by Rennie Airth
The doctor’s waiting-room was empty. The inner door stood ajar. He paused on the threshold.
She was sitting behind a desk writing in a notebook, her brow creased in a frown of concentration. Lamplight gave a glow to her fair skin and he could see the fine golden hairs on her forearms where she had rolled back the sleeves of her white blouse.
“Is that you, John?”
When she looked up and saw it was him, she rose and came straight into his arms. He kissed her. She stood back to study his face. He had always felt she had the power to see into him.
“You’re sleeping better.” The doctor spoke approvingly. “Have you had any luck with your poster?”
He took one from the manila envelope he was carrying and showed it to her. She glanced at it for a few seconds and then shook her head.
“May Birney thinks she’s seen him, but she can’t remember where.”
He put his arms around her again. Her neck smelt faintly of jasmine. He could never find the words he wanted.
“Let me finish what I’m doing. I won’t be long.” She returned to her chair. “How soon must you go back? Can you stay for dinner? Can you spend the night?”
“The night . . . ?” He hadn’t expected it. “I’ve got nothing with me.”
“Never mind that. I’ll find whatever you need. But I warn you, the house is full of relations. Father invited a whole shoal of cousins for the weekend. I can only put you in the old nursery.” She paused. Their eyes met. “We’ll have to be quiet,” she said, smiling. “Aunt Maud’s in the room next door and she’s got ears like a bat.”
The joy he felt whenever they were together was tempered by the knowledge of what it would mean to lose her. He knew he would never meet anyone like her again.
She picked up her pen. “I’m filling in my day-book, my record of patients. I didn’t have time this morning. The hospital in Guildford rang and asked me to go in.”
“Typhoid, Will said.”
“Food poisoning.” She made a wry face and went back to her notebook.
He looked about him. A glass-fronted cabinet held medical books and bandages, rolls of lint and wool, splints and surgical gauze. Behind her a partition divided the room and on the other side was a dispensary with shelves of glass-stoppered bottles. A faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air. He saw that she was watching him.
“This is my life,” she said softly. She coloured and looked down.
Her life?
She had given his back to him.
When he spoke the words seemed to come of their own accord, as if he were simply breathing. “I love you,” he said.
She looked up, still flushed. “So you’ve got a tongue, John Madden . . .” Her eyes were bright in the lamplight.
It was as though a wave had lifted him and carried him to her side. He was shaking like a leaf.
“My darling, it’s all right . . . Didn’t you know . . . ?”
She held him fast in the circle of her arms. He heard a noise somewhere near, but he clung to her. She was whispering something in his ear.
“What?” He loosened his hold.
“Sir, are you there?” Stackpole’s voice sounded loud in the outer room.
“What is it, Will?” He tore himself from her arms.
“Sir, they’ve found him!” The constable burst in on them. He was red in the face and panting.
“Who?”
“Pike!”
“Where?”
“Ashdown Forest. They’re watching him now. At least, they think it’s him, that’s all I know.” He was breathing hard. “Guildford have been trying to reach me. Sir, the chief inspector wants you back in London right away . . . !”
She took him in her car to the station. He wanted time to speak to her. The words that for so long had been dammed up inside him were ready to overflow. But the whistle of the approaching train sounded as she drew up outside the station.
They kissed in the darkness.
“Promise me you’ll take care. Come back as soon as you can.”
Holding her for a moment in his arms he realized with a surge of happiness that the burden of anxiety he’d carried since their first time together had slipped from his shoulders unnoticed.
The fear he’d always had that each meeting might be their last.
Part Four
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath . . .
I have a rendevous with death . . .
Alan Seeger, “Rendezvous”
1
Sinclair rose from behind his desk. He surveyed the men assembled before him. Besides Hollingsworth and Styles they included six uniformed officers—two of them sergeants—all selected for their skill in marksmanship.
“To those of you who have been summoned from your homes to the Yard this evening, I apologize,” he began. “But as you will see in a moment the matter is extremely grave.”
The door opened and Bennett came in. He was dressed in evening clothes, the gold studs gleaming in his shirt front. Hollingsworth, who was seated at Madden’s desk, rose and offered his chair to the deputy assistant commissioner. The others stood grouped in a semi-circle.
“Three days ago a woodcutter named Emmett Hogg fell into a pit in Ashdown Forest. Unfortunately he didn’t bother to report it until today, even though rural constables throughout southern England have been spreading the word for some time now that they want to be informed about any fresh digging in forest areas. At our request, I might add.
“Hogg made his report to the village bobby at Stonehill—that’s in the Crowborough district—and this afternoon the constable went out to inspect the site, taking a friend with him, a local gamekeeper. Luckily, as it turned out, because when they got near the keeper spotted some movement in the bushes. The constable—his name’s Proudfoot—decided not to approach immediately, another piece of good judgement, and after a while they spotted a man moving about in the area.
“They were some distance away and the site was in the middle of thick undergrowth. But at a certain moment they got a clear view of him. He was carrying a rifle.”
A murmur went around the group. Sinclair caught Bennett’s eye.
“Not a shotgun,” the chief inspector declared emphatically. “A Lee-Enfield. They saw him clear the breech and check the firing mechanism. Both men are clear on that point.”
He glanced down at his desk.
“Some of you will have seen the photograph we began circulating today of the man we wish to question in connection with the murders at Melling Lodge. It’s possible, even likely, that the individual observed by Proudfoot in Ashdown Forest this afternoon is Amos Pike, the man we’re seeking.”
The murmur, this time, was louder.
“In requesting information about any unauthorized excavations we asked the various police authorities to impress on their constables the need to exercise caution. Proudfoot acted with good sense in not approaching this man. What he did was leave his friend watching from cover while he returned himself to Stonehill and telephoned the central police station at Crowborough. They in turn rang Tunbridge Wells where I’m glad to say the local CID chief thought it worth while to get in touch with me right away.”
Sinclair paused to collect his thoughts.
“The situation now is as follows: Proudfoot has returned to join the keeper and will keep watch on the site for the rest of the night. In the meantime, the Sussex police are putting together a force of uniformed officers, some of whom will be armed. As you will be. We’ll rendezvous with them at first light and surround the area.
“To anticipate your questions, I did consider taking action along these lines tonight, but decided against it. The presence of up to two dozen policemen stumbling around in the woods in darkness seemed to me more likely to alert this man and drive him off than achieve any useful end.
“As a precaution, however, in the event that he might be planning to attack some
household tonight, a number of constables were dispatched to Stonehill from Crowborough earlier today. The site of the pit is about three miles from the village and the police will patrol houses in the district all night, making no attempt to hide their presence. After considerable thought, I’ve decided not to alert the villagers. Anything we say to them will only create panic and add to our difficulties.”
One of the sergeants held up his hand. “What if he slips away in the meantime, sir?”
Sinclair shook his head. “That’s the one thing I’m not concerned about. Always supposing it is Pike, we believe he’s engaged in constructing a military-type dugout in the forest. It’s what he did in the woods above Melling Lodge before he attacked the house. He takes his time over building it. Providing he’s not disturbed there’s no reason to think he won’t be back. And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him.
“But let me say straight away—I don’t expect him to leave tonight. Tomorrow is Sunday, a day of rest, and I’ve no doubt he’ll want to put it to use.”
The sergeant spoke up again: “Did Hogg get a good look at the pit, sir? Could he describe it?”
“The answer to both questions is ‘no.’ ” Sinclair’s expression was wry. “It appears Hogg was dead drunk, which may explain why he fell into the hole in the first place. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, except that it was a hole that wasn’t there before.”
The sergeant grunted. “What time do we move tomorrow, sir?”
“I want you all on duty at a quarter to five. Spend the night here if you wish, or go home. But don’t be late. We’ll draw weapons from the armoury and proceed to Stonehill by motorcar. The Yard has put two vehicles at our disposal.” The slight ironic emphasis given by the chief inspector to the numeral was noticed only by Bennett. “I have something further to say to you.”
He paused deliberately and let his gaze settle on each officer in turn. When he spoke again it was in an altered tone.
“I have every intention of arresting Amos Pike, if it is he, and bringing him before the courts. But be under no illusion. This is likely the most dangerous man you will ever be asked to face. His military record was outstanding, but while that may have been of benefit to his country, it’s no comfort to us. He’s a hardened killer, with no reason not to kill again. Keep that in mind. He may well choose to resist arrest. If he fires on you with his rifle, or refuses to drop it on command, you are to shoot him. If he threatens you with rifle and bayonet, you are to shoot him. You will shoot to kill. I take full responsibility. Is that clear?”
Silence greeted his pronouncement. Then a low mutter came from the semi-circle.
“Very well. That will be all for now. We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”
He watched as the men filed out. Styles, at a signal from Hollingsworth, followed the sergeant into the side office and shut the door behind them. Bennett rose. “Well, Chief Inspector!”
They regarded each other in silence.
“I must call the Sussex chief constable.” The deputy moved towards the door. “Where’s Madden, by the way?”
“He spent the afternoon in Highfield, sir. He rang me from Victoria half an hour ago. I told him to go home and get some sleep. He’ll be here first thing tomorrow.”
Bennett paused at the door. “Looking better lately, I thought.”
“Sir?”
“Inspector Madden. Less . . . less hunted, if you take my meaning.”
“Yes, I do, sir,” Sinclair agreed. He smiled for the first time that evening.
2
Breakfast was late at Croft Manor that Sunday morning. The silver chafing dishes, which were customarily placed on the side-board punctually at half past eight, had not yet appeared when the three adult members of the Merrick family gathered in the dining-room. (The children ate upstairs in the nursery.) Annie McConnell, who was in the habit of casting an eye over the breakfast table when she came downstairs to see that all was in order, sped off to the kitchen to investigate. She returned with some startling news.
“Did you know the village was crawling with policemen last night, sir?” she asked William Merrick, who said he most certainly did not.
“Yes, and more arrived today. Two carloads from London, they say, and a van from Tunbridge Wells. More than twenty coppers in all.” Annie’s eyes were bright with the news. “And now they’ve gone off into the forest, the whole pack of them.”
Word had been brought to the house by Rose Allen, one of the maids, and Mrs. Dean, the cook, who both lived in the village, a mile away. The excitement there had been the cause of their late arrival and consequent delay in preparing breakfast.
“They’re at it now,” Annie assured the family, with a special smile for Mrs. Merrick. She was concerned about her mistress, who seemed particularly disconcerted by what she had just heard.
Annie had to wait until after breakfast to discover what the trouble was and then chided herself for not having guessed it in the first place.
“William will just use this as another excuse to put off leaving for Cornwall. First they were going on Friday, then it was Saturday. Now who knows when he’ll decide to start?”
They were taking their usual post-breakfast turn in the garden. Annie had ceased to wonder at her mistress’s increasing anxiety over the delay in her family’s departure on holiday. She sought only to comfort her. “Now don’t go putting ideas into Master William’s head,” Annie counselled. The boys had always been “Master William” and “Master Tom” to her, long after they had grown up. “Let him slip along to the village and find out what’s going on. Chances are, it’s all a great fuss about nothing.”
Earlier William had donned his cap, backed the Lagonda out of the garage and driven into Stonehill to discover, as he put it, “what the devil this is all about.”
He returned an hour later, in no better mood than when he had left. His wife and mother were waiting in the morning room to hear what he had to tell them.
“It’s the most extraordinary business.” William seated himself on the settee beside Charlotte. “Half a dozen police constables were sent here from Crowborough last night, and the others arrived at dawn, and just as Annie says they all marched off into the forest and haven’t been seen since.”
William had obtained the information from an elderly police sergeant from Crowborough, who had been left behind at the village hall to receive and act on any messages sent back. He had professed ignorance of the purpose of the operation, but assured William that “Everything’s in hand, sir, and there’s nothing to worry about.”
From other sources William had learned that word had been put about in the strongest terms that no one was to accompany the police, who had been last seen heading off in the direction of Owl’s Green, on the other side of the village, nor attempt to follow in their tracks. Explanations would be made in full in due course.
“The one man who might have told me something was nowhere to be seen,” William Merrick complained bitterly. “I mean Proudfoot. Apparently he’s there with them. According to his wife he was out all night.”
Harriet Merrick listened with sympathy to her son. He was a man of consequence in the district, a Justice of the Peace. It was clear he felt he should have been consulted. She saw him instinctively rub his withered arm, and almost in the same instant, as though acting on a signal, his wife turned to him, putting her hand on his.
“Don’t worry about it, darling. I bet you it turns out to be nothing.”
“Nothing! With twenty policemen tramping about the countryside!” William made his annoyance plain.
“Nothing that’ll come to anything, I mean.”
William rose. “I’m going to ring Richards,” he declared, referring to a magistrate they knew in Crossborough. “I want to get to the bottom of this.” He went out.
Charlotte looked at her mother-in-law with raised eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him moving. I promise.”
Mrs. Merrick didn’t know whether her daughter-in-law wa
s aware of her irrational wish to see them all depart. She had done her best to disguise it, restricting herself to repeated admonitions to them not to waste the precious days of their holiday and drawing their attention to reports in the newspaper describing the glorious Indian summer that the west of England was still enjoying. But perhaps Charlotte sensed something more. Harriet Merrick had always meant to be a good mother-in-law, but her resolutions had never been tested. From the start she’d been touched by Charlotte’s instinctive understanding of the special burden her son bore—his guilt at having survived the war in which his brother had died was but one manifestation of it. They’d been allies from the first day.
Charlotte ran her hands through her hair. She was thinking of having it bobbed in the prevailing fashion, but both William and his mother had begged her not to.
“I’m going to see to the children’s packing,” she announced. “Then I’ll have all the cases brought down. In the end we’ll simply have to leave.”
A few minutes later Annie joined her mistress in the morning room bearing a silver tray on which a bottle, a spoon and a glass rested.
“Time for your medicine, Miss Hattie.”
Mrs. Merrick made her customary fuss. “I don’t think it does me the slightest good. And it tastes quite foul.”
“You’ll drink it nonetheless.”
The teaspoon containing a greyish liquid hung poised in the air before Mrs. Merrick’s mouth. Since she knew from experience it would remain there till Doomsday she opened her lips. “Disgusting!”
Smiling, Annie handed her the glass of water. “So you haven’t been imagining things, after all.”
Mrs. Merrick swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“Policemen tramping about in the forest. Quite a to-do.”
