River of Darkness (38 page)

They found Tom Cooper, the Fletchers' gardener, trimming the hedge in front of his own cottage at the end of a lane off the paved main road. He took off his cracked leather gloves to shake the inspector's hand. 'I was that pleased to hear he was dead, sir, though I wish you'd caught him. I was hoping to see the bastard swing.' Cooper told them something they hadn't known before. Mrs Aylward had taken two days to complete the painting and had spent the intervening night in a hotel in Guildford. 'I only saw the chauffeur the first day, when they arrived. He took the lady's things from the car into the hall. Mrs Fletcher showed him where to put them. Then he parked the car in the drive. Next time I came by it was empty, and I didn't see him again. I thought he must have gone into the village.' 'That's where he went,' Madden said later, as they walked back up the lane. He nodded behind them towards the woods of Upton Hanger, bright with the colours of autumn. The morning mist was gathering again, starting to weave silvery threads among the tips of the Scotch pines lining the crest. 'He knew by then he'd be coming back. He was scouting out a site for his dugout." They reached the corner. Looking up the road, the inspector caught sight of the small red two-seater coming towards them. He raised his arm. Stackpole saw the light in his eyes and grinned under his helmet She drew up beside them. 'Hullo, you two.' Her deep blue glance rested on Madden. 'I've just bumped into young Jem Roker. He was looking for me. His father's fallen off a haystack and broken his arm. I'll have to go out there.' She smiled into his eyes. 'A doctor's life 'Will you be long?' he asked anxiously. 'Not more than an hour. But I've got to stop in at the surgery first. Come along there for a moment.' They followed the car as it turned off the road on to the track that circled the green. The door of the doctor's waiting-room was ajar when they got there. Stackpole hung back. 'I'll wait for you here, sir.' He studied the grey sky as though it held some feature of interest. Madden went inside and found Helen in her office. She came from behind her desk into his arms. He held her to him, wordless. The thought of the peril that had come so close to her sent a shudder through him he couldn't control. 'John, what is it?' 'No . . . nothing . . . I'm just . . .' He abandoned all hope of words and clung to her. She kissed him. 'Those poor people at Stonehill . . . I lay awake all night trying to imagine what you must be doing ... I wanted you with me, I don't want you going away any more He tightened his hold on her and they kissed again.

'I've something to show you,' she said. She led him back to the desk and picked up an envelope that was lying there. 'This is from Dr Mackay in Edinburgh. She says Sophy has started talking about her mother again. Still nothing about that night, but it won't be long, Dr Mackay thinks.' Helen took out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it to him. 'This is something Sophy did. Dr Mackay thought I'd like to see it.' Madden smoothed out the paper in his hands. It bore a child's drawing done in crayon of a lake with mountains in the background. Yellow-billed ducks floated on the blue water. Giant birds flapped overhead. 'What are those?' he asked, pointing. Helen frowned. 'Highland cattle?' she hazarded. Madden laughed. 'Of course.' 'It's a happy picture, don't you think?' 'Yes, I do.' He took her in his arms again. They stood unmoving for several moments. Then she spoke.

'Let's get married soon,' she whispered. 'Let's not wait. There's so little time.' 'Time . . .?' He didn't understand her, and drew back a little to study her face. 'We've all the time in the world now.' 'No, it's going, it's passing every second, can't you feel it?' Laughing, she challenged him with her eyes. 'Marry me now, John Madden.' He returned her straight gaze, unblinking. 'By God, I will!' he vowed.

Stackpole was waiting on the green a little way from where the Wolseley was parked. Madden put the doctor's bag on the passenger seat besides the splints and bandages that Helen had brought out from the surgery. She got into the car. 'When you've finished go straight to the house. Father's spending the afternoon in Farnham, so you won't find anyone there. But Molly will be pleased to see you. Just let yourself in. The front door's not locked.' She held his gaze for a moment. 'I'll be back as soon as I can.' With a wave to the constable, she drove off. Their last call of the afternoon was on the Fletchers' cook, Ann Dunn, who lived on the opposite side of the green. She, too, remembered Mrs Aylward's visit to Melling Lodge. 'When lunch was ready in the kitchen, I sent for the chauffeur, but he wasn't in the car. We thought he must have gone to the pub.' Mrs Dunn brushed a lock of hair from her forehead with a flour-dusted arm. She had found new employment with the village baker. The pleasant smell of newly baked bread filled the small cottage. 'I've just remembered now. It was poor Sally Pepper I sent out to look for him.' The afternoon light was beginning to fade as they recrossed the green. Glancing at the inspector, Stack pole saw his eyes filmed over with thought and he smiled to himself again. The smoke of autumn fires hung in the still air. When they reached the constable's cottage they found Mrs Stackpole herself, hair bound up in a yellow scarf, busily raking dead leaves into a bonfire. 'Here I am, Will Stackpole, doing your work as usual." She smiled a greeting to Madden. 'There was a call from Oakley while you were gone. Dick Wright says he's lost another pair of chickens. And they pinched some food from his kitchen, too. He still says it's gypsies.' 'Gypsies!' Stackpole snorted with derision. 'Whenever anything's lifted hereabouts, it's always the gypsies.' Mention of Oakley jogged the inspector's memory. 'What became of our friend Wellings?' he asked. 'Did you charge him in the end?' 'Never had a chance to, sir.' Stackpole discarded his helmet and began to unbutton his tunic. 'He did a midnight flit. Packed up and slipped away without a word. It hardly seemed worth the trouble to try to get him back. The pub's been shut ever since.' Madden caught sight of a curly head framed in an upstairs window of the cottage. 'Hullo, Amy,' he said. Mrs Stackpole spun round. 'What are you doing there, young lady? Get back to bed this instant!' The child's head vanished. 'Amy's down with the measles,' her mother explained. 'Dr Blackwell said she'd look in later on her way home.' Stackpole busied himself with the rake. 'Perhaps you'd like to wait here for her, sir,' he said casually. 'No, I don't think so, Will.' The inspector adjusted his hat. 'I'll be on my way.' "You're leaving now?' The constable looked aghast 'Not this moment.' 'Then we'll be seeing you again?' 'I shouldn't be surprised.' Turning at the garden gate he was in time to see Mrs Stackpole jab an elbow into her husband's ribs. Grinning, he raised an arm in farewell.

Thick grey clouds hung close to the earth, brushing the tops of the tall beech trees. Away to his left the woods of Upton Hanger were no more than a dark shadow in the deepening dusk. Madden walked down the lane in a cocoon of mist-wrapped silence, buoyant with a happiness that sent his spirits soaring and lightened his step on the damp ground underfoot. Pausing at the locked gates of Melling Lodge, he looked down the elm-lined drive, but it was already too dark to see the house. He recalled the day he had driven through the gates in Lord Stratton's Rolls Royce, and all that had happened since. But as he walked on his mood changed. The euphoria began to drain away and was replaced by a low current of unease, which at first he attributed to the dank air and gathering mist, reminding him, as they did, of freezing nights spent in no man's land, waiting to ambush an enemy patrol. At the same time he was aware of a nagging voice at the back of his mind. Madden was gifted with unusual powers of retrieval; it was one of his strengths as a detective; there was little he heard that he forgot. But his attention had strayed from his work that afternoon. His thoughts had wandered. He had the uncomfortable feeling of having missed something important. Of having heard, but not listened. The lane narrowed, the hedgerows drawing in on either side. He came to where the road began a long turn to the right. Ahead of him was the footpath that ran through the spur of woods to the side gate of the garden; the path Will Stackpole had shown him on his first visit. Hesitating for a second, he decided to stay on the paved road, reasoning that Helen might catch up with him in her car, and after five minutes came to the main gates, which were open. Beyond them, the drive stretched away like a dark tunnel. He started down the avenue of limes, dead leaves rustling beneath his feet. The trees on either side still bore a heavy burden of autumn foliage and he spied a faint gleam of gold in the blackness overhead. At the end of the tunnel the white shape of the house showed dimly, the outline blurred and softened by the thickening mist. Madden stopped. He had heard a noise in the bushes flanking the line of trees. A rustle louder than the whisper of leaves beneath his feet. 'Molly, is that you? Here, girl!' He called to the dog. The noise ceased at once. The inspector stood unmoving in a darkness dense with silver mist. Utter silence had fallen all around him. Then he felt something brush his cheek and he lifted his hand quickly-- A leaf, spiralling down from the branches above, came to rest on his shoulder. He heard the rustle again, quick and furtive, and this time recognized the sound as that of a small, scurrying animal. Prey or predator, he could not tell, but it was gone in a moment. His anxiety had not abated and he began to comb his memory, running through the events of the afternoon, the conversations he had held, trying to track down the errant phrase that lurked like a fugitive at the back of his mind, refusing to show itself. Was it something Stackpole had said? He reached the end of the drive and crossed the short expanse of gravel in front of the house. The portico light was out, but the door was unlocked, as promised, and he went inside, switching on the light in the entrance hall. The way to the drawing-room led through the hall and across a passage and he went there without pausing. The drawing-room was in darkness, but there was enough light coming from the hall to make out the various table lamps. As he began to switch them on, a reflection of the room sprang up in the wide bow window overlooking the terrace where the curtains had not been drawn. He caught sight of his own figure in the gold-framed mirror above the mantelpiece and frowned, remembering. Not the constable. His wife! It was something Mrs Stackpole had said. Madden opened the door to the terrace and stepped outside. The mist was thicker on this side of the house, covering the lawn and cloaking the orchard at the foot of the garden. He whistled and called out the dog's name twice: 'Molly! Molly!' No answering yelp came from the silvered blackness. Mist lapped at the flagstoned terrace. The hairs on the back of Madden's neck rose. Like other long-term survivors of the trenches he had developed an instinct for danger that some had called a sixth sense but was, in fact, a learned reaction to small events and anomalies: a flicker of light in the depths of no man's land; the thrum of a barbed-wire strand in the darkness. To things that were not as they should be. He whistled again, and this time he heard a faint whine. The noise came from close at hand -- near the foot of the terrace steps, which were hidden in mist but overlapping it came another sound from behind him: the high-pitched note of the Wolseley's engine approaching down the drive towards the house. 'Dick Wright says he's lost another pair of chickens. And they pinched some food from his kitchen, too.' Madden whirled and made for the door, slamming and locking it behind him, and then sprinted across the drawing-room, running for the hallway and the front door. Racing to head her off. Before he had crossed the room he heard the pounding of footsteps on the terrace and turned to see his own reflection in the bow window shatter as a body came hurtling through it, smashing wood and glass, landing on the floor beyond the window-sill and then driving onwards towards him without a pause. He had time only to register the pale, blood-streaked face and the long pole that Pike held crossways in front of his body like a barrier before the man was on him! Too late the inspector saw the gleam of the bayonet tipping the pole. He tried to fling himself to one side, but Pike followed the movement, and as Madden staggered backwards he made a darting, snakelike thrust, driving the blade deep into the inspector's body, then wrenching it out with a savage turn of his wrist. Madden collapsed to his knees with a groan and toppled over. He lay unmoving.

Leaving her car's motor running, Helen Blackwell hurried into the house. As she ran through the lighted hallway she called to Madden: 'John, they want you back in London. That man who was burned wasn't Pike. He's not dead--' She came into the drawing-room and stopped. Her eyes went from the smashed window to Madden's body on the floor, seeing both in the same instant. For the space of a heartbeat she stood rooted. Paralysed by shock. Then, as she opened her mouth to cry out, a hand was clamped across her lips from behind and her arms were pinned to her side. Hot breath blasted in her ear; bristles tore at her neck. She knew who it was -- who it must be. The knowledge came in a flash and, though terror-stricken, she fought back at once, throwing her body from side to side, trying to unbalance her assailant. Strong as he was she sensed weakness in him. His hoarse breathing bore a note of exhaustion. Mingled with the incoherent growling that came from his lips she heard grunts of pain. Reeling about the room, crashing into furniture, sending stools and side tables spinning, they came before the mirror over the fireplace and Helen caught a glimpse of her attacker behind her. She saw a bloodstained forehead and lips drawn back over snarling teeth. She also saw a dark stain on the upper arm of his khaki shirt. Wrenching a hand free from his clawing grip she punched her knuckles into the mark with all her strength. Pike let out a roar of pain and released her. But before she could react, a blow from behind sent her stumbling into the fireplace where her forehead struck the projecting ledge of the mantelpiece and she fell back, stunned, on the hearth rug, blood flowing from a deep cut above her eye. Snarling with pain, Pike seized her under the armpits and dragged her inert form over to the sofa. He was moaning, half crying, muttering the same words over and over: 'Sadie . . . oh, Sadie Blood from his forehead dripped on to her blouse. He pulled her hair from under her body, where it was trapped, and spread it about her shoulders. 'Oh, Sadie He ripped the buttons of her blouse, then reached down to drag up her skirt. As he pulled it above her knees he was caught from behind by his shirt and lifted and spun around. A tremendous blow to the side of his jaw sent him staggering backwards and he tripped over one of the tumbled stools and fell flat on his back. 'You murdering swine!' Stackpole stood over him in his shirtsleeves. As Pike tried to clamber to his feet, grasping at the back of an armchair, the constable struck him another clubbing blow, knocking him face down on the carpet. 'Bastard!' He grasped the back of Pike's shirt in one hand and his leather belt in the other and hauled him up on to his hands and knees. As the dazed man flailed about, trying to find his bearings, Stackpole ran him across the floor and pitched him head first into a glass fronted cabinet. Glass and china shattered, spilling on to the carpet. Pike's head emerged from the cabinet dripping with blood. The constable threw his body aside. Breathing heavily, his face suffused with rage, he looked about him. Dr Blackwell was stirring on the sofa, raising her head, blinking blood from her eye-- 'Look out!' Her cry made him turn quickly and he saw Pike on the floor behind him gripping a long pole with both hands. His strike was so swift Stackpole had no chance to avoid it. The tip of the bayonet caught the constable in the thigh and he stumbled to one side and fell over a chair, landing heavily on his back. Dazed, he saw Pike, his bloodied face twisted with pain, hauling himself to his feet. He was leaning on the pole, pushing himself upright, when all of a sudden the prop was snatched from his hands and he crashed to the floor again. The figure of Madden rose to his knees behind him. He held the pole in his hands. The inspector's front was drenched in blood. His face was ghastly pale. Pike lay groaning on his back. He seemed to have come to the end of his strength. As Stackpole clambered up he saw that Madden, too, was on his feet. The inspector stood swaying over the man stretched out on the floor. He lifted the bayonet-tipped pole in unsteady hands. 'Do it, sir!' Stackpole urged him hoarsely. 'Kill him! Send the bastard to hell!' 'John!' Dr Blackwell called to him from the sofa. Her voice was pleading. Madden held the point of the blade an inch from Pike's chest. The brown eyes met his through a mask of blood. They showed no emotion. 'Amos Pike!' Madden's voice was faint. 'I'm placing you under arrest.' The eyes flared. The bloody face contorted. Before the inspector could stop him Pike reached up and seized the pole from his failing grip. With a single thrust he drove the point downwards into his own chest, impaling his body to the floor. Blood fountained from his lips. His body gave a last convulsive heave and was still. Madden sank to his knees and fell sideways to the floor. 'John . . .' Helen Blackwell scrambled across the floor to his side. 'My darling . . .' She knelt beside him, tearing at his blood-soaked shirt. Stackpole hobbled towards them. A sudden drumming on the floor made him check. Pike's heels beat a spasmodic tattoo on the carpet. The constable plucked the bayonet-tipped pole from his chest. He saw it was a roughly trimmed sapling. The long sword bayonet had been wired to one end. He raised it, prepared to strike again. The drumming ceased. 'Is he dead?' Dr Blackwell didn't look up. 'Dead as he'll ever be.' 'Will, go to the phone. Ring Guildford hospital. They must send an ambulance with a nurse right away. Immediately. When you've done that, fetch my bag from the car. Hurry!' The constable was already on the move, half limping, half running. When he returned a few minutes later he found her in the same position, kneeling beside the inspector, flicking blood angrily from her eye, pressing a pad of silk that must have come from her underclothing to Madden's side. 'Open my bag. You'll find a dressing inside.' Stackpole did as he was bid. She quickly replaced the makeshift pad. Then she took his hand in hers and held it firmly on the surgical dressing. 'Keep it like that. Don't press too hard. I have to fetch a bandage from upstairs. I'll only be a moment.' Shocked by the sight of Madden's bloody torso and ashen face, Stackpole couldn't check the words that came to his lips: 'Will he ... is he going to . . .?' 'No!' she said fiercely. 'He's not going to die, do you hear me?' She turned her pale, bloodstained face to his. 'We're going to keep him alive. You and I.' Barely aware of the pain from his injured leg, the constable knelt beside Madden's body, holding his hand steady on the dressing. The patter of running footsteps sounded overhead. He let his gaze wander about the room. Despite the shambles that met his eye -- Pike's body lying stark not a foot away, the smashed glass and furniture all around - and notwithstanding the inspector's dreadful pallor, he felt strangely comforted. He had known her for many years, since childhood indeed, and long since learned to trust her word and judgement.