by Rennie Airth
It was a cold day, and unless the fog cleared later, it would stay that way.
25
Out of touch since the previous day, Billy rang the Yard after breakfast to report his whereabouts only to discover that Sinclair was not at his desk and that all calls concerning the Lang case were being referred to Chief Superintendent Holly.
‘Mr Sinclair went down to Sussex yesterday to see the chief constable. They have to decide how long it’s worthwhile going on with this search. He was caught by the fog and decided to spend the night in Chichester. You’d better tell me what your movements will be today, Sergeant. He may want to get in touch with you.’
Billy explained that he was not yet sure.
‘My car broke down yesterday, sir. Mr Madden was kind enough to put me up for the night. I’m having it fixed now.’
Summoned by telephone, the village mechanic, a man called Pritchard, had appeared at the house soon after dawn and departed shortly thereafter at the wheel of Billy’s Morris, lurching down the drive in bottom gear, promising to report back once he knew the extent of the problem.
Word of Fred Bridger’s suicide had already reached London and the chief superintendent spoke feelingly of the tragedy. ‘Poor fellow. I hope to God he didn’t think we’d failed him. At the very least he must have hoped to see justice done.’
He asked Billy for the Maddens’ telephone number. ‘I’ll ring you there if anything crops up. Oh, and give my regards to John, would you? It’s been many years. Thank him for all his help. I dare say he wants to see this devil caught as much as we do.’
Of that there was little doubt. Madden’s preoccupation with the case was self-evident and the previous night he had given the sergeant an insight into the foreboding that gripped him.
‘There’s no point in deceiving ourselves. It’s quite possible this man will never be caught. We tend to assume killers like Lang give themselves away. That they can’t remain at large in society for any length of time. But he’s not like the rest. He would have learned long ago how to cover his tracks. His profession must have taught him that.’
It was Billy’s first intimation that his old chief was aware of their quarry’s true identity.
‘If he disappears now it could be years before the police catch up with him again. He’s had all the time he needs to plan a new future. And now he’s got the world to wander in.’
It was not until late, when the two men were sitting alone by the dying fire in the drawing room, with the house quiet about them, that Madden had unburdened himself. Earlier, he had seemed only too ready to seek relief from his anxiety in the high spirits which Billy’s unexpected arrival had produced in his children, who’d contrived, in the absence of any firm parental word to the contrary, to stay up well past their usual bedtimes.
Just as her father had predicted, it had been Lucy who had taken special delight in the sergeant’s presence. Unswerving in her devotion to her chosen friend, she had kept him at her side throughout the prolonged and noisy supper shared by all at the kitchen table, and when it was over had insisted that he accompany her upstairs for the last solemn rituals of her day.
He had stood by while she washed her face and brushed her teeth and before tucking her into bed he had listened to her prayers and heard his own name included among those for whom a blessing was sought.
Looking down at her small, kneeling figure, golden-haired like her mother, and possessing something of the same intensity he had always sensed in Helen, that capacity for fierce attachment, he had recalled the sight of Madden’s face not long before as he’d regarded his daughter at the supper table, the tenderness of his expression clouded by another emotion which Billy had recognized as grief, and which had puzzled him until he’d realized that it was not the bright countenance lifted towards his that the older man was seeing at that moment, but the now-empty cottage at Brookham and the lives it had once contained, so savagely destroyed.
From his bedroom upstairs Billy could hear the phone ringing and he wondered if it was Pritchard calling about his motor car. The mechanic had rung an hour before with the discouraging news that not only was there a fault with the Morris’s clutch – something the sergeant had guessed for himself – but there was trouble with the gearbox, too.
‘I can’t see her being ready before this afternoon at the earliest, sir. And even then I wouldn’t go too far, not without a proper overhaul.’
Forcibly immobilized, Billy had spent the morning on paperwork, drafting brief accounts of the series of interviews he had conducted among the birdwatching fraternity for the Yard’s records. It was a dispiriting exercise. The hunt for Gaston Lang had yielded no dividends to date, and sitting at the window gazing out over the garden the sergeant had found his mood of pessimism mirrored in the drab scene that met his eye outside where lingering fog hid all trace of the wooded ridge beyond the stream and the sky was hidden by a blanket of low cloud.
Nor had his spirits been raised by another phone call earlier, one to which he’d been summoned by Mary, who had come upstairs to knock on his door. Helen Madden, ringing from London to let the staff know her movements, had discovered his presence in the house, and with Madden absent – he was taking both children to school – it had fallen to Billy to break the news of Bridger’s suicide to her.
‘Oh, how dreadful! That poor family…
Distressed though she was, Helen’s first thought had been for her husband.
‘This will upset John terribly. He’ll feel he should have done more. You must talk to him, Billy. Make him see it’s not his responsibility.’
She had told him she would be back by lunchtime, fog permitting, and hoped he would not have departed by then.
The phone had stopped ringing below and presently Billy heard the sound of hurried footsteps in the passage outside. There was a knock on the door, which opened to reveal the figure of the Maddens’ maid, flushed and out of breath.
‘You want to watch it, Mary.’ The sergeant grinned. They were old friends. ‘You’ll give yourself a heart attack running up those stairs. Is that call for me?’
‘Yes…’ Panting, she nodded. ‘And you’re the one who’d better run. It’s a Mr Holly ringing from Scotland Yard. He says it won’t wait a moment.’
The telephone was kept in the study. Billy hurried downstairs. As he picked up the receiver he heard the sound of a car in the driveway outside and saw through the window that Madden had just returned.
‘Styles here, sir?’
‘Ah, Sergeant!’ Holly’s deep voice rang in his ear. ‘Thank God I’ve caught you. Lang’s been spotted.’
‘Spotted! Where, sir?’
‘In Midhurst. He was treated by a doctor there yesterday. Some injury to his back. It meant he had to take his shirt off and the nurse saw his birthmark. She rang the police this morning and they sent someone round to show her that photograph. She identified Lang beyond question.’ The chief super’s customary calm had deserted him. His voice boomed down the line. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mr Sinclair in Chichester. He’s on his way to Midhurst now and he wants you to join him there.’
While Holly was speaking Billy’s eye had fallen on a framed map hanging on the wall beside the desk. It showed Surrey and the adjoining counties. He could see Midhurst marked. It wasn’t far, just across the border in Sussex. He became aware that Madden was standing in the doorway, watching him.
‘Sir, my car’s still out of action.’ Billy spoke into the phone, but he caught Madden’s eye and gestured with his clenched fist. ‘I’ll have to go by train.’
‘Do whatever’s best, Sergeant. But get yourself there.’
The line went dead. Billy jumped up. His heart was thumping.
‘That was Mr Holly, sir. Lang’s been seen in Midhurst. It was that birthmark of yours.’ Billy grinned. ‘I’ve got to get down there right away. Do you know if there’s a train-’
He broke off, silenced by the look on Madden’s face.
‘Midhurst, you say?’
/> The sergeant nodded. He was transfixed by the other’s expression: the intensity of his gaze.
‘Was he recognized?’ Madden spoke quietly.
‘So Mr Holly says. It was a doctor’s nurse picked him out. They showed her his photograph.’
‘Damn the train, then.’ The growled words made Billy’s hair stand on end. ‘I’ll take you there myself.’
26
Leaving his van in the otherwise empty parking area by Wood Way, Sam walked briskly down the empty road to where the men were working. Driving past he’d hoped to see Eddie’s figure among them. There was always the chance his friend had returned overnight. But it had been Harrigan’s eye that he’d caught, and the foreman was waiting for him, brawny forearms folded, his brow knotted in a scowl.
‘Well, where is he, then? Have you had any word?’ The Irishman didn’t bother to explain who he was talking about. Behind him the other members of his crew drew nearer so as to hear what was being said. They had just finished surfacing a strip of road and the air was sharp with the reek of hot tar.
‘I’ve no news, if that’s what you mean.’ Sam saw no point in beating about the bush. ‘But I’ve sent a telegram to his family, in case he’s had to go home for some reason. I’m still waiting for a reply.’
He had got back from Tillington a little after noon to discover there’d been no response from Eddie as yet, no message from Hove, and had paused only long enough to bolt down a sandwich and split a piece of cheese with Sal.
‘What can have happened?’ Now it was Ada who was starting to fret. She’d come out to the van with him when he left, her forehead creased with worry. ‘It’s such a strange thing to do. Going off like that without a word.’
She was right, of course, Sam could see that. But wasn’t it a fact that these apparent mysteries of life usually had simple explanations? Not forgetting, too, that people sometimes behaved in peculiar ways for peculiar reasons. Both possibilities had occurred to him in the course of the morning and he was prepared to take either into consideration.
What he wouldn’t accept, though, would have no part of, was the suggestion he could hear coming from Harrigan’s lips now.
‘I took him for a dependable fellow, someone I could trust.’ Burly, and with a moustache that matched his dark eyebrows, the foreman stood glowering. ‘Not the sort who’d let you down.’
‘Now you’ve got no cause to say that.’ Sam faced him squarely. ‘Not till you know the facts.’ He was pleased by the murmur of approbation his challenge evoked from the men around.
Harrigan grunted. ‘We’ll see.’ His glance stayed hostile. He seemed unconvinced.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Sam kept his own gaze steadily on the other.
The foreman shrugged. ‘Friday evening, knocking-off time, same as usual.’
‘Did he mention he had any plans for the weekend?’
Harrigan jerked his head in the direction of one of the men standing nearby, a youngish chap with fair, curly hair and stubbled cheeks. Sam recognized him as a pal of Eddie’s. A bloke called Pat McCarthy.
‘Nothin’ special.’ Pat shrugged. ‘He said he might join us for a drink Saturday night. There’s a pub down in Elsted we go to. But he never turned up.’
‘I sent Pat over to that barn Eddie sleeps in when he didn’t show up for work yesterday.’ Harrigan gestured towards the wooded ridge that ran alongside the road. ‘The doors were locked. There was no one around. Isn’t that so?’ He looked at the younger man, who nodded.
‘I hammered on them, and all.’
‘Well, that’s where I’m headed now.’ Sam gathered himself. ‘I’ve a key to the barn.’ He tapped his coat pocket. ‘I’m going to have a look inside. Then I want to go over to Oak Green. There’s a lady there who knows Eddie. She’s worried about him, too.’
‘Would that be Nell’s mother?’ Harrigan’s face had lost its grudging scowl. Sam saw that his belligerence was only a mask; he was as concerned as the others. ‘The lass was here yesterday, asking about him.’
‘Yes, it’s Mrs Ramsay.’ Sam looked around the ring of men. ‘I’ll be back later,’ he promised them. ‘We’re still waiting to hear from Hove. With any luck I’ll have something to tell you.’
He saw the doubt in their eyes.
‘Listen, there’s bound to be an explanation,’ he insisted. ‘People don’t just disappear. He’ll turn up. You mark my words.’
‘Come on, old girl, don’t dawdle…’
Sam called back to Sally from the crest of the ridge. She was still some way behind, plodding her way up the path. Poor old thing, she was starting to feel the cold; it was getting into her joints. But for once his patience was short.
‘Come on…’
Not waiting for her to catch up, he set off down the long slope, his gaze turning automatically in the direction of Coyne’s Farm, visible now in spite of the mist that still clung to the ground, blurring the contours of the landscape and bringing a hush to the woods, usually loud with birdsong, through which he had just passed. There was no break in the cloud cover as yet and Sam doubted they’d see the sun that day.
When he came to the gap in the hedge he paused once more, but it was obvious Sal was coming at her own pace. He could see her some distance back up the path, her nose buried in a bank of leaves. Delaying no longer, he slipped through the hedge and crossed the walled garden into the farmyard beyond.
It had come as a shock, talking to Harrigan and the others, to realize what they were thinking. That this bloke who they liked and had counted on, who they’d treated as one of them, had upped and walked off without a word, leaving them to wonder what had become of him. Sam told himself they were wrong – he knew Eddie too well, knew he’d never behave in such a way – but as he strode across the yard to where the barn was he could feel a nervous flutter in his stomach. There was no telling what he might find inside.
Difficulty with the padlock delayed his entry. For a while it seemed jammed, the mechanism refusing to budge, and it took him several tries, pushing his key in and out and jiggling it about, before the spring inside was released and the curved arm sprang open.
Even with the double doors pulled wide the interior remained dimly lit – the grey light from outside provided little in the way of illumination – and by the time Sam had made his way through the stacked hurdles and canvas-covered bits of furniture to where Eddie’s quarters were at the back of the barn he found himself enveloped in a leaden twilight.
It made little difference to his mission. What he’d come to seek out wouldn’t be in plain sight.
But he knew where to start his search and without pause he went straight to the tall mahogany wardrobe which stood near the back of the building, the same piece from which he’d retrieved Eddie’s mirror. Its canvas covering was still drawn back, allowing him to open the doors without hindrance. When he saw what it contained a sigh of relief issued from his lips.
He’d found what he was looking for: Eddie’s bedroll. The blankets were neatly stowed on one of the shelves that took up half of the wardrobe. (The other half was given over to hanging space.) His spare clothes were laid out on a separate shelf above.
He hadn’t walked out on them. The proof was plain to see. He hadn’t gone anywhere.
Except maybe to Hove for the weekend, as Mrs Ramsay had suggested. But there was nothing Sam could do about that. He could only wait for his return and for the explanation of his sudden departure, which he was sure would follow.
Relieved, he lingered for a moment longer to look about him. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the half-darkness he was able to make out familiar details and he saw at once that Eddie had been making some changes to his living quarters. His bed of hay had grown to more than double the size of the original mattress he had raked together and made into a rectangular shape so that his bedroll would fit neatly on top of it. Now it spread in a large triangle across the corner of the barn.
And that wasn’t all. The mirror h
ad been moved. (The one Sam had salvaged.) Formerly it had been propped against the back wall behind the old washstand so that Eddie could use it when he was shaving. Now it stood in the corner where the bedding was, reflecting the strewn hay in front of it; but little else.
Sam scratched his head.
What was the use of putting it there?
Then he thought he saw an explanation, though it was one that brought a scowl to his face. One of the oil lamps he’d found for Eddie was hanging from a nail above the straw bed, and what displeased Sam was that they’d both agreed at the very start, when Eddie was settling in, that it would be dangerous to put it there since it only had to slip off the nail and fall onto the straw beneath for everything to go up in flames: hay, hurdles, furniture, barn. The whole bang shoot!
Yet there it was, just where they’d decided not to put it, and the only thing Sam could think was that it had something to do with the mirror, and where it stood now. Positioned as they both were, the light from the lamp would be reflected more widely, illuminating the area where the hay had been gathered. Though why Eddie should want to do such a thing was beyond him.
Sam clicked his tongue with impatience. He was fed up with trying to work out what it meant. If there was a puzzle here, its solution would have to await his pal’s return. He was more concerned about the lamp. Should he leave it where it was, or move it to a safer place?
It required only a few moments reflection to persuade him it would be better to leave things as they were. He didn’t want Eddie to feel he’d been checking up on him. There was no danger with the lamp unlit. He’d have a quiet word with his chum when he got back.
He turned to go, but as he did so his toe struck something on the floor and he glanced down and saw it was a workman’s boot. Another lay near it. Sam sank to his heels and picked them up. They were old and well-worn and he supposed they must belong to Eddie. The lace of one of them was broken.