by Rennie Airth
Stackpole coughed. Dr. Blackwell turned to him.
“I believe there’s an officer here, Miss Helen.”
“In the kitchen, Will. You’ll find Edith there. Ask her to make up a plate of sandwiches, would you? And have some yourself.”
As the constable left them, Madden began to speak, but she checked him with a gesture. “Sit down, Inspector. Please. You must be exhausted.”
Gratefully, he obeyed. Dr. Blackwell went to a drinks tray. She poured whisky from a decanter into a glass and brought it to him. “Consider that a medical prescription.”
Her smile, open and friendly, took him by surprise. She seated herself beside a table where a group of silver-framed photographs stood showing young men in officers’ uniform. Madden’s eye shifted away from them quickly, but she had caught the direction of his glance.
“Those two on the left are my brothers. David was killed on the Somme. He’s the younger. Peter was a pilot. He only lasted three weeks. My mother died of a heart complaint the year before the war and now I can only think of it as a blessing.” She was silent. Then she gestured towards another of the photographs. “And that’s my husband, Guy. He was killed, too. A stray shell, they said.” Her glance met Madden’s. “Scenes from an English drawing-room, circa nineteen twenty-one.”
He could find no words.
“I was thinking of them today when I went to the Lodge. How the thing I hated most about the war was the way it plucked up people at random and destroyed them. How I’d thought that that, at least, was over.”
There was a knock on the door and a maid came in carrying a tray with sandwiches on it. She put the plate on a side table near Madden. Dr. Blackwell gathered herself. “What can I do for you, Inspector? Would you like me to make a statement?”
“We’re concerned about the Fletcher child. We’d like her moved to hospital in Guildford as soon as possible.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
Her response was so swift that Madden had to check to assure himself he’d heard her correctly. He put down his glass. “Dr. Blackwell, this is a police matter.”
“I understand that. It changes nothing.” She spoke in a calm voice, but her expression was unyielding. “Sophy was in a state of profound shock when I found her this morning. She was quite unable to move or speak. The stiffness—it’s a form of hysterical paralysis—has eased somewhat, but she hasn’t said a word, and I don’t know when she will. The very worst thing now would be to put her among strangers. She knows me and everyone in this house and she trusts us. There’s nothing that can be done for her in hospital that can’t be done here.”
“She’s a possible witness—”
“I’m aware of that. You’re welcome to keep a policeman here. More than one, if you wish. But I won’t have her moved.”
The steadiness of the doctor’s gaze seemed to set a seal on her words. In spite of his surprise, Madden had listened carefully to what she said, while noticing that her pale silk blouse was embroidered with a pattern of green leaves. He came to a decision quickly. “I believe you’re right,” he declared. “I’ll say as much to my chief inspector.”
The severity of her expression dissolved at once into the same open smile as before. “Thank you, Inspector.”
“But I must see the child.”
“Of course. She’s in bed. Come with me.”
She led him out into a hallway and up the stairs. Following, Madden caught a whiff of jasmine, like an echo from the terrace outside. They stopped at a closed door in the passage above.
“One moment, please.” She opened the door and glanced inside. “Come in. Try not to wake her.”
“Isn’t she sedated?”
“I gave her something earlier, but it’ll have worn off by now. She’s sleeping normally. I’d like that to continue.”
Madden followed her into a bedroom where a nightlight burned. A dark-haired young woman in a maid’s uniform got up from a chair as they entered. Dr. Blackwell motioned to her to sit again.
“This is Mary,” she whispered. “Sophy knows her well. They go for walks in the woods together when she comes to visit.”
He went closer to the bed. At the sight of the blonde head buried in the pillow an old grief awoke in him and he stood for a long time, bent over her, listening to the faint rhythm of the child’s breathing, so precious it seemed.
Watching him, Dr. Blackwell was startled by the look of pain that crossed his face. Earlier her curiosity had been aroused. She had wondered about this rough-looking man who bore the stamp of the trenches in his dark, shadowed eyes. A year spent working in a military hospital had taught her to recognize the signs, but she’d been surprised to see them on the inspector’s face. The police had been one of the reserved professions.
Now, all at once, another image came to her, raw and shocking, causing her to flush and bite her lip. And she thought then how cruel life could be. How heartless and uncaring.
5
Madden lived with ghosts. They came to him in dreams: men he had known in the war, some of them friends, others no more than dimly remembered faces.
Most were the youths with whom he had enlisted, shop assistants and drapers, clerks from the City and apprentices. Together they had marched through the streets of London in their civilian clothes to the bray of brass bands, heroes for a day to the flag-waving crowds, full of pride and valour, none dreaming of the fate that awaited them in the shape of the German machine-guns. Valour had died on the Somme in the course of a single summer’s day.
One of the few survivors in his battalion, Madden had mourned the death of his comrades. For a time their loss had seemed like an open wound. But as the war went on he ceased to think of them. Other men were dying around him and their deaths, too, came to mean little. With no expectation of staying alive himself his emotions grew numb and by the end he felt nothing.
He never spoke of his time in the trenches. Like many others who came back, miraculous survivors of the carnage, he had tried to put the war from his mind, doing his utmost to block out all memory of it. Offered his old job back, he had hesitated before accepting. His decision to leave the Metropolitan Police before the war had been taken in the hope of finding a new life in the familiar surroundings of the countryside. And although he came to accept the choice he had made, finding in the day-to-day demands of investigative work at least a partial shield against the charnel house of memories that threatened to engulf him, he could not shake free from the cold hand of the past. Always he sensed the abyss at his feet.
Sleep brought no respite, for what he kept from his mind by day he was forced to relive in his dreams where he was haunted by the faces of old comrades and by other, more terrible images from the battlefield, and from which he would wake, night after night, choking on the imagined smell of sweat and cordite and the stench of half-buried corpses.
For a while he had hoped all this would pass. That his memories would grow dim and peace of mind return to him. But he lived in the long shadow of the war, and as time passed and the shadow deepened he came to see himself as permanently injured, a casualty of the conflict which had failed to kill him but left him nonetheless damaged beyond repair.
Increasingly solitary, he saw his life as all that was left to him: a tattered sail that might bear the wind but would bring him to no haven.
6
At nine o’clock the following morning, Chief Inspector Sinclair addressed the team of detectives assembled in the Highfield church hall.
“Some of you with experience in murder inquiries may already have recognized the particular problems we face in this case. Most murders, as we know, are either domestic in origin or are committed in the course of some other crime. We can probably rule out the first in this instance. And while robbery was certainly a factor at Melling Lodge, there are reasons to believe that this was not the principal motive. Indeed, it seems likely that whoever broke in did so with the intention of killing all those present in the house.”
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His words drew a murmur from his audience. The group of a dozen detectives included plainclothesmen from Guildford CID and a contingent from Scotland Yard, comprising Madden and Styles and a detective sergeant named Hollingsworth. They were accommodated in straight-backed chairs facing a dais where Sinclair sat at the centre of a table, flanked by Chief Inspector Norris on one side and a senior uniformed officer on the other. Also on the stage, but sitting apart, were Lord Stratton and a middle-aged man whom Boyce identified as Sir Clifford Warner, the Surrey chief constable. A thin file lay on the table in front of Sinclair. Beside it was a canvas bag tied with a drawstring.
“In cases of this nature there’s bound to be speculation. You will have seen some of it in the morning papers. Apparently we’re looking for an armed gang.” The chief inspector paused. “That may or may not be true. Let’s hope it is. One of them is sure to open his mouth before long. I see, too, that the Sinn Fein is being held responsible in some quarters. It might be useful if I gave you some background on Colonel Fletcher. He was born in India and was commissioned in the Indian Army before returning to England, where he transferred to the regular army. He served in the war in the Signals Corps and then settled with his family here in Surrey. Neither he nor his wife has ever set foot in Ireland so far as we can determine.”
Sinclair smoothed his neatly trimmed cap of grey hair. His eye fell briefly on Madden, who was sitting in the front row of chairs beside Boyce. The inspector looked pale and drawn.
“This investigation will be run initially from Highfield. The vicar has put this hall at our disposal, and I intend to use it as the main interview room and also as a central collecting point for all information. Mr. Boyce will be in charge here, along with Inspector Madden, whom most of you have met. They’ll be assisted by Detective Sergeant Hollingsworth from Scotland Yard. The uniform branch will be working with us in the early stages under the direction of Chief Inspector Carlyle, of Guildford.” Sinclair indicated the uniformed officer beside him. “For the past hour his men have been searching the woods behind Melling Lodge. That will go on all day—and for as long as necessary thereafter.
“A word about the interviews. The villagers have been informed, and they’ll be turning up in relays starting in about fifteen minutes. I want to know how they spent the weekend, and in particular where each and every one of them was between eight and ten on Sunday night.” He paused to give emphasis to his next words. “Every person in the village must be spoken to. We need to know if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary, no matter how trivial.
“A more general line of questioning will deal with the matter of strangers. In a small rural community like this, outsiders are quickly noticed. Were any seen on Sunday, or the preceding days? With the help of the Surrey police we’re going to be asking the same questions in the surrounding villages. Unfortunately, either by chance or design, this could not have occurred at a worse time for us.” The chief inspector frowned. “I refer, of course, to the bank-holiday weekend. Half the country seems to have been on the move, and I’m afraid we’ll find even Highfield has had its share of visitors and passersby.”
He opened the file and took out a sheet of paper. “Here is a partial list of items taken from Melling Lodge. It was supplied by the cook, Mrs. Dunn. She can’t be sure about the upstairs—we’ll have to check that with the maid Brown when she’s brought back here from Guildford. Mainly silverware and some of Mrs. Fletcher’s jewellery.” He glanced up. “Not the best bits, incidentally. It’s being circulated to jewellers and pawn-brokers in the normal way. Consult it if you need to.”
He removed a second sheet of paper from the file.
“Fingerprints lifted from the house are being checked against the occupants and others who were known to be regular visitors. That will take a while. We also have a footprint.” He held up the sheet of paper. “This is a sketch of the cast taken of a print in the stream bed at the bottom of the garden. Size eleven, military type boot. Notice the heel.”
Sinclair displayed the drawing which showed an arrow-shaped wedge missing from the outer rim of the heel.
“This will have to be checked against the boots of all the men in the village, as well as Colonel Fletcher’s footwear. Mr. Boyce will organize that.” He paused again. “A number of cigarette stubs were found near the body of James Wiggins in the woods above the house. They have been sent to the government chemist for analysis. They were all the same brand—Three Castles—which Wiggins didn’t smoke. Find out who smokes cigarettes in the village and what brand they favour.”
The chief inspector extracted a further piece of paper from the file. He studied it for several seconds.
“I have here a preliminary report from Dr. Ransom the pathologist,” he went on. “A description of the wounds inflicted on the three victims downstairs at Melling Lodge and on Wiggins. I expect to receive a further report on Mrs. Fletcher’s injuries by courier from Guildford later today. The four victims I refer to were all killed with the same weapon, or an identical one. Dr. Ransom characterizes this as a relatively narrow blade—no more than an inch wide—with one angle acute and the other blunt. The depth of the wounds varies between four inches, in the case of Alice Crookes, the nanny, whose body was found in the kitchen, and six inches, in the case of Colonel Fletcher. No exit wounds were found. Dr. Ransom is unable to say whether the wounds were inflicted by a right- or a left-handed man. This is because they were struck with a remarkable degree of uniformity—I’m quoting now—‘being both straight in relation to the skin surface and horizontal.’ He adds one further observation: ‘in each case some lateral damage to tissue was caused when the weapon was withdrawn.’ ”
Sinclair replaced the sheet of paper carefully in the file. His glance met Madden’s briefly.
“Dr. Ransom agrees with Inspector Madden and myself that these wounds are typical of those caused by the standard British Army sword bayonet. I have one here.” Sinclair loosened the drawstring on the canvas bag and took out a sheathed bayonet. He withdrew the glittering steel from the scabbard and held it up. “Notice the similarities to the murder weapon as described by Dr. Ransom. One angle blunt,” he ran his finger along the top of the bayonet, “the other acute. It may strike you as strange that a weapon of this length—it’s twenty-one inches, in fact—should be used to inflict such relatively shallow wounds. Inspector Madden will explain.”
Madden rose to his feet and faced the detectives. He spoke in a monotone. “What I have to say will be familiar to anyone who has served in the ranks. For the rest of you, I’ll describe briefly the training given to infantrymen in the last war. The average soldier, armed with rifle and bayonet, will automatically thrust the weapon in as far as it will go. Run his enemy through, in fact.
“He has to be taught not to do this. Skin and muscle cling to the blade making it difficult to extract. The correct method, as taught by the Army, is a short, stabbing thrust followed by a half-twist to break the friction as the weapon is withdrawn. All the wounds we have been discussing show these characteristics.”
One of the Guildford detectives held up his hand. “Sir, are you saying a bayonet fixed to a rifle was used in these killings?”
“I am.”
“Were they all killed by the same man?”
“I believe so.” Madden paused. “You heard what the pathologist said. ‘A remarkable degree of uniformity.’ I’ll go further and say that whoever killed them was an expert in the use of this weapon. In each case only one thrust was required. Either the man was highly trained, or, more likely, was once an instructor himself. Possibly an Army sergeant.”
Again there was a murmur from the assembled detectives. Madden glanced at Sinclair and sat down.
“Right!” The chief inspector looked at his watch. “If there are no more questions, I suggest we get started.”
Thank you, Chief Inspector. A fine summary, if I may say so.” Sir Clifford Warner paused at the top of the church hall steps to shake Sinclair’s hand. Lord S
tratton hovered at his shoulder. “You’ll keep me informed?”
“Of course, sir.”
The Surrey chief constable glanced curiously at Madden as he moved away.
“They were talking about you earlier, John.” Sinclair was filling his pipe from a leather pouch. “Warner wanted to hear about your run-in with the Lord Lieutenant.”
“Has Raikes lodged a complaint?”
Madden’s pallor seemed more striking in the morning sunlight. Sinclair wondered if he had been disturbed by the thought of the bayoneted bodies. They were colleagues of long standing, their acquaintance going back to before the war when Sinclair’s eye had first been caught by the tall young detective, fresh out of the uniformed branch. Much had happened to Madden since then.
“Not that I know of, and not that I care. Let Raikes get back to doing what he does best, slaughtering innocent birds and beasts and stay out of police business.” The chief inspector struck a match. “Oakley, you say?”
“Yes, sir.” Madden drew on the cigarette he had lit some moments before. “It’s on the other side of the ridge. I’d like to get over there. I think our man might have come that way.”
“You’ll need a car, then.”
“Lord Stratton’s offered to lend us one.”
“So he has. What’s more I’ve accepted. God knows, we’ll get no help from the Yard.” Scotland Yard’s attitude towards motorized transport—they saw no reason why any policeman should be supplied with a vehicle when he had two perfectly good feet—was a pet grievance of the chief inspector’s. Second only to his dogged and so far unsuccessful campaign to have a central police laboratory established. “He took your side, by the way, Stratton did. He said Raikes was wrong to go inside the house and wrong to invite him along. Called him a blockhead. Quite brightened my morning, his lordship did.”
Madden trod on his cigarette. “What about the press, sir? Have you spoken to them yet?”