by V M Knox
Looking back over his shoulder, Clement checked the fields for moving shadows, but in the darkness he saw nothing. Looking to his right, he could see the outline of Wallace’s farm against the starry night sky. Hurrying through the overgrown garden, he made straight for the southern end of the house where he knew a large beech tree spread its branches over the entire end of the dwelling.
Removing one of the four magazines of ammunition from his webbing, he assembled the Welrod pistol and screwed on the silencer, then tucked the weapon into his belt. Reaching for his knife and holding it between his teeth, he started to climb. The tree had a sturdy trunk and thick branches and it felt more secure then he had expected. With his head level with the upper floor windows, and holding the branch with his left hand, he eased his head around the corner of the house and studied the window. No curtains were drawn there either but, he surmised, that unlike a scullery window, the upper floor bedroom was not in daily use. Using his knife, he prised open the pane closest to him. A small clod of snow broke away and fell from the window sill, breaking apart on impact below him. Pushing back the window panes, he swung his right hand around the edge and grasped the window’s central timber pillar. With both hands wrapped around the wooden strut, he swung his right foot upwards and dragged himself over the sill. Once inside, he sat on the floor and waited in the silence. Slowly, he stood, the pistol firm in his grasp. The door to the hallway beyond was closed. With his ears straining, he untied his boots and secreted them under the nearby bed. Creeping towards the door to the hallway, he turned the knob.
The corridor beyond was dark and quiet.
He took a step forward.
The sting was instant. The only sound had been the hard cough-like thud of a silenced weapon. Wincing, he retreated to the bedroom, slamming the door closed and waited, his pistol clenched in his fist. The suddenness of the attack made his heart race. Glancing at his forearm, he saw a small amount of blood. It was not deep and he forced himself to stay alert to any noises in the corridor. Nothing. In the silence, he heard only his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Three seconds later he heard the sound of running feet, the tread too quick for an old lady. Making an instant decision, and holding his pistol before him, he threw open the door and fired along the darkened passage then drew back behind the door jam. No response. No movement. No sound. Where were the old ladies? He paused, collecting his thoughts. He reasoned that the gunman must be in one of the two rooms between himself and the staircase, but he could not understand why the gunman had not come after him. The man knew where he was, yet he had not fired again. Holding the pistol at arm’s length, Clement crept around the door again. Nothing. No shot. No movement. He edged his way along the hallway, towards the staircase, his breathing suspended. Had the gunman lured him into the open? He felt exposed and vulnerable. His mouth was dry and his eyes wide open. Two seconds later he was at the top of the stairs, his back leaning on the balustrade. He glanced upwards through the stair well to the upper floor. Nothing. With his ears and eyes straining he stepped onto the top tread of the staircase to the lower floor. Stooping down, he peered through the banisters and stared into the front hall below him.
The unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing somewhere upstairs made him run. Descending the stairs, he ran into the sitting room on the lower floor and dived behind a large armchair for cover. Kneeling behind the seat and grasping his pistol, he inclined his head to one side and stared at the base of the staircase. No one descended. Why had the gunman not fired again? Not waiting to check the lower floor, Clement ran back up the stairs and thundered down the corridor to the small bedroom where he had entered the house. Kicking the door open and with his pistol clenched in both hands, he stepped into the room. A cold draught from the open window slapped his face. Standing by the wall next to the window, he stared down at the snow-covered front garden. But even in the limited moonlight he saw only one set of footprints. He gasped, his breathing almost halted. A door had opened and closed but that was all. He felt the nausea welling up, adrenaline gripping his body. The killer was still in the house. Running his tongue around his dry mouth, Clement made himself think. Three storey house. Servants’ stairs! One of the doors he had passed must have led to the back stairs. Why had the killer not come after him? It made no sense.
He reached for his boots under the nearby bed and slipping them on, hurriedly tied the laces. Grasping the pistol, he worked his way along the upper corridor, opening every door. The last door opened to the servant’s stairwell. With each passing second his pulse ran faster until it thumped in his chest. But whoever it had been, he believed they were no longer there. His thoughts returned to the old ladies. Where were they in all the madness? He hadn’t heard a female voice, neither scream nor whimper. With his ears straining, and his Welrod in front of his face, he slowly descended the stairs and tip-toed along the hallway. Stopping by each doorway, he listened. Silence. No talking ladies. No boiling kettles. The unknown gripped his throat. A gust of cold air blew over him from the end of the hallway and he ran along the corridor to the rear of the house, his pistol raised, ready to fire.
The icy wind enveloped him and he knew the rear door to the garden must be open, but he was not going to react on impulse. He had made that mistake before. The open door didn’t mean his adversary had gone. Moreover, the gunman, like himself, carried a silenced weapon. Never before had Clement felt death so imminent. He believed it had been more by divine intervention than his good management that his error had not already cost him his life. With his pistol raised, he edged himself around the kitchen doorway. Nothing but the bitter wind. Yet, Clement felt he was not alone. He crossed the kitchen and closed the door to the rear garden. Edging towards the window he drew the black-out curtains and switched on the light.
Before him, two elderly ladies were seated on either side of the breakfast table. A rope held their bodies, arms and legs to the chairs where they were sitting, their heads forward, their bodies still in death. Congealed blood matted their crimped grey hair. Swallowing hard, Clement screwed his eyes shut. His heart thumped, the pulsing gripping his throat. He made himself breathe then opened his eyes and stared at the old ladies he had never met.
The scene was grotesque. They resembled two porcelain dolls with white faces and wide pencilled eyes. He knew what kind of bullet had killed them. Subsonic bullets left little external mess. But there would be nothing remaining on the inside. How long had the ladies been seated in their kitchen? The cold delayed decomposition. Turning, he walked over to the door, his eye scrutinizing the lock of the rear door. Again, no damage to locks or handles was visible.
At his feet and beside the door sat a brown paper bag of kitchen scraps awaiting disposal and two empty bottles of gin beside it. How long had the ladies been dead? Why had the man returned this night? Clement’s gaze fell on the telephone sitting on the bench beside the back door, but he knew the line was no longer connected. Sarah had disconnected it for him to call Nora Ballantyne in the small hours of yesterday morning.
Standing by the door, Clement faced the two lifeless bodies, arranged like rag dolls supping tea in a life-sise doll’s house. They had been tormented, their last moments spent in terror. Such savagery was beyond assassination. And, from the lack of any evidence of a physical struggle, he knew they had submitted like lambs. Fear paralysed. He knew that. Such killings played no part in war. They were not the actions of decent men, even men who were the enemy. Placing his hand on their thin, icy shoulders, he quietly swore to their souls that he would find whoever was responsible and see them brought to justice. The obscenity of their deaths and the mockery of the tableau made him feel sick. The gunman had fired into their skulls from above. Instant death. He recited the Lord’s Prayer aloud. Turning off the light, he re-opened the curtains and looked out, his eye on the rear door of the manse. Darkness had engulfed the scene, but he could still make out, in the centre of his vision, the silhouette of the poultry house not thir
ty yards away.
Chapter 15
Despite the late hour, Clement decided to telephone Nora Ballantyne and Crawford’s exchange was the only place. Closing the door to the elderly ladies’ house, Clement stared at the footprints that ran away from the back door, disappearing through the open gate and into the manse’s rear garden. What he had just experienced chilled him to the core and what had happened to the elderly ladies sickened him. He had never felt so close to evil. He had escaped with his life, but what he had seen would remain with him forever.
Clement crossed the rear garden leading to the gate in the fence. Two sets of footprints now crossed the manse’s rear garden. He stared at the house, dread gripping his heart. All was in darkness. He rubbed his forehead. Everything left him confused. Nothing fitted. For all that he had seen, he still had no answers, just more questions. But one question could no longer wait to be answered. He crossed the rear garden, heading for the manse. Placing his hand on the backdoor knob, he turned the handle. Still locked and no smell of burning coal in the air.
His hand reached for the lock picks in Sean’s borrowed coat pocket. It took Clement less than thirty seconds to gain entry. As the door swung open, Clement reached for his pistol. Pushing the door wide, he stepped inside, his pistol raised and his senses alert. All was still. And dark. And cold. He held his breath, his eyes were wide in dread of what he might find. Fact; Aidan Heath hated the cold. Clement closed the door behind him without making a sound, and with his left hand, reached for his torch. Flicking on the beam, he crept into the sitting room, his throat tight and his heart pounding. But no body lay sprawled before the hearth.
Opening the door to the rear hall, he crept up the stairs to the upper floor and threw open the door to Aidan’s room. Nothing. No sleeping vicar and no dead body. Clement let out a long breath. Walking in, he checked the wardrobe and lowboy for the man’s personal effects. Everything was in place.
Turning, he descended to the lower floor, now eager to leave. Standing on the small front porch, Clement looked out into the night, his senses alert to any noises. Nothing came to him on the cold wind. The gunman had vanished into the night. But Aidan’s absence worried him. Then he remembered that Aidan and Joyce McAllister were between them operating the telephone exchange. He prayed Aidan was there. Clement stared at The Bell some hundred yards distant. Why had the gunman not fired at him again? Another unanswerable question. He wondered if the killer had sought refuge at the inn. He needed to know. Besides, with either Joyce McAllister or Aidan operating the exchange, the call to Nora Ballantyne would have to wait until both had left Crawford’s house.
Leaving the manse, Clement ran towards the public house, his mind alert for any movement in the dark. Crouching in the side passage, he studied the rear yard. He heard a door open. But it wasn’t to the inn. Drawing his pistol, he waited in the shadows. A second later, he saw Jean Buchanan emerging from the outbuilding opposite. Stooping, she placed a box on the ground before bending to re-lock the out-building door. Two seconds later, she bent over and grasping the box, swung it onto her hip. Even in such circumstances, Clement felt guilty that he wasn’t offering to lift it for her. But the sound of bottles clinking as she walked told him what the box contained. He stayed watching her as she crossed the yard and climbed the steps to the rear door, his mind overwhelmed by all that he had seen this night and the rapidity of events. He heard the door close.
Clement looked down at the torn sleeve in Sean’s coat. With all that had happened, he hadn’t felt the pain in his arm until now. He should wash the wound, and returning the coat would also give him the opportunity to question Sean about any recent arrivals in the public bar. He stood and placed his pistol back into the holster around his chest.
‘Sean?’
It was a male voice.
Dropping to his left, Clement rolled behind some barrels. Withdrawing his pistol, he waited, the weapon raised. Footsteps. A man approached out of the shadows, a small dog at his side.
Clement exhaled and stood. ‘Not Sean. Just borrowed his coat. Has something happened, Tom?’
Flip wagged his tail. Tom’s startled eyes shifted from the pistol to the tear in his left sleeve. ‘You alright, Vicar?’
‘I’ll live. I thought you were going back to St Margaret’s Hope?’
‘I was. But something’s happened.’
‘What?’
Clement heard the hesitation in Tom’s reply. ‘Maybe nothing. But after dropping you off this morning in Thurso, I saw a ship that I know entering port. Belongs to Karl Fraser, Eric’s son. Karl had some interesting news. Sarah has left St Margaret’s Hope.’
Clement frowned. ‘Did Eric’s son say where she went?’
‘No. But given that every fisherman in port, except me, wouldn’t put to sea for you, I’d say she is still on South Ronaldsay.’
‘How long have you been in Canisbay?’
‘Arrived a couple of hours ago. Why?’
‘Is your boat in Gills Bay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you pass anyone on your way here?’
‘No one, but then I came across the fields.’
‘Can I ask you not to tell anyone you have seen me?’
‘Does Sean know about your non-religious activities?’
‘Not specifically.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll get a drink and warm up then, I think.’
‘Be careful, Tom. The killer knows Sarah and I left here on your boat. Your life could still be in danger.’
‘You encountered him, I see,’ Tom said, his gaze on the blood-stained sleeve.
Clement nodded. ‘I wouldn’t want you to suffer the same fate.’
‘Despite what you said, it is you he wants, Vicar. Someone else knows you are more than a vicar going to Orkney. Anyway, if someone wanted me or Sarah dead, why would they wait until now? Doesn’t make any sense. I run the risk of dying at the hands of the Germans every time I put to sea. I’ll take my chances here.’
‘Well, if you are so determined. Could you do me a favour?’
Tom inclined his head.
‘Could you find out if anyone entered The Bell within the last half hour?’
Tom nodded.
‘And can you also learn where Reverend Heath is?’
‘Isn’t he at the manse?’
‘No.’
‘Where will you be?’
It was a good question. ‘I don’t know.’
Tom seemed to hesitate. ‘In for a penny, I suppose. Go back to my boat. No one will look for you there. I’ll be back later tonight.’
‘Thank you, Tom.’
Tom disappeared into the darkened passageway at the side of The Bell. Clement waited until he could no longer hear Tom’s footsteps before opening the rear door to Jean’s kitchen. Edging his head around the door, he slipped inside. But Tom’s words were ringing in his ears. “It’s you he wants, Vicar.”
Despite the hour, the kitchen was still a blaze of light, the black-out curtains drawn over the two windows. The room had that tidied-up-for-the-day look commercial kitchens do when mealtimes are finished. A burst of female laughter arrested him; the publican’s voice. Crossing the room, Clement waited in the pantry, but no one entered the kitchen. He checked his watch. Eight thirty-five. It surprised him that the bar was not closed. But he had learned that the licensing hours in East Sussex didn’t apply in Scotland. In fact, in certain parts, the inns served no alcohol at all. Wick, reputedly was one such place. A wry smile crossed his lips as he thought of Reg. From what he’d observed, no such restrictions applied at The Bell. He glanced around the kitchen. His coat hung over the back of a chair beside the stove. Watching the swing door into the bar, he transferred the contents of his pockets back into his own coat before removing Sean’s and washing his arm in cold water. Holding his hand over the wound, he sat by the stove, feeling the warmth seep into his body and feet. It should have brought him comfort, but instead all he saw was th
e hideous image of the two old ladies. Four deaths. Three of them some of the most appalling he had ever seen. From the congealed blood in the old ladies’ hair he knew they had not died this evening. But why had the killer returned to the house? And where was Sarah Crawford? Was she running from someone, or towards them?
He had no answers for any of his questions. His thoughts drifted to another time. Another life. One that was ordinary and safe. With Mary. Sitting by a fire, warming his feet, in his mind he heard her knitting needles clicking out their rhythmic tune as the radio told them of the cricket score in the Antipodes. Back then, he prayed more. And read his Bible and wrote sermons. Back then, he had the time for the things that were important to him. But now? It was the war. He felt an increasing bitterness for the Nazis who had taken his world and turned it upside down. The suction sound of the rubber around the swing-door that led into the bar broke into his thoughts. Leaping from the chair, he ran for the pantry, his knife in his grasp.
‘Vicar?’
The Irish lilt was unmistakable. Clement stepped forward, his blade still in his fist.
‘I figured you had returned.’ But Sean’s eyes were on the slim, long, double-bladed dagger. ‘Tom was asking who came in this evening. Not something he’s ever asked before. So, I figured you must have met out the back.’
‘Is anyone else suspicious, Sean?’
‘No. They’re much too stupid for that. Besides, Tom likes to talk and everyone knows it.’
