by V M Knox
As Clement approached the old cemetery at the side of the church, he could see a figure standing behind one of the graves. A man he did not recognise stepped forward from behind a headstone. The stranger wore a long black overcoat, dark hat and plaid scarf.
‘Reverend Wisdom?’
‘Yes,’ he said drawing in his breath in preparation.
‘It is vital that your reports are submitted every day. But I cannot transmit what I do not receive. Your failure to drop your report is a serious breach of the trust which has been placed in you.’
‘I can assure you that the reports are attended to and dropped every day,’ Clement replied.
‘Perhaps you have another escapee. See to it immediately. It is never to happen again.’
Clement stared after the stranger as he walked away. The confrontation made little sense to Clement. Was he Gubbins’s man? Or Johnny’s? Clement didn’t even know if the man was English. Yet he had an educated accent. Johnny had told Clement to expect German spies, especially along the coastal counties. Even Major Bannon had said that the enemy had so many spies in England, that they should be suspicious of everyone. ‘What is the world coming to?’ Clement muttered. Regardless, the plaid-wearing man knew about the dead letter drop. And if Stanley’s disappearance wasn’t enough, now George was letting him down.
Clement returned to the vicarage deciding that after supper he would cycle out to Peter’s house and find out why the report had not been done.
Two hours later Clement collected his bicycle from the side of the house. Night had settled and cycling through the devastated village and out to Peter’s cottage in the dark was not Clement's idea of enjoyment. He couldn’t imagine that Peter had let him down. So why had George? As Clement passed the rear lane behind the police station he caught sight of Doctor Haswell pulling into his usual parking space. Clement had been so annoyed with George about the missing report that he had not seen the car until the last moment. What with the vehicle headlights covered by the strange downward deflecting shades all cars were required to install, Clement was surprised he had seen Phillip’s car at all. That he might have been run over by the over-worked Doctor made Clement even more determined to chastise George for his cavalier attitude.
Clement had not seen much of Phillip lately and he was sorry for that. Between Stanley, the Auxiliary Unit and the dead and injured, they both had been kept busy. Clement reflected on Phillip Haswell and the amazing work the man had done in The Crown. No doubt more than a few owed their lives to the Doctor’s skill. Clement felt a twinge of guilt for not yet spending time with the wounded in Lewes Hospital. He pedalled on. In the silence he heard the low drone. It was high and distant. Twenty minutes later he swung his leg over the bicycle and leaned it against the front fence of Peter’s cottage.
He knocked at the door. A minute later he heard Peter’s step and the tinkle of Boadicea’s collar. He could hear the dog’s agitation. The door opened.
‘Clement? I have already rescheduled the meeting for tomorrow night,’ Peter said, standing in the doorway.
‘I haven’t come about that.’
Peter stood back and gestured for Clement to enter then closed the door behind him. They went into the sitting room where Boadicea sat on a rug before the fire. ‘Will you have some tea?’
‘No thank you, Peter. Is there anyone else in the house at present?’
‘No. But I don’t imagine you have cycled here at this hour to check on my moral well-being.’
‘Quite. Sorry. As I said, Gubbins has agreed with the stand down. His view is that the Germans are waiting to win aerial supremacy before invading. But he wants us to keep meeting and training.’ Clement swallowed. ‘The reason I have come, Peter is to check that you handed in the report this morning?’
‘Of course, Clement. Just as you asked. I gave them a description of the vagrant and that we had patrolled to the coast. I didn’t say that it was a solo patrol. And I didn’t mention what Reg told us about the activity at Cuckmere Haven. My guess is that they already know about it anyway, which is why we were asked to stay away. I also stated that they, whoever they are, should check on the vagrant who we believed could be a Royal Navy deserter. Is there a problem?’
Clement leaned back in the chair. ‘I was contacted by whoever it is who transmits the reports. Well, that may not be true. The voice on the phone told me to go to the cemetery to meet a man who chastised me for not submitting my report.’
‘The report was done, Clement, and given to George as usual.’
‘I never doubted it. But something is amiss. What happened in the village today?’
‘Nothing much. Most people are still sombre and I have been all day at what was my office. Years of records have been destroyed. Peoples’ wills, personal papers, accounts, all gone. What I could salvage is in my garage. I think I am getting too old for it all anyway. And now faceless men harassing you over some perceived delay in submitting a report that contains nothing of any real value. Have you spoken with George?’
‘Not yet. I’ll go now and see him. I just hope he is at home.’ Clement turned to leave as Peter pulled the blackout curtain over the doorway. ‘Good night, Clement. Take care in the dark.’
Clement heard the door close behind him. It was late and he wasn’t sure he would find George at home. The lad had a liking for the night life and the picture theatres in Brighton in particular. Clement couldn’t blame him. There was little for the young to do in Fearnley Maughton.
He cycled back to the village and went straight to the post office where George rented an upstairs room. Clement was tired now and just wanted to be at home with Mary. Knocking at the door, he prayed George would be in. It was several minutes before Ilene Greenwood appeared.
‘Hasn’t been in all evening, Reverend Wisdom,’ Ilene Greenwood told him.
‘But you saw him today?’
‘No! Until recently George has been such a good boy. A real blessing to me. But lately he has been away all day and all night. Breezes in then breezes out. And he won’t tell me where.’
‘When you do see him, Mrs Greenwood would you please ask him to come and see me?’
‘Of course. I hope he isn’t in any sort of trouble.’
Clement lifted his hat in farewell. He had stood the unit down, but that did not include trips to the seaside.
Chapter 19
Friday 20th September
The heavy rain had continued to fall throughout the night and scudding, grey clouds promised a bleak day. Collecting his bicycle, Clement pedalled down Church Lane. He hadn’t slept well. Although it wasn’t the weather that had kept him awake. Just after nine o’clock, he leaned his bi-cycle against the wall of the post office and stuck his head around the door. Ilene Greenwood was on the switchboard. He raised his eyebrows enquiringly, but she shook her head.
Closing the door, Clement collected his bicycle and cycled out of the village towards Peter’s house, a worrying seed taking root in his mind.
Peter was standing in the doorway to his cottage when Clement arrived.
‘What did George have to say for himself?’ Peter called.
Clement leaned his bicycle against the fence. ‘Peter, will you come with me to the Operational Base?’
‘Of course, Clement. You look concerned. You found George alright then?’
‘That’s just it, Peter. I haven’t. Of course, he could have forgotten to drop the report and has gone off to Brighton or Eastbourne. You know how he likes the night life.’
‘I do know. But that is unlike George. He takes his duties very seriously. Too seriously at times.’
‘I can only think that if he is not enjoying himself on the coast he has returned for some reason to the base. Perhaps he left something there. Or he may have stepped into a trap. Perhaps there are more vagrants coming into the woods to trap and forage what with the tightening of rationing. He could be injured. Would you mind coming with me?’
‘Of course, I’ll bring Boadicea but would
n’t Doctor Haswell be better?’
‘I’d sooner keep it in the family until we know where he is.’
Peter nodded and attached the lead to Boadicea’s collar.
At the edge of the woodland, Peter unclipped the leash and the Labrador ran off, her nose to the forest floor.
‘We haven’t laid any traps in the area, have we?’ Clement asked.
‘No. But when we have to take to the base again, it could be a good idea.’
They walked in silence but Clement kept his eye on the damp path looking for any sign of recent activity.
Boadicea was barking some way ahead. An uneasy and palpable silence wrapped around them.
‘Should I whistle for Boadicea to return?’ Peter whispered.
Clement nodded, his heart pounding. ‘Don’t want to walk into an enemy trap.’
Peter whistled, the insistent yelping continued, magnified in the moist, woodland air.
Clement looked at his friend. ‘I think Boadicea is at the base. You didn’t leave any cooking refuse did you?’
‘Of course not, Clement. All ship shape and Bristol fashion.’
Peter whistled again. Within minutes Boadicea reappeared beside them in the bushes. The dog was excited and ran off again.
Clement stared after the dog. A sense of dread had gripped the back of his throat. In the forest stillness everything around him seemed to have intensified. ‘Do you have any weapons on you?’
‘No. Do we go on or go back?’ Peter asked in a low voice.
Clement looked down at the ground, his eye fixed on a leaf stuck to Peter’s shoe. ‘You circle around. Take the right side of the path. I’ll take the left. If we see no-one, we meet on the path below the base. If there is someone there, go straight back to your house and I’ll meet you later.’
Crouching low, Clement ran into the trees and fell to the ground. He could see Peter higher up the hillside but within a minute he had lost sight of his friend in the undergrowth. Rising to his knees, Clement scanned the forest around him. The only movement was the leaves rustling in the wind. He listened hard. He could hear the scratching sounds of foraging birds.
Although the base was only half a mile inside the forest, it took him over an hour to criss-cross the forest and arrive at the path below it.
Peter stepped out from behind the dilapidated Roman arch and joined him on the path.
‘Anything?’ he whispered.
‘Nothing.’
Together they walked in silence up the hill towards the Operational Base, their eyes and ears straining for any movement, their senses on high alert. Ten feet from the tree stump opening to the underground bunker, George lay on the ground amongst the fallen autumn leaves. The boy’s intense blue eyes stared out from an ashen face gazing up at the forest trees, his mouth open. A hole, the diameter of a sixpence, between his eyes.
Neither of them spoke. Staring at the boy, minutes passed before Clement’s gaze turned to the forest around them.
‘Dear Lord, Clement. The Germans?’ Peter whispered.
‘I don’t think it can be. If George was killed by the enemy; where are they? They would surely have entered the village by now.’
‘You’re saying it was someone local?’
Clement swallowed. ‘I think the murderer is English.’ He looked out across the slope, then scrutinized the moss-covered ruins before scanning the trees and dense foliage below them.
‘Poor George. What could have happened? Why was he here?’
‘I wish I knew, Peter. We should look for the bullet.’
‘It would be difficult to find here, Clement. Why do you want it?’
‘Constable Newson was killed with a bullet fired from a gun that uses nine millimetre rounds.’
‘Like a Sten Gun? You are not thinking that Stanley killed George?’
Clement shook his head. ‘No. But it could be the same weapon as the one that killed Constable Newson.’
‘Is there something you are not mentioning, Clement?’
Clement swallowed. ‘It is possible David Russell was also killed with a nine millimetre bullet.’
‘I thought his throat was cut?’
Clement nodded. ‘Both.’
He heard Peter’s long exhaled breath.
‘Someone is sending us a message, Clement. That much is clear,’ Peter said. He squatted and reached forward to close George’s eyes.
‘Don’t touch him, Peter. George may be lying on a grenade.’
‘Dear God! What do we do? The bullet is probably in the ground under him. And besides, we cannot leave him here, so close to the base.’
‘I agree.’
‘There is some rope in the store cupboard in the bunker. We could drag him further down the slope,’ Peter suggested.
‘We must assume that whoever killed George has left him here for a reason. The Operational Base may be booby-trapped. It is a risk only I can take. Stand well away, Peter.’
‘Clement?’
‘Life expectancy two weeks, Peter. It may be less for me. Tell Mary I loved her, if it blows.’ He shook Peter’s hand. Peter and Boadicea walked away, down the hillside.
Clement grasped the tree stump and pushed it sideways exposing the tunnel then immediately jumped backwards, falling and rolling down the hillside. He waited. But there was no detonation. Walking back up the hill, he stared into the narrow, dark entry. Placing one foot onto the top step of the descending ladder, then his other foot onto the next rung, he descended into the bunker. Several minutes went by before he reached the floor. By then his eyesight had grown accustomed to the diminished light. His eyes scanned the air in front of him. Then the ground. Slowly, he stepped forward. His skin prickled and he could feel the perspiration building on his upper lip. Almost without breathing, he crept past the stove and the doorway to the latrine, into the living areas, past the bunks and into the rear of the base, nearly the entire length until he stood beside the storage cupboard. Taking several deep breaths, he placed his hand on the doorknob and squeezed the handle. The cabinet opened. He reached in and withdrew a length of rope.
Retracing his steps, he climbed back up the ladder and pulled himself through the trapdoor to the forest. Peter was staring at him from the pathway lower down the hillside.
Unravelling the rope, Clement tied one end to George’s feet and backed away down the hillside to the forest path.
Peter joined him and together they pulled George’s body down the slope away from its resting place.
Nothing happened. They waited in case of a delayed detonation.
Still nothing.
‘I should go this time, Clement.’
‘No, Peter.’
Clement walked back up the hill. He had expected to find the bullet where George’s body had been, not what he did see. The canvas shoulder bag George used to carry the daily reports lay in the autumn leaves.
Clement squatted down and palmed away the leaf litter around the canvas pouch. He couldn’t see any wires. Moving it to one side, he checked the damp soil for the bullet, but he didn’t see anything. His gaze returned to the sack. Running his fingers along every edge, he checked the flap before lifting it and looking inside.
Empty.
Chapter 20
‘Clement! Mr Kempton. Come in,’ Chief Inspector Morris said. ‘Won’t you sit down? How can I help you?’
Clement glanced around the small office as they took the indicated seats before Arthur’s desk. As Inspector Russell’s office was a crime scene, Arthur had chosen to use the second office. Clement had already noted the newly hung photograph of the Prime Minister in the waiting area. And his eye had caught the other changes. They were, he considered, indicative of the man now in charge. A large framed picture of the King hung on the wall in the office of Arthur’s choosing and freshly painted fire buckets filled with sand had been placed around the public areas and rear hall. It was the epitome of order.
Clement gazed at the neat stacks of files on Morris’s desk, then at the man.
‘Arthur, Peter Kempton and I have just returned from walking in the forest. We have found the body of young George Evans, the village postman. He has been shot.’
Morris leaned back in his chair, frowning. ‘I am assuming, Clement, by your reaction that you do not believe Mr Evans's death to be accidental?’
‘No. He was killed at point-blank range, between the eyes.’ Clement felt the utter futility of the boy’s death and the sight of George lying dead in the forest flashed into his mind.
‘You can positively identify the deceased?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long ago did you find him?’
‘No more than forty minutes.’
‘Was the body cold to touch?’
‘Yes.’
‘And rigid?’
Clement shook his head.
‘Have you told anyone else about this?’
‘No. I did try to find the bullet but in the thick leaf litter, I couldn’t.’
‘We should go to the scene now. And Mr Kempton?’
‘Of course I will come.’
‘We’ll go in my car.’
Twenty minutes later they were standing beside George.
Clement had seen many corpses in his lifetime, but in death the young man seemed a mere child. Too young to die. Clement frowned at the thought. That was not true. George had gallantly volunteered; his death inevitable. But not like this.
Clement and Peter stood to one side as Arthur Morris walked around George. Without touching the lad, Morris’s stern gaze scrutinized the body and Clement could see that he carefully looked along both legs and arms before settling on the hole in George’s forehead. A minute later, he turned around and gazed up the hillside. ‘Is this where you found him?’
‘Yes,’ Clement said, biting his lip.
Morris turned to face him. ‘You say you didn’t find the bullet?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I don’t believe you would find it here. Because I don’t believe George Evans was killed here and it may be that he wasn’t killed where you actually found him either. Would you like to tell me where that was?’
