River of Darkness jm-1

by Rennie Airth

  At one o'clock he broke off to heat a tin of stew on his spirit stove and brew a mess tin of tea. Then he cleaned and put away his utensils and began to unpack his bag.

  Examining the gas mask he frowned at the discovery of a small tear in the canvas hood beside one of the straps. Obsessively tidy, he would have mended it on the spot if he'd had needle and thread with him. The first time he had used a mask, in his attack on the farmhouse in Belgium, he'd worn it simply to hide his identity in case he left survivors. He had blown his whistle to cause confusion. (But it was his own pulses that had been set racing!) At Bentham, in Kent, he had burst into the house bareheaded. It had been a mistake. In the bedroom upstairs, when he dragged the woman from her bath to the bed, she had looked into his eyes. Screaming, she had begged him to stop and Pike had found he could not endure the sensation of having his face uncovered to her gaze.

  The shame of it.

  He had killed her quickly. Nothing had gone well at Bentham.

  Although he could easily have devised a more convenient cover for his face, he recalled the fierce satisfaction of his first assault, when he had worn full military uniform, and soon afterwards he had broken into an Army surplus warehouse in Dover and stolen what he needed, including a gas mask. At Melling Lodge the woman's screams had left him unmoved. It was only the excitement of having her in his arms, crushed beneath him on the bed — excitement which had boiled up and overflowed too soon — that had prevented him from achieving the goal he hoped to attain that night.

  The afternoon wore on. The light in the dugout dimmed as the sun declined. Overhead the bright blue autumn sky of the morning had paled. Fleecy clouds shaped like scallops drifted in from the west.

  Pike took up his rifle. He had stolen the weapon from a barracks in Caterham when he was working for a construction crew installing a new plumbing system in the camp. For more than two years after his return from France — he'd smuggled himself aboard an empty supply vessel in Boulogne harbour — he had lived hand to mouth, picking up odd jobs, sometimes breaking into houses to steal food and money. It was only after he had obtained his post with Mrs Aylward that the grim purpose he had found for his existence began to take shape in his mind.

  He had already checked the firing mechanism — he did it as a matter of course whenever he unpacked the weapon — but from habit he settled down to clean it, drawing pieces of two-by-four through the barrel with a weighted cord, oiling the breech. He checked the magazine to see that it was fully loaded.

  When everything else was done he reached into his bag again and brought out a flat leather case, fastened with brass catches, and a whetstone wrapped in shammy. He had saved the honing of his razor until last.

  He took it from the padded case. The ivory handle was yellowed with age. The blade glinted blue in the pale sunlight. It had been in his family for three generations. Together with his hunter timepiece it was the only souvenir he had of his father.

  Detective Constable Styles walked grim-faced along the woodland path, two paces behind Inspector Drummond who in turn followed in Madden's tracks.

  Billy was sulking. He had felt humiliated all morning, ever since he had been barred by Chief Inspector Sinclair from drawing a revolver along with the other men of the Scotland Yard contingent. Billy had stepped up to the grilled counter to sign the book, but at that moment the chief inspector, who was standing nearby talking to Madden, glanced over his shoulder and said to the armoury sergeant, 'That won't be necessary,' giving no further explanation, and leaving Billy little option but to do a smart about-turn and walk away with his face on fire and thoughts of homicide not far from his mind. He had received training in the use of firearms as a uniformed constable and, as far as he knew, had passed the course satisfactorily.

  The chief inspector had no right, he reckoned.

  It hadn't helped when Hollingsworth, checking his own weapon, had winked at him. 'Don't take on, lad.

  The guv'nor knows what he's doing. It's for your own protection.' He grinned. 'And ours.'

  Billy hadn't said a word to anyone since, but unfortunately nobody seemed to have noticed. Least of all Madden, beside whom he had been wedged in one of the two cars that had brought the men down from London. The inspector had sat silent throughout the trip, gazing out of the window, lost in thought.

  They were walking now in single file through the woods, a line of uniformed policemen strung out behind the three detectives. Madden had chosen a route well away from the treeline, which bent in a slow curve until it met the wooded knoll where the gamekeeper was said to be posted. No longer, though!

  Glancing up from the leaf-strewn path Billy spotted a man wearing rough tweeds and carrying a shotgun hurrying towards them. Madden had already seen him and brought the column to a halt.

  'Hoskins, sir!' the man called out as he drew near.

  'Madden's the name. Is he on the move?'

  'No, sir.' The keeper came up beside them. He was in his forties with red, weathered cheeks and a stubbled chin. 'But there's trouble over on the other side, near the pond. You can't see 'em from here but it looks like a troop of Girl Guides. They're settling down by the water.'

  'Christ!' The exclamation came from Drummond.

  Madden thought. He beckoned to Billy. 'I want you to run back the way we came. Tell the chief inspector what Hoskins has told us and say I've ordered you to work your way round till you get to the pond. Stay out of sight as long as you can, but if you have to show yourself take off your hat and jacket and roll up your sleeves. Try to look like someone out for a Sunday-afternoon stroll. Find out who's in charge of those Guides and get them moved away.' Madden thought some more. 'You'll probably have to show your warrant card, so you can say this is a police operation and we require the area to be cleared. Stay there when they've gone. I'll be round later after I've got the men posted on this side. Understood?'

  'Yes, sir.' Billy was already on his way. Now he would show them.

  Within ten minutes he was back at the shallow bowl where the chief inspector sat in the shade beside Sergeant Hollingsworth smoking his pipe. Half of the uniformed squad remained with him. It was planned that Sinclair would lead one of the armed groups and Drummond and Madden the other two. It was going to take a while to get all the men positioned. Billy explained what the new problem was and how Madden proposed to deal with it.

  'I think I know who that lot are.' Constable Proud foot had stayed behind with the chief inspector. 'I'd better go along and have a word with them.'

  'Please, sir.' Billy spoke up. 'Mr Madden doesn't want any uniforms spotted.' He hoped he was right.

  'He told me if I had to show myself I should take off my jacket and try to look… unofficial.'

  'I'm sure you'll manage that all right, Constable.'

  The ghost of a smile crossed the chief inspector's lips. Billy was trying to work out exactly what he meant.

  'Get along with you, then.'

  He took to his heels again. He believed he could work his way round to the pond in twenty minutes, no more, but once the trees gave out he was forced into an ever-widening circle, seeking dead ground out of sight of the thicket, and it was fully half an hour before at last he saw ahead of him the flicker of blue skirted figures and beyond them the glint of sunlight on water.

  He was on a well-trodden footpath shielded by a line of laurel bushes, which led directly to the pond.

  The bushes gave out well short of the water's edge, but Billy felt the time had come to show himself. He took off his hat and jacket — and, as an afterthought, his collar and tie — transferred his wallet to his hip pocket and then made a bundle of his discarded garments and tucked them under a bush. Rolling up his sleeves he walked rapidly along the path until he reached the end of the line of laurels, where he slowed his pace to a stroll. Hands in pockets he approached the group of Guides, who were busy collecting sticks and brushwood from the ground. He counted up to two dozen. Four of the older girls were kneeling beside a tripod with a kettle hanging
from it in readiness for the fire that would be lit beneath. As Billy came up one of them rose.

  'Yes, young man? What can I do for you?'

  Under her blue felt hat she was revealed as a woman in her mid-fifties with a tight-lipped look that suggested a temper barely under control. Hostile brown eyes examined him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  'I'm sorry to disturb you, miss… madam.' He was flustered by the sight of the belted uniform adorned with badges. 'I'm going to have to ask you to leave this area.'

  'What did you say?' The woman appeared to levitate before Billy's startled gaze. 'Are you aware this is public land? You have no right whatsoever-'

  'No, please-' he interrupted her, 'you don't understand.

  I'm a policeman.' Over her right shoulder he could see the stunted trees and tangled brush of the thicket. It was no more than two hundred yards away.

  'I don't believe you.' The scornful gaze took in his bare forearms and braces. His collarless shirt. 'You look like a scruff to me.'

  Billy reached into his hip pocket for his wallet — and then froze. Something had moved in the thicket.

  He caught a glimpse of a man's figure crouching at the fringe of the brush. Sun glinted on metal. He looked again, but like a mirage the figure had vanished.

  He moved deliberately, edging around so that his back would be turned to the thicket.

  'What are you doing? Why are you moving like that?' The woman's eyes narrowed with suspicion. 'Cynthia! Alison! Come over here.'

  She spoke over her shoulder. Two of the girls kneeling by the tripod rose and joined them, standing behind her like bodyguards. They were in their early teens and plainly nervous and unsure of themselves and the situation.

  Billy held out his hand, hoping the gesture would not be seen from the thicket, which was now behind him.

  'This is my warrant card. Please look at it carefully.'

  The woman peered suspiciously at the square of white cardboard as though it might be a scorpion he was offering her. Finally she took it from his hand.

  'In that thicket behind me — please don't stare at it — there's an armed man whom we mean to arrest,' he began.

  The woman looked up from the card. Her glance went immediately over his shoulder. The two girls were looking in the same direction.

  'There are twenty policemen in the woods beyond-'

  'I warn you, young man, if you're making this up…!'

  Billy was becoming desperate. He wanted to take hold of this old bitch and shake her hard. He wanted to tell her to stop being pig-headed and self-important and listen to what he was saying. But he had had the example of Madden before him for the past two months and he recalled the inspector's words to him at Highfield.

  'I assure you I'm not making it up,' he said quietly.

  'You've seen my card. I work at Scotland Yard. Some of the policemen over there are armed. It's possible that shots will be fired in the next half-hour. I want you to get these children together and take them away from here immediately.' He stared back at her.

  'Please, miss…' One of the girls at her shoulder shuffled nervously.

  'Oh, very well!' She thrust Billy's card back at him.

  'But I warn you, young man, you haven't heard the last of this!'

  She spun round on her heel and put her hand into the patch pocket sewn on to her uniform. In the nick of time Billy saw what was about to happen.

  'No, don't!' He grabbed hold of her wrist as she brought the police whistle up to her lips. 'You mustn't use that whistle!'

  'Take your hand off me!' Her lips had gone white with rage. 'Did you see that, Cynthia? This officer… this so-called officer manhandled me. I'm going to report him and you will be my witness. Manhandled!' she repeated, seeming to relish the word.

  Red-faced with anger himself, Billy said nothing.

  He watched as she turned away from him and clapped her hands. 'Girls! Get into line! We're leaving! This man has spoiled our afternoon.'

  The blue uniforms gathered. Billy felt the weight of their disapproval. When they had lined up in twos the woman cast a final glare at him.

  'Mr Styles,' she said. 'Yes, Mr Styles. I shan't forget that name.'

  The Guides marched away down the footpath. Billy was hardly aware of their departure. All his thoughts were focused on the presence in the thicket behind him. He knew he was being watched. A hardened killer… The chief inspector's words came back to him. He remembered what had happened to Madden and Stackpole in the woods above Highfield and he felt an overpowering urge to move. To run!

  Instead, he forced himself to stroll up and down the edge of the pond for a few minutes. When he spotted a flat stone on the ground he picked it up and skimmed it across the water's surface. Then another.

  His knees were shaking and his mouth had gone dry.

  Finally, as though bored with the amusement, he ambled back along the footpath. As he reached the cover of the laurels his knees gave way and he stumbled and fell to the ground. His cigarettes were in his jacket and he wanted one badly. But for a while he simply sat where he was in the shade of the bushes blinking away the sweat that ran down his forehead, waiting for his heartbeat to slow.

  He marvelled how the minutes he had just passed had seemed to stretch into years.

  William Merrick lifted his head from under the silver bonnet of the Lagonda. His brow was disfigured by a smear of oil. He rubbed his withered arm, massaging the hand that would never do quite what he wanted of it. Shutting his eyes for an instant, he shook his head as though to clear it, then dipped back under the bonnet.

  His mother watched from the window of her bedroom in despair. The suitcases, which had been strapped to the wings of the long chassis, had been removed and stood on the gravel driveway. The rest of the luggage, a small mountain of it, was still packed in the dicky. But for how long?

  Mrs Merrick looked at her watch. It was nearly half past four.

  They had been on the point of leaving — the entire household, Hopley included, had gathered on the doorstep to wave goodbye — when the car's motor had simply died. Mrs Merrick had heard it shudder and cough as William reached up to fit his goggles over his eyes, and the next moment it had fallen silent.

  After a couple of attempts to crank it back to life the car was an old model with no self-starter — he had ordered everyone to get out, unbuckled the straps holding the suitcases and lifted up the bonnet.

  Charlotte had climbed out of the front seat and the children and their nanny from the back. For a while everyone stood around watching William at work.

  Then they had drifted away. Only Harriet Merrick had remained on the doorstep, as though transfixed, disbelieving, until Annie came out to rescue her.

  'Now take that look off your face, Miss Hattie,' she said severely, as she led her mistress back into the house. 'Give the poor boy a chance. He'll not get it mended if you stand there watching him.'

  She settled Mrs Merrick in her room, where she was left to reflect bitterly on the fact that only six months before they had had a chauffeur — one Dawson — and that during his reign the Lagonda had never given a day's trouble. But Dawson had left to return home to Yorkshire and since then William had felt able to handle the car himself, with occasional help from Hobday, the village mechanic. It had been clear to Mrs Merrick for some time that her son overrated his skill and knowledge in the matter of managing an automobile — there had been a number of embarrassing breakdowns — but she had thought it wiser to hold her tongue. Now she wished she had been less reticent.

  Rose and the upstairs maid, Elsie, were packed and ready to leave themselves and they had promised to send Hobday back to Croft Manor as soon as they reached the village. But the only emissary who arrived from Stonehill was the mechanic's twelve-year-old son, who reported that his father had gone to Crowborough for the day and wouldn't be home till nightfall.

  So William had laboured on, his tools in their oilskin cover laid out on the ground by his feet.

  M
eanwhile, Charlotte busied herself rearranging the day. The children had been placated with a picnic in the garden, which their mother and Annie supervised.

  Sandwiches were sent out to William. Mrs Merrick remained in her room.

  At two o'clock Charlotte rang the Hartstons in Chichester to say they would be arriving later than expected. She added a rider that they might not get there at all that afternoon, in which case they would stop off briefly on their way through the following day.

  Mrs Merrick came down at four o'clock to join her daughter-in-law in the drawing-room. Charlotte was still in her travelling clothes, her long fair hair drawn up in a net. Tea was served to them by Agnes, one of the downstairs maids, who had volunteered to stay on an extra day.

  Despite her daughter-in-law's sympathetic presence Mrs Merrick found it almost impossible to speak. A feeling of terror had gripped her as she lay on her bed.

  The dread, to which she could put no name nor ascribe to any cause, reminded her vividly of the agony of mind that had awoken her on the night of her younger son's death in France four years before. She had tried to tell herself it was the anniversary — now so close that had brought back the memory of the pain she had suffered. But even as her mind accepted the explanation, some other part of her, something deeper and darker, from the very depths of her being, rejected it.

  'I'll go and speak to William again.'

  As Charlotte prepared to rise they heard footsteps in the hall outside. They went past the door to the cloakroom. After a minute they returned. The door opened and William Merrick put his head in. 'We're getting there,' he said.

  He shut the door before either of them could speak.

  The two women looked at each other, sharing the same thought. Quite soon it would be too late to leave. They would have to spend the night at Croft Manor.