At last, the drug began to take hold. At first she thought she was imagining it. The effect came in waves, ebbing and flowing. Gradually a pleasant sense of helplessness slid over her. The barbiturates made her feel as if she were in a lift going down and down into the bowels of the earth. There was nothing she could do, even if she’d wanted, other than sink into the welcoming darkness. The tablets blunted all emotions – joy, sorrow, anger and despair. Death must be like this, she thought, when everything has its true value, which is nothing.
She felt very peaceful. She was puzzled, too. The beast had come to her tonight. But how could that be possible? The beast was dead.
Chapter Three
On Sunday, breakfast at the Bull Hotel was a subdued affair. The solitary waitress moved to and fro between the tables as though there were an invisible yoke across her shoulders. Carn sat at one table, Yateley at another.
As Carn was contemplating the grey interior of a boiled egg, the manager came into the dining room. He smoothed both wings of his RAF moustache and advanced, hesitantly and by a circuitous route, towards Carn’s table.
Yateley waylaid him. ‘Could you have my bill made up? I want to leave immediately after breakfast.’
‘Yes, of course, sir.’ The manager added mechanically, ‘I hope you have enjoyed your stay.’
Yateley did not reply. The manager edged closer to Carn’s table. Carn looked up from his book, and their eyes met in the big mirror.
‘I’ve had them bring your bags down. Mr James,’ the manager said hurriedly, looking down at the carpet. ‘They’re in reception.’
Carn stared up at him. ‘I’ll collect them later. Around lunch time, perhaps.’
‘But I understood from Inspector Thornhill—’
‘Do you know,’ Carn interrupted, ‘if you dropped this egg, it would bounce?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ the manager said. ‘An amusing thought, eh?’
‘But I’m not laughing, am I? See if they can do me one with the white hard and the yolk runny. All right?’
Chapter Four
Edith heard her husband whistling as he came downstairs. He opened the kitchen door and the children squirmed with anticipation. The parent who rarely put in an appearance had an unfair advantage over the one who was always there.
Richard Thornhill was smiling as he came into the room. He dropped a kiss on Edith’s hair, and she smelt Palmolive shaving cream. He sat down opposite her and began to eat his egg. He was wearing his best suit because they were all going to St John’s for the Remembrance Day service.
While they were eating, the children fired questions at their father. They wanted to know how they would spend the rest of the day after lunch. Thornhill promised them a drive in the car.
‘We could go and have a look at the forest,’ he said, his eyes meeting Edith’s. ‘If we’re lucky we might get a bit of sun and the kids can run around. The leaves should be worth looking at.’
Something had happened, Edith knew, something that had relaxed the tension between them. The strain was still there, but it had slackened.
Richard finished his egg and took a slice of toast. David and Elizabeth squabbled over who should pass him the marmalade. He looked across the table at Edith.
‘I met a Member of Parliament last night,’ he said.
‘The Lydmouth one?’
He shook his head. ‘Chap called Yateley, Oliver Yateley. He was staying at the Bull. I think he’s on the radio, sometimes.’
‘I know. He’s got a nice voice. Touch of Yorkshire in it.’
‘Which party?’
‘Labour, I think. He’s only a backbencher. He was on the wireless the other night, in fact. They were talking about the abolition of capital punishment.’
Richard grunted. ‘What does he know about it? He’s probably never met a murderer in his life.’
Edith frowned at him: she felt that the children were too young to hear this sort of conversation. ‘What was he doing at the Bull? And how did you come to meet him?’
‘He was visiting a friend. Then he had a little too much to drink and one of Lydmouth’s worthies decided he needed teaching a lesson. I happened to be passing and I had to sort them out.’
‘An MP? You’d think he’d be more careful about that sort of thing – if only as a matter of self-preservation.’
‘I suppose an MP can be as stupid as anyone else when he’s had a few drinks. It was all rather petty.’
At that moment, the telephone began to ring, shattering the fragile truce. David, who was old enough to be aware of the implications, screwed up his face. Edith pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘I’ll answer it,’ she said abruptly.
She went out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her. The telephone was in what they called the dining room, though at present it lacked a dining table. She picked up the handset and recited their still unfamiliar number into the receiver.
‘Mrs Thornhill? It’s headquarters, Sergeant Fowles speaking. Could I have a word with Mr Thornhill, please?’
‘I’ll fetch him.’
She put the phone down. Anger surged through her, surprising her with its violence. Yet again the job was going to take Richard away from them. Yet again the children would spend all day whining for their father. Yet again she and the children would sit down for their Sunday lunch and pretend they were a complete family. Before their marriage, Richard had told her that it wasn’t much fun being a policeman’s wife. At the time she hadn’t believed him.
He was already in the hall. As he passed her, he murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not enough,’ she said.
Chapter Five
The police car turned into Victoria Road and pulled up outside the Thornhills’ house. Thornhill, who had been waiting at the window, gave David and Elizabeth a hug apiece and dropped them on to the sofa. ‘Goodbye,’ he called down the hall. Edith was washing up. There was no answer.
He was already wearing his overcoat. Picking up his hat and umbrella, he went out to the car. Kirby was in front with the uniformed driver. Thornhill got into the back seat. The radio chattered quietly.
‘Morning, sir,’ Kirby said. ‘Rum business, isn’t it?’
Thornhill waved at the two pale faces at the bottom of the sitting-room window; their features were blurred because their breath had misted up the glass. The driver let out the clutch and the car moved smoothly away.
‘Any further news?’ Thornhill said.
Kirby shook his head. ‘Not really. There wasn’t a WPC available, so the wife of the local constable has gone in to sit with Miss Harcutt. Oh, and Mr Williamson says he’ll be along after church.’
‘Does Dr Bayswater know?’
‘Yes, sir. He’ll join us there as soon as he can.’
Thornhill settled into his seat. Kirby’s keenness exasperated him. So did the man’s fresh, rested face. The sergeant was due to be on duty today in any case.
‘Sir? I saw Carn and Charlie Meague last night.’
‘Where?’
‘They were drinking in the Bathurst Arms. I don’t think they saw me. We were in the lounge, you see, me and the girl, having a drink after the pictures, and they were in the public. I just caught a glimpse of them when I went to the gents.’
‘What were they doing?’
‘Just talking. Judging by their faces, it was business rather than pleasure.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About nine thirty.’
‘I had a word with Carn last night – before you saw him – while he was having his dinner. He should be leaving Lydmouth today.’
They were nearly at Edge Hill. Two hundred yards before the green, they passed a knot of men gossiping and smoking outside the hut which served as the local headquarters of the British Legion. One or two were in uniform, but most wore dark civilian clothes. Thornhill had a confused impression of flat caps and bowlers, poppies and medals. One man had shouldered his umbrella like a rifle.
The car turned into the drive of Chandos Lodge. The local constable had had the sense to get the gates open. He was waiting for them at the front door, a thin man with a worried face, probably on the verge of retirement; he had forgotten to do up one of his tunic buttons. Kirby introduced him as Lincoln.
‘I tried not to touch anything, sir. But it’s very hard to know what’s been taken. The place is in a terrible state, but then it usually is. My wife knows Maggie Forbes, she helps out with the cleaning, and she says—’
‘Where’s Miss Harcutt?’ Thornhill interrupted.
‘She’s in the kitchen with the wife. I didn’t know where to put her. Her dad’s room is the only one with a fire. The wife made her some tea.’
Kirby and Lincoln followed Thornhill into the hall. It was very cold.
‘I opened the doors and windows,’ Lincoln said. ‘There was a terrible smell of gas when I first got here.’
‘Who called you?’ Thornhill asked.
‘Miss Harcutt, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Near out of her mind, she was. Ran across the green to our house – she just had an overcoat over her night things and wellingtons on her feet.’
They reached Harcutt’s room. Lincoln opened the door and stood aside to allow Thornhill to precede him. The room still smelled faintly of gas. There were other smells too, of alcohol and incontinence and old age. Thornhill walked slowly towards the fireplace, taking care not to brush against anything.
Major Harcutt was slumped in the armchair in front of the fireplace. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. There was a damp patch on his trousers. Apart from the colour of his skin, he looked as he had in life.
His face was bright pink. Thornhill had expected that. Coal gas contained up to ten per cent carbon monoxide, which fastened on to haemoglobin, the red pigment of the blood, and prevented it from combining with oxygen. There would have been plenty of time during the long winter night for Harcutt to absorb a fatal dose. Alcohol had probably helped to immobilise him: there was still half an inch of whisky in the glass and the bottle on the table was a third full.
Thornhill touched one of the veined hands. It was cold. Harcutt wasn’t officially dead until the doctor said he was. But the life had already left this mass of flesh and bone and the inexorable processes of decay were at work. None of the policemen needed to be told that.
For a moment, Thornhill stood still. His eyes darted about the room. The faded carpet between Harcutt’s chair and the bureau was dotted with poppies. The sash window was wide open at the top and the curtains moved gently in the wind. He noted the bottle of sleeping tablets on the mantelpiece.
‘Who turned off the gas?’ he asked Lincoln.
‘Wasn’t me, sir. First thing I checked when I got here.’
‘What exactly did Miss Harcutt tell you?’
‘Not a lot. And she weren’t making much sense, either. It’s the shock, look. Kept muttering about gas. She must have smelled it when she came downstairs, come in here and turned it off.’
Thornhill could see too many possibilities for comfort. He looked at Kirby. ‘I want the full treatment. Get on to headquarters. We’ll also need to keep out the sightseers.’ He turned back to Lincoln. ‘How many men would you need to seal off the grounds?’
‘One for the front, one for the back gates and maybe a third man to keep an eye on the back wall. You can climb over in places.’
Thornhill turned back to Kirby. ‘Got that? Three uniformed men. Lincoln, you’d better take me along to the kitchen.’
Mrs Lincoln looked up when her husband ushered Thornhill into the kitchen. Her relief was obvious. She and Antonia Harcutt were sitting at the kitchen table. There was a pot of tea between them. Antonia sat with her hands on her lap, staring straight in front of her. She was still wearing her overcoat over her dressing gown and wellington boots on her feet.
‘I’m Inspector Thornhill. We met on Friday afternoon, if you remember. I came to ask your father something.’
Antonia’s eyes did not move.
‘Won’t even drink her tea,’ Mrs Lincoln said in a loud, chiding whisper. ‘She’s like my brother’s youngest was after the bomb hit their house. Their doctor said, the best thing—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lincoln.’
The flow of words stopped. Thornhill drew up a chair and sat down. He glanced behind him at Lincoln and gestured with his eyes. The constable understood and left the room.
‘Antonia, I need to know what happened.’
She licked her lips. A line of dried dribble ran down from one corner of her mouth.
Mrs Lincoln leant forward, her round face lined with concern. ‘Perhaps there’s someone she’d like with her. Is there, my love?’
Thornhill gave Mrs Lincoln a nod. ‘Of course. Antonia, can we arrange for someone to come and be with you? A friend perhaps, or a relation?’
She looked at him with blank, dead eyes.
He persevered: ‘What about Mrs Wemyss-Brown? She’s an old school friend, isn’t she?’
At last there was a flicker of emotion in Antonia’s face. ‘No – not Charlotte. I don’t want her.’
‘Surely there’s someone we can fetch?’
Antonia frowned. ‘Do you think Jill Francis would come?’
Chapter Six
It was the hammering that wrenched Charlie Meague out of deep sleep. At first he thought it was the blood pounding in his head, and with each thump his headache stabbed a little deeper.
The banging continued relentlessly. He rose a little further from the depths of sleep. Now he knew that the banging came from outside him. Someone was using a hammer and nails.
Hammer and nails. The words brought to mind the box in the cesspit at the Rose in Hand. Now there was a question: why hadn’t the lid been nailed to the box? Answer: so that the rats and the damp and the cats could get in there more quickly and hasten the work of corruption.
Oh, Christ, someone was at the door. Suddenly, Charlie was fully awake and his memories of the night flooded into his mind. His first thought was that the police had come for him. It was against reason, but fear had its own logic. He scrambled out of bed. Apart from his boots, he was fully dressed. He stood to one side of the window, pushed the edge of the curtain up an inch and stared through the crack at the street. At the kerb was parked a Wolseley, its maroon paintwork caked with grime. The sight of the car gave birth to another fear which grew rapidly and elbowed the first out of the way.
Charlie stumbled down the stairs. His head and his heart thumped painfully in time with each other. On his way home last night he had swallowed nearly half a bottle of the whisky he had stolen from the King’s Head. He padded across the floor and unbolted the front door.
Bayswater pushed past him and came into the house.
‘What is it, Doc?’
‘Your mother took a turn for the worse yesterday evening.’
‘How’s she feeling now?’
‘There’s no easy way to put this.’
Charlie swayed. ‘What are you saying?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘No. No – she was fine, yesterday. I saw her myself.’
Bayswater frowned at him. ‘I’m sorry, but there you are. The hospital did everything they could.’ His eyes roved round the cold, damp room. ‘She wasn’t a well woman. No resistance left.’
Charlie sat down on the arm of his mother’s chair. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Late yesterday evening. I tried to get hold of you, but you weren’t in.’
Charlie said nothing. He felt the cold of the flagstones seeping through the thick wool of his socks. He noticed that there wasn’t any kindling – he would have to chop some before he could light the fire. Bayswater’s eyebrows were grey and bushy and some of the hairs hung down in front of his eyes. Charlie wondered whether his mother had any money ferreted away. It would all be his now. He hoped she had ironed his shirt before going into hospital.
‘There are things you’ll have to do, and decisions you�
�ll have to make,’ Bayswater said. ‘You’ll have to register the death and get in touch with an undertaker. Did your mother have insurance?’
Charlie shrugged.
‘I expect you can find out. You can talk to the clergyman, too, assuming she went to church or chapel. He’ll help. That’s what they’re paid to do.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. I told you – she was all right when I saw her yesterday.’
‘She wasn’t all right. Some people go up a little before they go down. It’s the way it happens. Maybe she made an effort because you were there.’
Charlie said nothing. He stared at the ashes of the fire.
After a while, Bayswater said, ‘Well, I must be going. Take my advice, keep busy. Come and see me if you need anything.’
Charlie nodded slowly. Bayswater let himself out of the house. Charlie listened. He heard the Wolseley’s engine starting and the car drawing away.
‘The silly cow,’ Charlie said aloud.
His voice frightened him: it sounded strange and unnatural in the emptiness of the house. Silence was safer. He stayed where he was on the arm of the chair. Time drifted on, carrying him with it. He didn’t feel unhappy, merely numb. Also, he wished his head would stop hurting so much.
There were two taps on the door. Charlie got up. Ma Halleran, he thought – she’d know. The hospital must have tried to phone her the previous evening. And now the old bitch was coming to gloat and ferret. Piss off, you bleeding vulture. He opened the door.
Jimmy Carn smiled up at him. ‘Hello, Charlie. How’s tricks?’
Chapter Seven
There should have been thirty-three men outside the hut, but there were only thirty-two. They stood chatting, waiting until it was time to form up. It would take them less than ten minutes to march to the war memorial on the green; after the wreath-laying ceremony, they would march on to church where the service was due to begin at ten thirty. Freddy, the Veales’ dog, moved purposefully among their legs, sampling the wide range of smells.
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