by Rennie Airth
“My God!” Madden looked up. “Can we be certain of these times?”
“Reasonably so—Tanner’s own words. I spoke to him on the telephone.” The chief inspector lit his pipe. “It’s a question of the moisture content of the tobacco. Three of the cigarette stubs found by Wiggins’s body were recent, no more than forty-eight hours old. Four had been lying there longer—up to three weeks. Tanner’s sure about those. It’s the other six he won’t commit himself on, except to say the condition of the tobacco suggests a longer period still. I tried to press him, but he wouldn’t be pinned down. They could be many weeks old, he said, even months.”
“Months?” Madden grasped the implication at once. “He must have sat there and watched them,” he said. “Long before he did anything. There’s a good view of the house and garden from where Wiggins was killed. He must have come back to the same spot over and over . . .”
“And watched them . . . as you say.” Sinclair took his pipe from his mouth. “I’ve no idea what we’re dealing with here,” he admitted. “But I know this much—we’ll have to think again.”
13
Promptly at ten o’clock the following Monday morning, Sinclair and Madden were shown into the office of Deputy Assistant Commissioner Wilfred Bennett at Scotland Yard. Office space at the Yard was assigned on the basis of seniority, in ascending order. The lowest ranks worked at the top of the building where they had the most stairs to climb. Bennett occupied a comfortable corner suite on the first floor with a view of the Thames and the tree-lined Embankment.
He was speaking on the telephone when they went in, and he motioned them to an oak table lined with chairs that stood by the open window. London was still in the grip of a heat-wave and no breeze stirred the white net curtains. Coming to work that morning, Madden had sat on the upper deck of an omnibus, but even there he had found the air humid and stifling. He thought with regret of the quiet upstairs room in the Rose and Crown, which he had occupied for the past week. Waking from tortured dreams he had sensed the countryside breathing silently around him, the woods and fields stretched out like a sleeping giant under the starry sky.
As Bennett hung up, the door opened and Sampson entered. The chief superintendent was in his mid-fifties, a heavy-set man with brilliantined hair and a muddy complexion. He greeted Sinclair and Madden warmly. “Another scorcher! And they say it’s going to get worse.”
Madden had had few dealings with him, but he knew that the air of bonhomie was a front. Sampson’s reputation at the Yard was that of a man whom it was wise not to cross.
Bennett seated himself at the table with his back to the window. His glance rested on Madden for a moment, taking in his hollow-eyed appearance. Sampson sat down beside him.
“Until this case is resolved, I intend that we should meet every Monday morning at this time to review the progress of inquiries and discuss whatever action needs to be taken.” Slight, no more than forty, with dark, thinning hair and a quick, decisive manner, Bennett was known to be one of the coming men at the Yard. “Chief Inspector?”
“Since we last talked, sir, there have been some new developments. I’ll run through them for you.” Sinclair opened his file. Elegant in a dove grey suit, he had the knack of looking cool on the hottest day. “First, the footprint by the stream. Thanks to Inspector Boyce and the Surrey police, we’ve established that the boot that made it doesn’t belong to anyone residing in Highfield. While we can’t assume it was worn by the man we’re seeking, there’s a strong likelihood it was, and if it should prove to be his, it’s almost as good as a fingerprint. You’ll recall the sketch of the cast I showed you, with the wedge missing from the heel?”
Bennett nodded.
Sampson spoke. “The ‘man’?” His small eyes, black as currants, were crinkled with puzzlement. “I thought it was agreed at our last meeting that it’s likely more than one person was involved.”
“Yes, sir, but as I said, there have been new developments.” Sinclair regarded him blandly.
“Go on,” Bennett said.
“We’ve identified all the fingerprints lifted from Melling Lodge apart from three sets. One of them is a child’s—we’re assuming it belongs to the Fletchers’ son, James, who was not in the house at the time of the attack. The other two have been sent to the Criminal Records Office. They’re being checked now.
“On Friday I received from the government chemist, somewhat belatedly, the results of tests made on various items sent to him for analysis. In consequence, Inspector Madden and I have made certain deductions. Qualified, of course. But disturbing nonetheless.”
He gave a brief summary of the chemist’s report relating to the ash and blood traces found in the bathroom and the cigarette stubs retrieved from the woods.
“Sir, this man, and I say man,” he glanced at Sampson “because I cannot conceive that this crime was carried out by a gang or group of men, was in the neighbourhood of Melling Lodge many weeks beforehand. He seems to have made repeated visits in order to observe the Fletcher residence. I’m increasingly inclined to view the robbery as a blind, an attempt to mislead us. I believe his sole intention was to murder the members of the household.”
Sampson spoke again. “Pure supposition,” he said genially.
Bennett looked uneasy. “There’s a lot of theorizing in what you say, Chief Inspector—”
“And precious little evidence to back it up,” Sampson cut in. His tone was friendly, almost jocular. “Come on, Angus, we don’t know who smoked those cigarettes. We don’t know whether one or more men broke into the house, and we don’t know that they didn’t panic in the middle of what started out as an ordinary robbery.”
“Strictly speaking, that’s true, sir,” Sinclair agreed. He seemed unruffled. “And you’re right. We lack hard facts. An eyewitness, for example. So far we’ve found no one who noticed anything amiss, or even out of the ordinary that day. I find it hard to believe that a gang of men could have moved in and out of the area without someone spotting them. But one man—now that’s possible.”
Sampson pursed his lips, plainly unconvinced.
“Then, if it was a gang, shouldn’t we have heard something by now?” Sinclair continued.
“Not necessarily. Not if they’re professionals.”
“If they were professionals, sir, they would have done a better job of robbing the place.”
The chief superintendent’s muddy complexion darkened. “Are you finished?” he inquired.
“Not quite.” Sinclair turned to Madden. “Inspector?”
Madden consulted his notebook. “The Fletchers owned a dog,” he said. “A pointer. It died about three weeks ago, apparently of old age. In view of what Dr. Tanner had to say about the cigarettes, I tried to get in touch with the local vet, but he’s on holiday, in the Hebrides.
“However, I spoke to the Fletchers’ gardener, Cooper, and he was able to tell me where he and the colonel had buried the animal. We dug up the remains on Saturday morning and I had them brought up to London for Dr. Ransom to examine.”
“That must have made his weekend,” Bennett observed.
Madden’s smile flickered briefly. “He rang me this morning, sir. He found a heavy dose of strychnine in the dog’s stomach. There’s no doubt it was poisoned.”
“There’s no doubt it ate poison,” Sampson interrupted in a tired voice. “You’re making assumptions again, Inspector.”
“Possibly, sir.” Taking his cue from Sinclair, Madden adopted a conciliatory tone. “But I did speak to Lord Stratton and he assured me that his keepers are categorically forbidden to lay poison of any sort on his land.”
Bennett cleared his throat. “All right, I’ve heard enough. From now on, unless we discover anything to the contrary, we’ll proceed on the assumption that this is the work of one man.”
“As you wish, sir.” Sampson ran a hand across the slick surface of his hair. His face was expressionless.
“Now, I’ve been in touch with the War Office,” Benne
tt resumed. “They sent one of their people round, a Colonel Jenkins. He’d already looked into Colonel Fletcher’s military record and found he was one of the most popular officers in his regiment. With all ranks—he made that point. As for our other request, he’ll have a list of names of discharged mental patients ready for us by the end of the week.”
He rested his elbows on the table.
“No doubt you’ve all read the Sunday papers. The general opinion seems to be that we’re in the dark, and for the time being I’m afraid we’ll have to swallow that. We can hardly tell the public that a madman armed with a rifle and bayonet is roaming the countryside. I’ll put out a statement later about various lines of inquiry being pursued. Do you agree, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes, I do, sir.” Sinclair sat forward. “But I’d like to add to what you’ve said. We must be careful at all times what information we put out. We’ve no reason to assume the man we’re looking for doesn’t read the newspapers. He’ll want to know what we know about him. Let’s keep him in the dark as much as possible. Either you or I can speak to the press, when necessary. Other officers should be directed not to discuss the case.”
“Very well. I’ll so order it.” Bennett suppressed a smile. He stood up. “That will do for now. We’ll meet again next week. Chief Inspector, a word before you go . . .”
Bennett moved to his desk. The other men rose. Sampson and Madden left the room. The deputy waited until the door had shut behind them. “I take it that last remark was aimed at Mr. Sampson.”
“Sir?” Sinclair looked mystified.
“I’m told the chief superintendent has many friends among the press.” Bennett sat down at his desk. “Sampson of the Yard—Isn’t that what they call him?”
Sinclair thought it best not to respond.
“I’ll issue an order as you suggest. But don’t count on him obeying it. He’s the senior superintendent on the force and he may not consider it even applies to him. He has, moreover . . . special connections in this building. You’d do well to remember that. We both would.” Bennett looked wry. “In any case, it’s not that that I want to talk to you about.” He sat back. “Are you sure you’ve picked the right man to assist you in this case?” he asked bluntly.
This time the chief inspector’s surprise was unfeigned. “Madden’s a fine officer, sir.”
“I don’t deny it. Or he was . . .” Bennett held up his hand quickly. “I know his history, Chief Inspector. What happened to him before the war. His wife and child . . . I can’t pretend to know what he suffered in the trenches, what any of them suffered, though it’s plain to see on his face. But there’s no point in beating about the bush. A lot of people think he was lucky to be taken back into the force at his old rank.” He glanced at Sinclair. “I’m not one of them, incidentally. But when I look at him now, he seems exhausted. Burned out. So I ask you again—is he the right man?”
Sinclair took his time replying. “I’ve known John Madden since he was a young constable,” he said finally. “I picked him out because I thought he had the talent to make a good detective, and I was right. It’s an odd trade, ours. Hard work will get you only so far. There comes a moment when you have to be able to see through the facts, the mass of them that collect, to find what’s important, what’s significant. Madden has that gift. I was bitterly disappointed when he decided to leave the force.” The chief inspector paused. “With the bank holiday there weren’t many names to choose from among those on duty, and Madden was the obvious pick. I’ve thought about it since. Whether I’d have chosen someone else if I’d had the opportunity. The answer’s no, sir.” He looked straight at Bennett. “I have the man I want.”
The deputy nodded his head briskly. “That’s plainly spoken,” he acknowledged. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
14
A list of patients discharged from mental wards in Army hospitals, running into several thousand, arrived from the War Office three days later. It was delivered by Colonel Jenkins in person. He deposited the thick manila envelope on Sinclair’s desk, but declined the chief inspector’s invitation to sit down.
“I’ve been detailed to help you in any way I can. I thought we’d better meet.”
Even in civilian clothes, the colonel cut an unmistakably military figure in his sharply pressed trousers and Brigade of Guards tie. His manner was curt, with an edge of impatience, as though he thought his time could be better spent. Madden eyed him coldly.
“He’s an old staff officer,” he told Sinclair, after the colonel had gone. “It’s written all over him. We didn’t see much of them in the war. They never came near the front.”
Working out of Sinclair’s second-floor office, Madden and Sergeant Hollingsworth began the lengthy task of breaking down the list of discharged patients into subsections to be sent to the various police authorities around the country.
“We’ll ask them to find out if any of these men have a history of violence,” the chief inspector said. “Though, given recent events on the continent of Europe, and the fact that they were all soldiers, the question seems redundant.”
Madden asked for Detective Constable Styles to be assigned to assist them. Sinclair was amused. “I see you haven’t given up on that young man yet.”
“He’ll make a decent copper one day,” Madden insisted.
“He just needs standing over.” He glanced at the chief inspector. “I seem to remember someone doing the same for me once upon a time.”
In another life, he might have added. The years before the war seemed far off now. He’d been a husband and father then, but that, too, was in a different world when he had been a different person. The abyss of the trenches lay between.
On Friday morning, soon after they had gathered for work, the telephone rang. Hollingsworth answered it.
“For you, sir.” He handed the instrument to Madden. “It’s that constable in Highfield.”
Stackpole was waiting to greet him as he stepped off the train.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir.” He shook Madden’s hand warmly. “We’ve got him this time.” The constable’s broad, tanned face was split by a smile. “Knowingly making a false statement, obstruction of justice. With any luck we can put the little weasel away for a spell.”
“Yes, but I want to know exactly what he saw that night.” They walked quickly down the platform towards the exit. “Have you talked to Lord Stratton? Can we use his car?”
“No need, sir.” Stackpole’s smile flashed beneath his thick moustache. “Dr. Blackwell’s offered to give us a lift.”
Madden stopped. “I thought she’d gone to Yorkshire.”
“I should have gone to Yorkshire.” Helen Blackwell stepped out of the deep shadow of the platform shelter in front of them. She held out her hand to Madden. “I would have gone to Yorkshire. But my locum managed to fall off a horse and break his leg and it’s taken till now to find a replacement. He’s due to arrive this afternoon.”
Remembering her pale face in the churchyard, he was pleased to see the colour back in her cheeks. She looked flushed in the bright morning sun. They went out of the station into the road. The Wolseley two-seater was parked in the shade of a plane tree.
“Meanwhile, as Will says, I’m going to Oakley. I have two patients to see there. I’ve a feeling they’re the same people you want to speak to, but although I’ve used all my wiles on him, he refuses to tell me.”
“Now, Miss Helen!” Stackpole blushed bright red. He left them to pull out the car’s dicky and dust off the seat.
Dr. Blackwell watched him, smiling. “Poor Will. He kissed me once, when I was six and he was eight, and he doesn’t know to this day whether I remember it or not.”
Madden burst out laughing, overcome by the pure pleasure of being in her company again.
She looked at him critically. “You should do that more often, Inspector,” she said.
During the short drive to Oakley, Madden told her the reason he had come from London.
> “So you got the story first from Fred Maberley?” She spoke over her shoulder to Stackpole, who sat crouched in the dicky, clutching at his helmet. “He rang me, too. And then I had a call from Wellings. He seems to think his wrist’s broken.”
“He’ll have worse than a broken wrist by the time I’ve done with him,” the constable growled in her ear.
She glanced at Madden and smiled. “I hope Fred wasn’t too rough with Gladys.” Her gloved hands spun the steering-wheel and they left the paved surface for the dirt road that led to Oakley. “He sounded shamefaced when he rang me.”
“Got what she deserved, that young lady,” Stackpole offered. “What did she expect!—going off to Tup’s Spinney with a piece of trash like Wellings?”
“Shame on you, Will Stackpole. Just Because Fred’s her husband doesn’t give him the right to hit her.”
“No, but . . .” Stackpole subsided in the dicky.
The single road through Oakley showed more signs of animation than on Madden’s previous visit. Several women, weighed down with shopping bags, clustered in front of the village store. Further up the road, outside the Coachman’s Arms, three men stood talking, their heads close together, like conspirators. Dr. Blackwell parked in the shade of a chestnut tree growing on the lawn in front of the small church.
“Would it be all right if we saw Gladys Malberley first?” Madden asked her.
“Perfectly. From what I can gather, Mr. Wellings is the more gravely injured of the two.” He hadn’t seen her this way before. She was in a light, almost joyful mood. With a smile at them both she picked up her doctor’s bag and walked off towards the pub.
Stackpole led the way to a whitewashed cottage at the end of a row of houses. The front door was opened by a broad-shouldered young man with blunt features. He was dressed in rough farm clothes.
“Fred, this is Inspector Madden, from London. We’d like a word with Gladys.”
