by Rennie Airth
'That's where he slept,' he said. 'Those wooden slats are for duckboards, to keep the floor dry, and the piece of tin is for the roof He came forward. 'And this is a firestep.' He mounted a low projection at the foot of the T, bringing his head and shoulders up over the lip of the trench. 'What we have here is a dugout.'
'Like in the war, sir?' The question was Stackpole's.
'Like in the war.' Madden's voice was scored with bitterness. 'That muck you see — the soap and the stew and the rum — it's what they had in the trenches. Even down to the cough medicine — we used to live on the stuff.'
He looked up at Sinclair. 'I'll tell you what he did, sir. He took a swig of rum, the way we used to before an attack, and then he went down there and blew his bloody whistle and charged into that house and killed the lot of them. And that's not all-' Madden pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper which he handed up to the chief inspector. 'Do you remember those drawings Sophy Fletcher made? This is another one.'
Sinclair held up the paper to the light. The men gathered around, peering over his shoulder.
'That's a gas mask,' Madden said. 'When he broke in he was wearing one, and that's what the child saw — some goggled-eyed monster dragging her mother down the passage. It explains why she hasn't said a word since.'
Part Two
But now hell's gates are an old tale;
Remote the anguish seems;
The guns are muffled and far away,
Dreams within dreams.
And far and far are Flanders mud,
And the pain of Picardy;
And the blood that runs there runs beyond The wide waste sea.
Rose Macaulay, 'PicnicJuly 1917'
5
Dressed in her maid's uniform and white lace cap, Ethel Bridgewater sat at the kitchen table reading yesterday's News of the World. Her attention had been caught by a half-page advertisement for something called the 'Harlene Hair-Drill', which promised users of the company's products 'a luxurious wealth of gloriously beautiful and healthy hair'.
For some time now Ethel had been considering having her own hair bobbed — more and more of her friends were doing it — but she was reluctant to take the step. Though a plain young woman, she possessed a head of rich chestnut hair and felt instinctively it would be a mistake to get rid of this crowning asset.
She was reading the advertisement for a second time when the door to the stableyard opened and Carver came in. He didn't speak, and neither did she. They seldom exchanged a word, going about their duties in silence when they happened to meet.
Glancing up, Ethel received a shock. Carver's looks had been transformed since their last encounter before the weekend. His moustache had disappeared and, shorn of this covering, his mouth was revealed as thin with a marked downward turn at one corner where a small scar was visible. It was entirely in keeping with their relationship that it did not even occur to the maid to pass comment on his changed appearance.
Ethel rose from the table and began to busy herself preparing tea for her mistress, Mrs Aylward. Carver opened the stove door and took out a plate of food which had been left there for him. He ate at irregular hours, and the cook, Mrs Rowley, who lived in the neighbourhood and would not be back to prepare dinner until later that afternoon, had been taught to leave his meals warming in the oven. He brought the plate over to the table, collecting a knife and fork from the kitchen cutlery, and began to eat.
Ethel hurried over the tea things. Once she had taken the tray into the drawing-room there was dusting work she could do upstairs. In truth, she didn't like to find herself alone with Carver for any length of time. If asked why, she would have found it difficult to give a reason. Certainly he had never offended her in any way. But his presence had a strange — almost physical — effect on her. After a while the air seemed to get closer, as though some unseen agent were consuming the oxygen, and Ethel would find herself becoming breathless. As soon as the kettle boiled, she made the tea and took the tray out.
Carver, whose real name was Amos Pike, carried his dirty plate to the sink and cleaned it. He washed and dried his utensils, returning everything to its place.
Using the hot water remaining in the kettle he made himself a cup of tea and brought it to the table. He picked up the newspaper and read it carefully, paying particular attention to the news columns. Satisfied, he washed and dried his cup and went outside into the yard.
Mrs Aylward's house, though modest in size, boasted a set of stables at the rear. Built by the previous owner, an enthusiastic horseman, they were no longer used for that purpose and had been converted into a storeroom and garage. Pike lived in a room on the floor above.
Employed primarily as a chauffeur, he was also charged with keeping the garden tidy. But his duties there were minimal, Mrs Aylward's interest in horticulture being confined to a conservatory that she had added to the house, attaching it to the side of her studio.
His job that day was to clean the greenhouse windows and he had already done the inside. Now he set up his ladder on the gravelled path that ran alongside the structure and mounted the steps with a bucket and mop. He worked automatically, his brow grooved with some inner preoccupation, his glance unfocused.
Pike had unusual eyes. Flat and brown, they seldom gave any clue to what he was thinking. Many people found them disturbing.
Deputy Assistant Commissioner Bennett rose as Sinclair and Madden entered his office. 'Inspector!
I'm relieved to see you in one piece.' He came round from behind his desk and shook Madden's hand.
'A pity you didn't nab him when you had the chance,' Sampson offered. The chief superintendent, in a mustard-coloured suit and matching tie, was already in his chair. He grinned to show he was making a joke. 'There were two of you, weren't there?'
Bennett looked at him sharply, but made no comment.
He took his own chair at the table by the window. The others joined him.
'Well, Chief Inspector?'
Sinclair opened his file. 'On the positive side, sir, we now know it's only one man we're looking for, and the military connection is solidly established. Mr Madden assures me that what he built in the woods was an Army dugout, down to the last detail. One of the villagers reported hearing a police whistle at the time of the attack. Police whistle, Army whistle they're one and the same. He seems to have acted as though he were going "over the top".' The chief inspector's tone indicated his distaste for the cliche.
'Apparently he wore a gas mask at the time.'
He took two pieces of paper from his file and passed them across the table. 'Those are drawings which the Fletcher child made later — as you know, she hasn't spoken yet. We didn't know what they meant until Inspector Madden realized they were an attempt by her to draw a gas mask.'
Sampson scowled. 'We haven't seen these before,' he said.
'I didn't include them in the file,' Sinclair admitted.
'They seemed to have no bearing on the case.'
'We'll have everything in future if you don't mind, Chief Inspector.' Sampson's small eyes had turned hard.
'As you wish, sir.'
Bennett stirred restlessly. 'But what are we dealing with here?' he demanded. 'What's this man about? Is he a lunatic? Have we any idea?'
Sinclair shook his head. 'He may prove to be, sir.
But I'm inclined to regard him as sane. Frighteningly so. Whatever mayhem he committed in Melling Lodge, all his preparations leading up to it, as well as his getaway, show the most detailed planning.
'And considering the events of Saturday, I'd say he kept his head to a remarkable degree. Instead of persisting with his attack on Mr Madden and the constable, he cut his losses and ran for it while he still had a chance to escape. We have eyewitness reports of him riding through both Oakley and Craydon and the most extraordinary thing, as far as I'm concerned, is that apparently he was going at no more than twenty miles an hour. Granted he didn't want to attract attention, but he must ha
ve felt an enormous urge to put his foot down. The man's an iceberg.'
Sampson clicked his tongue with impatience.
'Now, as to sightings, I'm afraid the news isn't good. After Craydon he effectively disappeared. That's to say, we've had any number of reports of motorcyclists travelling about the countryside, but given it was a Saturday afternoon, that's hardly surprising.
Some of them were stopped by the police, but without result. He seems to have vanished.'
Bennett hesitated. 'At our last meeting you indicated that the robbery was designed to mislead us. Are you still of that view?'
Sinclair looked unhappy. 'That seems less likely now,' he conceded. 'But I'm still puzzled as to why he would risk returning to Highfield.'
'No, really, we can't have that.' Sampson came to life, striking the table with his fist. 'There's a perfectly obvious explanation and it's staring you in the face.
The man's a thief — I've said so from the start. He buried what he stole because he didn't want to be caught with it on him. Two weeks later he went back to collect it. He assumed the police would have left the area by then, and he was right. Madden's presence in the woods was pure chance. My God, he even brought a bag with him so he could load the stuff and take it away. Just look at the facts, man.'
He thrust his head forward, brilliantined hair glinting in the sunlight that came through the window.
'Let me offer you another suggestion, Chief Inspector.
Have you considered that this man may be simply a loner who holed up in those woods? Who saw Melling Lodge as a tempting target and set out to rob it, but lost control of himself I'll grant you he may be deranged. But calling this hole a dugout! Why not say he simply built himself a shelter? Of course he has an Army background — the same is true of most able bodied men in this country. He built what he'd been taught to build — a place to sleep and protect himself from the weather. And as for this gas mask, He picked up the single large drawing and squinted at it. 'I'm glad you know what it is, Madden, because I'm damned if I do.'
He put down the piece of paper and turned to Bennett. 'What is certain, sir, is that the child was a key witness and she was allowed to go to Scotland out of our control and protection. I have strong reservations about that. I think it was an error of judgement.
But it's done.' He made a dismissive gesture.
'Let's concentrate now on what we know and what we can find out and stop cooking up wild theories unsupported by evidence.'
There was silence. Bennett coughed. He looked at Sinclair.
The chief inspector was gazing at the ceiling. 'A loner holed up in the woods who has a motorcycle.
No, I don't think so.' He shifted his glance to Bennett.
'Sir, this man has a job, I believe. He seems to move only at the weekends. Now, it's true he may have returned to collect what he stole. But we must look at the crime as a whole. The bayoneted victims were all killed within seconds of each other — the evidence is clear on that point. He didn't "lose control". He broke into that house with the intention of killing the occupants, and we still don't know why.' He paused deliberately. 'As for Sophy Fletcher, I made my decision on the basis of medical advice — that returning her to her family was the best measure we could take, both for the child herself and as regards the possibility of our obtaining any testimony from her in the future. I've heard nothing to make me change my mind.'
He fixed his cool grey eyes on Sampson. The chief superintendent's muddy complexion turned brick red.
Bennett looked from one to the other. He seemed to be enjoying the confrontation.
'Very well.' He shifted in his chair. 'What now?'
Sinclair consulted his file. 'We're still going through the list of discharged mental patients supplied by the War Office. Other police authorities are helping.
That's a long job. We've put out a general description of the man we're looking for, and the motorcycle and sidecar. Harley-Davidson, through their agents, will supply us with a list of purchasers in the last three years — since the end of the war. We'll start with that, concentrating on the Home Counties.
We may have to extend it later.'
'He could have bought it second-hand,' Bennett observed.
'We'll check those registrations, too. But we have to face the fact he may have stolen the machine, and it may be on false plates.' Sinclair straightened the papers in his file. 'Inspector Madden has come up with an idea that we think might be worth pursuing,' he went on. 'Of course, we've already consulted the Crime Index and there's no criminal on record with a modus operandi remotely resembling this man's. But in spite of that, we'd like to put out a general inquiry to other forces to see if they have anything similar to this case in their records.'
'Surely-' Bennett began, but Sampson cut him off.
'That sounds like a waste of time to me. Several people slaughtered in a house? I think we'd have heard about it, don't you?'
'Yes, indeed, sir.' Sinclair turned his tranquil gaze on the chief superintendent. 'But what if he tried and failed? I'm thinking of an abortive attempt, or perhaps an assault with a weapon similar to the one used at Melling Lodge. Some case still unsolved and unexplained.'
Bennett was pondering. 'How would you do it?' he asked. 'Through the Gazette?'
'Yes, sir.' The Police Gazette, containing particulars of crimes and criminals sought, was circulated daily to all forces of Britain and Ireland. 'We'll list some general information about the case, type of wound and so on, and see if it draws a response.'
Sinclair closed his file. He paused, as though gathering himself. 'Sir, there's one further point I'd like to make. While every effort should be made to track this man down by orthodox police methods, we should recognize the special problems we're faced with and be prepared to look at other ways of approaching the inquiry. Taking up the point you made earlier, as to whether he's sane or not, I think it's time we considered calling in an expert in the field of psychology.'
There was silence in the room.- Bennett shifted uneasily in his chair. Sampson, beside him, raised his head slowly and fixed his gaze on the chief inspector.
'We have a unique situation here,' Sinclair went on, seemingly unaware of the effect of his words. 'We're dealing with a man without criminal connections whose motives we don't understand. My most immediate fear is that he may commit a similar crime or crimes unless we apprehend him. I'd feel better in my own mind if I was sure we hadn't neglected any possible line of investigation.'
Bennett was busy drawing a doodle on his notepad.
He didn't look up.
It was Sampson who spoke. 'I'm surprised to hear you say that, Angus. Really I am.' His tone had changed to one of puzzlement. 'We all know what happens when you bring outsiders into these cases.
Before you know it, every half-baked soothsayer and trick cyclist will be telling us how to solve it.'
'I think you're exaggerating, sir.'
'Am I?' The chief superintendent reached into his top pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. 'From this morning's Express. I happen to have it with me.'
With his other hand he fished out a pair of spectacles and placed them on the end of his nose. 'A lady by the name of Princess Wahletka, a well-known psychic, has offered her services to the police to assist them in solving "the frightful crime of Melling Lodge" — I'm quoting, of course. "They have only to ask, and I am ready to put all my powers at their disposal."' He grinned. 'If you want to take her up, she's appearing nightly at the Empire Theatre in Leeds.'
Two red spots had appeared on the chief inspector's cheeks. 'Excuse me, sir, but you're trying to equate a medical practitioner with a quack.'
'I'm not trying to equate anything, Angus.' The chief superintendent was genial. 'I'm just giving you a friendly warning. So far the press hasn't known how to handle this case — they're as baffled as you are, if you like. Start calling in psychologists and you'll hand them an open invitation. Do you know what this is?'
He shook the clipping unde
r Sinclair's nose. 'This is the tip of your bloody iceberg, is what it is.'
'Chief Superintendent!' Bennett spoke sharply.
'I'm sorry, sir.' Sampson sat back. The smile remained on his lips.
The deputy drummed his fingertips on the table.
He avoided Sinclair's glance.
'Thank you, Chief Inspector,' he said. 'I'll consider your suggestion. Gentlemen, this meeting is concluded.'
He rose from the table.
'That was highly educational. I trust you were taking notes.' Sinclair's file landed with a thud on his desktop.
'I thought the clipping was a nice touch. He just happened to have it with him. And did you notice Bennett back-pedalling for all he was worth? All in all you won't see a finer example of the Ripper complex in action.'
'The Ripper, sir?'
'Jack of the same name. By the time he was done there wasn't a smart alec between here and Temple Bar who didn't have a theory as to who he was and how to nab him, and the only point on which they agreed was that the police were a bunch of lamebrained incompetents who couldn't catch cold in an igloo.'
Madden was grinning.
'You may laugh, but there are people in this building who still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it. They're terrified of opening the door, even a crack.' The chief inspector sat down at his desk. 'Don't blame Bennett,' he said. 'He understands what we're up against. But if we call in an outsider and the newspapers get hold of it — and the chief super will see to it they do — all hell will break loose. Careers are made and lost over cases like this one, and I don't mean yours or mine. Bennett's own future is at stake.'
Late that afternoon the telephone rang on the chief inspector's desk. 'Hullo… yes, he's here. One moment, please.'
He signalled to Madden. Then he got up and left the office. Madden picked up the phone.
'John, is that you?' Helen Blackwell's voice came to him from a long way off. 'Lord Stratton rang Father this morning. He told us what happened to you and Will… Are you all right?' Her voice swelled and faded on the trunk line.