River of Darkness

3

At nine o'clock the following morning, Chief Inspector Sinclair addressed the team of detectives assembled in the Highfield church hall.

'Some of you with experience in murder inquiries may already have recognized the particular problems we face in this case. Most murders, as we know, are either domestic in origin or are committed in the course of some other crime. We can probably rule out the first in this instance. And while robbery was certainly a factor at Melling Lodge, there are reasons to believe that this was not the principal motive.

Indeed, it seems likely that whoever broke in did so with the intention of killing all those present in the house.'

His words drew a murmur from his audience. The group of a dozen detectives included plain-clothes men from Guildford CID and a contingent from Scotland Yard, comprising Madden and Styles and a detective sergeant named Hollingsworth. They were accommodated in straight-backed chairs facing a dais where Sinclair sat at the centre of a table, flanked by Chief Inspector Norris on one side and a senior uniformed officer on the other. Also on the stage, but sitting apart, were Lord Stratton and a middle-aged man whom Boyce identified as Sir Clifford Warner, the Surrey chief constable. A thin file lay on the table in front of Sinclair. Beside it was a canvas bag tied with a drawstring.

'In a case of this nature there's bound to be speculation.

You will have seen some of it in the morning papers. Apparently we're looking for an armed gang.'

The chief inspector paused. 'That may or may not be true. Let's hope it is. One of them is sure to open his mouth before long. I see, too, that the Sinn Fein is being held responsible in some quarters. It might be useful if I gave you some background on Colonel Fletcher. He was born in India and was commissioned in the Indian Army before returning to England, where he transferred to the regular army. He served in the war in the Signals Corps and then settled with his family here in Surrey. Neither he nor his wife has ever set foot in Ireland so far as we can determine.'

Sinclair smoothed his neatly trimmed cap of grey hair. His eye fell briefly on Madden, who was sitting in the front row of chairs beside Boyce. The inspector looked pale and drawn.

'This investigation will be run initially from High field. The vicar has put this hall at our disposal, and I intend to use it as the main interview room and also as a central collecting point for all information. Mr Boyce will be in charge here, along with Inspector Madden, whom most of you have met. They'll be assisted by Detective Sergeant Hollingsworth from Scotland Yard. The uniform branch will be working with us in the early stages under the direction of Chief Inspector Carlyle, of Guildford.' Sinclair indicated the uniformed officer beside him. 'For the past hour his men have been searching the woods behind Melling Lodge. That will go on all day — and for as long as necessary thereafter.

'A word about the interviews. The villagers have been informed, and they'll be turning up in relays starting in about fifteen minutes. I want to know how they spent the weekend, and in particular where each and every one of them was between eight and ten on Sunday night.' He paused to give emphasis to his next words. 'Every person in the village must be spoken to.

We need to know if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary, no matter how trivial.

'A more general line of questioning will deal with the matter of strangers. In a small rural community like this, outsiders are quickly noticed. Were any seen on Sunday, or the preceding days? With the help of the Surrey police we're going to be asking the same questions in the surrounding villages. Unfortunately, either by chance or design, this could not have occurred at a worse time for us.' The chief inspector frowned. 'I refer, of course, to the bank-holiday weekend.

Half the country seems to have been on the move, and I'm afraid we'll find even Highfield has had its share of visitors and passers-by.'

He opened the file and took out a sheet of paper.

'Here is a partial list of items taken from Melling Lodge. It was supplied by the cook, Mrs Dunn. She can't be sure about the upstairs — we'll have to check that with the maid Brown when she's brought back here from Guildford. Mainly silverware and some of Mrs Fletcher's jewellery.' He glanced up. 'Not the best bits, incidentally. It's being circulated to jewellers and pawnbrokers in the normal way. Consult it if you need to.'

He removed a second sheet of paper from the file.

'Fingerprints lifted from the house are being checked against the occupants and others who were known to be regular visitors. That will take a while.

We also have a footprint.' He held up the sheet of paper. 'This is a sketch of the cast taken of a print in the stream bed at the bottom of the garden. Size eleven, military-type boot. Notice the heel.'

Sinclair displayed the drawing which showed an arrow-shaped wedge missing from the rim of the heel.

'This will have to be checked against the boots of all the men in the village, as well as Colonel Fletcher's footwear. Mr Boyce will organize that.' He paused again. 'A number of cigarette stubs were found near the body of James Wiggins in the woods above the house. They have been sent to the government chemist for analysis. They were all the same brand — Three Castles — which Wiggins didn't smoke. Find out who smokes cigarettes in the village and what brand they favour.'

The chief inspector extracted a further piece of paper from the file. He studied it for several seconds.

'I have here a preliminary report from Dr Ransom, the pathologist,' he went on. 'A description of the wounds inflicted on the three victims downstairs at felling Lodge and on Wiggins. I expect to receive a further report on Mrs Fletcher's injuries by courier from Guildford later today. The four victims I refer to were all killed with the same weapon, or an identical one. Dr Ransom characterizes this as a relatively narrow blade — no more than an inch wide — with one angle acute and the other blunt. The depth of the wounds varies between four inches, in the case of Alice Crookes, the nanny, whose body was found in the kitchen, and six inches, in the case of Colonel Fletcher.

No exit wounds were found. Dr Ransom is unable to say whether the wounds were inflicted by a right- or a left-handed man. This is because they were struck with "a remarkable degree of uniformity" — I'm quoting now — "being both straight in relation to the skin surface and horizontal". He adds one further observation:

"in each case some lateral damage to tissue was caused when the weapon was withdrawn."'

Sinclair replaced the sheet of paper carefully in the file. His glance met Madden's briefly.

'Dr Ransom agrees with Inspector Madden and myself that these wounds are typical of those caused by the standard British Army sword bayonet. I have one here.' Sinclair loosened the drawstring on the canvas bag and took out a sheathed bayonet. He withdrew the glittering steel from the scabbard and held it up. 'Notice the similarities to the murder weapon as described by Dr Ransom. One angle blunt,' he ran his finger along the top of the bayonet, 'the other acute. It may strike you as strange that a weapon of this length — it's twenty-one inches, in fact — should be used to inflict such relatively shallow wounds.

Inspector Madden will explain.'

Madden rose to his feet and faced the detectives. He spoke in a monotone. 'What I have to say will be familiar to anyone who has served in the ranks. For the rest of you, I'll describe briefly the training given to infantrymen in the last war. The average soldier, armed with rifle and bayonet, will automatically thrust the weapon in as far as it will go. Run his enemy through, in fact.

'He has to be taught not to do this. Skin and muscle cling to the blade making it difficult to extract.

The correct method, as taught by the Army, is a short, stabbing thrust followed by a half-twist to break the friction as the weapon is withdrawn. All the wounds we have been discussing show these characteristics.'

One of the Guildford detectives held up his hand.

'Sir, are you saying a bayonet fixed to a rifle was used in these killings?'

'I am.'

'Were they all killed by the same man?'

'I believe so.' Madden paused. 'You heard what the pathologist said. "A remarkable degree of uniformity."

I'll go further and say that whoever killed them was an expert in the use of this weapon. In each case only one thrust was required. Either the man was highly trained, or, more likely, was once an instructor himself.

Possibly an Army sergeant.'

Again there was a murmur from the assembled detectives. Madden glanced at Sinclair and sat down.

'Right!' The chief inspector looked at his watch. 'If there are no more questions, I suggest we get started.' "Thank you, Chief Inspector. A fine summary, if I may say so.' Sir Clifford Warner paused at the top of the church hall steps to shake Sinclair's hand. Lord Stratton hovered at his shoulder. 'You'll keep me informed?'

'Of course, sir.'

The Surrey chief constable glanced curiously at Madden as he moved away.

'They were talking about you earlier, John.' Sinclair was filling his pipe from a leather pouch. 'Warner wanted to hear about your run-in with the Lord Lieutenant.'

'Has Raikes lodged a complaint?'

Madden's pallor seemed more striking in the morning sunlight. Sinclair wondered if he had been disturbed by the thought of the bayoneted bodies. They were colleagues of long standing, their acquaintance going back to before the war when Sinclair's eye had first been caught by the tall young detective, fresh out of the uniformed branch. Much had happened to Madden since then.

'Not that I know of, and not that I care. Let Raikes get back to doing what he does best, slaughtering innocent birds and beasts and stay out of police business.' The chief inspector struck a match. 'Oakley, you say?'

'Yes, sir.' Madden drew on the cigarette he had lit some moments before. 'It's on the other side of the ridge. I'd like to get over there. I think our man might have come that way.'

'You'll need a car, then.'

'Lord Stratton's offered to lend us one.'

'So he has. What's more I've accepted. God knows, we'll get no help from the Yard.' Scotland Yard's attitude towards motorized transport — they saw no reason why any policeman should be supplied with a vehicle when he had two perfectly good feet — was a pet grievance of the chief inspector's. Second only to his dogged and so far unsuccessful campaign to have a central police laboratory established. 'He took your side, by the way, Stratton did. He said Raikes was wrong to go inside the house and wrong to invite him along. Called him a blockhead. Quite brightened my morning, his lordship did.'

Madden trod on his cigarette. 'What about the press, sir? Have you spoken to them yet?'

'I'm meeting them at noon. Just for now, and between us, I'll not discourage the notion of a gang, if anyone brings it up. One man on his own — now that's a disturbing thought.'

They moved aside as the first group of villagers come to be interviewed gathered at the foot of the steps. Dressed as though for church, Sinclair noted.

Suits and ties for the men, hats for the women. He made his own silent prayer: Let just one of them remember something, anything, a face, a description…

A young woman knelt to tie on a toddler's bonnet.

The sight caused Sinclair's face to harden.

'I'll be seeing Dr Blackwell later,' he said. 'I'm not happy about that little girl staying in her house. She ought to be in hospital. It's something the doctor should understand. Can't she be persuaded to see reason?'

'Not an easily persuadable woman, sir.' Madden's face was a mask.

'Is she not?' The chief inspector's eyes lit up. 'We'll see about that. I intend to have words with this dragon.'

The car was parked in the cobbled courtyard of the village pub, where Madden had left his bag with the landlord earlier that morning. It was a well-worn Humber with a dent in the rear mudguard. Lord Stratton himself, bareheaded, stood talking to two of the villagers. When he saw Madden he came over.

'Inspector, I must apologize for what happened yesterday.' His thin, seamed face showed the ravages of a sleepless night. 'Raikes had no business taking me into that house, and I had no business accepting.

Well, I've paid for it.'

'Sir?'

'I can't get it out of my mind. The sight of the bodies… Poor Lucy Fletcher, laid out like a sacrifice.

What kind of man would do a thing like that? Then I find myself thinking perhaps there were more than one…'

'We don't know yet that she was raped, sir.'

'No… no… of course.' He thrust his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket and stared at the ground. 'The villagers keep asking me… There are some things one doesn't want to know.'

'How are they taking it?'

'Badly.'

Madden sought and obtained directions to Oakley.

He drove along the same road he had travelled the day before, past Melling Lodge, where two uniformed policemen stood on duty at the closed gates and a man lugging a heavy press camera leaned against a car parked on the grass verge. A mile or so further on he came on another set of gates and another uniformed constable. He stopped the car and got out.

'Is this where Dr Blackwell lives?' Madden could see the house at the end of an avenue of limes. He only knew it from the other side.

'Yes, sir. We've got a man inside, but Mr Boyce sent me over to watch the gates. The doctor was bothered by the press this morning, they wanted to know about the little girl.'

A mile further on he came to a signpost for Oakley, turned left and followed a road that led through a saddle in the wooded ridge down to the broad open plain he had seen the day before from the top of Upton Hanger. Another signpost directed him on to a dirt road and he drove through fields where the corn had already turned golden from the long, rainless summer.

The hamlet of Oakley comprised no more than a dozen houses grouped around the church tower. Madden brought the car to a stop beside a whitewashed building with the picture of a stage-coach and the name 'Coachman's Arms' painted in faded lettering on the wall. As he was setting the handbrake a police sergeant stepped out of the doorway of a cottage across the road. He looked at Madden inquiringly. The inspector got out of the car and produced his warrant card.

'Gates, sir. From Godalming.' The sergeant touched his helmet. 'It's this Highfield business. I've been sent over here to talk to the locals. They don't rate a village bobby.'

'You'll ask them if they've seen any strangers?'

Madden drew him into the shade of a chestnut tree growing in front of the church.

'Yes, sir. And anything out of the ordinary they might have noticed these past few days.'

'We're specially interested in any cars that might have passed through the village.'

'Shouldn't be too many of those, sir. Mind you, it was a bank holiday.'

'Also cars parked at the roadside. Perhaps even off the road where they mightn't be noticed.' Madden became aware that Gates was looking over his shoulder. His glance had turned to a flat, hard stare.

The inspector turned his head and saw a man standing in the doorway of the Coachman's Arms with his hands in his pockets watching them.

He faced the sergeant again. 'I'm going to take a walk through the fields, but I'd like a word with you before you leave. How long will you be here?'

'An hour should do it, sir. Then I've got to go to Craydon — that's a few miles away — and ask the same questions there.'

'Have you any transport?'

"Just a bicycle.'

'Wait for me here. I'll give you a lift over.'

Madden walked back the way he had come, on the dirt road, and continued along it until he found an even rougher track, which branched off through the fields towards the wooded ridge. The deep treads of tractor tyres were graven in mud that had dried and set like marble. Ditches a foot wide criss-crossed the rutted surface. At one point the track petered out entirely and the tractor marks continued across ploughed furrows until they picked up the path again.

Stackpole had been right. No car could have passed this way.

Feeling the sun like a weight on his back, Madden took off his jacket and walked steadily towards the ridge. Passing a small spinney he heard a jay call, and another answer. He was tempted to stop for a cigarette — the wood looked cool and inviting — but instead he pressed on and arrived at the foot of the ridge.

He saw that it was steeper on this flank than on the Highfield side and also less densely wooded. Standing in the shade of an oak tree he marked the upward zigzag line of a footpath as it traversed the slope above. He looked left and right along the hillside, but could see no sign of any other pathway in the vicinity.

The inspector began a careful examination of the area where he stood, scanning the ground in a gradually widening circle, and then extending his search along the base of the ridge at the woodline, looking for the tell-tale sign of a cigarette stub. He found several, but none were of the Three Castles brand.

The footpath up the slope proved equally bare of clues. The dusty surface bore the marks of blurred footprints — it looked like a well-used way — but none showed the distinctive damaged heel outline discovered in the stream bed. It took him twenty minutes to scale the ridge, and half that time to make the return journey.

He sat down then in the shade of the oak tree and took out his cigarettes. The green leaves overhead seemed to remind him of something: the image of Helen Blackwell in her patterned blouse came into his mind with a pleasant jolt. He lit a cigarette.

Far away, beyond the golden fields, a faint blur on the horizon showed where the downs began. He watched a hawk circling in the air above. Etched clear against the brilliant blue sky, it wheeled and wheeled in ever-tightening turns. Wheeled… and dropped!

Wheatstalks shivered and were still. The hunter had its prey.

Madden extinguished his cigarette. He'd yet to catch the scent of his.

In Oakley, the door of the Coachman's Arms stood open. Sergeant Gates was seated at one of the tables in the taproom. Smoke-blackened beams supported the grubby ceiling. The smell of stale beer and tobacco soured the air. The man Madden had seen standing in the doorway earlier lounged over the bar, his elbows resting on the stained surface. He was in his early thirties with black slicked-back hair and a knowing smile.

'This is Inspector Madden,' Gates said tonelessly.

'Sir, this is Mr Wellings, the landlord. I was about to question him.'

'Go ahead, Sergeant. Don't mind me.' Madden sat down.

Wellings directed his smile at the inspector. 'Still half an hour to opening time, I'm afraid. But if Sergeant Gates is prepared to turn a blind eye, I dare say I could draw you a pint.'

'No, thank you, Mr Wellings.' Madden didn't return the smile.

'We're interested in any customers you might have had over the weekend,' Gates began. 'Visitors, not locals.'

'Starting when?'

'Saturday.'

'I had the Farnham Wheelers Club through here at midday. About a dozen of them. They parked their bikes outside and came in for a drink. And there was a party of four in a motor-car. Two men and their wives, I reckon. They had the ploughman's lunch.'

'Was that all?' Gates looked up.

'No, there was another couple in the evening. Bloke on a motorbike with his girlfriend on the pillion.

Took me aside, he did, and asked me if I had a room for them. I told him I didn't run that kind of establishment. I did say he could try his luck in Tup's Spinney.' Wellings smirked.

Madden waited to be enlightened, but Gates went on: 'Sunday, then?'

'There were more. Quite a few. Four parties in cars between midday and two o'clock. Six men and four ladies, as I recall. Two of the parties were travelling together, heading for the coast. And then in the evening there was one other car with a man and his wife and their son. But all they wanted was directions.

They'd lost their way.'

'Did you see any other cars during the day? Travelling through the village, but not stopping?'

'Or motorcycles?' Madden said.

Wellings paused, frowning with exaggerated concentration.

He shook his head. 'No, I can't say that I did. But, then, I'm stuck in here during opening hours. Don't see too much of what's going on outside.'

The smile was back.

Sergeant Gates looked at Madden, who nodded.

'Thank you, Mr Wellings.' He closed his notebook.

'What did you think, sir?' he asked Madden outside.

'I thought he was lying.'

'I agree, but about what?' The sergeant wrinkled his nose. 'He's a right sow, if you'll pardon the expression. The last two landlords quit because they couldn't make the place pay. But somehow he manages to, and you have to ask yourself how.'

'After-hours drinks?'

'That, and he'll sell you a carton of fags at below market price, or so I've been told. We think he handles stolen goods, but we haven't been able to lay a finger on him thus far.'

'There's a list out of items taken from Melling Lodge. If any of them turn up locally, pull him in.

Never mind if there's a connection or not. Put him through it.'

'It'll be a pleasure, sir.'

Madden donned his jacket. 'What was that he said about the man with the motorbike and his girl?'

'He should try his luck in Tup's Spinney.' Gates gestured. 'That's over in the fields. Well known to the local lads and lasses, if you take my meaning.' He grunted. 'Wellings has an eye for the ladies himself, they say. Especially if it's someone else's wife. Nasty piece of work.'

They loaded the sergeant's bicycle into the back of the Humber, and Madden drove him the few miles to Craydon. Returning by the same road, and passing through Oakley, he saw Wellings on the pavement outside the village shop talking to a young woman with bobbed hair. He paused in his conversation and watched Madden's car as it went by.

Madden parked the Humber where he had found it, in the courtyard of the Rose and Crown in High field. As he climbed out of the car, the door of the pub opened and a lanky man in a city suit came out.

He had his tie loosened and his hat tipped back on his head.

'Mr Madden, is it? Reg Ferris. Daily Express.' He held out his hand. Madden shook it briefly.

They hadn't met before, but he knew Ferris's name and recalled that he was no friend of the chief inspector's.

'Bad business.' The reporter's darting eyes went from Madden to the car and back as though he hoped to glean some information from putting the two together. 'I'm told it was like an abattoir in there.'

Madden reached into the car for his jacket.

'We're waiting for Mr Sinclair. He's said he'll meet us.'

'Then I dare say he will.'

Ferris leaned against the car. He put his hands in his pockets. 'This is different, isn't it?' He watched to see how Madden would react.

'Different?'

'You've not had a case like this before — admit it.

Slaughtering a whole household, and for what? A few bits of silverware? It doesn't make sense.'

The inspector put on his jacket. 'Goodbye, Mr Ferris.' He walked away.

The reporter called after him: 'From what I hear you don't know where to start.'