Gently Where the Birds Are

by Alan Hunter

  He’d come armed with his camera which, however, was still buttoned in its case. His fresh young face had a stubborn look and his eyes stared hard ahead. Soon, now, he’d be growing a beard and cultivating the appearance of a regular backwoods-man . . .

  ‘That . . . was the fellow?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And you think that Phil . . .?’ he let it trail.

  ‘Let’s say I know he disposed of the body.’

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘Have you heard from Ka Stoven?’

  Silence! His lips had tightened, his brows set in their attractive frown. They drove past the track to Rushmere’s cottage, in the entry of which were parked the minibuses.

  ‘Look . . . you must have got it wrong!’

  ‘Because you think you know your friends too well?’

  ‘Yes – I do! I know that Phil has had a breakdown, but he’s a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. And Ka . . .’

  ‘Ka is a poet.’

  ‘She’s just too sane to do something like this.’

  ‘Yet someone shot him.’

  ‘It could have been me.’

  ‘But it wasn’t, was it?’

  Dick Middleton stuck his chin out.

  A constable was posted at the gate to the reserve and he threw a salute before opening to them. They bumbled slowly over ramps installed to control the speed of visiting cars.

  Far off, over trees, the flickering chopper had resumed its droop-nosed runs, but Campsey’s Panda was the only vehicle parked on the high knoll. Gently parked by it. He got out to join Campsey.

  ‘Anything doing?’

  ‘No sir. All I’ve seen is the birds.’

  ‘How many men were put in at this end?’

  ‘Six, sir. They’re spread out along the stream.’

  ‘What about down there?’

  ‘I’m watching that, sir. You get a good view from up here. Then we’ve got men working up from Shoreswell, in case he’s gone along the dunes.’

  ‘That still leaves gaps.’

  ‘Yes sir. But to cover this lot you’d need the military.’

  Gently shrugged – true enough! And for all they knew he was long gone. If he’d considered it coolly he’d have headed for a road and the first car to stop for him. Yet would he have considered it coolly, Rushmere . . .? He’d been in a different state of mind when Gently had left him! Then he’d been strung up, in despair, ready for any rash action . . . in his warden’s jacket, with glasses slung: the protector of birds, of a sacred country! If you read it aright, where else would he be except out there . . . in his kingdom?

  Gently beckoned to Dick Middleton.

  ‘Listen carefully. Your friend is in a bad mess. He gave us the slip a while back and he may be around here, armed with a gun. He’s going to be charged in any case, but there could be mitigating circumstances. But if he’s stupid enough to take a pot at a policeman then he’ll get life, and that means life. I don’t want it to happen, so if you know where he might be hiding, you’d better tell us.’

  Dick Middleton’s eyes were large. ‘But there’s only the two hides.’

  ‘Have you been into the reserve?’

  ‘Yes – it’s simply islands and reed-beds.’

  ‘The reeds could hide a man.’

  ‘You don’t understand! They grow out of water, there’s nothing solid.’

  ‘A boat . . . a punt?’

  He shook his head. ‘You couldn’t shove it in far enough to hide it.’

  And that was plain from their elevated viewpoint, with the reed-swamp below like a fawn forest. Regular and unbroken, its six-foot stems presented a stout front to the open water. But where else . . .? Could the foolish birdman really be cowering in one of the hides, the first place that a policeman searching the area would look?

  Gently let his eyes roam further over the baffling sweep of the reserve, the pools, islands, beards of reed, the still-green colonies of rush. And beyond it, the copper birchwood and low slope of the fields, and . . . his eye returned to it . . . the black tower of the abandoned mill.

  ‘The mill! What do you know about that?’

  They both stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Reckon that’ll be boarded up, sir,’ Campsey said. ‘They’re dangerous places, those old mills.’

  ‘But what’s behind it – round about?’

  ‘Well, nothing but marsh and water, sir. It was for drainage. The only way to it is along the causeway from the sluice.’

  Gently trained glasses on the mill. The capless tower stood stark in the sunlight, a massive cog-wheel projecting from its crown, a glint of water at its foot. Three notches of darker shadow were windows, frameless and empty, while a semicircular timber casing, slung at the side, doubtless housed the great paddle-wheel. A place to hide out . . .? Defenceless to rain, and with wind howling through the gaping windows . . .? About to lower the glasses, he paused: something had flashed out there, in the mill! Something . . . he glanced at the sun, now standing southwards, over the power station. A flash of glass . . . glasses! The watchers on the knoll were themselves being watched!

  And, for confirmation, at that precise moment, a heron rose from below the mill with slow, heavy flaps . . .

  ‘Can we get a car out there?’

  Campsey looked doubtful. ‘We can get one as far as the sluice, sir.’

  ‘That’ll be close enough. Come on!’

  The three of them piled into Campsey’s Panda.

  It was a rough ride to the sluice, beginning with a slither down the sandy track. Under the wall of the reserve the going got firmer, but here and there was obstructed by old defence works. Campsey, stolid and silent, kept the Panda bouncing and swerving.

  ‘He was going to take me over the mill . . .’ Dick Middleton muttered.

  ‘You might have remembered that before!’

  The young man put on his sullen look. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s got some keys . . .’

  They skewed to a stop by concrete blocks a few yards short of the sluice. All was peaceful. Mallards bobbed in the drain and, higher up, the grebes watched them.

  ‘Along here, sir . . .’

  A low, rush-edged bank divided the mere from the marshes southwards, bordered on one side by the drain, on the other by reed and scrub willow. A path followed it, burrowing past the reeds. The top of the mill showed over the reed plumes.

  ‘You lead. Try to keep cover.’

  They climbed the rails and set off. The mallard, helpfully, found a gap to swim through, while the grebes dived and failed to reappear. Had Rushmere noticed the Panda dip down from the car park . . .? For the rest, the wall of the reserve would have hidden it. And here the cover was complete: the path hugged the reeds and had them ducking under the willow.

  Ahead, Campsey halted.

  ‘I don’t know, sir . . . this path doesn’t seem to have been used lately.’

  He had come to a rash of naked black peat, innocent of marks except the stipple of rain.

  ‘He must have come in another way.’

  ‘It’s all wet swamp, sir. There isn’t any way but this.’

  ‘Rushmere might know one.’

  Dick Middleton said gruffly: ‘Phil gets around the marsh like a coypu.’

  Gently shrugged – if it came to a siege, the birdman had chosen his spot well! You couldn’t outflank him, couldn’t storm him, and by night he could silently steal away . . .

  ‘Just keep your heads down. And Middleton, stay back. I’ve brought you to talk to him – if we have to.’

  Patiently, Campsey crept forward, easing aside the reeds and twigs. Now they were catching glimpses of the flaking black tower and the slanted cog-wheel sprouting from it. Was Rushmere on watch? If so, the odds were that he was scanning the slopes of the heath, where perhaps now the line of searchers had appeared, while the chopper came and went overhead. The path below he wouldn’t be watching . . . which offered a chance to slink across to the door! And then a stealthy asc
ent of the ladder . . . with luck, his gun would be stood down somewhere . . .

  But a moment later such hopes were vain: and the birds it was that betrayed them. With a whirr and a rush that sounded shattering, a flock of tufties took to the wing. A splendid sight – the air was full of straining bodies and labouring wings – but they might as well have been a visiting card to the fugitive in the mill.

  ‘Come out, come out!’ his voice floated down to them.

  Gently elbowed past Campsey.

  ‘Get on your transceiver – stay in cover, and that goes for Middleton too.’

  ‘But you said I was to talk to him!’ Dick Middleton protested.

  ‘First, we’ll see if he’s nervous with a trigger.’

  Gently pushed through a screen of willow, cleared the reeds, and came out on open ground before the mill.

  Rushmere had the gun, but he wasn’t pointing it. Instead, he was holding it across his body. He was standing in the empty rectangle of the first-storey window, below which was the small but stout door. His face was very pale and his eyes were staring and he was clutching the gun low down.

  ‘That’s – that’s close enough!’

  Gently halted. Campsey had been right about the terrain. The mill had been built on an island of firm ground in the middle of swamp: acre upon acre of it.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I think you know that. Why are you fooling with that gun?’

  ‘Don’t come any closer!’

  ‘Why? You wouldn’t shoot me.’

  ‘One more step – and I’ll shoot myself!’

  Gently froze. The muzzle of the gun was wavering beneath the birdman’s chin, his arms were straight down, his hands invisible behind the brickwork. Yes . . . he meant it! The staring eyes were fixed unwinkingly on Gently. Any moment . . . by pure accident . . .! Rushmere’s life was hanging by a thread.

  ‘They were tufted ducks, weren’t they . . .?’

  ‘You won’t take me!’

  ‘Never mind about that. Where did they go?’

  ‘If you try any tricks—’

  ‘Look, you’ve got your glasses. Do take a look round and see if you can spot them.’

  The muzzle dithered, but remained vertical. Then the staring eyes blinked. The muzzle slid a little. One could hear the birdman’s breathing, checked and irregular.

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a good view up there . . . You can see all the reserve, can’t you?’

  ‘It’s no use your trying—’

  ‘The ducks went that way. See if you can spot them in one of the pools.’

  ‘Stop pretending I’m an idiot!’

  ‘Look, if I had your glasses

  ‘Stop it, I tell you – or I’ll shoot!’

  ‘But if you’d lend them to me, just for a jiffy—’

  ‘Stop – stop. I shan’t tell you again!’

  The muzzle whipped back tight under his chin and his eyes gazed straight ahead. His breathing had quickened: the sidelong sun showed a gleam of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘All right . . . that’s how you want it.’

  He could have sworn he heard a pressure taken!

  ‘But at least, think of our point of view too. You might as well tell us a few things first. For instance, where’s the Dryad?’

  Was he shoving him too hard? The rigid figure of the birdman swayed. From moment to moment, one expected to see that pallid face disintegrate . . .

  ‘I mean, what’ve you to lose . . .?’

  ‘She had nothing to do with it!’

  ‘Oh yes she had! You know that.’

  ‘I tell you no! It was I who shot him, I who buried the body up there . . .’

  ‘So where’s the money?’

  ‘I . . . it’s hidden . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Never mind . . . you’ll find it!’

  ‘Is it in the mill?’

  He swayed again, then stiffened, with the gun jabbed firmly.

  ‘What’s in the mill . . . what are you hiding?’

  ‘Stop it now – just stop it!’

  ‘All right, all right!’

  Gently shrugged exaggeratedly, turned and walked deliberately back to Campsey.

  The village constable met him with anxious eyes.

  ‘Sir, I reckon he aims to do it . . .’

  ‘What’s been happening?’

  Campsey gulped. ‘Inspector Aspall is on his way over.’

  ‘Warn him not to bring a mob out here.’

  ‘Yes sir . . . but shouldn’t I have a go at Rushmere?’

  ‘Middleton first.’ Gently grabbed the young man. ‘Say anything you like, but keep talking.’

  ‘But what – what?’ Dick Middleton stammered.

  ‘Just get out there and talk!’

  Dick Middleton went fearfully forward. The gun was still resting under Rushmere’s chin. Absurdly, the birdman suggested a soldier who’d got in a tangle when presenting arms.

  ‘Phil . . .?’

  ‘Dick – go away!’

  ‘Phil . . . oh God! You don’t mean this, do you?’

  ‘Go away Dick! This is the last time.’

  ‘No Phil – oh no!’

  He came back at a run.

  ‘I can’t do it – he’ll shoot himself!’ He clutched his head in shaking hands. ‘Oh God, I’m a coward! I can’t do it . . . I can’t watch Phil . . . oh God.’

  ‘Better let me have a go, sir,’ Campsey said urgently. ‘I’m maybe the one who’ll get him to listen.’

  ‘Give me your set, then.’

  Campsey handed it over, then strode slowly out before the mill.

  ‘Mr Rushmere, sir . . . can you hear me?’

  If Rushmere could, he gave no sign.

  ‘Mr Rushmere, now you know you shouldn’t be trespassing in the mill . . .’

  It was the proper note, no doubt, and the stolid Campsey was using it to perfection, but . . . In his window above the grey-faced birdman didn’t stir.

  ‘Mr Rushmere, sir, that mill is dangerous. We don’t like people climbing about it. You could break a leg in there, sir, or some of the old machinery could fall on you. I reckon you’d better come down, sir. We’ll have to board the old place up. Only watch yourself coming down the ladder, because I daresay you’ll find a rung or two missing . . .’

  Was he listening? It scarcely mattered. The drone of Campsey’s voice was holding him. Each second that passed was a second gained, was pushing further off the destructive impulse. Only talk long enough, talk acceptably, and perhaps at last they wouldn’t jump . . .

  The radio gritted: Aspall spoke.

  ‘Sir . . . we’ve found Miss Stoven’s car.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up here at the sluice, sir. It’s parked alongside the Panda.’

  The devil it was! ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Reckon she’s heading your way, sir.’

  ‘Then follow her!’

  ‘Yes sir. Sorry we let her get through.’

  Gently jammed the set in his pocket. This was the last thing he needed! Only let Rushmere get a glimpse of the girl and who knew which way he’d go . . .

  ‘You – Middleton!’

  The young man gaped at him.

  ‘Get down the path and stop anyone passing.’

  ‘No – I’m staying – I must stay!’

  ‘Do as I say – get down the path!’

  It was too late. There was a pad of feet and the brush of a body through scrub and reeds. A panting girl threw herself at Gently, her eyes alight with manic fury.

  ‘Ka – oh Ka!’ Dick Middleton cried.

  ‘You fiends!’ she exploded. ‘What have you done to him?’

  Gently grabbed her and forced her back into the willows. Luckily Campsey’s voice hadn’t faltered. The girl herself was gasping for breath but her flashing eyes signalled fresh outbursts.

  ‘If you want him to live . . . keep it down!’

  ‘I won’t!’

  ‘You will. He’s
got a gun. He has his finger on the trigger. One peep out of you, and he’ll blow his head off.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Shut up and listen.’

  ‘. . . Mr Rushmere, sir,’ came Campsey’s voice. ‘Don’t worry about me, sir, I shan’t interfere. You can ease off now with that gun . . .’

  Her eyes crucified him. ‘You devil. It’s you who’s responsible for this. You must have known that he’s a nervous wreck – that his criminal wife left him for dead.’

  ‘I know also that he’s killed a man.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘He admitted it just now.’

  ‘Then he’s lying too – you’ve driven him to it! My God, but someone’s going to pay.’

  ‘If Rushmere didn’t kill Sternfield, who did?’

  ‘Who? You did! The police killed him.’

  ‘The police . . .!’

  ‘Yes – with their bloody siren. He thought we’d shopped him, and shot himself.’

  Gently gazed at her. ‘Do you think we’ll swallow that?’

  ‘You’ll have to swallow it, because it’s true.’

  ‘Then where’s the money?’

  ‘It’s at Liverpool Street Station – and the ticket’s in the post to Scotland Yard.’

  The sudden quirk in her eye should have warned him, but astonishment made him slow. Before he could smother her she was screaming hysterically:

  ‘Phil – I’m here! Don’t do it! Phil!’

  And the gun exploded.

  ‘Hold her!’ Gently bawled, thrusting Miss Stoven at the pop-eyed Dick Middleton.

  Across at the mill, Campsey’s boot was crashing repeatedly into the locked door. It gave. They rushed in and up a worm-eaten ladder white with bird-droppings. Rushmere was lying in a pool of blood by the great iron-bound drive-shaft, the gun beside him.

  But he’d bungled it. All he’d done was to excoriate his right shoulder.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE AMBULANCE COULDN’T get closer than the car park, so the chopper was called in to make an airlift. Patched up first by Campsey, then by a St John’s man, Rushmere was conscious, but not talking. He’d lost plenty of blood. His beaked face was colourless, the eyes hooded to the merest slits.

  ‘Sir, the girl is asking to go with him . . .’

  Aspall had arrived soon after the shot. He’d found Miss Stoven in the arms of Dick Middleton, who’d hung on to her in spite of some desperate scratches. Then she had calmed down, hearing Rushmere was alive, had stood by angry faced, brooding retributions.