River of Darkness (35 page)

knees. He peered at the floor closely, then put his nose close to the cement and sniffed. 'I tried to pick out some of the stuff with the point of a knife.' Booth bent over him. 'I'm not sure if there was enough to test.' He shrugged. 'Anyway, I sent it off to the government chemist last night. Don't know when we'll hear from him.' Madden rose to his feet. He looked at the open doorway at the end of the shed. 'Too narrow for a car,' he observed. 'That's what I thought.' Booth mopped his face with a handkerchief. The fresh air coming in from outside smelled of apples. 'So if that was a patch of oil before he cleaned it up, seems to me it could only have come from a motorcycle standing there.' Madden grunted. It was hard to tell what he thought. 'And there's something else, sir.' Booth was grinning now, like a conjuror displaying his best trick. 'It wasn't till the idea of a motorbike came into my mind that I thought to look for it. We'll have to go back up the lane a way.' He led Madden out of the shed and they walked past the parked car and along the dirt track. Billy, following a few paces behind, spied something ahead of them at the side of the road. When they got closer he saw that a shallow depression in the surface had been marked off with a triangle of wooden stakes, tied together with string. A piece of cardboard fixed to one of the stakes bore a rough pencilled message: police notice - keep off. He had missed it when they drove by. Booth was speaking to the inspector. 'This lane we're on is used by farmworkers to get to the fields and orchards. The only cottage it passes is Mrs Troy's. It doesn't go anywhere.' They were standing by the stakes now. The depression held a filling of crusted mud marked with a criss-cross pattern. Booth crouched down, and Madden and Billy did the same. The sergeant pointed with his finger. 'I took a plaster cast of that yesterday afternoon. When I got back to Folkestone I checked it against our book of tyre patterns. It's a standard Dunlop diamond design supplied to motorcycle manufacturers, Harley and Triumph in particular. Someone's ridden a motorbike down this lane in the last few weeks, since the rains started.' Still Madden said nothing. 'I didn't get the pattern checked till late.' Booth took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to the inspector, who declined, with a slight shake of his head. 'Chief Inspector Mulrooney had gone home, but I called round to see him and we had a word. I told him what I thought. We wondered if we shouldn't wait for the chemist's report. . .' Booth pulled a face. T didn't like the idea of dragging you down here for nothing, sir. Not with what you've got on your hands. But the chief inspector decided the matter was too serious to let any chance slip. Specially after what happened at Stonehill. He said I should ring you first thing in the morning.' They stood in silence. Booth drew on his cigarette. He glanced nervously at the inspector. 'What do you think, sir?' Madden glanced down the lane towards the shed. Then his gaze swept the surrounding fields and orchards. Finally he spoke: 'I want to look for a footprint. He might have left one somewhere on this track. Check the puddles.' They formed themselves into a line and walked back slowly towards the cottage, eyes cast down. Billy noted several patches of mud on his side of the lane, but none bore any footmarks. He was almost level with the garden gate when he noticed that Madden, who was walking between them, in the middle of the track, had stopped. He was down on his haunches, looking at the ground in front of him. Booth had seen him, too. 'Have you found something, sir?' The inspector's muttered reply was unintelligible. He was peering closely at the saucer of dried mud before him. 'Fetch me some grass, would you, Sergeant?' Booth tugged a handful from the verge and brought it over to him. Madden fashioned a makeshift brush from the blades and began to flick surface dust and grit from the mud base. He bent down and blew away the dirt. Billy crouched beside him. Gradually the outline of a footmark appeared. First the sole, only lightly sketched on the crusty soil. Then the full print. Madden blew away more loose grains of earth. The deeper impression of the heel grew clear. Billy saw that the outer rim of the oval shape had a piece missing. He heard the soft sigh that issued from the inspector's lips. The young man never forgot the scene. He carried with him for the rest of his life the image of Madden as he glanced up and met the sergeant's rapt gaze. And in later years, whenever the scent of harvest apples came to him he would hear the inspector's murmured words: 'It's him. It's Pike.'

Booth parked the car in the forecourt of the village pub beside a sign depicting St George slaying the dragon. The three men walked quickly down the street, Billy and the sergeant having to stretch their legs to keep up with Madden's long strides. Knowlton seemed like a busy centre. Besides the usual butcher, baker and general store the narrow street boasted a dressmaker and an antique dealer, side by side, and further down a shop that sold bric-a-brac. Billy barely had time to glance in the windows as they swept by. As though in keeping with the ambitions of the place, the village bobby maintained an office in the front room of a cottage at the end of the street. Packard, a man in his late forties with greying hair and worry-lines etched deep into his broad forehead, showed no surprise at seeing Booth. But his eyes widened on learning the inspector's identity, and when Madden told him why they were there the constable paled visibly. 'We think this man Pike may live in the district.' Packard opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out a copy of the police poster. 'This arrived yesterday, sir. I can't say I know this man.' 'Have a look at these, would you?' Madden passed him the two artist's sketches he'd brought with him. 'And I need to use your telephone urgently.' Billy watched Packard's expression as he studied the drawings and saw at once that he didn't recognize the face. The constable had vacated his desk so that Madden could make his call. 'He's not a man who draws attention to himself.' Madden spoke with the telephone held to his ear. He'd placed a call to Stonehill via the Folkestone exchange. 'You won't find him buying a round of drinks in the pub. He probably has no friends.' Packard shook his head. 'I saw one of these in the newspaper today. I'm sorry, sir . . .' He handed the sketches back. The inspector began speaking into the phone, but the conversation didn't last long, and he hung up. 'Mr Sinclair's not back from London yet. They're expecting him shortly.' He looked at his wristwatch. Billy instinctively did the same. It was a quarter to one. 'Let's see if we can work out the timing of this.' Madden addressed Booth, who sat in one of two straight-backed chairs placed in front of the desk. Packard had taken the other. Billy stood behind them. 'Pike must have gone to Rudd's Cross on Saturday morning to prepare for his trip to Ashdown Forest. Suppose Biggs came on him in the shed and they got into an argument. Whatever happened, it ended with Pike killing him, and once he'd done that he had to dispose of Mrs Troy as well. He couldn't afford to leave a witness to his presence there.' The inspector lit a cigarette. Booth was already smoking. 'Now the sensible thing would have been to clear up and move out during the weekend. But we know he went to Ashdown Forest. He's not a sensible man, not rational in the way you or I would understand it. He does what he's driven to do. 'So let's say he returned to Rudd's Cross on Sunday night. He could have been back by midnight and that would have given him several hours of darkness in which to clean the shed and dispose of Biggs's body. What about the silver?' Madden frowned, pursing his lips. 'I think he took that, too. He likes to lay false trails. He's tried it before. His father was a gamekeeper, you know.' The inspector's glance was still on Booth. 'My guess is he's buried them somewhere, Biggs and the silver both.' The sergeant extinguished his cigarette. 'But where could he have gone on his bike from Rudd's Cross?' he asked. 'There was an alarm out all over Kent. Motorcycles were being stopped on the road right through Monday morning. They're still making random checks.' Madden nodded. 'Not far, is the answer. And he must have travelled by back roads and lanes. He knows the district. I'm convinced he lives close by. Whenever he wanted to use the motorcycle he had to get to Rudd's Cross and if he lived too far away it wouldn't be practical. They don't know him there, and if Constable Packard's right he isn't well known in Knowlton either. We think he has a job that involves travelling. Something that takes him around the country, in the Home Counties, at least.' Listening to them, Billy longed to make a contribution. He was jealous that Madden addressed his remarks to Booth. Of course, the sergeant was an experienced detective, and the way he'd been able to read the signs at Rudd's Cross must have impressed the inspector. But the young constable felt left out, just as he had at Highfield that first day. Madden glanced at his watch again. 'I don't know about you,' he said, 'but we had no breakfast. Let's get a quick bite in the pub, then I'll come back and ring Stonehill again. I must speak to Mr Sinclair.' He was already on the move, rising and striding from the office. The others followed him out into the street, where the inspector carried on talking over his shoulder to Booth and Packard. Billy hung back. 'What's worrying me is Pike may decide to leave the district, just up stakes and go, and we'll have to start afresh. He may not be rational always, but he's no fool. He must know that once Mrs Troy's body is discovered the police will be looking for Grail..." He walked on, his voice fading. Billy stood rooted to the spot. He stared at what was before his eyes. 'Constable!' Billy started. He looked round. Madden was standing some way up the street looking back. Billy beckoned to him. His heart was racing. Madden put his hands on his hips, the gesture underlining his impatience. But he started back, walking rapidly with the others trailing in his wake. 'Sir!' Billy called out, when he was still a few paces off. 'Sir, look!' The inspector came to a halt beside him. He followed with his eyes the direction Billy was indicating. Booth arrived panting on his heels. 'What is it?' the sergeant demanded. He peered into the window of the bric-a-brac shop. A bewildering variety of objects met his gaze: a grandfather clock, a tray of glass marbles, cushions of various shapes and sizes, a set of hunting prints . . . 'What are you looking at?' he asked. 'Do you see that painting of a house on the wall over there?' Madden spoke in a conversational tone, and Booth understood he was meant to look past the window display to the wall at the back of the shop. He nodded. 'It's Melling Lodge.' Billy's heart turned a somersault. He was afraid he'd been mistaken. 'It was that figure on the fountain ..." The words poured out as he found his tongue. '. . . the boy drawing his bow, I remember it, and the front of the house with the bench fixed in the wall..." He went silent again. He could feel the inspector's eyes on him. 'Well spotted, Constable.' 'Thank you, sir.' Billy didn't look up. He was afraid Madden would see his tear-filled eyes. (Tears of relief, he told himself.) But he felt Booth's elbow in his ribs. The sergeant was grinning at him. 'What did I say, lad? Little things.'

'He calls himself Carver, sir. He's a chauffeur. He works for a lady named Mrs Aylward. Hermione Aylward. She's a painter. Her house isn't far from Knowlton. He's our man all right.' Billy had watched Constable Packard turn bright red earlier when the same fact became clear. The constable had quickly volunteered to go to the pub and fetch some sandwiches for them. Billy reckoned he must have been ashamed at not having recognized Pike's face from the poster or drawings. Sergeant Booth took a more charitable view. 'It's the uniform,' he explained, while Madden was placing his call to Stonehill. 'You look at this Carver and you see a chauffeur. Specially if he's a bloke who never does anything to attract attention, never meets your eye. You've got no reason to look at him close or watch him. He's the one doing the watching.' Madden was speaking into the phone. Billy pictured the chief inspector listening at the other end of the line, his grey eyes intent. 'The pattern's clear. All the facts fit. Mrs Aylward gets about a good deal. Her speciality is children's portraits. Do you recall that painting above the fireplace in the drawing-room at Melling Lodge? Mrs Fletcher with the two children? She did that. And there were individual portraits of the children in the Merricks' bedroom at Croft Manor. I expect we'll find they're her work as well. She's quite well known, apparently.' That wasn't how Miss Grainger had put it, Billy reflected. (Dorothy Grainger, prop., the sign above the door of the bric-a-brac shop had stated.) Sporting a monocle, she had met them in breeches and a man's sports jacket, appearing through a curtained doorway to announce that the store was closing for lunch and they would have to return later. Madden had shown her his warrant card. 'Dear me! What has Hermione been up to?' Miss Grainger had close-cropped hair and a smoker's cough, and Billy had concluded she must be one of them (without knowing quite what that meant). Her heavy featured face was scored with lines of discontent. He goggled when she lit a cigar. 'A painter of note? Come now, Inspector! Let's not go overboard. Gainsborough won't stir in his grave, I assure you. Turner sleeps untroubled.' Billy hadn't a clue what she was talking about, except it was plainly intended to be insulting towards Mrs Aylward. Somehow Madden had kept his patience. 'Would you tell us about this painting?' he had asked. Now he spoke to the chief inspector: 'The children's portraits are commissioned, but she does other work as well -- houses, landscapes and so on -- and holds an exhibition from time to time. She must have done the painting of Melling Lodge on the side, when Mrs Fletcher and the children were sitting for her.' The inspector had not thought it necessary to make the obvious point. That Pike would have driven Mrs Aylward to Highfield and thus had his first glimpse of Lucy Fletcher. Miss Grainger had admitted to having a commercial arrangement with Hermione Aylward. The artist's unsold paintings were displayed in the shop at knockdown prices. However, the significance of the Melling Lodge picture had not escaped either of them. 'Directly after the murders she told me to raise the price from the usual twenty-five pounds to two hundred and to make sure people knew what the subject was. She wanted me to put up a sign, but I refused. After all, there's such a thing as good taste. Since then we've hardly been on speaking terms.' Miss Grainger produced a satisfied smile. 'And, as you see, there have been no takers.' The question of Mrs Aylward's chauffeur had arisen early in the interview. Madden had asked if she travelled by car. 'Indeed she does. In a damned great Bentley! You'd think royalty was approaching.' 'Then I take it she has a chauffeur?' Madden had asked noncommittally. Miss Grainger had shrugged. 'Of course. Carver -- isn't that his name?' This to Constable Packard, who had nodded. And then flushed as the realization came to him. Billy didn't understand why the inspector hadn't shown her the pictures of Pike. It was another thing Sergeant Booth had had to explain to him. 'And let her know it's Carver we're interested in? The word'll be around Knowlton before the afternoon's out. There's no need to tip our hand. We've not set eyes on him yet.' But they knew where he was, near enough. 'At this moment, on his way back from Dover, sir. He took Mrs Aylward over there to a luncheon. They're expected back at the house by tea-time. She'll be spending the evening in.' Madden had rung the house earlier, posing as a client interested in hiring the artist's services. He had found only the maid at home. 'I left a message saying I'd ring again later.' Madden was silent for a while, listening to the chief inspector. He grunted and nodded, as though they were sitting face to face. Twice he looked at his wristwatch. 'We'll be in Packard's office, sir. We'll wait for you here.' He nodded again. 'I agree. We must act as soon as possible.' Madden hung up the receiver. He looked at Booth and Billy, who were sitting facing him across the desk. 'The chief inspector's on his way. He'll pass by Folkestone and collect a squad of armed officers. As soon as they arrive, we'll go out to the house. We'll take him there.'