by Rennie Airth
And now he could feel the heat stirring in him, the blood flowing in his loins, and without being aware of it he began to move back and forth on his seat, while a sound—half moan, half chant—issued from his lips. His eyes were shut tight. The black wings of the past beat about him and he saw himself, too, like a bird, rising and soaring free, escaping the prison of his days!
His movement stopped in a heartbeat—his eyes flicked open.
He had heard a noise outside the dugout.
A rustle in the underbrush?
Or had it come from further off?
He rose, his instincts on a knife edge. Taking hold of his rifle he stepped out from under the cover of the plaited willow and stood motionless in the fading light, barely drawing breath.
Listening . . .
8
Billy Styles lit another cigarette. He glanced at his watch. Still twenty minutes to go. He looked along the line of laurels to where Madden was sitting with his back to the bushes facing a group of five uniformed officers, all of them armed, who were seated on the opposite side of the footpath. Billy was with a party of four—sergeant and three constables—none of them carrying revolvers. They were closest to the pond and had been ordered by Madden to advance, keeping the water on their flank.
It was not until nearly four o’clock that Billy had caught his first glimpse of the inspector and the squad of policemen he brought with him. They had followed the same route he had taken, making a wide circle to avoid being seen from the thicket, and then joining the footpath that led to Stone Pond.
Billy had hastened to meet them. He gave Madden a brief account of his difficulties with the Guides and reported his sighting of the figure at the fringe of the thicket.
“Did you see his weapon?” Madden’s frown seemed permanently etched on his features.
“No, sir. Just something shining, like metal.”
The inspector rubbed the scar on his forehead. “Remember, if he starts shooting you’re to drop to the ground and await orders. That goes for all unarmed men.” He glanced around. “The rest of you should find what cover you can and return fire. But listen for my orders. Stay alert.”
Billy learned from one of the two sergeants accompanying Madden that their advance on the thicket had been postponed by an hour. It was now set for five o’clock. Part of the delay had been caused by the difficulty of getting the men into position between the wooded knoll where Hoskins had kept watch and the far side of the pond, where the ground was flat and bare of cover. Then, just when Madden had returned to where Sinclair was waiting to lead the rest of the men around to this side of the thicket—where Billy was—a party of ramblers had stumbled upon them, upwards of two score the sergeant said, and the police had had their work cut out gathering them together and shepherding them away from the area. As a result, the chief inspector had delayed the start of the operation from four o’clock to five. It could be no later because of fading light.
Madden left them briefly to walk to the end of the row of laurels where he crouched and peered through the bushes. When he returned he divided the party into two groups, telling the men that no whistles would be blown to mark the start of the advance.
“Watch for my signal. It’ll be at five o’clock exactly. We’d better synchronize our watches.”
Madden was speaking to the sergeant in charge of the unarmed squad, but Billy checked his own wristwatch and set it to the inspector’s mark. It came to him that his wish to see action—the feeling of resentment he’d always felt at missing the war—might be about to be satisfied. He was pleased to discover he felt no fear, just a faint suggestion of emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
The two parties separated.
Billy sat on the ground with his group in the shade of the laurels. They were all from Tunbridge Wells. One of the younger constables, a man with something of Billy’s own colouring—red hair and freckles—said he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“Two dozen coppers to catch one bloke. That’s hardly fair odds, if you ask me.”
His sergeant was busy filling his pipe. When he had it lit he responded. “One bloke and one rifle,” he said. “That’s what all the fuss is about. If he takes it into his head to start shooting, then you and I, Constable Fairweather, will be sitting ducks.”
Billy lit another cigarette. He was annoyed to see his hand was shaking as it held the match.
Billy stared at the dial of his wristwatch. The minute hand was only a fraction off the vertical. He watched as the second hand began its final revolution and then lifted his eyes and glanced down the long row of laurels. He saw Madden rise to his feet.
The inspector peered through a gap in the bushes. Then he took off his hat and moved it in a sweeping motion above his head. The line of blue-uniformed officers rose on signal. Billy scrambled to his feet and heard the other men around him do the same.
The two parties of policemen broke through the line of bushes and advanced on the thicket, now a darkening mass of greenery in the early-evening light. Billy saw ahead of him a stretch of empty heath dotted with small bushes and hollows. He heard the sergeant telling the men in an even tone to spread out further to the right, closing the gap between themselves and the edge of the pond.
As they continued to move inwards he glanced to his left and registered, with a slight shock, the sight of the policeman nearest to him among Madden’s group walking with his revolver pointed straight ahead. He noted that the inspector, who was advancing a few paces in front of the blue line, was unarmed.
Billy was struck by how clearly he seemed to see everything. It was partly the limpid evening light, which enhanced the outlines of objects, but he felt, too, that his own senses had sharpened to an extraordinary degree. He seemed to see blades of grass, individual and distinct, beneath his feet. When a flock of wood pigeons flew overhead he picked out the white and grey feathers of the swiftly moving bodies and heard the creak of their wings. The sky above had taken on a deep metallic sheen. The air was cool and fresh—
CRACK!
The sound of the shot brought him up short, and at the same instant he saw the sergeant, on his right, throw up his arms with a cry and fall to the ground.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
Billy flung himself face down, dimly aware of another sound his ears had registered. It had come and gone without echo and with the swiftness of thought, ripping the air above him like cloth.
Phew-phew-phew!
Half dazed with shock he heard Madden’s voice shouting commands. More gunshots sounded, but of a different calibre, and closer at hand, and he realised the armed men were firing back. He turned his head, keeping his cheek pressed to the ground, and saw the sergeant a dozen paces away lying on his side. His face was a ghastly white, the features contorted with pain. Billy began to crawl towards him. As he got closer he saw that the wounded man was clutching his left leg and tugging at his trousers. His bared shin was bathed in blood.
“Sarge? Are you all right?”
The voice came from beyond the prone figure and Billy caught sight of Fairweather’s helmeted head bobbing close to the ground. They reached the sergeant together,
“. . . bastard shot me . . . my leg . . .”
The sergeant’s pupils were distended by shock.
The rifle sounded again, but from further away, and this time Billy heard no accompanying whistle in the air above. He rolled over. Madden had risen to one knee. He was scanning the thicket a hundred yards ahead. He signalled to the men to stop shooting. The crackle of revolver fire now came from the far side of the tangled brush. Madden rose suddenly and Billy caught the faint sound of his voice calling to the men around him. “Come on!”
The inspector began to run towards the thicket, followed by the line of blue-clad officers. Billy glanced at the sergeant. Fairweather was bent over him, loosening his trousers and easing them down over his legs. His eyes met Billy’s. “Go on, if you like. I’ll see to him.”
Billy got to his feet and r
aced after the receding line. The gunfire had ceased, but he heard the piercing note of a police whistle. As he pounded over the bumpy ground, stumbling in the hidden hollows, he saw Madden vanish into the fringe of the thicket. The sound of shouting reached him. Orders were being bellowed.
Billy plunged into the brush on the heels of a heavy-set constable, who had fallen behind the others. The shouting was closer now. Then a single rifle shot sounded, followed by a babble of voices. He heard Madden’s roar above the rest.
“Hold him! Put him on the ground! Handcuffs!”
Billy ploughed his way through the bushes towards the hubbub and came on a seething wall of blue uniforms. He saw Madden and Inspector Drummond crouched beside the figure of a man lying face down in a clearing in the brush. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back. A rifle lay on the ground beside him.
Madden rose to his feet, and at that moment Sinclair appeared, bareheaded, pushing his way through the bushes. He was breathing heavily. Their eyes met. Madden shook his head. He called across the clearing.
“It’s not him, sir. It’s not Pike.”
“Over here, sir!”
The shout came from Billy’s right. A constable with his helmet skewed burst from the tangled undergrowth. he beckoned urgently to Drummond, who rose and followed him into the brush. A moment later they heard the inspector’s stifled exclamation. “Christ on crutches!”
Madden’s long legs took him across the clearing ahead of the chief inspector. Billy hurried along behind them. They came on Drummond, hands on hips, peering down into a deep pit where the constable stood balanced on a stack of wooden boxes with rope handles attached to their ends. He was trying to prise the lid off one of them, but it was nailed shut.
“Those are rifles.” It was Madden who spoke. “Lee-Enfields. Stolen from a military depot, I should think.”
“Wouldn’t you know it!” Drummond shook his head in disgust. He glanced at the chief inspector. “What do you think, sir? Offhand I’d say we’d caught ourselves a bog-trotter.”
Sinclair said nothing, but his gaze was bleak.
They returned to the clearing. Drummond bent down and rolled the handcuffed man over on his back. Billy saw an unshaven face topped by thick black curls. The man wore workman’s boots and trousers and a torn fisherman’s sweater. He looked to be in his early twenties. Drummond jabbed him in the ribs with the toe of his shoe.
“What’s your name, then, Paddy?”
The young man gave no sign of having heard the question. He kept his gaze fixed on some imaginary point in the distance.
“They must have left him to mind the store.”
Drummond jabbed him again, harder this time. Then he looked up and caught Sinclair’s eye on him and flushed guiltily.
“Excuse me, sir. I’ll be back in a minute.” Madden was on the move almost before Billy realized it, striding through the brush in the direction from which they had come. He scurried after the inspector. Dusk was falling, but there was still enough light in the sky to see the three uniformed figures toiling across the field towards them, cradling a fourth man in their arms. Billy broke into a trot, trying to keep up with the inspector’s long strides.
“You were told to stay down till further orders in the event of shooting, Constable.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
The look Madden gave him was unreadable.
As they came up to the others Billy saw that the sergeant’s head was lolling on his chest. He was breathing in quick gasps, but he rallied when he saw Madden’s face—bent over him. “I’m all right, sir. Took a bullet in the calf. It bled a bit.”
His legs were bare, one of them roughly bandaged with what looked like a pair of bloodstained handkerchiefs tied together. Madden made the men lay him down on the grass. He took the sergeant’s trousers and folded them into a rough pillow.
“I want you to stay here, Sergeant. Just lie quietly. I’m going to have a rough stretcher made out of some branches and then I’ll be back for you. Try to relax. Breathe easy.”
The expression on Madden’s face reminded Billy of the day they had gone to Folkestone and he had watched the inspector talking to the one-legged soldier. Dawkins. That was his name.
They rejoined Sinclair in the clearing and Madden put a pair of constables to cutting branches. The chief inspector drew him aside. “I’ve decided to leave the rifles where they are. This is Special Branch’s business. I’ll have the place watched until they can get their own people down here.”
Madden nodded. “They hadn’t started filling in the hole. Whoever left that stuff may be back with more.”
Sinclair’s glance shifted to their handcuffed prisoner. He was sitting up now, but his gaze remained a blank.
“I’ve sent a couple of men back to Stonehill with Proudfoot to fetch torches and flares. Let me know as soon as the stretcher’s ready.”
He looked up at the sky. Billy, who was standing nearby, followed his glance and saw that the stars were already appearing in the gathering gloom.
The chief inspector sighed.
Hollingsworth came into the clearing. He had Sinclair’s hat in his hands and was brushing it off.
“Here it is, sir. I found it.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Sinclair took the hat, but continued to stand bareheaded staring up into the darkness.
“Only two casualties, sir.”
“Two?”
“One of the constables fell and hurt his wrist. Looks like a break. They’re seeing to him.”
Sinclair was silent.
“We were lucky, sir.” Hollingsworth tried to console his superior. “It could have been worse.”
“Could it, Sergeant? Could it?”
To Billy it seemed clear that the chief inspector held a different opinion.
The Stonehill village hall echoed to the voices of a score of policemen. Folding chairs had been handed out from a stack at the rear of the building and most of the men had taken the opportunity to rest. They were sitting in groups with cups of tea in their hands and plates of sandwiches balanced on their knees. The food and drink had been provided by the women of the village at the request of Constable Proudfoot, who was now occupied in keeping at bay the crowd that had been gathering all evening on the green outside.
The stocky constable stood on the steps of the hall swaying on his feet. Billy didn’t know how he kept going. He was feeling the effects of exhaustion himself and was sitting with Fairweather and another constable from Tunbridge Wells, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Billy had taken off his shoes and was massaging his toes. The other two watched enviously. Regulations forbade them to remove any items of uniform without good reason and they doubted that a pair of aching feet would be held to meet the requirement.
The wounded sergeant—Billy had discovered his name was Baines—and the constable with the broken wrist were both on their way to Crowborough in an ambulance, which Proudfoot had summoned when he returned to the village. He had sent the other two men back with flares and torches, which the main party had needed to light their way.
The Stonehill hall, like the church hall at Highfield, boasted a raised dais, and it was there that their prisoner was being held under guard. His wrists were still handcuffed—but in front of him now—and he’d been fed and allowed one of the folding chairs to sit on. He had not yet given up his name, but a letter had been found in his pocket addressed to a Mr. Frank O’Leary, care of a hotel in Liver-pool.
Both name and address had been passed on to Special Branch by Sinclair, who had settled by the telephone in Proudfoot’s cottage as soon as they got back. Three officers from Special Branch were already on their way from Tunbridge Wells, and more would follow from London first thing in the morning. In the meantime, two of the armed contingent from the Sussex police had been left on the wooded knoll overlooking the thicket, keeping watch, while a third officer was standing by to bring back any message from them. Inspector Drummond had volunteere
d to spend the night at Stonehill until Special Branch arrived to take over.
The chief inspector had rung Bennett at his home and given him a brief report on the unexpected outcome of the operation. The London detachment would be returning home shortly.
All this information had come to Billy courtesy of Sergeant Hollingsworth, who had joined them, pulling up a chair and lighting a cigarette.
“The guv’nor’s in a proper bate. There’s no use telling him he’ll get a pat on the back from Special Branch. He thought he had Pike in his sights. But now?” Hollingsworth shrugged. He glanced at Billy with a grin. “I heard you were playing ducks and drakes over on the pond this afternoon, young Master Styles.”
“What?” Billy reddened.
“That’s what the lads posted up on the hillock told us. That Inspector Drummond said you must be barmy.”
Billy set his jaw. If the sergeant thought he was going to try to explain! Then he remembered what the woman had said—that she was going to lay a complaint against him—and he realized he might have to explain, whether he liked it or not.
On the other side of the room Sinclair put down his cup on the table beside the tea urn. He’d been talking to Drummond. Madden sat near them, bowed over his thoughts. The chief inspector walked towards the doorway at the rear of the hall with Drummond at his heels. Hollingsworth rose and went after them, and Billy followed, trying to tie his shoelaces at the same time. As he came through the doorway on to the steps he saw that Sinclair was speaking to Proudfoot.
“I want you to go home now, Constable, and go to bed. Everything’s taken care of. There’s nothing more for you to do at present.”
Proudfoot, red-eyed and unshaven, seemed disposed to object. He was shaking his head.
“I’d just like to say that in my estimation you’ve not put a foot wrong.” The chief inspector regarded him steadily. “And that’s from the time you spotted that man in the brush yesterday and decided to ring Crowborough. I shall include all of that in my report, and more. You may be sure a copy of it will be sent to the chief constable.”