‘Perhaps he came here to keep an appointment with somebody,’ said Peter.
‘H’m, queer time to keep an appointment,’ remarked Donaldson. ‘Unless . . .’ He stopped, stroking his nose thoughtfully.
‘Well?’ inquired Peter, after a pause. ‘Unless what?’
‘Unless he knew something,’ said the inspector, ‘and that’s why he was got here and killed . . .’
‘Couldn’t he have been a member of this blasted cult?’ suggested Colonel Shoredust.
‘He could,’ said Peter, ‘but I should think it was very unlikely. I should think the very thought of such a thing would have filled him with horror. Sherwood was a very well-balanced, sane, and normal type, and so is his wife. The only reaction they would have to Satanism would be loathing and disgust . . .’
‘Maybe he found out something about this thing,’ said Odds. ‘Sort of stumbled on the fact that it existed and who was running it and tackled ’em with it . . .’
‘That’s a great deal more likely,’ agreed Peter, nodding.
‘Well,’ said Donaldson, ‘perhaps Mrs. Sherwood will be able to tell us. There isn’t much we can do here, so we may as well lock the place up and go along and see her . . .’
‘Look here,’ said Peter. ‘It’s going to be a terrible shock for her. Don’t you think it would be kinder if I and my wife were the first to break the news? Mrs. Sherwood knows us. It would be better coming from us than from a stranger . . .’
‘Blasted good idea,’ grunted Colonel Shoredust approvingly, but Donaldson did not seem too pleased with the suggestion.
‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I’m anxious to see her as soon as possible. She may be in possession of important information . . .’
‘An hour can scarcely make any difference,’ urged Peter, ‘but it will give her an opportunity of recovering from the first shock.’
Rather grudgingly Donaldson agreed. At Superintendent Odds’s suggestion, Sergeant Quilt was left on guard until such time as he could be relieved by a man from Hinton — Colonel Shoredust was going back there and promised to attend to it — and Peter drove the others to Fendyke St. Mary. Dropping them at the police station he went on to Wymondham Lodge. He was not looking forward to the job of breaking the news of her husband’s death to April, but for humanity’s sake he didn’t see what else he could have suggested. The bald, official statement, however kindly put, coming from Inspector Donaldson, and followed up with a string of questions, would have been unnecessarily harrowing.
Ann and Miss Wymondham were in the drawing room when he burst in upon them with his news. As he had expected they were both very upset. Anthony and April Sherwood had an especial place in Miss Wymondham’s affections and, although Ann had only known them for a short while, she, too, had taken a very great liking to them both.
‘My dear, of course you could do nothing else,’ declared Miss Wymondham, when Peter told them what he had arranged. ‘Poor child! It will be a terrible shock for her. Do tell her how very, very sorry I am . . . not that other people’s sympathy is ever very helpful on these occasions, I’m afraid, but it’s all one can offer, isn’t it? Really, I don’t know what this place is becoming . . . nothing but murders and sudden deaths. It’s really dreadful . . .’ She was still repeating how dreadful it was when they left her.
On the way to the Sherwoods’ house, Peter gave Ann a more detailed account of what had happened since he had last seen her. In front of Miss Wymondham he had thought it wiser not to say anything about the contents of the barn or the use to which it had been put. His wife listened in silence and when he had finished gave a little shiver.
‘It’s horrible, Peter,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘Horrible and beastly and ghastly. There can be no doubt now that we were right . . .’
‘That you were right,’ corrected Peter. ‘I’ve taken the credit for it, but it was your idea originally . . .’
‘Why was Anthony Sherwood killed?’ she broke in. ‘What had he got to do with it?’
‘Why were those other four killed?’ said Peter.
‘That’s different,’ she answered. ‘They belonged to the cult. But he . . . I’m afraid April’s going to take this very badly, Peter . . .’
‘I’m afraid she is, darling,’ agreed Peter. ‘What I can’t understand is why she hasn’t missed him and done something about it.’
They both discovered the reason for this when they reached the house, and Peter’s ring was answered by the maid.
‘Mrs. Sherwood’s away, sir,’ said the girl in reply to Peter’s inquiry. ‘She went to London the day before yesterday. She won’t be back until tonight, I don’t think.’
‘Do you know what time?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. Mr. Sherwood would be able to tell you, only he’s out, too. He was going over to Hinton to meet Mrs. Sherwood with the car.’
Peter looked at his wife, a little undecided what to do. Inspector Donaldson would be arriving in under an hour . . .
‘Thank you,’ Ann smiled at the maidservant. ‘Will you tell your mistress that we called? Come along, darling.’ She took Peter by the arm and pulled him away.
‘What . . .?’ he began, but she interrupted him.
‘There’s only one thing to do,’ she said calmly. ‘We must find Inspector Donaldson, tell him that April is not expected back until late this evening, and then go over to Hinton and meet that train . . .’
Chapter Seven
The London train, due to arrive at Hinton at 8.32, was six minutes late. To Peter and Ann, waiting in the gloomy and rather depressing station, that six minutes seemed like six hours. They both dreaded the arrival of April and yet at the same time were anxious for her to come so that they could get their unpleasant task over.
The train came at last, steaming along the platform with a great deal of hissing, and stopped to the accompaniment of a deafening, screeching roar from the engine that drowned every other sound. Doors opened along the long line of carriages and people began to tumble out. There were not many, and April was among the last. They saw her, at the end of the long platform, struggling with a mass of parcels, and as she came towards them, Peter mentally braced himself for the coming ordeal.
‘Hello,’ she said in surprise, which changed almost at once to a welcoming smile, ‘what are you doing here? Where’s Anthony?’
‘He couldn’t come,’ said Ann, ‘so we thought we’d meet you . . .’
‘Well, that was nice of you,’ said April, managing after some difficulty to extract her ticket from her glove and give it up to the collector. ‘But why couldn’t Anthony come?’
‘Let me help you with those parcels,’ said Peter hastily.
‘Thank you. There are rather a lot of them,’ she said. ‘Every so often I go up to Town and indulge in an orgy of shopping. It’s one of the best tonics I know — spending money on things that aren’t really necessary just for the sheer fun of spending it. Why couldn’t Anthony come to meet me?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not very well,’ said Peter.
‘Don’t tell me he’s caught a cold,’ cried April, as they made their way to the car. ‘He’s been boasting so triumphantly that he never gets a cold . . .’
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Ann. ‘We’ll get in the back, Peter, and you can put April’s parcels on the seat beside you . . .’
They seated themselves with a rug over their knees, the parcels were stowed on the front seat, and Peter got in and drove out of the station approach. It was a long time before he forgot that drive back to Fendyke St. Mary. Even years afterwards, at odd moments, the memory of it would escape from some hinterland of his brain and conjure up a vivid picture . . . The dark, twisting road, somehow eerily unreal in the light from the car’s lamps . . . the sudden ghostly glimpses of gates and trees . . . the rhythmic, soporific hum of the engine . . . and the low murmur of Ann’s voice . . .
Ann told April during that short journey from the railway station a
t Hinton to Fendyke St. Mary and she listened, tearless, and without any outward sign of grief or emotion. But Peter realized just what the news of Anthony Sherwood’s death had done to her when they reached the house. It had been a smiling, happy, living girl who had got into the car at Hinton. It was a dead woman who got out.
Chapter Eight
April retained that stony, blank-faced, unnatural calm throughout the interview with Inspector Donaldson which took place soon after they arrived. She listened politely to what he had to say, but it was only the shell of a woman who sat rather listlessly in the big armchair. ‘She herself, the real woman, is not there,’ thought Peter, watching her. ‘This is only an automaton. The essential spark, the something that made her an individual personality, is somewhere else . . .’ It was more poignant than any wild display of grief could have been. If she had broken down; if the hot, blank, dry eyes, that looked like shuttered windows, could have found relief in tears; if the strained mask of her face would relax, even for a moment, and release the pent-up emotions within, so that they could be dissipated and exhausted, they would all have felt easier and less constrained. As it was the atmosphere was full of tension which affected even the official stolidity of Inspector Donaldson. He was ill at ease and embarrassed; acutely conscious that he was intruding into a grief that was so deep that it lacked the power of all normal expression.
‘Would you mind leaving now?’ said April, tonelessly, before he could begin the questions which he had come to ask her. ‘All of you, please. I’ll tell you anything I can tomorrow morning, but I should like to be left alone now. I’m very tired . . .’
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ asked Ann, and realized after she had spoken how futile it sounded.
‘Yes, thank you,’ answered April, with that frozen politeness which had characterized her attitude all along. ‘You’ve both been very kind, but I would rather be alone . . .’
‘Come along, darling,’ murmured Peter, taking his wife’s arm.
‘I should like to see you as early as possible in the morning, Mrs. Sherwood,’ said Donaldson hesitantly. ‘The sooner I am in possession of any information you can give me the better . . .’
‘Come at half-past nine,’ she answered. ‘Will that be early enough? I’m sorry that I don’t feel equal to answering questions tonight . . .’
She had forgotten their existence before they reached the door.
Peter looked back as they went out. She was sitting, without expression of any sort, staring at the fire . . .
*
‘The shock has stunned her,’ said Peter. ‘Like a severe wound. The pain will come when the numbness wears off and she begins to feel again . . .’
‘Poor girl,’ said Ann. ‘I’m not at all happy leaving her there all alone . . .’
‘There’s nothing we can do, darling,’ said Peter. ‘Nobody can do anything . . .’
‘If only she’d cry,’ said Ann, ‘or show any sign of — of animation. It’s that deadly, horrible calm that worries me . . .’
Inspector Donaldson cleared his throat.
‘It’s a pity she wasn’t able to talk to us tonight,’ he said. ‘but it was quite obvious she wasn’t up to it. Queer kind of dazed look about her, as you say, Mrs. Chard. I wonder if she’ll be able to help us? Of course, being away at the time . . .’
‘I rather doubt it,’ said Peter. ‘How do you expect her to be helpful?’
‘Well,’ replied Donaldson slowly, ‘if her husband got to know something about this business he may have talked to her about it . . .’
‘How could he have got to know anything about it?’ asked Ann. ‘The only people who would know anything about it would be the actual members of the coven, and I’m quite sure Anthony Sherwood wasn’t that . . .’
‘All the same he must have got mixed up in it somehow,’ said the inspector, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t have been killed. You can take it from me, ma’am, that he found out something that was a source of danger to those people, or at any rate to one of ’em . . .’
‘It’s quite likely,’ said Peter, a little impatiently, ‘but it’s too cold standing about here conjecturing. Can I drop you and Sergeant Porter at the police station?’
‘Well, I won’t say no,’ said Donaldson. ‘We walked here and it’s a goodish stretch . . .’
‘All right, hop in then.’ Peter opened the door of the car. ‘You get in the front beside me, darling.’
It began to rain as they started, and by the time they reached Wymondham Lodge it was coming down in sheets. Peter pulled up at the porch for Ann to get out and then drove round to the garage to put the car away. The rain was so heavy that even the short walk back to the house made him wet and he had to go straight upstairs and change. Miss Wymondham was in the drawing room talking to Ann when he came down.
‘Oh, here you are, Peter,’ she said, breaking off in the middle of a sentence. ‘What a shocking night it is to be sure. Did you get wet? Really, it’s the most extraordinary weather . . . I’m so dreadfully sorry to hear about poor April. Ann tells me that she’s taken it very badly, poor child, but then, of course, she would. They were a most devoted couple. Quite a lesson to a good many people, I always thought. He was always so willing to do anything for anybody and nothing was too much trouble. Why anyone should want to murder Anthony Sherwood I cannot imagine . . .’
‘Perhaps April will be able to suggest a reason when she’s well enough to talk?’ said Ann, during the pause that Aunt Helen took for breath.
‘If she’d been aware of any reason I think she would have told you at once,’ declared Miss Wymondham. ‘If I know anything of April her one thought will be to get the person responsible punished as soon as possible, and if she knew anything that would do that she wouldn’t wait a second. And, after all, you can’t blame her for feeling like that. She’s suffered a dreadful loss, and it’s only natural that she should be vindictive. Anthony was very popular in the village, too, and I’m sure everybody will be terribly grieved. He always used to play in the cricket eleven against Marshton St. Paul, and at the vicarage fête, in aid of the church fund, he used to do wonderful tricks on horseback and tightrope walking and lassooing. He was born in a circus, you know — and he was really very good indeed . . . My dears, just hark at the rain. I do believe it’s getting worse.’
‘It can’t go on very long as heavy as this, surely?’ said Ann. ‘The roads will be flooded . . .’
‘It’s not the roads that are important, my dears,’ said Miss Wymondham, a tiny worried little pucker appearing on her smooth forehead. ‘It’s the dykes. The sluice gates of the Great Dyke haven’t been too sound for a long time. The Conservancy Board have promised and promised to have them seen to over and over again, but nothing is ever done about it. It would really be very awkward if they gave way, and with all the snow and now this rain there must be an abnormal strain on them . . .’
‘You mean if they gave way the place would be flooded?’ asked Ann.
‘Yes, all the lower parts,’ answered Miss Wymondham. ‘It wouldn’t affect us because we are on higher ground, but all round Witch’s House would be flooded. The Great Dyke runs close by there, you know, and even normally the land is very marshy. Although we shouldn’t actually be flooded, the village would probably be cut off completely — like an island entirely surrounded by water . . .’
‘Has that ever happened?’ asked Peter.
‘Not for nearly sixty years,’ said Miss Wymondham, ‘and that was the last time that the sluice gates were renewed, so it’s no wonder that they are getting a little worn out by now. Of course, they’ve been repaired any number of times, but what they really want is renewing . . .’
‘Well,’ remarked Peter, yawning. ‘Let’s hope we don’t wake up in the morning and find ourselves marooned. From my short experience of Fendyke St. Mary anything could happen . . .’
Chapter Nine
Ann turned over restlessly and opened her eyes. A cold, grey blur marked the position
of the window and she could hear the heavy patter and rustle of the rain. The place where Peter should have been beside her was empty but still warm. There was a movement in the room and raising her head she saw him, dimly in the half light, moving about.
‘What is it, darling? What’s the matter?’ she asked, drowsily.
‘It’s all right,’ he answered. ‘I’m getting up. Go to sleep again . . .’
‘Getting up?’ she said, in surprise. ‘What are you getting up for? What’s the time?’
‘Nearly half-past seven,’ he said.
She sat up in bed and blinked the sleep from her eyes.
‘What on earth are you getting up for?’ she demanded. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened,’ he answered, reassuringly. ‘I’ve got an idea, that’s all, and I’m going to test it . . .’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, pulling the bed covers round her, for it was very cold.
‘Out,’ he said, vaguely.
‘Out — at this hour?’ She stared at him through the gloom. ‘But it’s scarcely light and pouring with rain . . .’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Now just you snuggle down and wait until Roberts brings the tea . . .’
‘But where are you going?’ she insisted.
‘I’ll tell you when I get back,’ he replied. ‘I shan’t be long.’
He opened the door and slipped out before she could question him further. The servants were moving about downstairs and as he reached the hall Hewson, sketchily clad in a dressing-gown, came out of the dining room.
‘Good morning, Hewson,’ said Peter. ‘I’m just going out for a while. I shall be back to breakfast.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the old man. ‘It’s a very wet morning, Mr. Peter . . .’
They Walk in Darkness Page 21
