into hospital in Guildford.'
Madden killed his cigarette on the sole of his shoe and put the stub in his pocket. Billy, watching, followed suit.
'Any idea of time of death?'
'Dr Blackwell says between eight and ten last night — based on rigor. Couldn't have been before seven.
That's when the cook left. Ann Dunn. She lives in the village. I've had a word with her, but she couldn't tell us much. She fixed them a cold meal, then took herself off. Didn't notice anything unusual. Didn't see anyone hanging about.' Boyce glanced back towards the drive.
'The gates were open. They could have driven in.'
'They?'
'Has to be more than one man.' Boyce looked at him. 'Wait till you see inside. Most likely a gang.
There's stuff been taken. Silver. Jewellery. But why they had to-' He broke off, shaking his head.
'How did they get into the house?'
'They broke in from the garden side. Come on, I'll show you.'
Boyce led the way to the front of the house, out of the shade on to the sun-washed terrace. It was late afternoon, past four o'clock, but the cloudless summer sky held hours of daylight yet. Shallow steps led from the terrace to a lawn bordered by flower-beds with a fishpond in the middle. Further on another set of steps led to a lower level bordered by a shrubbery. Where the garden ended the woods of Upton Hanger began, rising like a green wave, filling the horizon.
'See! They smashed in the French windows.' Boyce pointed. 'They're not cracksmen. Not professionals.'
One of a pair of tall glassed doors at the front of the house had been knocked off its hinges. The empty frame lay across the doorway. Broken glass glittered in the sunlight. Madden crouched down to examine it.
In the silence Billy heard the sound of flies buzzing. It came from inside the house. He wrinkled his nose at the rotten-sweet smell.
'We can't leave 'em there much longer,' Boyce observed. He watched Madden with narrowed eyes.
'Not in this heat. There's a mortuary wagon standing by in the village. Should I bring it up to the house?'
'Better wait till Mr Sinclair gets here.' Madden stood up. 'You can begin fingerprinting, though. Start with the people who've been in the house.'
A grin replaced the anxious frown on Boyce's face.
'Does that include the Lord Lieutenant and Lord Stratton?'
'Certainly.'
'Sir William told Mr Norris they hadn't touched anything.'
'I'm sure he did. Print them both.'
Madden glanced at Billy. 'Constable?'
'Sir?' Billy straightened automatically.
'We'll go inside now.'
As Billy stepped over the broken door frame into the house, the smell of decaying flesh triggered a rush of nausea and he had to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands to stop himself retching.
Eyes watering, he tried to block out the stench and concentrate on what was before him. They had entered the drawing-room, that much he could see. Madden was bending over the body of a young woman sprawled on the floor in the middle of the room. She lay on her side with her legs splayed like a runner in mid-stride, hands clutching at emptiness. Billy noted the black dress and frilled cuffs. This must be the maid, Sally Pepper, he told himself.
His glance took in the tray and coffee things silver pot and two small cups and saucers — strewn across a cream-coloured carpet edged with vine leaves.
The spilled coffee had spread into the shape of a flower. Black petals for a funeral wreath.
He knew the woman had been stabbed, Madden had told him earlier, but he couldn't see where. Then he noticed the inspector examining a small tear in the maid's unifor
m over her chest. It looked as if the black cloth had masked the flow of blood.
Billy was struck by how little had been disturbed.
Take away the smashed door and the pitiable figure on the carpet and the room was relatively untouched.
Chairs and tables stood in their places. Nothing was disarranged. A cabinet where china was displayed remained shut, with the glass unbroken. Above the carved stone fireplace a pair of shepherdesses graced the mantelpiece beneath a painted portrait of a woman sitting on a sofa with two young children, a boy and a girl, on either side of her. All three were fair-haired.
Billy was starting to sweat. If anything, the smell was getting worse. He saw Madden's eyes were on him.
'If you're going to throw up, Constable, do it outside.'
'I won't, sir. Truly.'
Madden's glance implied disbelief. Billy gritted his teeth. He watched as the inspector started to move away from the body, then changed his mind and returned to it, this time to look at the back. He bent and peered at the area between the shoulder-blades.
Billy wondered why. There was nothing to see there.
He took a deep breath, then checked himself hurriedly as the surge of nausea returned.
He couldn't understand it. In three years on the force he'd seen his share of corpses, not all of them pretty. Week-old cadavers found in abandoned tenements.
Floaters hauled from the Thames. Earlier that year he had worked on his first murder case since moving from the uniform branch to the CID. An old pawnbroker battered to death in his shop in the Mile End Road. His skull had been reduced to a red pulp, yet Detective Constable Styles hadn't turned a hair.
Why now?
Searching for an explanation, Billy was left with the feeling that it had something to do with the enormity of what had happened in this house. He had seen it in the faces of the villagers and of the men who waited outside. Even Madden's grim features had registered a sense of disbelief as he recounted the bald details on their taxi ride to Waterloo. It was something that shouldn't have happened — that was the closest Billy could come to explaining it — not in the peaceful Surrey countryside, barely an hour's train ride from London. Not in England!