The Blood-Dimmed Tide

by Rennie Airth

  He went to the washstand first, but as he bent to open the cupboard doors he had a flash of intuition that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The sensation was eerie, but not unfamiliar. The selfsame feeling had come to him during the war in the few seconds before he was shot, when he had known instinctively, but too late, that a sniper’s eyes were upon him.

  He whirled round.

  The figure of a man had appeared behind him, as if from nowhere. Half hidden in the shadows, he stood at the edge of the circle of light cast by the lamp, in one of the narrow alleys that led into the piles of stored furniture.

  ‘So there you are!’ Angry at being given such a fright, Eddie let his feelings show. ‘Didn’t you hear me call out?’

  The man made no reply. Well dressed, he was wearing a tweed coat with a soft hat of the same material pulled down low over his forehead.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Eddie’s tone sharpened still further. ‘Are you deaf?’

  This time he provoked a response, though not the one he was expecting. The man moved, coming forward into the light, giving Eddie a clearer picture of his face, which was pale beneath his hat brim and without expression.

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  Eddie scowled. There was something here he didn’t understand. It was obvious the fellow had been hiding in the shadows for the past few minutes, not wanting to be discovered. He could easily have slipped away during that time, crept out of the barn and escaped, but instead he had chosen to show himself.

  ‘Don’t you know this is private property?’ he demanded.

  Thus far the man had shown no reaction to the words addressed to him. It was as though he had not been listening. But his eyes, sharp behind gold-rimmed spectacles, were busy. He was studying Eddie closely, examining him from head to toe, and now he spoke:

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. His voice was low and rasping, the accent guttural and foreign-sounding.

  ‘Never mind who I am.’ Eddie fairly bristled with anger. The unblinking stare to which he was being subjected had made him conscious of his own appearance: of his torn clothes and unwashed body. It was quite possible the fellow had taken him for a tramp, which would explain his apparent lack of concern at being discovered trespassing. ‘You’re the one breaking the law. I’ve a good mind to set the police on you.’

  At the word ‘police’, the man’s manner changed. He seemed to stiffen, and as their eyes met for the first time Eddie felt a tingle of alarm. Up till then he’d simply thought the fellow’s behaviour peculiar. Now, looking into the slightly sunken eyes, which reflected the lamplight in yellow glints, he sensed something else, something he couldn’t put a name to which made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle once more.

  He barely had time to take note of his reaction when the man moved again, edging to his right and turning so that the lamp was behind him. To Eddie, the manoeuvre seemed hostile: the light was shining in his eyes now. But he’d faced scenes like this before, a long chain of confrontations starting in his school playground and continuing after he had joined the army, when he’d had to assert himself in the rough society of the barracks. Because he was small, some people thought they could push him around, and he’d learned early on that the only way to take care of yourself was to stand up to them.

  ‘Look, I’ve had just about enough of you, whoever you are,’ he declared roundly. What was a foreigner doing messing about in someone else’s barn? ‘This is your last warning. Either hop it now, or you’ll get what’s coming to you.’

  Suiting words to action, he stepped forward, reducing the distance between them, staring the intruder straight in the eye. Although the fellow hadn’t offered him any violence - he’d been standing all this time with his hands thrust into his coat pockets - his attitude had implied a challenge, and Eddie was pleased to see that change now.

  The man took a step back, raising his right hand in a gesture of surrender. He turned and began to move away towards the doors. Relieved to see the crisis was over, Eddie relaxed himself. The tension of the last few minutes had kept him on edge, his muscles taut as bowstrings. Now he let them go loose, shifting his weight back on to his heels, and was helpless to react when the man struck.

  Without any warning the stranger suddenly wheeled round, bringing his left hand into view and swinging it like a boxer’s punch into Eddie’s unprotected side. So swift was his action Eddie caught only a glimpse of the knife in his hand before it was buried in his flesh. But the force of the blow made him gasp, and as the blade was withdrawn, then driven in a second time, up beneath his ribs, a pain like nothing he had ever experienced shot through his innards.

  He sank to his knees, but was unable to stay upright and fell, like a tree toppling, forward onto his front. All but paralysed by the blows, he thought for a dazed moment he was back in the trenches, lying in the mud after the sniper’s bullet had struck him. Then his mind cleared and he realized what had happened, though not why.

  The event overwhelmed him. He could make no sense of it. Only one thing was certain, and he knew it beyond question as he lay there unmoving. This time there could be no doubt. He was scuppered for sure.

  The floor of the barn was only inches away from his staring eyes and at the periphery of his vision he was aware of a pair of shoes pointing at him. As he watched, one of them drew back, and then came forward, accelerating. His senses, drowned by the flood of pain that was spreading like fire from the centre of his stomach, barely registered the sharp blow to his side.

  He heard a grunt from above, followed by words spoken in a foreign language. Harsh and angry-sounding, they served to jolt him into wakefulness just as his consciousness was fading. Hands grasped at his clothes and the next thing he knew he was being lifted and turned, the barn swinging crazily before his eyes as he rolled over onto his back.

  Once more he almost lost consciousness: the surging pain inside him seemed to have no limit. But when his wits cleared - he was staring at the roof now - he became aware of some activity under way not far from where he lay, and by turning his head a fraction was able to make out the figure of his assailant, who had his back to him and was clearing a pathway into the heaps of stored furniture, pushing aside strips of trailing canvas and shifting some of the smaller pieces.

  Just past his own feet he could see the pitchfork lying beside the gathered hay, but it was too far away for him to reach, and in any case all physical effort was beyond him.

  Or so he thought until he heard the man returning to where he lay and through half-closed lids watched as he crouched to take hold of his legs. It seemed his assailant was bent on dragging his body to some other location, but his first attempt to shift it was thwarted by the boots Eddie was wearing which prevented him from getting a firm grip on his ankles. Muttering, the man tore open the laces and flung the boots aside. He had shed his coat and hat - that much Eddie could see through the mist of pain that enveloped him - but otherwise was little more than a silhouette against the brightness of the lamp behind him as he took a fresh grip and threw his weight back.

  It was the moment Eddie had been waiting for. With what remained of his strength, he jerked his right foot free of the grasping fingers and kicked out with all his might, catching the man flush on the forehead with his heel and sending him tumbling over backwards. His despairing effort was rewarded by a cry of pain as the man rolled free of the upthrust prongs of the pitchfork, plucking at his back and cursing.

  Eddie could do no more. Emptied now and strangely at peace, he watched as his attacker clambered to his feet and, with the pitchfork clutched in his hands and raised to strike, advanced on him.

  He prepared himself for the death blow he knew was coming and was determined not to cry out. But at the end he was spared this final test of courage.

  As he stared unflinching at the looming form above him his consciousness faded and the light that had shone so brightly in his eyes went out.

  23

  ‘I WISH I H
AD better news for you, John. Or any news at all. We’ve been checking hotels and boarding houses, but there’s no trace of him.’ Angus Sinclair’s clipped tones couldn’t disguise the weariness in his voice. At the other end of the telephone line, Madden listened with a heavy heart. ‘It’s still going on, and I’m extending the search to the neighbouring counties. I pray we’re not wasting our time.’

  More than a week had passed since the chief inspector had unburdened himself at their meeting; they had not spoken since.

  ‘And there’s been nothing from abroad?’

  ‘No sightings, if that’s what you mean. But the Swiss have been quick off the mark. The Geneva police have confirmed that Lang’s wanted there on a double murder charge. It’s been so long, the cases had been shelved. But they’re anxious to get their hands on him now.’

  ‘Do they know about his connection with espionage?’ Madden asked.

  ‘They haven’t said so. But they’ve promised to send us some background on him, so we’ll wait and see. We’ve also been in touch with the Belgian police. Lang - or Wahl, as he called himself - kept a small flat in Brussels. It’s been empty since he went to Germany, but he had an arrangement with his concierge to keep an eye on it. She hasn’t heard from him in nearly a year. It looks as though Vane was right: he’s cut and run.’

  ‘Did they search the flat?’

  ‘They did. No incriminating evidence was found and nothing to indicate what sort of man he was, either, what his business might be. Our friends from the Sûreté were naturally curious as to his background, but I was unable to enlighten them.’ Sinclair’s chuckle had a hollow ring. ‘Two interesting points, though. There’ve been no killings with his trademark in Belgium. He knew enough to keep his own doorstep clean.’

  ‘Two points, you said—?’

  ‘Yes, they found a number of works of ornithology in his bookshelves. So the birdwatching link is confirmed. I’ve had Styles making inquiries among the societies, incidentally, as you suggested. Nothing’s come of it as yet. But hope springs eternal.’ The chief inspector’s sigh seemed to suggest otherwise. ‘Will you give my love to Helen?’

  The call came midway through lunch and Madden was relieved not to have to relate its contents to his wife, who had driven up to London earlier that day in response to an appeal from her Aunt Maud, a lady in her eighties, who had fallen and injured her hip the night before and needed comforting.

  Only too conscious of the effect his involvement in the case had had on Helen, his guilt on this account was made heavier by his awareness of the debt he owed her. Having returned from the war a broken man - in his own mind, at least - he knew that the deep happiness he had found, his sense of wholeness restored, came from the assurance her love had given him, and in following her wishes and breaking with his past he had made open acknowledgement of the fact.

  But the brutal murder on which he’d stumbled had sounded a summons he’d found hard to ignore. The hunter’s instinct, for so long dormant in him, had reawakened and as the weeks passed and the police investigation seemed to draw no closer to its quarry he had realized he would find no peace until the man who had turned Alice Bridger’s face to pulp was brought to answer for it.

  Like his old chief, he was tormented by one anxiety in particular: that the longer the killer remained at large, the more likely it was he would strike again. But when news of a fresh tragedy reached him at the close of that same day, it came from a quarter he had not foreseen.

  ‘It was Molly Henshaw found him, sir. She’d been taking him his meals each day. After his wife left, that is ...’

  ‘Mrs Bridger left her husband?’ Madden was finding it difficult to come to terms with what Will Stackpole was telling him. The Highfield constable, tall in his helmet, stood like a pillar in the misty driveway in front of the house. Drawn up a little way off was an old Morris with its bonnet raised. Billy Styles was leaning on the mudguard, peering down at the motor.

  ‘Not left, as such, sir. She hadn’t walked out on him. But she said she couldn’t go on living in that cottage, not with the child gone, not with the memories. So she went off to live with her sister in Liphook. Bridger stayed on. He had his job, I suppose, but even there things weren’t going too well. He’d started drinking. Anyway, the farmer he worked for got rid of him not long ago, and after that he went to pieces, Molly said. They were trying to get his wife to come back, or him to leave, but I reckon Jim had his mind made up by then. Poor Molly, though. To come on a man hanging from his own rafters! Now that was wrong ... he should have thought what he was doing ... who it was who’d find him.’

  Lost for words, Madden stared at the ground. He had got back himself only a short while before, having fetched Rob from school, in time to receive a call from Helen who had rung to report that Aunt Maud was being difficult and she would not be able to return until the following day. As he put down the phone he’d heard the sound of a car approaching, its engine labouring.

  ‘The Henshaws have got word to his wife. She’s coming over. I left Bert Thomas, from Craydon, to handle things.’

  Madden shook his head helplessly. In his mind was the memory of the child’s body lying sprawled on the bank of the stream while the thunder crashed above. Catching a look in the constable’s eye, he saw that they shared the same bitter thought.

  ‘It’s never just the victim, is it?’ Stackpole’s growl came from deep in his chest. ‘It’s everything else that comes with it, the pain it spreads, the damage it does ... What I wouldn’t give to get my hands round that bastard’s neck!’

  The sound of footsteps approaching on the gravel made Madden look up. ‘How’d you come to be there, Billy?’

  ‘I happened to be at Albury, sir.’ The sergeant wiped his oil-smeared fingers on a piece of rag. ‘I heard there was some trouble at Brookham, so I drove over ... and found Will.’

  ‘Bert Thomas had rung me earlier,’ Stackpole explained. ‘I managed to get a lift in the post van, but there wasn’t much I could do when I got there.’

  The three men stood in silence for a few moments. Then Madden stirred.

  ‘Come inside, both of you. We’ll have a drink together.’

  ‘Not for me, thank you, sir. I ought to be getting back.’ Stackpole’s glance remained grim beneath his helmet.

  ‘Let me at least run you into the village, Will.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather walk.’ The constable straightened. ‘Yes, I could do with a breath of fresh air.’ He shook Madden’s hand and then clapped his colleague on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for the lift, Billy. I’ll see you again soon.’

  Wheeling about, he strode off down the drive. Madden watched as his figure disappeared into the mist-wreathed darkness.

  ‘Albury?’ He glanced questioningly at Billy.

  ‘I went there to see a birdwatcher, sir. Your idea, I believe?’ The sergeant smiled. He’d purposely stood apart while the two older men had spoken together, feeling they might want to share their grief in private. But he hadn’t missed the agonized expression that had crossed Madden’s face when he heard what the other had to tell him.

  ‘Mr Sinclair told me you were handling that line of inquiry. Have you had any luck?’

  ‘Not so far. We’ve had plenty of reports of strangers spotted here and there, but no one’s been able to identify Lang. I’ve been getting around a good bit, seeing plenty of the countryside.’ The sergeant grinned. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure I’ll be going anywhere in the near future.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the Morris. ‘The Yard gave me that when I went to Henley. She started playing up this morning. Will and I were lucky to get this far.’

  Seemingly oblivious of the thickening mist, Madden stood brooding. ‘Stay the night,’ he said suddenly. ‘No, I mean it, Billy. Helen’s away. I’ll be glad of your company. So will the children. I’ll get someone from the village to look at your car in the morning.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no bother, sir.’ The sergeant was pleased t
o accept the invitation. He knew his old chief wouldn’t want to be alone. Not that evening.

  ‘Quite the contrary.’ The frown darkening Madden’s brow lifted. ‘Your presence will be hailed by one and all. Rob has a long list of questions to put to you, I know, and as far as Lucy’s concerned, you need only appear in person to make it a red-letter day. She’ll be as pleased as punch.’

  24

  ‘THERE’S NOT much we can do for the moment, Sal. Except wait and see. One thing puzzles me, though. If Eddie’s got a problem, why hasn’t he been in touch?’

  Fretting, Sam glanced at his watch again. It was after ten and still there was no sign of the client Mr Cuthbertson had asked him to meet. He and Sal had driven out here to Tillington earlier that morning; to a farm just this side of Petworth, which some prospective buyer was showing an interest in.

  It was a side of the business Mr Cuthbertson normally dealt with himself, taking customers around properties. But that morning he’d had a dentist’s appointment: one he couldn’t postpone, either.

  ‘It’s a wisdom tooth, Sam, and it has to come out pronto.’ Mr Cuthbertson had rung him the previous evening, sounding strange on the phone, as if his tongue didn’t fit in his mouth. He said his jaw had gone up like a balloon. ‘Hitchens is the fellow’s name. I’d have put him off, but he’s coming all the way from Horsham, and bringing his wife with him, so she can look over the house. It sounds as though he’s ready to make an offer. I don’t want to discourage him.’

  Sam had assured his employer it would be no trouble, though in fact going out to Tillington that morning was inconvenient, since he usually spent Tuesdays on the other side of Midhurst, visiting properties to the west of the town, including Coyne’s Farm.