River of Darkness jm-1

by Rennie Airth

  Collecting his bag and tools he retired into the refuge he had built. Now that his preparations were complete he was able to relax, lighting a cigarette and brewing a mess tin of tea on the Primus stove he had brought on his last visit. While it was still light he went through the contents of his bag, picking out those items he meant to leave behind. The stove he wrapped in oilcloth and stowed in a corner with the tinned supplies, following the pattern he had established, preparing himself for several visits and a long period of anticipation.

  But even as he did these things he felt a seed of doubt. He wasn't sure he could wait. His experience at Highfield had been unique, a period when time had seemed suspended, a moment of sweet indecision prolonged to the point where he had temporarily lost the power to act. In retrospect he seemed to have sat for countless evenings in the woods above the village while the excitement mounted in him bit by bit like the slow accretion of coral.

  He felt different now. The pressure inside his chest was like a clenched fist. His desire was growing by the day.

  The last thing he did before leaving the dugout was to cut fresh brush, which he used to camouflage the site, threading the branches into the surrounding undergrowth, creating the illusion of a dense thicket.

  Having made a final inspection of the area to satisfy himself that all was as it should be, he returned to where he had left the motorcycle, taking his bag with him.

  Before wedging it into place in the sidecar he unbuckled the straps and took out a piece of meat wrapped in striped butcher's paper, which he slipped into the pocket of his leather jacket, wrinkling his nose at the gamy smell. He had bought it the day before and it was starting to go off.

  The doors to the drawing-room stood open and the curtains on the windows had been pulled back so that light from inside poured out on to the grass. Two maids were busy with trays, moving back and forth between the house and the table under the trellised vine. Beyond the stretch of lawn illuminated by the lights the garden lay in silvered shadow under the bright moonlight.

  Pike sat with his binoculars nailed to his eyes.

  He had been watching for more than two hours, propped against the trunk of the beech tree, motionless in a well of darkness untouched by the moon's rays.

  The adult members of the family were eating dinner.

  There were three of them, but two he barely noticed. His attention was fixed on the fair-haired woman facing him, whose bare arms and shoulders glowed like ivory in the flickering candlelight.

  Some kind of celebration was in progress. All three were in evening dress. Champagne had been poured at the start of the meal and glasses raised to the older of the two women. Even from a distance Pike could see the wine froth and sparkle.

  He had done this at Highfield. He had sat in the shadows and watched. But try as he might now he couldn't recapture the feeling he had had then: the sense of a pleasure postponed, but within his grasp. A fruit he could pluck whenever he chose.

  The beast stirring within him now cared nothing for patience and detachment. Its demands were insistent.

  He shifted, easing the pressure in his groin.

  He turned his attention away from the table to the edge of the lawn, where the yew alley began, and then traced the course of the path that ran the length of the garden to the croquet lawn. Three-quarters of the way along the yew alley a subsidiary path branched out and led to the gate in the mossed wall. Pike's eye came to rest there.

  But not for long. Slowly, with all the deliberation he could muster, he made the return journey with his glasses, following the pathway back to the yew alley and then up to the lawn and the house.

  He pictured it all in his mind's eye.

  The charge, with the rifle and bayonet thrusting ahead!

  The glass doors shattering!

  He heard the screams. He'd heard them before.

  They only increased his excitement.

  Heart pumping in his chest, he brought the binoculars back to bear on the distant figure of the woman.

  His mouth turned dry at the sight of her bare arms.

  The thought of her body beneath his brought a low growl from his throat.

  'Call me Sadie… I want you to call me Sadie.' He whispered the words.

  At Melling Lodge he had been unable to contain himself. His climax had come too soon, soiling his trousers, while he struggled with the woman on the bed, the shame and the blood and the pleasure all mixed together.

  Recalling those moments now, he made a silent vow.

  This time it would be different. This time he would call on his iron control.

  But the last two hours had shown him he couldn't wait. His need demanded urgent satisfaction. Even tonight would not have been too soon.

  He put down his glasses and lit a cigarette, deliberately allowing his body to cool.

  The following weekend Mrs Aylward would take the train to London on Saturday morning. He had already been informed of her plans. She would go from there to visit friends in Gloucestershire, returning only the following Tuesday. He would have the whole weekend free, and Monday, too, if he chose.

  Pike drew deeply on his cigarette. In a moment his mind was made up.

  He had one more thing to do.

  Extinguishing his cigarette, he rose and started down the hill, slipping between the trees, catlike in the sureness of his footing, a shadow among the shadows. At the bottom he left the treeline and joined the path that led through the water-meadow, walking silently between the ponds where the moon hung motionless on the dark surface of the water.

  When he reached the garden gate he stopped and went down on his haunches. He could hear their voices. The silvery notes of a woman's laugh came to him on the still night air. He thought of her white throat.

  He began to whistle. Softly, almost inaudibly at first. Then a little louder. He went on that way, the grating tuneless air growing in volume all the time.

  He was rewarded after a minute by the sound of a yelp coming from the direction of the lawn. Then almost at once he heard another noise in which whining, panting and scurrying movement were all mingled, and the dog burst into view on the pathway ahead of him, skidding around the corner from the yew alley, heavy ears flapping.

  Growling a challenge, it ran towards the figure crouched behind rhe barred gate.

  It was after midnight when he returned to Rudd's Cross, switching off the stuttering engine of his motorcycle when he was still some distance from the cottage. It had given trouble on the ride back, the carburettor needed cleaning. He pushed the machine for the last hundred yards along the puddle-strewn dirt track up to the shed.

  Once inside, he wasted no time, not bothering to light the paraffin lamp, locating the dust cloth by feel in the pitch darkness and flinging it over the motorcycle.

  He was anxious to get home as soon as possible.

  A long drive lay ahead of him the following day — Mrs Aylward had a client in Lewes.

  Before leaving he cast a glance at the darkened windows of the cottage. He hadn't forgotten the old woman's strange behaviour. Something was troubling her. He must find out what it was.

  He would come early next Saturday. There was much to do.

  Grim-faced, Sinclair strode along the carpeted corridor with Madden at his elbow. 'So Ferris thinks my days are numbered — did you see that piece in Friday's Express? "Is it time for a change?" I wonder, does he know something we don't?'

  A breakdown in the Underground had delayed the chief inspector's arrival at the Yard by half an hour.

  He had paused in his office only long enough to empty the contents of his briefcase on to his desk, secure the cumulative file from the drawer where it resided and signal Madden to accompany him.

  'Let's leave that till later, John,' he said, when the inspector began to tell him about an idea he had.

  'Let's get this over with first.'

  Glancing at his colleague's face, Sinclair was pleased to see him looking rested and alert. He allowed himself to wonder whethe
r a visit to Highfield had figured among Madden's weekend activities.

  '"Informed circles at the Yard,"' he quoted, as he led the way into the anteroom to Bennett's office.

  'That's what Ferris calls his source. Do you think the chief super will have the grace to blush this morning?'

  In the event, they had no opportunity to find out.

  Bennett was alone in his office. The deputy, dressed in funereal black, stood by the window, hands on hips, gazing out at the morning traffic on the river. He turned when they entered.

  'Good morning, gentlemen.' He ushered them to their usual chairs at the polished oak table. Their way led past his desk where a copy of Friday's Daily Express was ostentatiously displayed. 'We're on our own this morning.' Bennett sat down facing them. His brown eyes were expressionless. 'Mr Sampson has another appointment.'

  Sinclair opened his file. Without haste he began to leaf through the typewritten pages. His neat, contained figure showed no sign of strain or anxiety.

  'As you know, sir, we were hoping these wartime killings in Belgium would provide us with information that would assist us in our current inquiries.'

  The chief inspector raised flint-coloured eyes from the file and looked squarely at Bennett. 'I'm afraid thus far they've proved a blind alley.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that.' Bennett shifted slightly in his chair. 'None of these men fits the bill, then?'

  'Mr Madden and I have interviewed two of the four survivors of B Company. Neither was our man. The third, Marlow, is in hospital and the fourth, Samuel Patterson, has been traced by the Norwich police. He's working on a farm near Aylsham. His movements are accounted for.'

  'Yet these men — and their comrades who were killed — were the only ones Captain Miller questioned?'

  'According to the records, yes.'

  'And we know he closed the case.' Bennett frowned.

  'Then logic suggests he believed one of those killed in battle was the guilty man. That's been your assumption — am I right, Chief Inspector?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But you thought he could have been mistaken?

  That it might have been one of these four?'

  'That possibility was in my mind.' Sinclair nodded.

  'But now I've had second thoughts.'

  'Oh?' The deputy sat forward.

  'I've been struck by the fact that none of these men — none of those who survived — was questioned again after they came out of the line. That doesn't make sense. I've looked at the verbal records of the interrogations carefully. Miller bore down hard on them. It's plain he thought they were hiding something. Even if he believed the guilty man among them was dead he would have had the others in again. He wouldn't have let it go at that.'

  Bennett's brow knotted. 'Then the murderer wasn't from B Company after all. Miller must have decided it was someone else.'

  'So it would seem,' Sinclair agreed.

  'But without that memorandum, we're not likely to discover who.'

  'Correct.'

  Bennett sighed. He looked away. 'Is there anything else, Chief Inspector?'

  'Only this, sir.' Sinclair dipped into the file. Selecting a paper, he pulled it out and held it up before him. 'I sent a telegram to the Brussels Surete last week asking them to check their records for us. I was hoping they might have a copy of Miller's report. They don't.'

  His eye met Bennett's over the top of the sheet of paper. 'In fact, according to their records the case is still open.'

  'What?' The deputy sat up straight in astonishment.

  'I don't understand. What does that mean?'

  'Well, for one thing, the British military authorities never informed the Belgian civilian police that the case was closed.'

  The two men looked at each other. Perhaps five seconds elapsed. Then Bennett's eyes narrowed. Sinclair, who had a high opinion of the deputy's quickness of mind, saw the realization dawn.

  'That damned memorandum! It's not lost, is it?

  They just won't give it to us!'

  Sinclair made a slight gesture of dissent. 'Not necessarily, sir. It may well be lost. Now.'

  'You mean someone deliberately got rid of it. But we don't know who, or when?'

  'That seems likely.'

  'The killer himself?'

  Sinclair shook his head. 'I doubt that. Unless he was an MP, and even then…' He slipped the paper back into the file. 'I spoke to Colonel Jenkins on Friday and asked him to put us in touch with Miller's commanding officer during the war. It's possible he may remember something of the case. Incidentally, Jenkins said they're still hunting for the memorandum at the War Office depot. I've no reason to disbelieve him. There could be a variety of reasons why someone in September 1917 decided it would be better to destroy that piece of paper, particularly if they thought the guilty party was dead. It was a brutal crime and the victims were civilians. No need to point a finger at the armed forces, they might have thought. Let the dead bury the dead.'

  Bennett was studying his fingernails. After a few moments he rose and went to the window. He stood with his arms folded looking out. Sinclair glanced at Madden with raised eyebrows. The deputy returned to the table and sat down.

  'Let me sum up, if I may.' He cleared his throat.

  'There's no point in my tackling the War Office on this, no way of prising that memorandum out of them?'

  'I believe not, sir. If it still exists, if they're withholding it deliberately, they'll continue to do so. If not, we'll only antagonize them.'

  Bennett nodded, understanding. His frown returned. 'If you only had a name, something to go on…' He dropped his eyes. He seemed reluctant to continue. 'Then again, it's quite possible the cases are unconnected. The murders in Belgium, the killings here… We can't be sure.'

  'Indeed we can't, sir.' Sinclair carefully aligned the papers in front of him and slid them back into the folder.

  The deputy lifted his gaze. 'Perhaps, after all, it's time to look… in a different direction.' His glance conveyed sympathy.

  The chief inspector acknowledged the words with a slight nod.

  Bennett rose. He turned to Madden. 'Would you leave us, Inspector? I want a word in private with Mr Sinclair.'

  Twenty minutes later the chief inspector walked briskly into his office. The bulky cumulative file flew from his hands and landed with a resounding thud on his desktop. As though in response, the nervous chatter of a typewriter in the adjoining room fell silent.

  Sinclair stood before his desk.

  'I rather hoped the chief super's non-appearance this morning might signal his dispatch to the Tower for immediate execution. But it seems Ferris was right we're the ones scheduled for the block.'

  'I'm sorry, sir.' Madden scowled from behind his desk. 'I think they're making a mistake.'

  'Perhaps. What's certain is Sampson has the assistant commissioner's ear. That's where he was this morning, by the way, doing some last-minute spadework with Sir George, making sure he doesn't change his mind.'

  'Is that it, then? Are we out?'

  'Not quite yet, though I dare say we would be if Parkhurst wasn't due in Newcastle this afternoon for a regional conference. He won't be back till Thursday.

  That's the appointed day. He's called a meeting in his office. Bennett and I are invited to attend. You're excused, John.'

  The chief inspector took his pipe from his pocket.

  He perched on the edge of his desk. 'Poor Bennett.

  He's in the worst position of all, trying to straddle a barbed-wire fence. He knows we're on the right track, even though it keeps going cold. But if he continues backing us he'll find himself exposed. I think he half suspects Sampson's after his job.'

  'Surely not!' Madden was incredulous.

  'Oh, he won't get it.' Sinclair chuckled. 'But our chief super's fantasies know no bounds. Never mind that. You were saying earlier you had an idea. Now would be a good time to hear it.'

  The inspector took a moment to collect his thoughts. 'It all depends on how Mill
er went about his business,' he began.

  'I don't follow you.'

  'He wouldn't have worked alone. He would have had a redcap NCO along with him to take notes and type up his reports. But what we don't know is whether he simply drew a clerk at random from whatever pool was available, in which case it wouldn't be much help to us, or whether he worked with the same man regularly.'

  'You mean if they were a team?' Sinclair frowned.

  Madden nodded. 'If he used the same clerk, then that would be the man who took down the interrogations of B Company and typed up the records.

  He'd be familiar with the case. They might even have discussed it.'

  'You're suggesting this mythical clerk might have known what was in Miller's mind. Who he thought the guilty man was.' The chief inspector looked sceptical.

  'More than that. He'd most likely have typed up that memorandum. And it wouldn't have been a routine job for him. He'd remember what was in it.'

  Sinclair examined the bowl of his pipe. 'So what is it we need to know? The name of Miller's special clerk, if he had one. I'm not sure there's time. Thursday's our deadline.'

  'I know, but I've thought of a short cut,' Madden said. 'Miller was travelling in a staff car when he was killed. It's likely he was on an investigation, which means he had a clerk with him, probably the driver.

  He could be our man.'

  'Now you're telling me he's dead!'

  'He might be.' Madden was unfazed. 'But we don't know that.'

  'Nor do we,' Sinclair agreed after a moment. He gave an approving nod. 'You're right, John, it's worth a try. I'll pester the War Office again. I'm in the mood to twist someone's tail.'

  When she came to a convenient tree stump, Harriet Merrick paused and sat down, fanning her face with the wide straw hat she had put on to please Annie McConnell. (Mrs Merrick had pleaded in vain that the mild October sunshine was hardly likely to cause her sunstroke!) She was finding the gentle slope to the top of Shooter's Hill heavy going today. A slight pain in her chest, like a bolt tightening, had persuaded her to stop and rest for a while. She waited now for the sensation to pass.