by V M Knox
Mary handed him her suitcase and they walked together up the hill towards the bus stop. Fifteen minutes later they were in Fearnley Maughton. They walked through the village.
'What a sight!' Mary said.
'People are being stoic but I fear it will take some time before our village looks and feels the way it was.'
Clement opened the front door to the vicarage.
'I'll make some tea,' Mary said, leaving her hat and coat on the stand in the hall.
'Put a third cup on the tray would you, Mary. I'm expecting Reverend Battersby to call by soon.'
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ Mary said. ‘You both look exhausted.’
Clement saw the appreciative smile on Battersby’s face. It had been a busy morning. Before going to Lewes to meet Mary, Clement and Reverend Battersby had visited many injured in their homes. And this afternoon, Battersby was taking the first of the funerals. Clement felt guilty that he wouldn’t be there. But in a way, his presence in the village yesterday had been by divine intervention: if the Germans had invaded their sector, he wouldn’t have been in the village at all. He heard the familiar voice from the hall and went to the front door. ‘Chief Inspector, I see you’ve met my wife, Mary. What can I do for you?’
‘How do you do?’ Morris said raising his hat.
Mary smiled. ‘I’ll get the tea, Clement.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mrs Wisdom,’ Morris said. ‘I was wondering if your husband would come with me to the police station. Not to detain him, I assure you, but as he was the first to find the late Inspector Russell, I was wondering if he would go over one more time what he remembers?’
‘Of course, if it will help.’ Clement reached for his hat and coat.
‘How long have you been in Fearnley Maughton, Clement?’ Morris asked as they walked down Church Lane.
‘Twenty years. Mary and I moved here just after we were married.’
‘I won’t keep you long. I know you must be in great demand after yesterday’s events.’
‘I’ve been out all morning. It will take the villagers some time to get over this attack. I suppose we have been lucky until now. Unlike so many other places. Hastings, for example, has been hit almost repeatedly by random bombings. They say the Germans drop any leftover bombs as they leave England. I think we just happened to be in someone’s way yesterday.’
‘I have heard that too,’ Morris added.
They rounded the corner onto the High Street.
‘I don’t know that I can add anything to what I have already told you, Arthur.’
‘You may well be right. But sometimes just being in the same place will jog the memory.’
Chief Inspector Morris opened the door to the police station and they walked in.
‘Good morning, Sir, Reverend,’ Constable Matthews said as they entered.
‘I thought you put Matthews off-duty for the investigation?’
‘I did. But in view of Constable Newson’s death, I need him. And he can handle other things.’
Morris pushed open the repaired partition door and they walked towards David Russell’s office. The room was cold, the office furniture still as it was the day Clement found Russell’s body.
‘You say you found Inspector Russell on the floor?’ Morris asked.
‘Yes. In fact, I could not see him from the doorway. I entered the room and found him lying on the floor beside the desk and a little behind it. His foot was the only visible part of him from the doorway.’
‘The window was open, I understand.’
‘Yes. I remember the curtains moving in the breeze.’
‘Did you see anyone outside?’
‘No. But the Inspector’s car was in the rear lane. You can see it from the window,’ Clement said pointing through the taped glass panes.
‘And the safe was open?’
‘Yes,’ he said hoping that Morris wouldn’t pursue the safe and its contents.
‘Just for now let’s assume that the murderer is not Stanley Russell.’
Clement felt a wave of relief, but before he could say anything Morris continued.
‘Nor Constable Matthews. Then the murderer came in through the window.’
‘But surely Inspector Russell would see someone entering his office through the window. Unless he was already on the floor?’
Morris shook his head. ‘No. I believe Russell was seated in his chair.’
‘Which means he knew the person?’ Clement said thinking again of Stanley.
‘Perhaps. Would you like to see the Coroner’s Report?’
Clement had never been involved in a police investigation, much less a murder enquiry. He wondered why Morris was including him, but he reached forward and took the proffered file.
‘The relevant part is marked,’ Morris said.
‘There are three wounds to the head,’ Clement read aloud. That surprised him. He looked up at Morris then continued. ‘The first injury is a contusion to the back of the head caused by a blunt instrument but not occasioning death. The second and fatal injury was caused by a gunshot wound to the neck fired at point blank range. The third wound is a deep incision to the throat which severed the tracheae and carotid arteries. The third injury was sustained after death.’ He looked at Morris. ‘Why would anyone hit him over the head then kill him twice?’
‘Good question.’ Morris said, walking around the room.
He watched as Morris’ eyes scrutinized every surface. ‘Clement, would you mind sitting in Inspector Russell’s chair?’
Clement sat in the chair behind the desk.
‘Someone comes in through the window and hits the Inspector over the head,’ Morris began.
‘Perhaps Russell has his head down. Perhaps the safe is already open when he is hit,’ Clement added.
‘It is possible, but he falls or rather slumps in the chair. If he were leaning forward, as he would if he was head down in the safe, he would fall forward off the chair hitting his forehead on the floor or the edge of the safe. No. I think he knew who came through the window. And given that the window was open, he may have even been expecting them. And I think he was seated in his chair when he was hit. Now, Clement, take a look at the edge of the chair. Do you see dark staining on the armrest? Where it joins the seat?’
Clement swivelled around to see the armrest. Caught between the tight folds of the leather upholstery was a thin, blackish smear. ‘Is it dried blood? It isn’t very much, is it?’
‘I agree. But it is my opinion that the wound to the back of Russell’s head was either not intended to kill or the attacker was not strong enough for the blow to cause death.’
‘A woman?’ he asked. He could only think of one.
Morris lifted his eyebrows in response. ‘Russell’s body is slumped in the chair. The murderer turns the chair to face the side wall then Russell is pulled onto the floor where he is shot. The blood in the leather is from the wound on Inspector Russell’s head as he is pulled to the floor.’
‘Then to disguise the shot, his throat is cut.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Surely even Constable Matthews would have heard a shot.’
‘Perhaps.’
Clement watched Morris. The Chief Inspector had stopped speaking and was staring at the floor, his brow deeply furrowed.
‘Clement, would you mind lying on the floor exactly in the position you found Inspector Russell?’
He lay down half-twisting his body to replicate the prostrate Russell. Morris came and stood beside him extending his arm, fingers pointed like a pistol and knelt down beside his head. Clement could feel Morris’ index finger on his neck.
‘The throat wound covered the entry and exit points of the shot. Which means that the murderer was kneeling or lying beside Russell’s body on the floor.’
Clement sat up. ‘But, if the murderer shot Russell and it killed him why would he or she even bother to cover it by cutting the man’s throat?’
‘If I was to fire a pistol at such close range there would be powder and burn marks on the skin,’ Morris went on. ‘The knife wound would cover the burn marks and the entry and exit wounds.’
‘Forgive me for questioning your judgement, Arthur, but it doesn't make sense.’
‘It would if the killer wanted the murder to resemble a knife attack. Lie back again, Clement, if you would?’
Morris stood, and stepping over him, looked on the other side of his neck. ‘As no bullet was found on post-mortem, the bullet would have exited the neck and travelled...’ Morris stopped speaking.
Clement turned his head and stared to where Morris’s finger was drawing an imaginary line from his neck outwards. ‘I can see something,’ Clement said. He pointed to the wall.
Morris lifted a curtain and they stared at a neat round hole in the skirting board.
‘Would you mind not mentioning this to anyone?’ Morris said. ‘I want to play this as if we think Stanley is guilty.’
‘You think he is innocent?’ Clement said, standing.
‘I didn’t say that. I have an open mind on it for now. But I think it is more complex than it appears.’ Morris went to the door and called to Constable Matthews. ‘Constable, when Inspector Russell was in his office was it his habit to have his office door open or closed?’
‘It was usually ajar, sir. The Inspector didn’t welcome unexpected interruptions. But he always wanted to hear what was going on outside.’
‘And he could see if anyone was standing at his doorway?’
‘That would be difficult, Sir. But he had good hearing,’ Matthews said, pointing to his policeman’s boots. ‘And he kept a close eye on the supply cupboard. What with the rationing, Sir.’
Morris paused. ‘When Stanley Russell was in his father’s office, where were you, Constable?’
‘At the front desk, Sir.’
‘But you heard them arguing?’ Morris asked.
‘I’m surprised the whole village didn’t, Sir.’
‘Did you leave your desk at any time after Stanley Russell left his father’s office?’
Matthews paused. ‘I did visit the supply cupboard. I have the requisition form, if you would like to see it, Sir?’
‘That won’t be necessary. It is just outside this door, isn’t it, Constable?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you see Inspector Russell?’
‘No, Sir. But I did feel the breeze. I knew the window must have been open.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘Most unusual, Sir. Inspector Russell was not the outdoor type.’
‘Could you stand in the corridor, Constable, just outside the supply cupboard door? Reverend Wisdom will say something and I would like you to tell me what he says. Can you do that? And leave the door to this office as it would have been that morning.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
Matthews left the office, placing the door in its customary position.
‘Clement would you cough, just the once?’ Morris whispered.
Clement nodded then emitted a short, forced cough.
‘Well, Constable?’ Morris shouted.
The constable pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I was listening hard. But I didn’t hear the Reverend say anything. Actually I thought I heard him cough.’ Matthews paused, the man’s face a study in concentration.
‘What is it, Constable?’ Morris asked.
‘I heard him cough, Sir. Inspector Russell that is. He had a loud cough and a very loud sneeze. But this was...’
‘Go on,’ Morris said.
Matthews shook his head. ‘Different, Sir. Shorter. And hard. Just the cough. Nothing else. Then the door closed.’
‘The door closed?’ Morris asked.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Constable. You may return to your desk now.’
Clement watched the bemused Constable Matthews walk back along the corridor to the duty desk.
Clement looked at Morris. ‘A silenced weapon?’
‘It would be my guess.’
Chapter 17
Thursday 19th September
Four o’clock. The coldest hour of the night. Clement wanted to see the men before going to London. He also wanted to check the contents of Stanley’s pack. Rising, he hurriedly dressed in a clean Home Guard uniform and let himself out of the vicarage.
It had rained at some time during the night and the ground was damp. Clouds scudded across the moon, the strong light coming and going in uneven flashes. Clement pulled the collar up on his jacket. Nothing stirred. Not that he expected there to be anyone around at that hour. The blackish-blue moonlight lengthened the shadows and heightened the nerves. Standing at the front gate of his home he looked up and down Church Lane before hurrying away through the churchyard.
His men had only been at the Operational Base for forty hours, but it seemed like a week. Half a lifetime. He opened the church, the last of the corpses from the raid on the village now gone. The door creaked closed behind him and he went straight to the church office. In the pre-dawn hours, everything seemed silent and alien. Shadows concealed imagined beings, and what sounds could be heard were intensified, juxtaposed with crisp silence.
Unlocking the filing cabinet drawer, Clement took out his knife and strapped it to his inner left calf. It was becoming second nature to him. He pulled his trouser leg over the weapon and glanced at the neat piles of paperwork Reverend Battersby had left on the table in the vestry. He thought of Mary, who was still asleep in their bed. With her return another anxiety had arisen. If Stanley was innocent, as Clement believed, then a murderer was on the loose in Fearnley Maughton. The neat hole in the skirting board flashed into his mind. He understood why the murderer would not want to leave the bullet, but whoever this killer was, the person was cool-headed enough to remove it. They also had the time to do it. Those two facts ricocheted around his brain.
Calm, rational thinking was dictating the murderer’s act-ions. Were they following a plan, a well-constructed and thought-out strategy? Clement felt the unemotional, detachment of a ruthless killer where personal issues played no part. Yet, the murder of David Russell confused the personal with the impersonal. Was that the murderer’s intent? What was the motive? Whichever way Clement thought about it, he felt confused. He thought of Elsie Wainwright. There was little he could do there. Finding Stanley and Elsie was in the hands of the police now, and while Clement had his reservations about the girl, he was almost sure that Stanley had been framed.
What had precipitated the murder of David Russell? Clement thought of John Knowles’s threat the day the child was born. But Clement couldn’t imagine John calmly killing David Russell. John’s threat had been made in the heat of the moment, and as Clement already knew, the killing of Inspector Russell and Constable Newson had not been frenzied. Besides, Knowles’s threat had not extended to killing Constable Newson or assisting Stanley to escape.
Clement looked up as a flash of moonlight lit up the church yard. Reaching for his keys, he closed the door to the church and hurried into the darkness, crossing the fields, heading for the woodland. The dawn light was tingeing the sky as he approached the forest. He was about fifty yards from the Operational Base when he heard them. Bird song filled the woodland and he dropped to the leafy floor. Pausing, he responded with the raucous warble of the Jay. Within seconds Ned and Clive were around him.
As Clement crawled through the narrow opening to the Operational Base, he saw Reg in the low light of a lamp. The man was sitting with his Sten gun over his knees, the oil rag in his hand. Reg looked up as Clement sat down at the table.
‘What’s happening, Clement?’ Peter asked as the men gathered around the table.
‘You heard the Stuka?’
‘George went into the village through the night and collected your note. He told us about the destruction.’
‘Twenty-two dead,’ Clement said. He saw their wide-eyed horror and told them what had
happened. ‘It could have been more had we not had our Invasion Day plans, but twenty-two is too many for our small village. I checked on Geraldine yesterday morning, Reg. She knows you are doing your bit and while she is worried, she is unharmed and the house is undamaged. I also saw one of your Land Army girls, Ned. She told me that they were not hit. But the village has been damaged quite badly. I am sorry to tell you Peter that your office took a direct hit.’ He remembered Doctor Haswell’s garden. ‘So did Phillip Haswell’s Anderson Shelter.’
‘So George said,’ Peter answered. ‘Is it completely flattened?’
‘A direct hit. Peter, if you had been there you would have been killed.’
‘I suppose I should be grateful for that,’ Peter replied. ‘What about Miss Forster?’
‘She’s uninjured. She heard the plane and went straight to The Crown.’
Clement could only imagine what it would be like to lose, at a single blow, one’s life’s work. But his friend was alive, at least for now. ‘Anything to report here?’
‘Only one incident, which occurred during my watch,’ Peter said. ‘I tracked a young man in the forest between two and three this morning. He must have slept here overnight but he left just after three o’clock. He was heading south. He didn’t meet anyone and he did not stay long. He appeared to be foraging for forest food.’
‘What did he look like?’ Clement asked.
‘He wasn’t wearing a German uniform,’ Reg said. ‘Apparently.’
Clement glanced at Reg who continued to polish his weapon. ‘Who was on watch with you, Peter?’
Clement saw Peter shoot a glance at Reg.
‘I didn’t recognise him, Clement,’ Peter told him. ‘About thirty, rather unkempt. Dark hair and whiskers. He was wearing a coat, but it was old and quite worn. Put it this way - he was dressed like he should be if he is that hard up for food he needs to forage in woodlands in the early hours of the morning.’
