A Hundred Thousand Dragons

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Her mother reached out and, regardless of his mumbled protests, put a gentle hand under his arm. ‘We’ll soon have you cleaned up, Jack, and find some decent clothes for you. But that’s not all that’s wrong, is it?’

  He half-stumbled against her. ‘No, Aunt Alice. I wish it were.’

  He’d been given two weeks leave, a long time when leave was usually measured in hours and days. At the end of that time he talked longingly of flying once more and his hand was steady enough to hold his own razor. He even made the occasional joke. But he still had nightmares and once, when a log had cracked on the fire, Isabelle thought he was going to scream.

  She came back to the present to find his black eyes fixed on her. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. It was all so long ago. Surely it can’t still matter?’

  He gave an ironic lift of his eyebrows. ‘It mattered to him. And to me,’ he added in an undertone.

  ‘But he can’t make trouble for you, can he?’

  ‘He very well might. He’s not a very forgiving sort of man.’

  ‘Well, I think he’s horrible,’ said Isabelle robustly. ‘Forget him, Jack. He’s not worth thinking about.’

  He held her tightly once more, but this time in a hug of gratitude. He knew she wanted him to say something ordinary and everyday, to show that they were just two people at a dance amongst friends, enjoying the here and now.

  For some reason a poem, one of Browning’s, came to mind. It was set to the rhythm of a toccata, played while the people of Venice danced. Masked by their brilliant, increasingly artificial fervour, death (the plague?) drew closer and took them one by one. Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal, where a soul can be discerned. Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop. What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

  He shuddered. That wasn’t everyday, for heaven’s sake, however relevant it might seem. He forced himself to smile and, even though he felt it was a bit of a death’s head grin, Isabelle squeezed his arm, to show she appreciated it. ‘Damn the past. Let’s tie a can to it.’ They danced a few more steps then applauded as the music stopped.

  ‘Let’s join the others, shall we?’ said Isabelle, taking his arm.

  Arthur was standing by an open window with Marjorie and Phyllis Stuckley. Jack felt a sudden warm affection for all of them. These were his friends. They were ordinary, they were everyday, they were happy and they were all good sorts. Even, he added to himself, if Marjorie did make him feel slightly hunted on occasion.

  ‘What about our dance, Jack?’ asked Marjorie.

  ‘Let me have a drink first,’ he pleaded. ‘And I did promise your brother I’d join him on the terrace for a breather. Can we have the first dance after supper?’

  She was disappointed, he could tell, but she smiled at him. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise. Shall I,’ he added, wanting to see a real smile, not an assumed one, ‘behave like all well brought-up Corsican bandits and fling you across my saddle-bow and gallop off into the night?’

  Marjorie giggled delightedly. Phyllis wrinkled her nose. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they had anything but pack-ponies in Corsica. Would they have saddle-bows?’

  ‘It was a bow at a venture.’

  ‘That was an awful joke,’ said Phyllis amongst the laughter. She gave a little pirouette. ‘You still haven’t guessed what our costumes are. Go on, Jack, see if you can work it out. There’s a kiss for the winner. Arthur didn’t get it.’

  ‘That was very tactful of you, Arthur,’ said Isabelle. Jack stepped back and looked at both girls with an air of deep concentration. Marjorie’s hair was dressed with shimmering spangles and she wore a dark blue dress covered in stars with a flying arrow embroidered on the front. Phyllis was also in midnight blue with stars but her dress had an upturned urn on the front, flowing with water.

  ‘You’re stars,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t think of any star names.’ The girls gave rather smug smiles and he hesitated for a moment. ‘Hang on a mo! It’s the signs of the Zodiac, isn’t it? Now who has arrows? Sagittarius, that’s it. Marjorie, you’re Sagittarius. That’s half a kiss you owe me. Phyllis, you’re whoever it is that carries water. Aquarius, that’s it.’

  ‘Well done, Jack.’ Phyllis tilted up her chin and he kissed her. He smiled apologetically at Marjorie. ‘Do you want to join the harem?’

  She did. He kissed her and she broke away giggling. ‘Go and have your breather on the terrace. It’ll be supper-time soon.’

  Once on the terrace he drew a deep breath and leaned against the wall. The light and the music from the ballroom streamed past him, on to the stone flags. He stood in the shadows, glad of a chance to relax. Isabelle had accused him of being too bright and brittle, and she was right. There was no sign of Mark. He was relieved, in a way. It was good to be alone, to stop pretending there was nothing wrong. He shook himself. Surely Isabelle was right. It was all so long ago that perhaps it really didn’t matter any more.

  It was March and, although it was fine, the terrace was icy after the sweltering ballroom. There would be a frost tonight. Jack shivered as the wind sliced through his thin shirt. He walked across the terrace and looked over the stone balustrade. It was a dramatic view. The Stuckleys’ house, Hammerholt, was built into the side of a hill and the terrace, supported on pillars, stretched out from the side of the house.

  Below him, the steep grassy slope tumbled away a hundred feet or so to the dark mass of rustling trees at the bottom of the valley. The name of the house, he knew, came from the little river Hammer – it was scarcely more than a stream – a tributary of the Breeden. From far below he could just make out the noise of the busy, shallow river as it chattered on its way. Overhead the moon scudded behind patchy clouds and the stars had the hard brilliance of a thousand spear tips. They were nearly as bright as the stars in the desert . . . He shook himself. He wasn’t going to think of it any more. It didn’t matter.

  He lit a cigarette, seeing the tip glow red in the darkness, and looked round at the sound of a footstep. Vaughan was on the terrace. Jack felt his stomach give a little twist, and at the same time he was surprised. He hadn’t heard Vaughan come out and yet there he was.

  He wasn’t going to say anything but Vaughan paused. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Jack Haldean, sir.’

  ‘Major Haldean?’ Vaughan cleared his throat. ‘Look, about the other day. I’d like you to know I was not responsible for that disgraceful . . .’

  He didn’t finish the sentence. A huge roar, like that of a gigantic tormented lion, broke into Vaughan’s words. Simultaneously, a sheet of flame leapt into the air from the valley below. Vaughan spun round to see what was happening, his body black against the fire.

  Jack, completely taken aback, dropped his cigarette over the balustrade, then ran to the opposite side of the terrace, craning to see. There was a ball of fire in the valley below and the air was full of the angry, ragged crackling of flames.

  People spilled out on to the terrace from the French windows, chattering in anxious excitement. Marjorie Stuckley struggled her way through the crowd to him. ‘What is it?’ she said over and over again. ‘What is it?’

  Jack leaned over the balustrade. Below him, the trees, their leaves burnt away, laid black skeletal fingers over a mass of flame. He could pick out the shape of a car at the bottom of the valley, dark against the dancing red. ‘Some poor beggar’s had it,’ he said quietly. Marjorie started to cry. He spared a glance sideways and saw Arthur holding Isabelle, their faces reflecting the quivering fire.

  ‘It’s that track down to the valley,’ Arthur said dully. ‘Some poor devil’s taken the wrong turning and crashed into a tree. I nearly took that path myself earlier on.’ Isabelle gripped him tighter.

  Burnt pieces of leaves and twigs fluttered past, bringing a stinging, acrid smell. A fragment of what had been the fabric of the hood floated upward, borne by the terrible wildness of the ri
pping, crackling fire. There was a savage explosion and the flames vaulted to the level of the balcony. Thick black smoke, rank with burning oil and rubber, set them all coughing.

  ‘Get back!’ yelled Jack as another whumph of flame leapt past the stone banister. He saw Mark Stuckley, his face with its pirate’s beard lit up like a pantomime devil in the flames. ‘Mark, we’ve got to do something! If those trees catch hold, the house could go up. We need water.’

  Stuckley, caught by a paroxysm of coughing, waved his arm in agreement. With his father’s help, he organized a line of men and women to pass buckets of water from the stables through the ballroom and on to the terrace. The tops of the highest trees were at least thirty feet below the house, but burning twigs and leaves, floating high in the air, put the house in real danger of being set alight. It seemed a very long time – it was actually forty minutes or so later – before they heard the jangling of a fire bell.

  ‘It’s the fire engine from Market Breeden,’ said Stuckley, peering down into the woods. His face was grimed with soot and his eyes were red. ‘I told them they had to come across the river Hammer. They can’t get into the valley from this end.’

  The car had long since burnt out, a dull mass visible under a glowing tracery of branches. Shouts came up from the valley as the pump was brought into action. The water hit the trees with a noise as if a thousand furious snakes were hissing defiance. Then a black hole appeared in the carpet of fire, followed by another and another, then two of the holes joined together, widened and grew.

  It was well over an hour afterwards before Jack, Arthur, Mark, and some of the other men were able to go down the steps of the terrace to the valley floor.

  The burnt-out wreck of the car was still too hot to approach but Jack could see what had been the driver stretched out over what had been the front seat. He had seen men die by fire before but nothing could take away the horror of that charred, grotesquely human shape.

  He retreated to the steps and slumped against the grassy bank, watching Mark Stuckley and his father talk to the firemen.

  The darkened woods dripped with water. His eyes smarted and the dank smell of wet ash stung his throat. Arthur, in his smoke-blackened chain mail, sat wearily beside him.

  ‘That was a close-run thing,’ said Jack.

  Arthur rested his head in his hands. ‘We did it, though. We saved the house.’ He rubbed his sore eyes. ‘The poor bloke in the car didn’t have a chance,’ he said after a pause. ‘I hate seeing men burnt. It’s a horrible sight.’

  ‘It’s like a private room in hell,’ agreed Jack quietly.

  Arthur nodded and said nothing for a few moments. ‘D’you think he was kettled?’ he said eventually. ‘He must have been going at a devil of a lick.’ He felt in his pockets for his cigarette case. It was empty. ‘Let me have a cigarette, Jack. I could do with one.’

  Jack paused in the act of reaching for his case. ‘A devil of a lick?’ he repeated in an odd voice. ‘Say that again.’

  Arthur gave him a puzzled look. ‘He was going at a devil of a lick.’

  Jack stared at him. ‘My God, Arthur, that’s just what he wasn’t doing.’

  ‘What?’ Arthur looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  Jack lowered his voice. ‘You’d expect the bloke to be going hell for leather, wouldn’t you?’ Arthur nodded. ‘But that’s just it. I was standing on the terrace talking to Vaughan when there was a tremendous bang and a sheet of flame leapt up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there was nothing beforehand. Nothing. There wasn’t any sound at all. No noise of an engine, no shouting, no sound of a car revving, no sound of a crash. Nothing.’

  Arthur gaped at him. ‘But there must have been.’

  Jack lit his cigarette. ‘I was there. It was as quiet as the grave.’

  ‘But Jack, that means . . .’ He trailed off.

  ‘That means someone set it up,’ said Jack grimly. ‘It wasn’t an accident, Arthur. That car didn’t crash. It was deliberately set on fire.’

  Arthur Stanton’s gaze slid to the twisted, blackened figure in the car. ‘But there’s a man in the car. If someone deliberately set the car on fire, they must have known he was there. That means they killed him. It means . . . It means . . .’ Arthur hesitated and swallowed.

  Jack quietly finished the sentence for him. ‘It means murder.’

  THREE

  At nine o’clock the next morning Jack drew the Spyker to a halt on the corner of the road that ran down to the Hammer Valley. The grass was rimmed with frost and he was glad of his woollen scarf, thick gloves and warm coat. Looking up the hill, he could see a few wisps of smoke from the chimneys of Hammerholt above the trees and wondered if the Stuckleys were up and about yet. Considering it was only five hours or so since the last of their guests had departed, probably not.

  It was gone two in the morning when he telephoned Superintendent Ashley at his home in Lewes. He picked his words carefully, knowing there was a fair chance that anything he said would be listened to with breathless enthusiasm by the Market Breeden telephone exchange. Ashley, once he had snapped into full wakefulness, had, thank God, got the point if not the details.

  He climbed out of the car as the chugging of an engine sounded on the main road. A Trojan four-seater rounded the corner and pulled in beside the Spyker. Ashley, carrying a briefcase, got out of the car, followed by two men, one of whom Jack recognized as Doctor Wilcott from Breedenbrook. The other, judging from the tripod and case he carried, was the photographer.

  Jack waved a cheerful greeting. He had a great regard for Superintendent Ashley, a solid, kindly man in his early forties with a matter-of-fact manner and an unexpected sense of humour.

  ‘Morning, Haldean,’ said Ashley. ‘It’s good to see you again, even if you did disturb my night’s rest. You remember Dr Wilcott, don’t you? He gave me a lift over here, together with Mr Tarleton, who’s come to give us a hand with the photographs.’

  ‘You seem to have a habit of getting mixed up in police cases,’ said Dr Wilcott with a grin. ‘I understand you actually saw the car go up in flames.’ He glanced in the direction of Hammerholt. ‘We’ve been up to the house already. Mr Stuckley was still in his dressing gown, which didn’t surprise me. It sounds as if you had an absolute night of it.’

  ‘I did wonder if Mr Stuckley wanted to accompany us,’ said Ashley, ‘as this is his property, but he was happy to let us poke around by ourselves. Apparently there’s a right of way down to the river so they’re used to people coming and going. With any luck, though, everything should be as you left it last night. It’ll be a blessed sight easier to work out what happened if nothing’s been disturbed. It’s a bit early for sightseers but I sent two men ahead from Market Breeden to guard the scene of the crash, just in case.’

  He looked round the tree-lined road. ‘I can see how someone would mistake this for the turning up to Market Breeden,’ he said. ‘Especially in the dark. I got the impression from your call that it wasn’t much more than a path.’

  ‘Yes, it would be an understandable mistake,’ agreed Jack as they set off. He dropped back so Dr Wilcott and Mr Tarleton were a few paces in front. ‘If I’m right, that’s what we’re meant to think,’ he said quietly. ‘As you say, the road’s very wide here, considering it’s really just a path through the woods. I asked Mark Stuckley about it. A few hundred years ago this was all dug out for iron, which is why the road’s here at all. It narrows further on and falls away very steeply before it drops down to the glade beneath Hammerholt. That’s where the crash was. The glade itself is like a huge bowl in the earth. That’s where the old iron-workings were, although they’re all overgrown now. It’s overlooked by the terrace of Hammerholt. I was there last night. It was like having a seat in the gallery at a theatre.’

  ‘And you’re sure you didn’t hear anything before the crash?’

  ‘Not a thing. As I said, I was standing on the terrace, talking to a Mr Vaughan when whumph! There was a sheet of fla
me and all hell was let loose.’

  ‘Mr Vaughan?’ said Ashley. ‘I didn’t know there was another witness. I’ll have to talk to him. Do you know him well?’

  ‘No.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve only met him once before. Arthur Stanton knows him, though, and so do the Stuckleys, of course.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Ashley, shrugging himself deeper into his overcoat. ‘They’ll be able to give me his address. By jingo, it’s sharp this morning.’

  They walked on between the great soaring columns of beeches to where the road opened out into a grassy clearing. It was wide enough to turn a car and, judging by the tyre tracks, had been used for that purpose by more than one hapless motorist.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jack, stopping. ‘What’s this?’ He knelt down at the side of the road, seeing where car tyres had dug into the banks of the path, ploughing up the reddish-brown earth in a raw slash of frost-rimmed colour. ‘These are fresh, Ashley. The tracks are still sharp and the earth would have crumbled if they’d been here for any time.’ A doleful line of crushed grass, cow parsley and nettles marked the trail. ‘It looks as if he was trying to turn the car.’ He stood up and retraced his steps back up the road.

  Ashley followed him. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ he asked, pointing to where a diamond-patterned tyre had left its imprint against the sloped earth of the bank. He crossed the road and looked carefully at the mud at the side of the road. ‘There’s another imprint of those diamond-patterned tyres here, too. There are more tyre tracks, too, a wire-cord pattern. They’ve come from another car.’

  Jack looked at the patch of earth. ‘It definitely is a different car, not just a mixed set of tyres on the same car. You can tell that from the way the tracks are overlaid.’

  ‘We’ve got a trail going down to the clearing,’ said Ashley, following the tracks, ‘and the same trail coming back up. The diamond pattern’s driven away, so that’s not the car which caught fire.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Jack. He walked across the clearing and went a little way down the path to the glade. He stooped and examined the ground, stood up and slowly walked back, his face puzzled. ‘This is a bit odd, Ashley. The wire-cord car which is, I presume, the one which crashed, was here first and the diamond-patterned one came afterwards.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it could be someone who lost their way or realized there was a kerfuffle in the valley and stopped to take a look.’