Dead of Winter

by Rennie Airth

  ‘It’s not exactly a puzzle, John,’ Sinclair had told his old partner. ‘To quote Styles, it’s more of a conundrum. I’ll tell you more when I come down tomorrow. I’m hoping you can help me with it.’

  A frequent guest, the chief inspector’s visit had been arranged some time before, and he’d been looking forward not so much to the break from his duties it offered, which would be brief, but to the prospect of spending a few hours with friends who over the years had become dearer to him than any. The knowledge that his stay would now be overshadowed by a brutal crime, one to which they were connected, if only by circumstance, had darkened his mood, and it was not until his train was drawing into Highfield station and he glimpsed the familiar figure of his hostess waiting for him on the platform that his spirits had begun to recover.

  ‘Dear Angus …’

  The disagreeable image he retained of the past two hours had evaporated with the kiss of greeting Helen had given him. Still slender, seemingly ageless, and with the movements and gestures of a woman on happy sensuous terms with her life, she had the gift of lending grace to any occasion, even one as commonplace as this – or so the chief inspector had always thought – and the whiff of jasmine he caught as her cheek touched his brought with it the memory of happier days in the past.

  ‘I’ve so many questions to ask you. But it’ll be better if we wait. I know it’s John you want to talk to about this.’

  ‘Not only him. I want your thoughts, too.’

  ‘Why, Angus, I’m flattered.’ Her teasing smile had lightened the moment between them. ‘I’m not used to being included in your old policemen’s confidences.’

  Though quite baseless, the assertion, as intended, had brought a flush to Sinclair’s cheeks. John Madden’s decision to quit the force, made twenty years before, had come as a keen disappointment to him, and for a while at least he had found it difficult to overlook the role his colleague’s wife had played in bringing this about. Her remark now was an affectionate reminder of a time when they had not always seen eye to eye: his reaction to it a tacit acknowledgement of the power she continued to wield over him. A beauty in her day, and to Sinclair’s eyes still a woman of extraordinary appeal, she had always had the capacity to disturb his equanimity; to unsettle his sense of himself. It was a measure of their friendship and of the deep admiration he had for her that far from resenting this he took it as a sign that age and an increasing tendency towards crustiness had not yet reduced him to the status of old curmudgeon.

  The train of recollection set off by her words had continued to occupy the chief inspector’s thoughts during the drive home. It had been a crime as bloody as any in the history of the Yard that had first brought him to Highfield, along with Madden, then an inspector, and his memory inevitably returned to that day as they drove past the high brick wall that hid from view the house where the outrage had occurred. Called Melling Lodge, it had lived under a curse ever since, or so it seemed to Sinclair. Though leased periodically to tenants, and used briefly to house evacuees at the start of the Blitz, it had more often stood empty, and the chief could seldom pass by the wrought-iron gates and the glimpsed garden beyond without a shudder. Today, however, the tremor he felt had more to do with the killing that had taken place in Bloomsbury two nights since and his concern for the effect it might have on the small community of which his friends were a part.

  The early darkness of winter was drawing in by the time Helen turned into the long driveway lined with lime trees, bare of leaves now, but familiar to the chief inspector in all seasons, and drew up before the spacious, half-timbered house where she and Madden had lived since their marriage and which had belonged to her father; and his father before him. No lights were showing in the hall, but when they went inside they found Madden in the drawing-room with the curtains already pulled, kneeling on the hearth adding logs to the fire.

  ‘We’ve had one burning in your room all day, Angus.’ He had risen with a smile to greet their guest and shake his hand. ‘Be sure and keep it going or you’ll freeze.’

  As he shed his coat and went closer to the blaze to warm his hands, Sinclair had cast a covert glance at his old friend, noting with envy his erect bearing and evident vigour. Unlike his wife’s clear face, Madden’s weathered features bore ample testimony to his age – he was past fifty – and to his past, as well, most notably in the shape of a jagged scar on his brow near the hairline that served as a reminder to those who knew his history of his time in the trenches.

  Tall, and striking as much for his appearance as for his air of quiet authority, he was of all the colleagues the chief inspector had known during his long career at the Yard the most memorable.

  And the one he had valued the most.

  ‘As I say, there’s no mystery about how she was killed, not according to the pathologist. Her neck was broken from behind. To be precise, whoever attacked her caught her in a headlock and snapped her spinal cord. She never had a chance to fight back. But that’s part of the problem.’

  Refreshed by a sip of the whisky his hosts had offered him, a precious wartime commodity, Sinclair was ready to go on.

  ‘If the killer had an ulterior motive – rape, for example – it seems highly unlikely he would have seized hold of her that way. It’s true he might have tried to silence her, even render her semi-conscious, but not like that, surely. It’s far too dangerous.’

  ‘I agree.’ Helen interrupted him in a quiet voice. The crackling of the fire had died down in the last few minutes and as the flames diminished, the room, lit by a single table lamp, had grown darker. ‘That’s why boys are taught not to scrag each other when they fight. If he’d wanted to control her he’d more likely have squeezed her throat.’

  ‘Precisely.’ The chief inspector took another sip from his glass. ‘And that was the pathologist’s first guess. He examined the body by torchlight at the scene and guessed she’d been strangled. But there’s no doubt now as to what happened. It seems the murder was deliberate.’

  Madden grunted, but when Sinclair glanced at him, inviting him to speak, he shook his head.

  ‘No, go on, Angus.’

  Famous in his time at the Yard for his silences, for his practice, as Sinclair had once declared, in exasperation, many years before, of staying mum while others made fools of themselves, Madden’s reversion to old habits left the chief inspector with no option but to continue:

  ‘So with that in mind, we’re faced with the question of motive. Why did he kill her? One theory is that he meant to rob her – her belongings, what she was carrying, were strewn all about – but of what? Not money, surely. But Styles found a number of charred matchsticks on and around the body indicating he’d been trying to strike a light in the wind: which in turn suggests he was looking for something. But there’s no way of telling whether he went through her coat pockets, for example, or whether he found her wallet, which ended up under some corrugated iron and could either have fallen there by chance or been tossed away by the killer after he’d searched it.’

  ‘Was there anything in it?’ Madden spoke at last. ‘Anything of value, I mean?’

  Sinclair shook his head. ‘Quite the reverse. It contained her identity card and a small amount of money. Nothing more. So it’s possible he could have removed something from it. But these are all rational questions, and they may be the wrong ones to ask. It’s possible we’re dealing with a disturbed individual, someone who killed the girl for no reason at all, then set about trying to strike a light in order to examine his handiwork. But it’s worth pointing out that lunatics of that sort usually have a weapon of some kind, often a knife, and they seldom attack with their bare hands. At least not in my experience.’

  Sinclair sat back heavily in his chair. He’d already had a long day.

  ‘You asked me earlier, John, if I still thought it was a crime of chance, and the answer is, yes, I do, on balance. But only on balance. We can’t get away from the fact that the act itself was deliberate and that for all we know th
ere may have been a motive behind it. A rational motive. We have to consider the possibility that she was killed by someone she knew.’

  ‘Oh, no! Surely not.’ The exclamation came from Helen. She stared in disbelief at the chief inspector. ‘You mean a man, don’t you? Someone she was involved with?’

  ‘As I say, it’s something we have to consider, and it’s where I’m hoping you and John can help me. Was there anyone here she’d become friendly with? Have you heard any gossip? I might add that her aunt, a Mrs Laski, scoffs at the notion. But she hadn’t seen her niece for nearly two months and wouldn’t necessarily have known of any new development in her life.’

  ‘No, but she knew Rosa, and that was enough.’ Helen’s response was immediate. ‘You never met her, Angus, but if you had you’d understand. It wasn’t just that she kept to herself. She simply had no interest in … that side of life. In men. It was as though she had taken a vow: as if she was still in mourning. John … ?’ She turned to her husband, and Madden nodded in confirmation.

  ‘We can ask around tomorrow, if you like, Angus, but you’ll find it’s a blind alley. Anyway, it’s hard to see some man following her up to London from here with the express purpose of killing her.’

  ‘I agree. But I had to put it to you.’

  The sigh that came from the chief inspector’s lips then was partly one of relief. He knew better than most the distress a murder inquiry brought to any community, and his fear that the trail might lead back to Highfield had prompted him to ring the station commander at Bow Street that morning to inform him that he was going down to the village himself and would assess the need, if any, of extending the investigation outside the capital. Reassured now, he felt able to relax, and to let the wave of tiredness he’d been conscious of for some time wash over him. His stifled yawn caught Helen’s eye.

  ‘You must be exhausted, Angus. And though you haven’t mentioned it, I think your toe is bothering you. Why not go up to your room and have a rest before dinner.’ She rose from the settee. ‘I have to go out myself. We’ve an epidemic of whooping cough in the village, and there are some children I must look in on.’

  Mildly put out to discover he’d failed to hide his discomfort from his hostess’s all-seeing eye, the chief inspector waited until she had left the room. Then he rounded on Madden.

  ‘You’ve been mighty quiet,’ he accused his old colleague. ‘Enough of that. Come on, before I go up, tell me what you think. I’ve given you the facts. What do you make of them?’

  Emerging from the depths of his armchair, Madden leaned forward. His expression hadn’t changed and the chief inspector was unable to gauge his reaction from his eyes, which were dark and deep-set.

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid. Nothing that hasn’t occurred to you already. But there is one thing. I’m still not clear in my mind what Rosa’s movements were that night. How she came to encounter this man. Could you go through them again for me?’

  ‘Willingly.’ The chief inspector put down his glass. ‘As well as I can, that is. We still don’t know her exact route after she reached Waterloo, though it seems likely she came north to Tottenham Court Road by the Underground and then walked from there. Posters with her photograph are being put up along that route. We’re hoping someone will remember seeing her. Once she got to Bloomsbury, however, the situation becomes much clearer. I think I told you about the air-raid warden she bumped into. After they’d exchanged a few words, the girl continued down Little Russell Street while the warden went the other way, up Museum Street towards the British Museum. It seems she was killed within seconds of the two of them separating. And no more than twenty paces from where they’d been standing. So it looks as though she met her murderer coming down Little Russell Street. He must have been walking in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Or following her, surely?’

  Madden’s intervention brought the chief inspector up short.

  ‘Well, yes … I suppose so … technically.’ Sinclair frowned. ‘But there’s no indication of that. They stood there talking for a minute or two and according to the warden there was no one else about.’

  Madden sat pondering.

  ‘Yet you say they bumped into each other in the darkness?’ he went on after a moment. ‘Did she seem to be hurrying? Was she nervous, perhaps?’

  ‘Because she thought someone was following her? John, I’ve just said there was no suggestion of that.’ The chief inspector’s puzzlement showed on his face. ‘It wasn’t only that the warden didn’t see anyone. He didn’t hear any footsteps either. The Bow Street detectives asked him. Mind you, that could be explained by the fact there was a strong wind blowing.’

  ‘Or because the killer heard him speaking to Rosa and stopped.’

  ‘Around the corner, you mean? In Museum Street? Out of sight?’

  Sinclair stared at him, and as he watched, Madden got to his feet. The fire had burned down to a bank of smouldering embers and he stirred it, adding fresh logs to revive the blaze.

  ‘Yes, but if he was following her with the intention of killing her, doesn’t that suggest it was someone she knew?’

  Sinclair resumed speaking, but this time his companion made no reply.

  ‘And didn’t we agree that the odds were against that?’

  ‘True … But there’s another possibility.’

  Madden put down the poker and straightened, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the hearth. He looked down at the chief inspector.

  ‘What if he knew her?’ he said.

  ‘John and I have decided. We’re going up to London for the funeral. Do you know when it will be, Angus? Have the police released Rosa’s body yet?’

  Helen Madden sat back on her heels. She brushed a strand of fair hair from her eyes and regarded Sinclair, who was seated on a tombstone. Seeking to fill in time before the chief inspector’s train departed, they had stopped at the churchyard, where Helen had a task to perform.

  ‘I’m not certain,’ Sinclair said. ‘But I can find out for you. In any case, it won’t be long. There’s no reason for it to be held back. The pathologist has done his work.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘If you let me know what train you’re catching I’ll send your friend Billy Styles with a police car to Waterloo. The funeral will be at Golders Green, I expect. He can run you up there and collect Mrs Laski on the way. I dare say she’d be grateful for a lift.’

  ‘That would be kind, Angus.’ She smiled her thanks. ‘And it means we can take Rosa’s things with us and return them to her aunt. I know you looked through them today, but will the police in London still want to see them?’

  The chief inspector considered the question. He had been watching while his hostess busied herself attending to her family’s plot in the moss-walled cemetery, sweeping it free of dead leaves and branches and trimming the uncut grass with a pair of garden shears. The chore was a necessary one, Helen had explained. Highfield had been without a sexton since the death of the last incumbent the previous summer, and it was unlikely the post would be filled until the war was over. Buried side by side in the square plot were her parents and grandparents. But not her two brothers. Both casualties of the First World War, their bodies lay in cemeteries across the Channel, in what had been, until recently, enemy-held territory; one in France, the other in Belgium. The spot where they might have been interred was occupied by a relatively new gravestone, little weathered as yet, and inscribed simply with the name ‘Topper’ and beneath it the words ‘Mourned by his many friends’. It marked the final resting place of an old tramp whose true name no one had ever discovered but who had been deeply attached to Helen and her husband and cared for by them in his last years.

  ‘I’ll have a word with the detective handling the case,’ Sinclair replied, after an interval. He’d been remembering the old vagrant, and Helen’s determination in particular that he should not end his days in solitude, abandoned by some path or hedgerow. ‘But I don’t believe so. There’s a diary among her stuff, but it’s in Polish
, and the best thing would be for Mrs Laski to look through it and see if it contains anything unusual.’

  The book in question, leather-bound and inscribed with its owner’s name, had been among the effects which the chief inspector had examined earlier at Madden’s farm. They had gone there in the late morning, and May Burrows, the manager’s wife, had shown him up to the room where Rosa Nowak had slept. In her thirties now, May had been little more than a child herself when Sinclair had first come to Highfield. With her that morning had been her daughter, Belle, home on a weekend pass from an ATS barracks in Southampton, and with a dimpled face and a head of dark curls that had reminded the chief inspector of her mother twenty years before.

  ‘Such an easy girl,’ May had told him when she took him upstairs. ‘Good-hearted, too. No trouble, ever. She’d do anything she was asked, and always with a smile. So different from the others we had before her.’

  This last had been said with a knowing look and a shake of the head, and referred beyond doubt to at least two of the three land girls Madden had employed earlier in the war, both of whom had contrived to become pregnant during their time at Highfield. Of them, and their paramours, two signallers from a temporary training camp set up near the village, Helen had remarked that it was worse than trying to keep foxes out of a henhouse. The third, a wan creature from the London suburb of Ealing, had given up her job as a secretary to join the Land Army, seduced perhaps by the vision displayed by a poster put up early in the war in which a smiling girl stood beckoning, a sheaf of golden corn beneath her arm. ‘You are needed in the fields,’ the poster proclaimed, but made no mention of the work involved; of the grinding physical effort farm labour demanded, the backbreaking toil from dawn till dusk. The young woman in question had lasted less than two months before wilting under the strain and being shipped back to London. Thereafter, Madden had managed with the labour he had until the demands of the dairy, which fell more and more on May, had obliged him to look for outside help once more.