by Rennie Airth
“Amen!” Bennett murmured.
“We returned ourselves to Stonehill with our prisoner shortly before seven o’clock. Hobday, the mechanic, went out to Croft Manor at about eight. I haven’t had the pathologist’s report yet on time of death so again I can only speculate. We know Pike attacked Melling Lodge and the farm at Bentham around sundown. I’m assuming he broke in here soon after dark and was gone from the house before we got back to the village. In any case, the request I made to various county authorities to stop and question motorcyclists has had no result. I ordered it suspended this morning. I’m afraid he had ample time to get well away before we were alerted.”
Bennett was becoming increasingly concerned. Listening to Sinclair’s dead voice he realised that the man was deeply depressed.
“What else . . . ?” The chief inspector’s gaze wandered about the room. “Madden’s team has found a collection of cigarette stubs—all Three Castles—on a hill close by. It’s a good vantage-point, apparently. We’ll have them tested. And we may have another footprint to compare with the cast taken at Melling Lodge. The technicians of the photographic department have lifted some marks off the stone floor in the hall. They use oblique lighting—it’s a new development.” He paused deliberately. “And then there’s the matter of the dog. The family had one. It was poisoned a week ago. I had the remains dug up this morning. Ransom will examine them. The Sussex force offered us their own pathologist, but I wanted Ransom again.”
“Quite right, Chief Inspector.” Bennett was watching him closely.
“I could have asked, you know, sir.” Sinclair’s eye met his superior’s. “It slipped my mind, but that’s no excuse.”
“Asked what?”
“When I got down here yesterday morning, I could have inquired as to whether any dogs in the district had been poisoned lately. The village bobby knew all about it.” The chief inspector’s face showed pain. “In fact, I wonder now if I haven’t been wrong all along in withholding that piece of information from the public.”
“And I tell you you’ve no cause to blame yourself on either count.” Bennett spoke more harshly than he meant. “If you broadcast that sort of warning we’ll have the police being summoned every time a dog throws up. And as for the other, you came here believing you were about to arrest Pike. To arrest him or see him shot down. That’s what was on your mind.”
“True, sir.” Sinclair nodded assent. “But I should have inquired just the same.”
Bennett looked away. “Have you spoken to William Merrick?” he asked.
“I have. We managed to get in touch with the people they were staying with in Chichester overnight and he came back at once. He’s staying with friends nearby. We had a meeting in the early hours of this morning.”
“What did he have to say?”
“A great deal,” Sinclair replied heavily. “He’s bitterly angry, and I can see why. He wanted to know how it was possible for his mother and two members of his household to be murdered in this fashion when there were upwards of a score of policemen in the vicinity. A question to which even the Delphic oracle might feel pressed to provide an answer,” he added, with a flicker of his old spirit.
Bennett had heard enough. “Let me say something.” He stood up and began to pace about the room. “Quite apart from the tragedy, this is an appalling piece of misfortune. Because of the incident of that man falling into the pit, you’ve been cruelly misled. But had he not done so your position would be no better. Worse, in fact. What happened here would have happened just the same”—he gestured with his hand—“and you would have learned about it in London and had to start from scratch. Instead, you were here—on the spot. Make the most of that, Chief Inspector.”
Sinclair regarded him in silence for a moment or two. Then he nodded. “Thank you, sir. I mean to,” he said quietly.
“One further point. I had a brief conversation with the assistant commissioner before coming down this morning. I put it to him that the theory we’d heard advanced that the perpetrator of these crimes was no more than a thief with a bent for violence was pitifully wide of the mark. It’s quite clear he’s a criminal psychopath, just as you have indicated from the start. Had your views encountered less opposition, I suggested, this investigation might have been concluded by now and at least one tragedy averted. Sir George did not disagree. This is your case, Chief Inspector. Though whether you’ll thank me for telling you that . . .”
Bennett raised an eyebrow, and Sinclair shrugged.
“You mentioned earlier that Madden had a theory about why the McConnell woman’s body was damaged in that way. I’d like to hear it.” The deputy was standing by the window, looking out. “But I see he’s coming now, so perhaps we should wait.”
Sinclair rose from his chair and joined him. Emerging from the yew alley, dark-jowled and haggard, the tall inspector came striding through the mist like the very spectre of Death.
Bennett spoke. “I was mistaken about him. You picked the right man for this inquiry.”
A minute later there was a knock on the door and Madden entered. “Good morning, sir,” he said to Bennett. He turned to Sinclair. “We’ve found the dugout. It’s about two miles off. There’s been no attempt to fill it in. He left a few items behind—a tin of stew, an empty rum jar. I’ve had them collected for examination.”
“Sit down, John.” The chief inspector pointed to a chair. Madden obeyed.
“It’s like the one we found at Highfield,” he went on.
“Made with care and eye for detail. Looking at the ordinance map, I’d say it’s no more than a couple of miles from the pit we found yesterday. That was due south of Stonehill. The dugout’s more to the west.”
“My God!” Bennett shook his head in disbelief. “You might almost have stumbled on him.”
Sinclair returned to his chair and sat down.
“I told Mr. Bennett you had a theory why Annie McConnell’s body was savaged,” he said to Madden. “He’d like to hear it from you.”
Madden turned to the deputy. “I believe it resulted from rage, sir. Fury. The woman Pike came for was the younger Mrs. Merrick. When he found she wasn’t in the house he must have gone berserk. Miss McConnell was probably trying to use the telephone when he came back downstairs. But even if that angered him, killing her would have been a simple matter. What he did to the body suggests to me some much stronger emotion at work.”
Bennett nodded, understanding.
Sinclair spoke. “I’m forced to agree with the inspector,” he said. “Though I don’t care for the implication it carries.”
“Implication?”
“It seems that Pike takes many weeks to prepare for these attacks. By the time he’s ready he must be near boiling point. Only on this occasion he was frustrated. I can’t pretend to understand his state of mind. But I tremble at the thought of it.”
“He was primed to attack, you mean, and that won’t have changed?” Bennett looked grim.
“He could be ready to strike at any time,” the chief inspector agreed. “We must find him. And soon.”
11
When Pike came into the kitchen on Tuesday morning he found Ethel Bridgewater already there. She was sitting with a cup of tea on the table in front of her reading the newspaper, which, in Mrs. Aylward’s absence, she had not had to take upstairs that day. Ethel’s fine head of hair was piled up under her lace-cap in a new way, but Pike barely noticed it. His thoughts, agonized and bloody, ranged far beyond the confines of the kitchen.
He was ravenous. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal for thirty-six hours. Having poured himself a cup of tea he cut three thick slices of bread from the loaf on the kitchen counter and sat down opposite the maid, who was holding the open newspaper in front of her face.
When Pike lifted his head he received a shock that went through his nervous system like a bolt of electricity.
He saw his own eyes staring at him from the front page of the newspaper.
Stunned witless, it took hi
m several seconds to realize that what he was looking at wasn’t a photograph but an artist’s impression.
The caption was printed in bold letters: MAN SOUGHT.
Beside it, filling the whole of the next column, was a story headlined: “KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.” A sub-heading bore the words: “Police Net Spread in Southern Counties.”
Pike’s jaws moved automatically as he chewed his bread. He couldn’t make out the small print of the report. But beneath the picture, in darker lettering, he read his own name: Amos Pike.
Another shockwave went juddering through him. He stared at the letters in disbelief. The police knew his name!
But how?
He was dead. Army records had him listed among the fallen. He was sure of it.
But they had his name. And they knew what he looked like.
Pike put his cup to his lips while the thoughts flailed about inside his head. It hardly mattered to him that the sketch, now that he looked at it, did not, in fact, portray his features with any degree of accuracy. True, the eyes were those that stared at him every day from his shaving mirror. But his own head was squarer than the one shown in the drawing and his mouth quite different. The artist had failed to catch his thin, tightly drawn lips which, in any case, had been altered by a wound he had suffered during the war. A shell fragment had struck his cheek, severing a nerve and causing one corner of his mouth to droop. The effect was to give his face a skewed look. But none of that mattered . . .
Pike touched the fresh scabs on his neck. He felt his self-control deserting him. Each day now it was worse, each day harder to maintain his poise. The shell he had built for himself so painfully over the years was starting to crack. What lay beneath he could only sense as yet, but the intimation of it left him fearful.
He who had never known fear the way other men did.
Ethel Bridgewater reached the end of the newspaper. She folded it and turned back to the front page.
Pike dropped his eyes—the eyes she must be looking at now.
How could she not recognize them?
But then he lifted them again, fastening his gaze on the paper masking her face. He waited to see how she would react. Better to know now. A vein throbbed in his temple.
After two minutes, perhaps three, she laid the paper down on the table and gave it a little push, as though offering it to him. She did not meet his eyes. But, then, she never did.
Her hands went to her hair, patting and shaping the coiled tresses. Her glance went to the kitchen clock on the wall. Then she stood up, brushing the crumbs off her white slip, and left the room.
Pike relaxed with a slow exhalation of breath. He had been ready to kill her.
After breakfast he returned to his room above the old stable and lay down on the narrow bed. Mrs. Aylward was not due back until after lunch and he had the morning free if he chose. His head ached. The dull thudding pain had started on the ride back from Ashdown Forest and seemed linked to the frenzied excitement that had gripped him when he raced down the yew alley, rifle at the ready.
Just as his emotion then had found no release, but continued to throb undiminished at his nerve ends, so he seemed unable now to escape from the scenes that ran through his mind over and over again like images on a flickering screen.
He heard the sound of his whistle—a single piercing blast!
He felt the yew hedge brush by on either side of him as he charged towards the lighted room!
He saw the heel of his boot strike the centre of the latched doors, which burst inwards in a shower of broken glass!
As he broke into the room he saw two figures to his right and wheeled that way. A woman in the black of a maid’s uniform was kneeling by the fireplace. She half rose, turning towards him, her mouth forming the “O” of a scream, but his bayonet was ready, quick and deadly, sliding in and out of her black-clothed breast before she had time to utter a sound.
He turned to the other figure, an older woman who was sitting on the couch, expecting to find her cowering and twisting away. Instead she sat upright, unmoving, as though rooted to the spot. The surprise of it caused him to hesitate for a moment and in that instant he was struck from behind, a vase shattering on his hooded head, and then two hands were scrabbling at his neck, striving to get beneath the canvas and, when that failed, taking hold of the cloth itself and tugging furiously at it. Momentarily dazed, he reacted with a vicious backwards jerk of his elbow and heard the grunt of pain behind him. But the fingers held on to the gasmask hood, which began to tear at the back so that the mask swivelled around on his head and all at once he was blinded, with the glass eyeholes wrenched to one side and his eyes covered by bare canvas.
Dropping his rifle, he lashed back savagely—first with one elbow, then the other—and broke free of the clutching fingers. He dragged the gasmask off his head and flung it aside. Turning, he found his attacker coming at him again. It was a woman! He barely had time to register astonishment—he saw a thin lined face and blazing eyes—before her fingernails raked his neck, stabbing for his eyes.
He struck her with his fist and she gave a cry and dropped to her knees.
Quickly he seized the rifle from the floor and thrust the bayonet into her breast. She toppled over and lay still.
He swung round to the couch—and could hardly credit what he saw before him.
The woman hadn’t moved. Her face, ashen with shock, was lifted to his. Wide blue eyes gazed at him unafraid.
He thrust quickly at her, turning his head away as he did so. He couldn’t bear to face her without the mask. When he looked again she was lying on her side on the couch, the eyes still staring, but empty now.
He ran from the room.
In the hall outside he found a staircase that took him to the floor above where he raced up and down the passage, flinging open doors. Only empty rooms met his eyes. Furious and disbelieving, he ascended to the floor above that to search the servants’ quarters, but with the same result. In the end there was nothing left for him to do but go downstairs again.
From the half landing of the staircase he saw the woman he thought he’d killed—the one with the blazing eyes—dragging herself across the stone floor in her long black skirt. He reached her just as her hand grasped the telephone on the table and he smashed the rifle butt into her face and ran her through and then hit her in the face again and stamped on her with his heavy boots. His fury could not be contained. Growling and snarling he savaged her lifeless body.
He had never behaved in such a way. Not in any of his previous attacks on civilians. Not even when he had stormed a German machine-gun post single-handed during the war and bayoneted the crew and three other men he found in the dugout.
Never!
He lost control.
Sickened and half dazed by the emotion that continued to swirl in his brain—the pulsing need that had brought him to the house was unassuaged—he had quickly searched the remaining rooms downstairs and then departed, stumbling back down the yew alley and leaving the garden by the gate that led to the water-meadow.
He was in haste to get away, not simply to avoid discovery, but to put as much distance as he could between himself and what he had done. The image of the woman’s battered face, the eye dislodged from the socket, pursued him like one of the Furies through the moonless night. He saw, too, the other eyes that had looked on him, wide and blue and unafraid.
Not until he reached the dugout did he remember his gas mask, lying discarded on the floor of the drawing-room, but by then it was too late to return for it.
His bag was already packed, such items as he was not taking with him wiped clean of fingerprints.
Within twenty minutes he was kicking the motorcycle’s engine into life and beginning the long ride back. He reached the Hastings road without incident, but had to wait at the intersection while a military convoy rumbled by. As soon as the last tarpaulin-covered lorry had passed, he pulled out and settled down at the rear of the convoy, tucked almost under the tail-light of the bul
ky vehicle ahead, travelling south at a steady twenty miles an hour.
Short of Hastings he abandoned the cover of the convoy and thereafter travelled by lanes and back roads until he arrived at Rudd’s Cross a little before midnight.
Pausing on the outskirts of the hamlet to extinguish the carbide lamp of his headlight, he sat quiet in the saddle for some time watching for any sign of life in the huddled cottages. It was late. He saw none.
Mrs. Troy’s cottage, too, was in darkness as he approached it, pushing his machine along the dirt track up to the doors of the garden shed. The headache that had started while he was still in Ashdown Forest hammered at his temples. But sleep was a long way off. His night’s work was only beginning.
12
At seven o’clock on Wednesday morning, soon after Sinclair had left for London by car to attend the conference called by the commissioner at Scotland Yard, the telephone rang in the public bar of the Green Man in Stonehill.
The landlord, Henry Glossop, would normally have risen by that hour, but both he and his wife had had difficulty sleeping since the terrible events at Croft Manor and they had both consulted Dr. Fellows, who had prescribed sleeping draughts.
Glossop heard the phone but lay in bed for a while, hoping someone else would answer it. The building was full of police. The four rooms at the opposite end of the corridor from where he and his wife slept were all occupied by detectives. Overnight bags packed with clean clothes had been sent from London and Tunbridge Wells the day before and distributed to the various recipients.
The phone continued to ring. With a sigh, Glossop rose, put on his flannel dressing-gown and slippers and shuffled down the linoleum-carpeted stairs to the shuttered, beer-smelling taproom where the bell still pealed monotonously.
