by Rennie Airth
'As you wish, sir.' Sampson ran a hand across the slick surface of his hair. His face was expressionless.
'Now, I've been in touch with the War Office,'
Bennett resumed. 'They sent one of their people round, a Colonel Jenkins. He'd already looked into Colonel Fletcher's military record and found he was one of the most popular officers in his regiment. With all ranks — he made that point. As for our other request, he'll have a list of names of discharged mental patients ready for us by the end of the week.'
He rested his elbows on the table.
'No doubt you've all read the Sunday papers. The general opinion seems to be that we're in the dark, and for the time being I'm afraid we'll have to swallow that. We can hardly tell the public that a madman armed with a rifle and bayonet is roaming the countryside.
I'll put out a statement later about various lines of inquiry being pursued. Do you agree, Chief Inspector?'
'Yes, I do, sir.' Sinclair sat forward. 'But I'd like to add to what you've said. We must be careful at all times what information we put out. We've no reason to assume the man we're looking for doesn't read the newspapers. He'll want to know what we know about him. Let's keep him in the dark as much as possible.
Either you or I can speak to the press, when necessary.
Other officers should be directed not to discuss the case.'
'Very well. I'll so order it.' Bennett suppressed a smile. He stood up. 'That will do for now. We'll meet again next week. Chief Inspector, a word before you go…'
Bennett moved to his desk. The other men rose.
Sampson and Madden left the room. The deputy waited until the door had shut behind them. 'I take it that last remark was aimed at Mr Sampson.'
'Sir?' Sinclair looked mystified.
'I'm told the chief superintendent has many friends among the press.' Bennett sat down at his desk.
'Sampson of the Yard — isn't that what they call him?'
Sinclair thought it best not to respond.
'I'll issue an order as you suggest. But don't count on him obeying it. He's the senior superintendent in the force and he may not consider it even applies to him. He has, moreover… special connections in this building. You'd do well to remember that. We both would.' Bennett looked wry. 'In any case, it's not that that I want to talk to you about.' He sat back. 'Are you sure you've picked the right man to assist you in this case?' he asked bluntly.
This time the chief inspector's surprise was unfeigned. 'Madden's a fine officer, sir.'
'I don't deny it. Or he was…" Bennett held up his hand quickly. 'I know his history, Chief Inspector.
What happened to him before the war. His wife and child… I can't pretend to know what he suffered in the trenches, what any of them suffered, though it's plain to see on his face. But there's no point in beating about the bush. A lot of people think he was lucky to be taken back into the force at his old rank.' He glanced at Sinclair. 'I'm not one of them, incidentally.
But when I look at him now, he seems exhausted.
Burned out. So I ask you again — is he the right man?'
Sinclair took his time replying. 'I've known John Madden since he was a young constable,' he said finally. 'I picked him out because I thought he had the talent to make a good detective, and I was right.
It's an odd trade, ours. Hard work will get you only so far. There comes a moment when you have to be able to see through the facts, the mass of them that collect, to find what's important, what's significant.
Madden has that gift. I was bitterly disappointed when he decided to leave the force.' The chief inspector paused. 'With the bank holiday there weren't many names to choose from among those on duty, and Madden was the obvious pick. I've thought about it since. Whether I'd have chosen someone else if I'd had the opportunity. The answer's no, sir.' He looked straight at Bennett. 'I have the man I want.'
The deputy nodded his head briskly. 'That's plainly spoken,' he acknowledged. 'Let's hope you're right.'
A list of patients discharged from mental wards in Army hospitals, running into several thousand, arrived from the War Office three days later. It was delivered by Colonel Jenkins in person. He deposited the thick manila envelope on Sinclair's desk, but declined the chief inspector's invitation to sit down.
'I've been detailed to help you in any way I can. I thought we'd better meet.'
Even in civilian clothes, the colonel cut an unmistakably military figure in his sharply pressed trousers and Brigade of Guards tie. His manner was curt, with an edge of impatience, as though he thought his time could be better spent. Madden eyed him coldly.
'He's an old staff officer,' he told Sinclair, after the colonel had gone. 'It's written all over him. We didn't see much of them in the war. They never came near the front.'
Working out of Sinclair's second-floor office, Madden and Sergeant Hollingsworth began the lengthy task of breaking down the list of discharged patients into subsections to be sent to the various police authorities around the country.
'We'll ask them to find out if any of these men have a history of violence,' the chief inspector said.
'Though, given recent events on the continent of Europe, and the fact that they were all soldiers, the question seems redundant.'
Madden asked for Detective Constable Styles to be assigned to assist them. Sinclair was amused. 'I see you haven't given up on that young man yet.'
'He'll make a decent copper one day,' Madden insisted. 'He just needs standing over.' He glanced at the chief inspector. 'I seem to remember someone doing the same for me once upon a time.'
In another life, he might have added. The years before the war seemed far off now. He'd been a husband and father then, but that, too, was in a different world when he had been a different person.
The abyss of the trenches lay between.
On Friday morning, soon after they had gathered for work, the telephone rang. Hollingsworth answered it.
'For you, sir.' He handed the instrument to Madden.
'It's that constable in Highfield.'
Stackpole was waiting to greet him as he stepped off the train.
'It's a pleasure to see you again, sir.' He shook Madden's hand warmly. 'We've got him this time.'
The constable's broad, tanned face was split by a smile.
'Knowingly making a false statement, obstruction of justice. With any luck we can put the little weasel away for a spell.'
'Yes, but I want to know exactly what he saw that night.' They walked quickly down the platform towards the exit. 'Have you talked to Lord Stratton?
Can we use his car?'
'No need, sir.' Stackpole's smile flashed beneath his thick moustache. 'Dr Blackwell's offered to give us a lift.'
Madden stopped. 'I thought she'd gone to Yorkshire.'
'I should have gone to Yorkshire.' Helen Blackwell stepped out of the deep shadow of the platform shelter in front of them. She held out her hand to Madden. 'I would have gone to Yorkshire. But my locum managed to fall off a horse and break his leg and it's taken till now to find a replacement. He's due to arrive this afternoon.'
Remembering her pale face in the churchyard, he was pleased to see the colour back in her cheeks. She looked flushed in the bright morning sun. They went out of the station into the road. The Wolseley twoseater was parked in the shade of a plane tree.
'Meanwhile, as Will says, I'm going to Oakley. I have two patients to see there. I've a feeling they're the same people you want to speak to, but although I've used all my wiles on him, he refuses to tell me.'
'Now, Miss Helen!' Stackpole blushed bright red.
He left them to pull out the car's dicky and dust off the seat.
Dr Blackwell watched him, smiling. 'Poor Will. He kissed me once, when I was six and he was eight, and he doesn't know to this day whether I remember it or not.'
Madden burst out laughing, overcome by the pure pleasure of being in her company again.
She looked at him critically. 'You should do th
at more often, Inspector,' she said.
During the short drive to Oakley, Madden told her the reason he had come from London.
'So you got the story first from Fred Maberley?' She spoke over her shoulder to Stackpole, who sat crouched in the dicky, clutching at his helmet. 'He rang me, too. And then I had a call from Wellings. He seems to think his wrist's broken.'
'He'll have worse than a broken wrist by the time I've done with him,' the constable growled in her ear.
She glanced at Madden and smiled. 'I hope Fred wasn't too rough with Gladys.' Her gloved hands spun the steering-wheel and they left the paved surface for the dirt road that led to Oakley. 'He sounded shamefaced when he rang me.'
'Got what she deserved, that young lady,' Stackpole offered. 'What did she expect — going off to Tup's Spinney with a piece of trash like Wellings?'
'Shame on you, Will Stackpole. Just because Fred's her husband doesn't give him the right to hit her.'
'No, but…' Stackpole subsided in the dicky.
The single road through Oakley showed more signs of animation than on Madden's previous visit. Several women, weighed down with shopping bags, clustered in front of the village store. Further up the road, outside the Coachman's Arms, three men stood talking, their heads close together, like conspirators. Dr Black well parked in the shade of a chestnut tree growing on the lawn in front of the small church.
'Would it be all right if we saw Gladys Maberley first?' Madden asked her.
'Perfectly. From what I can gather, Mr Wellings is the more gravely injured of the two.' He hadn't seen her this way before. She was in a light, almost joyful mood. With a smile at them both she picked up her doctor's bag and walked off towards the pub.
Stackpole led the way to a whitewashed cottage at the end of a row of houses. The front door was opened by a broad-shouldered young man with blunt features.
He was dressed in rough farm clothes.
'Fred, this is Inspector Madden, from London. We'd like a word with Gladys.'
He muttered something inaudible. Head bowed, he led them into a small kitchen where the young woman with bobbed hair Madden remembered seeing with Wellings was sitting at a table. She had a cut lip and a blackened, swollen eye. The other eye was red and swimming with tears.
'Well, Gladys Maberley!' The constable removed his helmet. 'You look like you could do with a cup of tea.'
As the woman started to rise, the young man spoke for the first time. 'Let me, Glad,' he muttered. He busied himself with a kettle at the sink.
'This is Mr Madden,' Stackpole said. 'He's come all the way from London to talk to you, Gladys.' He put his helmet on the table and pulled out a chair for the inspector and another for himself. 'So tell us what you've been up to — and mind!' The constable wagged a warning finger. 'Don't leave anything out.'
Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the door of the Coachman's Arms. Stackpole was grinning with delight. 'I can't wait to see the look on his face, sir.'
Inside, the smell of stale beer lingered in the taproom. Wellings was seated with his right arm resring on a bar table. Dr Blackwell was at work, strapping his wrist in a tight bandage.
'Not broken, just sprained,' she said to them, as they came in. 'Mr Wellings will live to fight another day.'
'I want to lay a charge.' Wellings shook his other fist at Stackpole. 'Have you got that? He came at me with a shovel. That's a weapon in my book. Do you hear what I'm saying, Constable?'
'I hear you, Mr Wellings.' For the second time that day Stackpole removed his helmet. He had stopped grinning.
Helen Blackwell snapped her bag shut. 'I'll leave you now,' she said. She went out.
Wellings ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. Stackpole spoke to him. 'You'll remember Inspector Madden?'
'Who?' Wellings looked over his shoulder and noticed the inspector for the first time. 'What's he doing here?'
'We'll ask the questions.' The constable sat down at the table.
'I'm not answering any questions until I hear what you mean to do about Fred Maberley.' Wellings looked defiant.
Madden seated himself. 'Two weeks ago you made a statement to Sergeant Gates. In view of what Gladys Maberley has just told us, I now realize that you failed to tell the truth on that occasion.'
'Says who?'
'Shut your gob, you piece of filth.' Stackpole spoke in an even tone. 'Just listen to what the inspector's saying.'
Wellings flushed. He glared at the constable.
'You knowingly made a false statement to the police. That constitutes an obstruction of justice, a serious matter at any time, but given the circumstances of the case we're investigating, exceptionally grave. You will very likely go to prison, Mr Wellings.'
'What?' He turned white. 'I don't believe you.'
'I will ask you now — what were you doing on the night of Sunday, July the thirty-first? I am speaking of the late evening, after the pub was closed.'
Wellings licked his lips. His glance strayed to the bar. 'You wouldn't have a fag, would you?' he asked.
Madden took out his cigarettes and placed them on the table with a box of matches. He waited while Wellings lit up.
'Gladys and I' — he took a long pull on the cigarette — 'we went to Tup's Spinney.' He blew out the match.
'What time?'
'About half past eleven, maybe a little earlier.'
'Where was Fred Maberley?'
'Asleep.' Wellings's smile flickered and went out.
'While you were there did you see or hear anything?'
Madden asked.
Wellings nodded. 'A motorbike. Just after we got there. It went past us through the fields.'
'In which direction? Away from Upton Hanger?'
Wellings nodded again.
'What make of motorcycle? Did you notice?'
He shook his head.
'What did you see?' Madden persisted.
Wellings puffed on his cigarette. 'When I heard it, I got up and went to the edge of the trees. I thought it might be someone else coming to the spinney. You know…' He grinned knowingly at Madden, but received no sympathy from the inspector's glance.
'There was a moon up, I saw it clearly. A motorbike and sidecar.'
'A sidecar — you're sure of that?'
'Yes, I'm sure. At first I thought there was someone in it, you know, a passenger, but then I saw there wasn't.'
Madden and Stackpole looked at each other.
'Let me get this clear,' the inspector said. 'There was something in the sidecar?'
'That's right — a shape. That's all I could see. Like I said, at first I thought it was a passenger. But it just didn't look right, not for a person. It was too low.
There wasn't much showing over the rim of the sidecar.'
'How fast was it travelling?'
'Not fast. He was watching for the ruts.'
'He? You saw the rider?'
Wellings shook his head. 'Just his shape. Big bloke.
He was wearing a cloth cap. That's all, Mr Madden, I swear. It was only for a few seconds, then he was gone, heading back towards the road.'
Madden stared at him. 'You could have told us this two weeks ago,' he said.
Wellings said nothing.
The inspector stood up. 'Stay here.' He signed to Stackpole and the two of them went outside into the road. The constable filled his lungs with fresh air.
'I suppose he'll get off now, the little bastard.'
'Not at all.' Madden shook his head firmly. 'No bargain was struck. We're going to charge him. But don't tell him that yet. Get his statement first. Then tell him, but leave it for a few days. He may remember something more.'
Stackpole's grin returned. He took out his notebook.
'Before you go back in, I need a telephone.'
'There's only one in Oakley, sir, at the post-office counter. That's in the store. You'll have to go through the Guildford exchange.'
Five minutes later Madden was connected with the Sco
tland Yard switchboard. He caught Sinclair on his way out to an early luncheon appointment.
'We need to get the Surrey police on to this, sir.
They'll have to go over their tracks, question the same people in the same villages. On this side of the ridge, at least.'
'But now we've something specific. A motorcycle and sidecar. A big man in a cloth cap. Well done, John!'
'We've Stackpole to thank, sir. He doesn't miss much.'
'I'll be sure to mention that to Norris when I speak to him. What was he carrying in the sidecar, I wonder?'
Madden thought. 'Assuming he had a rifle with him, he wouldn't want to cart it around in the open.
Perhaps a bag of some kind?'
'Hmmm…' The chief inspector mused. 'It was after eleven when Wellings saw him. Say he quit Melling Lodge around ten o'clock, what was he doing for the next hour? It wouldn't have taken him that long to get back to his motorcycle.'
They fell silent. Then Madden spoke: 'I'll be back in a couple of hours, sir-'
'No, you won't, John. There's nothing we can do from here at present. You need a break. Take the weekend off. I'll see you at the office on Monday morning.'
'But I think I should-'
'Inspector!'
'Yes, sir?'
'That's an order.' Sinclair hung up.
Coming out of the shop, Madden saw Helen Black well sitting in her car in the shade of the chestnut tree. Two women stood with folded arms chatting to her, but they moved off as he approached. She accepted, with a smile, his offer of a cigarette. When he bent over to light it, he caught a whiff of jasmine, reminding him of the evening he had gone to her house.
'I don't know whether it's unusual,' he began, 'but you are the first woman doctor I've met.'
'Not unusual at all. Twenty years ago there were barely a dozen of us in the whole country. Of course, the war helped.' She drew thoughtfully on her cigarette.
'It's terrible to say that, but it's true.' She glanced up at him with a smile. 'My grandfather was a gentleman, you know. That's to say he did nothing.
When Father came down from Cambridge and said he wanted to be a doctor the old boy nearly had a fit. He thought it was almost as bad as going into trade. And the funny thing was, Father was just the same. "You can't," he said. "You're a woman." But we got over that.'