JM01 - River of Darkness

by Rennie Airth

  “Because . . . because that’s what I thought when I read about it first. I mean it reminded me of St. Martens. A lot of people murdered in a house. I saw somewhere the lady had her throat cut. But I didn’t think . . . I never thought it was Pike!”

  The chief inspector made a small adjustment in his position. He rested his forearms on the desk.

  “You say his body was found. What do you mean, exactly? Did you see it yourself?”

  “Oh, no, sir. It didn’t happen like that. Did it, sir?” He appealed to Madden.

  “Sometimes there was a lull in the fighting,” Madden explained. “Both sides would hold off firing and allow the wounded to be collected. Bodies would be picked up at the same time. Otherwise they would lie there.”

  “Take Passchendaele now,” Tozer amplified. “More than forty thousand bodies were never found. I read it in a newspaper. Forty thousand! That was the mud, you see.”

  “But Pike’s was, you say,” the chief inspector reminded him. “Why? What makes you so sure?”

  “It was reported found. About a week later, when Captain Miller was writing up the case. It was listed among the bodies brought back.”

  Madden spoke again: “If we’re right about this, sir, what it means is they found a body with Pike’s identity disc tucked into the puttees or fixed to the braces. Also his pay book, I imagine. And, if he wanted to be thorough, his tunic with his rank and his regimental badges on it. That would certainly have been enough to establish his identity. Do you agree, Mr. Tozer?”

  The other man nodded.

  “There’s no reason why anyone from his own battalion should have seen it. In any case, they would have been out of the line by the time it was brought back.”

  Sinclair chewed his lip. “Let’s be clear in our minds about this. Granted, he could have switched identities with some body he found on the battlefield. But how could he have got back himself?”

  “He might have faked a wound,” Madden suggested.

  “Not the easiest thing, I imagine.”

  Tozer put up his hand. “I’ve just remembered, sir. I saw Pike’s service record—the captain had it. Just before all this happened he’d been in hospital at Boulogne. Concussion, it was. Now that could have been useful.”

  “Useful?”

  “It’s not an easy thing for the doctors to be sure about. There were those that tried to fake it. Men who had it were sent back for observation. Pike would have known that.”

  “Sent back to Boulogne?”

  “Or Eetaps. Once he was there he could have slipped out of the hospital. It was a dodge deserters tried.”

  Sinclair directed a questioning glance at Madden. The inspector shrugged.

  “It’s quite possible, sir. Of course, he would still have had the problem of getting back to England. But it could be done, provided he had the nerve.”

  “Oh, he had nerve all right!” Tozer interjected.

  “Yes, I want to hear about that.” Sinclair turned back to him. “Go on with your story.”

  Tozer was silent, collecting his thoughts. Then he resumed: “We waited there at the command post all day and in the evening a report came back that Pike was missing. One of the officers from another company was among the walking wounded and he told the major what the two men had said, that Pike had left the crater without a word and gone forward. Captain Miller put two and two together. He reckoned Pike was his man and that he’d decided to end it on the battlefield rather than face a charge of murder. So we left and went back to Poperinge, and the captain sat down to write his report. While he was doing that we heard about the body being recovered. Captain Miller put it all in his report. He wrote a memorandum to go with the file, saying he believed Pike was the killer and giving his reasons and recommending the case should be marked closed. He was just finishing it when he got a message from the assistant provost marshal—Colonel Strachan—to send the file up to staff headquarters. The brass hats wanted to see it.”

  “The General Staff?”

  “Someone there had asked for it—we never found out who.” Tozer shrugged. “Captain Miller sent the file off, and then a week later he was called in by Colonel Strachan. He came back hopping mad. He said they were going to bury the whole thing.”

  “His investigation?”

  “No, just his findings about Pike. The case was to be closed as far as the Army was concerned and the file sent to the provost marshal. But the captain’s memorandum was removed. The Belgian police weren’t to be informed of his findings.”

  Sinclair sat back in astonishment. “Could they do that?”

  “In the Army? In wartime?” Tozer scoffed. “You were just told to get on with it.” He touched the scar on his cheek again, running his fingers lightly over the ridged flesh. “Captain Miller was given the full story later. Someone at headquarters thought he ought to know the truth. I mentioned about Pike being a hero. Fact was, he’d won the Military Medal in 1916 and then he won it again the following year. Destroyed a German machine-gun post singlehanded. So he was due the bar and since Field Marshal Haig was making a tour of the front around that time, handing out medals, they included Pike in one of the ceremonies. That was just before he got concussed, so it would only have been a month or two before the murders. There was a nice snap of the two of them taken by an Army photographer.” Tozer’s grin took on a cynical twist. “It appeared in some of the London papers. ‘Field Marshal Decorates Hero.’ ”

  “And two months later it’s ‘Field Marshal Hobnobs With Mass Murderer.’ ” Sinclair scratched his nose. “Yes, I can see how that might have concentrated a few minds.”

  “There’d already been reports about the killings in the French newspapers. If they got hold of Pike’s name from the Belgian police it wouldn’t be long before the facts were out. So they made up a story about a gang of deserters being suspected and there being a big hunt under way for them.” Tozer looked scornful. “Whoever it was talked to the captain said that since Pike was dead justice had been served and the whole business was best forgotten.”

  “And how did Miller feel about that?”

  “Hopping mad!” Tozer’s eyes flashed. “He said it was a disgrace.”

  “Was that the end of it?” Sinclair asked.

  “Pretty well. The captain swore an affidavit for the court-martial at Poperinge saying Duckham had been of great assistance to him, but it didn’t do him any good. They shot him just the same. He didn’t forget about Pike. It was always on his mind. Almost the last thing I remember him saying before we got hit by that shell was how he wasn’t going to let it rest. He was going to take it up with someone.”

  Tozer fell silent. He stared at the floor.

  Sinclair coughed. “It’s my impression you served under a fine officer, Mr. Tozer.”

  “I did that, sir.” The blue eyes lifted.

  “And I deeply regret the injury you suffered. I think the force is the poorer for it.”

  Tozer made a quick bobbing motion with his head.

  The chief inspector got to his feet and Tozer followed suit. They shook hands.

  “We may need to get in touch with you again. But in the meantime I’d be grateful if you’d keep this to yourself. We’ll get Pike’s photograph into the newspapers, but we need to be careful what appears in print.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t breathe a word.”

  He shook hands with Madden and nodded to the other two men.

  “Constable Styles will see you out.” Sinclair sat down. “And thank you again.”

  Tozer had his hand on the doorknob when he checked and turned to face them. “There’s one more thing I’d like to say, sir . . .”

  “Go ahead.” The chief inspector looked up.

  “When you catch up with him, with Pike, you’ll watch yourself, won’t you?”

  “Indeed we will,” Sinclair replied. “And thank you for the warning. But why do you say that?”

  “I forgot to tell you before, I should have mentioned it. We met
him, the captain and me.”

  “No, by God, you didn’t mention it.” Sinclair was on his feet again.

  “Only we didn’t know, of course. Not then . . .” Tozer bit his lip. “It was when the captain was interrogating those men from B Company. Pike was the man who marched them in.”

  “The company sergeant major. Of course! What about him, Mr. Tozer?”

  “Well, the funny thing is we talked about him afterwards, Mr. Miller and me.” Tozer frowned. “The captain was just saying he didn’t think it was any of the lads he’d questioned, and then he laughed and said: ‘But did you get a look at that sergeant major? Now if he’d been in the line-up . . .’ And I knew just what he meant, because I’d had the same feeling myself. As soon as Pike walked in, I thought: Now there’s a killer! Eyes like stones.”

  11

  Pike was able to keep to his schedule that Saturday morning. Mrs. Aylward had caught the nine-twenty train to Waterloo, as planned, confirming with her last words to the household staff her intention of returning the following Tuesday. He had the weekend free, and although his employer had asked him to attend to some outdoor tasks on Monday he had no intention of obeying her wishes. He knew that neither the maid, Ethel Bridgewater, nor Mrs. Rowley, the cook, would report his absence to their mistress. They took care not to cross him.

  It was ten minutes past eleven by his hunters—the watch was engraved with his father’s initials and had been his parting gift to him—when he opened the wooden gate in the back fence and stepped into Mrs. Troy’s garden.

  Already his excitement was stirring, throbbing in the pit of his stomach like a deep, slow pulse. He was impatient to be on his way. But he’d been troubled by the memory of the old woman’s distress on his last visit. He regretted having departed in haste then without first determining its cause. Unease had plagued him all week.

  Now he walked past the shed and went directly to the kitchen door, entering without knocking as he always did. He deposited the parcel of food he had brought on the kitchen table and continued soft-footed through into the narrow hallway. The door to the front parlour was open. He paused on the threshold and looked in.

  She was in her customary chair by the window with the tortoiseshell cat on her lap. The knitted shawl she favoured was draped about her shoulders and a plaid blanket covered her knees. The day was cloudy, the air cool and autumnal. Pike shifted on his feet, making a small sound. He didn’t want to startle her.

  “Mr. Biggs . . . ?” She turned eagerly.

  “No, it’s me,” Pike said gruffly. “Grail.”

  His words had an astonishing effect on her. She started in shock and clutched involuntarily at the cat, which she had been stroking. It let out a yowl of surprise and sprang from her lap. Her eyes stared blindly at him.

  “What’s the matter, Mrs. Troy?” He seldom used her name.

  Her mouth opened and shut. She seemed unable to speak.

  “Are you sick? Can I get you something?” He had never made such an offer before.

  “No . . .” At last she managed to produce a word. “No, thank you . . .”

  Pike checked an impulse to approach nearer. He saw that she was terrified, but couldn’t think why. He was accustomed to causing fear in others. In the past he had reduced men bigger and stronger than he to white-faced silence with a single look. They had sensed the menace he presented, terrible in its stillness. But he had never by word or action sought to intimidate her. The word “irony” was not in his vocabulary, but he would have appreciated its significance in this instance. She was the one person who had nothing to fear from him. Her physical well-being was almost as precious to him as his own. He lived in perpetual anxiety that she might die suddenly, ending his occupation of the shed, bringing havoc to his enterprises.

  The situation was beyond him. In the whole of his bleak existence he had never learned how to coax or comfort. He could no more have led her gently, by degrees, to the point of revelation than he could have soothed a sick child. He saw only that it was his presence that disturbed her and he acted accordingly, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

  But his mind was in turmoil as he paused briefly in the kitchen to put away the food he had brought.

  Mr. Biggs?

  Pike had never heard the name before.

  He walked quickly across the small patch of lawn to the shed and unsnapped the heavy padlock. Daylight flooded the dark interior as he flung open the door and at once he noticed the white envelope lying on the cement floor at his feet.

  Harold Biggs paused in the shadow of the hawthorn hedge to dry the sweat on his forehead. He was thankful that the days were growing cooler. If he was perspiring heavily it was only partly due to the two-mile walk from Knowlton to Rudd’s Cross. His nervousness had been increasing all morning.

  “You’re going out there again?” Jimmy Pullman had professed disbelief when Biggs announced his plans for that Saturday in the Bunch of Grapes “You should tell old Wolverton to go hopping sideways. What’s the old girl’s problem, anyway? What’s it you’re supposed to be doing for her?”

  Biggs had been vague in his reply. Some minor legal business, he implied. He didn’t tell Jimmy either that Mr. Wolverton had given him the whole day off in recognition of his spontaneous offer to return once more to Rudd’s Cross in order to deal with the Grail situation.

  The thought of the tankards in Mrs. Troy’s silver cabinet had weighed on Harold’s mind all week. Even now, as he approached her cottage through the stubbled fields, he didn’t know whether, in the end, he would have the nerve to act on his plan.

  But he’d come prepared. He had brought his briefcase, a bulky, old-fashioned article with clumsy straps which he wanted to change for the sleeker, more modern versions now on sale. Today, though, he was glad of its size. The mugs would fit inside it comfortably.

  He knocked on the front door of the cottage and then waited patiently, remembering how long it had taken her to get to the door on his last visit. After a full minute he knocked again. There was no response from within.

  Biggs walked around the cottage to the kitchen door. As he pushed it open he heard a subdued tapping coming from the direction of the garden shed behind him. The green wooden door was shut, but the padlock had been removed. He could hear someone moving about inside.

  So Grail had come, and presumably was getting his things together preparatory to moving out.

  Harold felt his stomach tighten. It was all going according to plan. Once Grail had departed, no doubt angry and resentful at having been turfed out at such short notice, he could remove the tankards from the cabinet, safe in the knowledge that their disappearance, if it was noted at all, would be laid to the other man’s account.

  But he still didn’t know if he had the courage to do it . . .

  Harold took a deep, calming breath. He went into the kitchen, calling out in a low voice as he did so, “Mrs. Troy, are you there? It’s Mr. Biggs from Folkestone . . .”

  Again there was no reply.

  Removing his checked cap, he laid it on the kitchen table alongside his briefcase. Then he went through to the hallway and looked into the parlour. The chair by the window was empty. His glance shifted automatically to the glass-fronted cabinet on the opposite side of the room. The tankards were where he had left them.

  Biggs was nonplussed. He couldn’t conceive of the old woman having left the house for any reason, particularly in view of their appointment. He had formed a picture of her life in which she was confined to the cottage. It was hard to imagine her even stepping into the garden.

  A doorway on the opposite side of the hall stood ajar, giving a glimpse of a dining-table and chairs. Just past it a narrow stairway led to the upper floor. Harold paused at the foot of this. He had detected the glow of two eyes in the darkness at the top of the carpeted stairs, and as his own grew accustomed to the gloom he made out the shape of a cat. He remembered the animal from his earlier visit. It sat there with paws folded looking down at him.
r />   “Mrs. Troy?” he called up the stairs.

  After a moment’s hesitation he climbed to the upper landing, stepping over the cat, which made no move to get out of his way. Two doors stood ajar. A third was shut. He knocked on that and heard a voice respond faintly from within. Harold opened the door and saw Mrs. Troy’s figure stretched out on a bed, half sitting, half lying, propped against a bank of pillows. She wore the same dark bombazine skirt as before and her upper body was wrapped in a plaid blanket. The curtains had been three-quarters drawn on the window overlooking the back garden and the dull light entering the room left the corners in shadow.

  “I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?” Harold hesitated on the threshold. He saw her face turning from side to side, like a plant seeking the sunlight. He recalled the clouded milky gaze. “It’s me . . . Mr. Biggs, from Folkestone.”

  “Oh, Mr. Biggs!” The words were accompanied by a gasp of relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I said I would.” He spoke resentfully, as though he had been misjudged.

  “He’s here . . .” Her agitated whisper barely reached his ears. “Mr. Grail . . .”

  “Yes, I know. I heard him in the shed. I’ll just slip down now and have a word with him. See that everything’s in order.”

  “Mr. Biggs . . .” Now a note of anxiety had come into her voice. She held out her hand to him from the bed. He pretended not to see it. He had come here on business. He didn’t want this human contact between them. But her hand remained there between them and in the end he had to come forward and take it in his.

  “Be careful!”

  “Why? What do you mean?” He recoiled from her clutching fingers.

  “Just ask him to go nicely . . . Tell him I’m sorry it can’t be helped . . .”

  Nicely! Harold stoked his rising temper. The thought of what he planned to do—of the advantage he meant to take of this frail old creature—made him dislike her all the more. He withdrew his hand from hers.