by Rennie Airth
The sergeant extinguished his cigarette. “But where could he have gone on his bike from Rudd’s Cross?” he asked. “There was an alarm out all over Kent. Motorcycles were being stopped on the road right through Monday morning. They’re still making random checks.”
Madden nodded. “Not far, is the answer. And he must have travelled by back roads and lanes. He knows the district. I’m convinced he lives close by. Whenever he wanted to use the motorcycle he had to get to Rudd’s Cross and if he lived too far away it wouldn’t be practical. They don’t know him there, and if Constable Packard’s right he isn’t well known in Knowlton either. We think he has a job that involves travelling. Something that takes him around the country, in the Home Counties, at least.”
Listening to them, Billy longed to make a contribution. He was jealous that Madden addressed his remarks to Booth. Of course, the sergeant was an experienced detective, and the way he’d been able to read the signs at Rudd’s Cross must have impressed the inspector. But the young constable felt left out, just as he had at Highfield that first day.
Madden glanced at his watch again. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but we had no breakfast. Let’s get a quick bite in the pub, then I’ll come back and ring Stonehill again. I must speak to Mr. Sinclair.”
He was already on the move, rising and striding from the office. The others followed him out into the street, where the inspector carried on talking over his shoulder to Booth and Packard. Billy hung back.
“What’s worrying me is Pike may decide to leave the district, just up stakes and go, and we’ll have to start afresh. He may not be rational always, but he’s no fool. He must know that once Mrs. Troy’s body is discovered the police will be looking for Grail . . .”
He walked on, his voice fading.
Billy stood rooted to the spot.
He stared at what was before his eyes.
“Constable!”
Billy started. He looked round. Madden was standing some way up the street looking back.
Billy beckoned to him. His heart was racing.
Madden put his hands on his hips, the gesture underlining his impatience. But he started back, walking rapidly with the others trailing in his wake.
“Sir!” Billy called out, when he was still a few paces off. “Sir, look!”
The inspector came to a halt beside him. He followed with his eyes the direction Billy was indicating. Booth arrived panting on his heels.
“What is it?” the sergeant demanded. He peered into the window of the bric-à-brac shop. A bewildering variety of objects met his gaze: a grandfather clock, a tray of glass marbles, cushions of various shapes and sizes, a set of hunting prints . . . “What are you looking at?” he asked.
“Do you see that painting of a house on the wall over there?”
Madden spoke in a conversational tone, and Booth understood he was meant to look past the window display to the wall at the back of the shop. He nodded.
“It’s Melling Lodge.”
Billy’s heart turned a somersault. He was afraid he’d been mistaken. “It was that figure on the fountain . . .” The words poured out as he found his tongue. “. . . the boy drawing his bow, I remember it, and the front of the house with the bench fixed in the wall . . .” He went silent again. He could feel the inspector’s eyes on him.
“Well spotted, Constable.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Billy didn’t look up. He was afraid Madden would see his tear-filled eyes. (Tears of relief, he told himself.) But he felt Booth’s elbow in his ribs. The sergeant was grinning at him.
“What did I say, lad? Little things.”
He calls himself Carver, sir. He’s a chauffeur. He works for a lady named Mrs. Aylward. Hermione Aylward. She’s a painter. Her house isn’t far from Knowlton. He’s our man all right.”
Billy had watched Constable Packard turn bright red earlier when the same fact became clear. The constable had quickly volunteered to go to the pub and fetch some sandwiches for them. Billy reckoned he must have been ashamed at not having recognised Pike’s face from the poster or drawings. Sergeant Booth took a more charitable view.
“It’s the uniform,” he explained, while Madden was placing his call to Stonehill. “You look at this Carver and you see a chauffeur. Specially if he’s a bloke who never does anything to attract attention, never meets your eyes. You’ve got no reason to look at him close or watch him. He’s the one doing the watching.”
Madden was speaking into the phone. Billy pictured the chief inspector listening at the other end of the line, his grey eyes intent.
“The pattern’s clear. All the facts fit. Mrs. Aylward gets about a good deal. Her speciality is children’s portraits. Do you recall that painting above the fireplace in the drawing-room at Melling Lodge? Mrs. Fletcher with the two children? She did that. And there were individual portraits of the children in the Merricks’ bedroom at Croft Manor. I expect we’ll find they’re her work as well. She’s quite well known, apparently.”
That wasn’t how Miss Grainger had put it, Billy reflected. (Dorothy Grainger, prop., the sign above the door of the bric-à-brac shop had stated.) Sporting a monocle, she had met them in breeches and a man’s sports jacket, appearing through a curtained doorway to announce that the store was closing for lunch and they would have to return later. Madden had shown her his warrant card.
“Dear me! What has Hermione been up to?” Miss Grainger had close-cropped hair and a smoker’s cough, and Billy had concluded she must be one of them (without knowing quite what that meant). Her heavy-featured face was scored with lines of discontent. He goggled when she lit a cigar.
“A painter of note? Come now, Inspector! Let’s not go overboard. Gainsborough won’t stir in his grave, I assure you. Turner sleeps untroubled.”
Billy hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, except it was plainly intended to be insulting towards Mrs. Aylward. Somehow Madden had kept his patience.
“Would you tell us about this painting?” he had asked.
Now he spoke to the chief inspector: “The children’s portraits are commissioned, but she does other work as well—houses, landscapes and so on—and holds an exhibition from time to time. She must have done the painting of Melling Lodge on the side, when Mrs. Fletcher and the children were sitting for her.”
The inspector had not thought it necessary to make the obvious point. That Pike would have driven Mrs. Aylward to Highfield and thus had his first glimpse of Lucy Fletcher.
Miss Grainger had admitted to having a commercial arrangement with Hermione Aylward. The artist’s unsold paintings were displayed in the shop at knockdown prices. However, the significance of the Melling Lodge picture had not escaped either of them.
“Directly after the murders she told me to raise the price from the usual twenty-five pounds to two hundred and to make sure people knew what the subject was. She wanted me to put up a sign, but I refused. After all, there’s such a thing as good taste. Since then we’ve hardly been on speaking terms.” Miss Grainger produced a satisfied smile. “And, as you see, there have been no takers.”
The question of Mrs. Aylward’s chauffeur had arisen early in the interview. Madden had asked if she travelled by car.
“Indeed she does. In a damned great Bentley! You’d think royalty was approaching.”
“Then I take it she has a chauffeur?” Madden had asked noncommittally.
Miss Grainger had shrugged. “Of course. Carver—isn’t that his name?” This to Constable Packard, who had nodded. And then flushed as the realization came to him.
Billy didn’t understand why the inspector hadn’t shown her the pictures of Pike. It was another thing Sergeant Booth had had to explain to him.
“And let her know it’s Carver we’re interested in? The word’ll be around Knowlton before the afternoon’s out. There’s no need to tip our hand. We’ve not set eyes on him yet.”
But they knew where he was, near enough.
“At this mome
nt, on his way back from Dover, sir. He took Mrs. Aylward over there to a luncheon. They’re expected back at the house by tea-time. She’ll be spending the evening in.”
Madden had rung the house earlier, posing as a client interested in hiring the artist’s services. He had found only the maid at home.
“I left a message saying I’d ring again later.”
Madden was silent for a while, listening to the chief inspector. He grunted and nodded, as though they were sitting face to face. Twice he looked at his wristwatch.
“We’ll be in Packard’s office, sir. We’ll wait for you here.” He nodded again. “I agree. We must act as soon as possible.”
Madden hung up the receiver. He looked at Booth and Billy, who were sitting facing him across the desk.
“The chief inspector’s on his way. He’ll pass by Folkestone and collect a squad of armed officers. As soon as they arrive, we’ll go out to the house. We’ll take him there.”
14
Pike left off digging in the compost pit and started back across the lawn towards the house. The road outside was hidden from his gaze by a privet hedge, but he kept his eye on the gate as he walked across the leaf-strewn grass. A short driveway led to the front door and beyond it was another stretch of straggly lawn bordered by a shrubbery and a brick wall. Pike’s glance swept the garden.
When he passed the conservatory he saw Mrs. Aylward’s portly, middle-aged figure bent over a tub of hothouse peonies. The double doors to the adjoining studio were shut behind her, but Pike could see the lights switched on inside the house. The evening was drawing in.
He needed to keep busy, to have his hands occupied and his mind fixed on details, no matter how small or trivial. His head felt raw inside. His thoughts gave him pain.
Several times in the past two days he had felt himself losing touch with his physical surroundings. On one occasion he had had a sudden vision of the ground opening under his feet and himself, his consciousness, tumbling into blackness, spinning away like a dead leaf. He had bitten his lip hard, drawing blood, forcing himself to feel the pain of here and now.
Hourly he expected the police to arrive at the house. He had given himself things to do in the garden so that he could keep watch on the front gate. But if he strayed too far from the stables he might be cut off from his escape route.
His mind, as though on a pendulum, swung between rage and fear.
If they came for him he would make them pay dearly!
But his anger was as nothing to his dread at the thought of capture. He had always promised himself he wouldn’t be taken alive. He could never endure the shame of appearing in court, of hearing the charges against him read out in public. An even greater terror, barely acknowledged, lay beneath the surface of his thoughts.
What did they know of his past? Would he be called to account for it?
His first intimation of the net being spread for him had come the previous day at Folkestone station when he had gone there to collect Mrs. Aylward. He saw his own face on a poster affixed to the noticeboard in the ticket-hall.
Less than half an hour later, when driving his employer home, they had come on a police road-block on the outskirts of town. A line of motorcycles was drawn up at the side of the road and the drivers were being questioned.
Pike, at the wheel of Mrs. Aylward’s Bentley, was waved through, but already he had felt the iron jaws of the trap closing on him.
He knew he had to leave the district. Once Mrs. Troy’s body was discovered the police would be going from door to door searching for Grail. Even if they didn’t connect him with Pike, the face on the poster and in the artist’s sketches published in the newspapers would be fresh in their minds.
But his motorcycle, hidden for the present in a field behind the stables, was useless to him now. Even the bus seemed fraught with peril. How did he know the police weren’t stopping public vehicles as well?
He had lain awake most of the night, seeking a solution to his dilemma. It came to him the following morning, but by that time he was half-way to Dover.
The answer lay in the car he was driving! Dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform he could go where he chose and not be stopped. They were looking for motorcyclists.
The idea struck him with such force he almost pulled off the road at once in order to deal with the lesser problem of Mrs. Aylward’s presence in the back seat. But he checked himself in time. He needed several hours’ start before the alarm was raised, and that could only be achieved if he travelled by night. He would leave when the household was asleep and his absence would not be noted until morning. Once he was well away, he could abandon the car, and then . . . and then . . .
His mind clawed at the question. But this time he could find no answer.
The future was blank.
Henceforth he must live as an outlaw, his face displayed in police stations and public buildings throughout the land, while the beast within him grew stronger and more demanding.
The future was chaos.
Pike went through the stone-pillared gateway into the stableyard. The lights were on in the kitchen, where the maid was preparing Mrs. Aylward’s dinner. He understood from some remarks he’d overheard that Mrs. Rowley, the cook, wouldn’t be coming in that evening. She had telephoned to say she was unwell. It made no difference to him. He planned on leaving the house—and Mrs. Aylward’s employment—within the next few hours.
The Bentley was parked across the cobbled yard in the old stables. Pike shut the doors behind him and switched on the light. His room on the floor above was swept clean. Nearly everything he wanted to take with him was already packed in the car. His clothes and his military uniform, together with his rifle, were stowed in the boot. Earlier that day, while Mrs. Aylward was lunching in Dover, he had purchased a five-gallon can and filled it with petrol as a fuel reserve. The can shared the back seat with a tarpaulin-wrapped bundle, which served to wedge it securely in place.
He was almost ready to leave. He needed only to retrieve his canvas bag, which was still in the sidecar of his motor-cycle. He had had to make two trips from Rudd’s Cross on Sunday night to clear the shed and remove all traces of his presence from the cottage. He hoped the police were still puzzling over what had occurred there. (How would they interpret the disappearance of Biggs?) His bag contained the silver ornaments he’d taken from Mrs. Troy’s cabinet. He wanted to get well away from Knowlton before he disposed of them. There was just a chance—the slimmest of possibilities—that Carver the chauffeur would not be linked in the minds of the police to either Pike or Grail. That his abscondment with Mrs. Aylward’s Bentley would be marked down as straightforward theft. He meant to leave as few clues to his identity as possible. The longer he could keep them guessing the better.
Pike unbolted the rear door of the stables and stepped outside. Darkness was falling. A high brick wall only a few paces from where he stood marked the boundary of the property. Beyond it was a field, which also belonged to Mrs. Aylward—it had come with the purchase of the house and had been used by the previous owner as a paddock for his horses. Now it served no purpose and was overgrown. Pike had parked his motorcycle at the bottom of it under the cover of overhanging bushes.
There was an iron gate in the wall, giving access to the field, but Pike walked past it to a smaller, wooden gate, which opened on to a path that ran alongside the field in the shadow of an untrimmed hedge. Just as it was natural for him to use the cover of the hedge, so he walked soft-footed, making hardly any sound as he padded through the darkness.
He had gone no more than twenty yards when he heard a cough, and stopped dead in his tracks.
The sound came from his left, where the field stretched. He crouched down at once, reaching for the bayonet that swung from his belt, motionless in the inky shadows. After a minute he heard a man’s voice. He was speaking softly and Pike couldn’t hear what he was saying. He fixed his gaze on the direction from which the sound had come. Beyond the edge of the field, at the far limit of
the horizon, the sky was the colour of pearl, glowing faintly with the last rays of the sun. Against this pale backdrop—and visible only for a second, as the man changed position on the ground—he presently glimpsed a familiar shape: the unmistakable outline of a policeman’s helmet.
Pike dropped to his stomach and, without pausing began to crawl back the way he had come. He was practised in the action—he had done it countless times—but the peril he faced now seemed far greater than the dangers he had risked among the mud-choked shell-holes and barbed wire of no man’s land. In little more than a minute he was back at the wooden gate. He slid through it on his belly and only when he had regained the protection of the brick wall did he spring to his feet and run to the stable door.
The situation was clear to him. He had understood all in a flash. These were not officers coming to the house on routine inquiries. The presence of the police in the field meant there were others nearby. In all likelihood the house was already surrounded. They knew who he was and had come to arrest him.
His mind screamed a silent refusal.
They would never take him.
His first impulse was to seize his rifle and bayonet and charge the constables crouched in the grass. Shoot them! Bayonet them! Break through their flimsy cordon and run free into the night.
Madness bloomed like a red flower in his brain. But sanity still had a foothold there, and he paused, panting, beside the Bentley.
Where would they go first? To the house, or the stables?
The answer was obvious. They knew where to find him. Mrs. Rowley would have seen to that. The cook who was unwell, who wouldn’t be in that evening.
