by V M Knox
‘What do we do, Vicar?’ the young woman sobbed.
He heard the panic in her voice.
‘Stay calm. It is unlikely we will be affected, Mrs Clarke. Go home and make sure your black-out curtains are in place. And look after your little one,’ he said. But Clement was praying as he turned and hurried back to the vicarage.
Chapter 11
Monday 16th September
George was at the front door, ashen faced, an envelope in his hand.
Clement reached for it and tore it open. His heart was pounding as he read the word, Cromwell.
‘Go directly home, George and collect your pack. I will meet you at the Operation Base in,’ he checked his watch. ‘Two hours.’
‘I don’t know where it is.’
‘Stay calm and do as I ask. Take the western path into the forest as far as the Roman ruins. The opening to the base is beside the fallen stone arch. Peter will be there.’
The boy nodded and ran back down Church Lane.
Clement closed the door and rang Peter. ‘It’s come, Peter. I’ll call Reverend Battersby now, then collect my kit. Would you call Reg and Ned and tell them how to find the base? They must be there by noon. And uniforms from now on. I’ll bring my pack to you, if you don’t mind taking it with you. Then go yourself. I’ll visit the others and see you all at the base.’
‘Of course. You are sure about it, Clement?’
‘Yes.’
He rang off then telephoned Battersby.
Ten minutes later he took the church keys from his desk drawer and left the house. Unlocking the door to the vestry, he walked into the quiet little room with its tall stone walls and ancient windows. He glanced at the stained glass. The familiar scene of St George stared down at him. He reached into the desk drawer and withdrew another set of keys. Opening the cabinet that held the altar vestments, he reached for his pack and changed into his uniform which hung alongside his robes. Lifting the bag onto the desk, he checked the contents. The Sten gun and its silencer sat on the top of the arsenal of weaponry beneath. He took the Fairbairn Sykes knife from the bag and strapped the scabbard to his inner left calf. Replacing his trousers over the blade, he glanced around the vestry. All looked exactly like it always had, except now Reverend Battersby’s robes hung on the hook behind the door. Five minutes later Clement was standing in the front hall of his home, the pack in his right hand. He could hear the sounds of running water coming from the wash house at the rear of the house. He walked along the corridor and saw her standing at the tub.
‘Mary.’
His wife turned around. Her eyes took in his uniform and pack.
‘It’s come then?’ she whispered.
He didn’t know how she did it. ‘I want you to go to the West Country. To your Aunt’s place in Combe Martin. Take Gwen, if she’ll go.’
‘You’re sure?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll leave for Windsor this afternoon.’
He wrapped his arms around her.
'Be careful, please.'
He felt her trembling.
'I love you, Clement.'
'I love you too.'
He left her in the wash house promising to contact her when he could. Standing in the hallway of his home, Clement’s gaze traced every corner. He breathed in its smell. Swallowing, he opened the front door then called out to her, 'May God be with you!'
The running water ceased.
Time stood still in that second. He paused on the front doorstep before closing the door. Walking the short garden path, he reached for his bicycle that rested against the fence. It was the habit of decades; so unconscious an action. He lifted the pack onto his shoulders and swung his leg over the bicycle. Passing Phillip Haswell’s house and the police station, he headed for Peter’s office.
‘He told me to expect you, Reverend Wisdom. You may go straight in,’ Peter’s elderly secretary, Miss Forster said.
Clement smiled and followed her instructions.
Peter stood to greet him. ‘I’ve called Reg and Ned, just as you asked, Clement.’
‘Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ Clement said handing his pack over.
Closing the door to Peter’s office behind him, Clement walked towards his bicycle. The file on Peter’s desk, with its neatly tied pink ribbon, occupied his thoughts. He had no knowledge of what it contained, but someone’s affairs would have to wait. Perhaps everything would be different, if and when the Germans were in charge. Things that seem so important in everyday life take on a different perspective in the light of invasion. A child had been born not twenty-four hours ago and was now waking to a very different world.
He cycled through the village heading towards Clive Wade’s shop on the far side of the village green. As Clement opened the door to the bakery he saw Clive look up, the grey eyes resting on him. He knew that look. The expression of something expected but dreaded.
Clive removed his apron and stepped into the rear of his shop.
Pushing back the dividing curtain Clement followed. ‘Midday, Clive. In uniform from now on,’ and he told Clive where to find the base.
‘I’ll be there.’
On leaving the bakery, he said good morning to two ladies he knew. He found that difficult, knowing that he may never see them again. Reaching for the bicycle’s handles, he pedalled towards Stanley’s butchery repeating his favourite line from Henry V.
The bells on the door announced his presence but it was Stanley’s shop girl, Gladys who greeted him.
‘Could I have a word with Stanley?’ Clement asked.
‘He isn’t here, Reverend. Hasn’t been in all morning. It is most unlike him. But,’ the girl shrugged her shoulders, a coy, knowing expression on her face. ‘I did see him leave The Crown last night with Elsie. They are sweet on each other, those two.’
It had not occurred to Clement that when the time came one or more of his team might be elsewhere. He left the butchery and cycled towards Stanley’s thatched cottage on the outskirts of the village. He paused by the front gate. Upstairs, the curtains were still closed and he wondered if Stanley and the girl had allowed their physical desires to overtake their common sense.
Clement knocked at the door and waited.
A full minute passed and still no-one opened the door.
Clenching his fist, Clement pounded on the door.
No-one came.
Annoyed, he cycled away. If Stanley had not been in his shop and was not at home, Clement could only imagine that the silly boy would be at the public house. Didn’t Fearnley Maughton have enough immoral behaviour? The pretty Elsie Wainwright - with the long slender legs and provocative ways - flashed into his mind as he pedalled as fast as he could without raising attention. Knocking on the rear door to the public house he waited until the barmaid opened it. The woman stood in the doorway, a towel over her shoulder.
‘Is Stanley Russell here?’ he asked before the woman could make any comment about the time.
‘No, Reverend. Not here,’ the barmaid told him.
Clement hated the smell of bars. Airless places of stale beer and even staler tobacco wafted through the half open door.
‘What number room is Elsie Wainwright in?’
‘Six.’
Without waiting he pushed past the woman and went straight to the staircase to the first floor.
‘You can’t just go up there!’ the woman screamed behind him.
Clement climbed the uneven steps to the upper floor. The floorboards of the old inn creaked under his tread, but he had no time to waste. He knocked.
Again no answer.
‘Do you have a key to this room?’
‘You can’t just barge in!’
‘Give me the key!’
He almost closed his eyes as he burst into the room. What he found was nothing but a perfectly made bed. He threw open the wardrobe. Empty coat hangers swung on the rail.
He turned around staring at the deserted room, his mind racing.
‘Why that little fiend!’ the barmaid screeched behind him. ‘She’s done a runner. She owes five shillings!’
Clement didn’t know if he was relieved or annoyed at not finding Stanley. There was only one other recourse. He needed to see David Russell anyway. The time had come. Now he needed to stay focused on his duty, no matter how unsavoury. But first he had to find Stanley. He moved his foot in his shoe and felt the hard blade of the Fairbairn Sykes knife dig into his left ankle. He left the room and bolted down the stairs. Leaving the public house by the rear lane, he returned to the village green and strode towards the police station.
Not four minutes later Clement entered the red brick, Victorian building. He glanced at the police station clock. It was just after eleven.
‘Constable Matthews?’ he shouted.
The constable wasn’t at the front desk. Clement went to the glass-partitioned door and looked into the hallway beyond. He waited only a few seconds before he saw the constable walking along the corridor, a dust pan and brush in his hand.
‘Reverend? And what can I do for you today?’
‘Is the Inspector in?’
The man nodded. ‘Once again it is just him and me. Skeleton staff, what with the pounding London copped last night. They say the invasion is imminent. What do you think, Reverend?’
Clement forced a smile. ‘I just need to see the Inspector.’
‘Of course, everyone’s in a hurry today,’ Constable Matthews said and glancing at the clock on the wall, entered the time of Clement’s visit in the daily log. ‘There was quite a to-do here this morning. I’m surprised you and your good lady didn’t hear it in the vicarage.’
‘What was that, Constable?’
‘Mister Knowles, Sir. He came here earlier this morning. Nine thirty-five to be precise. Accusations were flying all over the place. Harsh words, Reverend. All kinds of threats,’ the constable turned to face him. ‘I shouldn’t say it,’ Constable Matthews whispered, ‘but Inspector Russell is too fond of the ladies. I knew one day it would get him into trouble. Only from what I understand it is Mrs Knowles who is the one in trouble. Red hair. And a big baby I’m told. Just like young Stanley when he was a little one.’
‘Have you seen Stanley, Constable?’
‘He was here too this morning.’ The constable shook his head. ‘More shouting. Only this time about money. Stanley came for his late mother’s inheritance saying he wanted to start life a-fresh but his father was having none of it. In my opinion, and I suppose I shouldn’t say this either, but I don’t believe there is any money left.’
‘Well perhaps you should keep that to yourself, Constable. Do you know where Stanley is now?’
‘Left here about half an hour ago threatening all sorts of violence against his father.’
‘Could I just see the Inspector? It is urgent.’
‘Of course.’ The constable moved to the partitioning door and held it open.
They walked along the corridor to the rear office. He could see that Russell’s door was slightly ajar. Constable Matthews knocked at the door and pushed it wide then turned and walked away.
From the doorway Clement could see the empty chair behind the desk. The window to the rear lane was open and a light breeze was lifting the loose weave curtain. Through the window he saw the dark shape of the Inspector’s car in its usual place.
Clement frowned as he scanned the room. He was about to call out to Constable Matthews, to say that the Inspector was not in his office when he saw the shoe. He ran around the desk. ‘Dear Lord!’ Clement drew in his breath as he stared at the prostrate body. Inspector Russell was lying face up on the floor, the eyes open and wide, the head tilted to the left. Congealed blood surrounded the man’s head like a macabre halo. It had poured from the long, gaping cut to the neck that extended from one ear to the other.
From the corner of his eye Clement saw the safe. The door was open. He could hear the constable’s tread on the hard, tiled corridor heading for the front desk. Standing, Clement stared into the safe searching for the sealed envelope. There wasn’t much in there, some papers and a few five pound notes, but no envelope.
‘Constable Matthews!’ Clement shouted.
He heard the tread stop, then return with haste along the corridor. Matthews rushed through the open door.
‘Call Doctor Haswell, Matthews! Hurry!’
The constable came around the desk and looked at the dead man. ‘Dear God!’
‘The doctor, Constable!’
Constable Matthews turned and ran from the room.
For one second Clement prayed the doctor was in his surgery. He went to the window and peered out, looking further along the rear lane to where Doctor Haswell parked his car. It was there! Relieved, Clement returned to the body. He stared at the congealed blood. It sat like a thick maroon scarf around Russell’s neck. A dark curtain of the stuff ran from the man’s throat to the floor. It had been more than twenty years since Clement had seen such a sight. He stood and checked the corridor. Constable Matthews had still not returned. Crouching beside the corpse, Clement ran his hand over Russell’s trouser pockets, and checked the inside of the man’s coat, waistcoat and shirt pockets. He found a long, unmarked key but no envelope. He pushed the key back into Russell’s pocket.
Clement stood and checked the Inspector’s desk. Using his elbows, he pushed the papers around in case the envelope was beneath the chaos. Nothing. He heard the running feet on the tiled corridor.
The Doctor ran into the room, dropped his medical bag on one side of the body and knelt down beside the man’s head. Haswell remained hunched over Inspector Russell for a few seconds before leaning back on his haunches. ‘Nothing I can do for him. He’s yours now, Clement,’ Haswell said, then opened his medical bag and withdrew a large rectal thermometer.
‘How long has he been dead, do you think?’ Clement asked.
‘Not long at all,’ Phillip said, staring at the thermometer. ‘There is no sign of rigor mortis yet. But his temperature has dropped a little.’ Haswell studied the room. ‘Was the window open when you came in?’
‘Yes.’
‘I put it at about an hour.’
Clement watched the Doctor turn Russell’s head. The cut extended almost from one ear to the other and had severed the windpipe. The pictures he’d seen of such injuries at Coleshill flashed in his memory.
Haswell glanced up at him. ‘It was a knife of some size. It was pushed into the neck just under the right ear, then forward across the neck. You see the bruise here; the force of entry caused that. It was done by a strong person by the look of it and one who knew what they were doing. No hesitation, Clement. Swift and lethal.’ Haswell closed his bag. 'I could take him to my surgery, but I have no way of keeping him cool. They will want a post-mortem.’
‘We should call Lewes for an ambulance,’ Clement added.
‘I expect they will have been seconded to London, given the bombing up there. I could take him, if you would give me a hand to get him into my car?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you, Phillip, if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. Perhaps a report should be made about this room and how you found it?’
Clement nodded. ‘Of course. Constable Matthews can you make sure nothing is disturbed in Inspector Russell’s office? You had better close that window, but you should note in your report that we found it open. Then we should notify Lewes Police. No disrespect, Constable but it will need a senior officer.’
Constable Matthews hadn't taken his gaze from the Inspector's prostrate body. Clement knew Matthews had little respect for Russell, but as the constable was the only other person in the police station at the time, and held the keys of Russell’s safe, he would, at the very least, be called upon to give evidence at the inquest.
‘Constable, can you get a blanket from one of the cells? We don’t want to frighten anyone who may be in the rear lane,’ Haswell asked.
Matthews nodded and left the room.
Clement
stared at Russell’s corpse, then checked his watch, but the list dominated his thoughts. He needed to be with his team and it was already half-past eleven. Whilst he was pleased he had been spared the duty of taking Russell’s life, his murder raised so many questions. There was no time to think now. It would be many hours before he could speak with Johnny. And even that was dependent on the speed of the German advance.
Matthews returned and together they rolled the dead Inspector onto the blanket. They carried him out of the police station, up Church Lane to the rear laneway and Doctor Haswell’s car.
‘If you don’t mind, Clement, I will put him on the back seat. Rigor mortis will start to set in soon and it will be impossible to straighten him out if he is in the boot.’
While Clement found Phillip Haswell’s pragmatism rather unsettling, he was glad of it. There was nothing Haswell could do for Russell now. And he had been correct not to call on the already over-stretched ambulance personnel. Clement wished he had included the Doctor and not Stanley.
Clement closed the rear door of Haswell’s car, his hand gently pushing the fold in the blanket that encompassed Russell’s feet. The Inspector was not a tall man but Clement would not have described him as especially short either. Yet wrapped in a police cell blanket on the rear seat of the Doctor’s car, Russell had become small, even pathetic. Did one man’s life amount to so little? The words of the order of service for the Burial of the Dead flashed into his mind. “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.”
