by Rennie Airth
He went quickly to the main doors and opened them a crack. The stableyard was empty. So was the lighted kitchen. Either the maid was upstairs, busy in Mrs. Aylward’s bedroom, or the police were already inside, clearing the house of its occupants. He switched off the light in the stable and opened the doors wide. He needed to create a diversion. Luckily the means were at hand.
Running back to the car, he took the can of petrol from the back seat and began to spray the liquid about, splashing the walls of the building and the wooden partitions between the old stalls. He emptied half the can in this way and put the remainder back in the car.
Pausing only to check that the yard was still empty, he raced to the far end of the stables, struck a match and set fire to the heap of junk and old furniture stored there. Flames sprang up at once. He seized a burning picture frame from the pile and tossed it into the nearest stall, and then ran back to the car.
It took only seconds to crank the engine into life. Pike settled behind the wheel. He had no plan, only a compelling need to break free of the trap closing about him, a desperate desire that burned as hotly in his brain as the fire that roared the length of the stables now, leaping from stall to stall. He waited until the flames were almost on him before putting the car into gear.
As the heavy vehicle rolled slowly out of the doorway a piece of flaming wood from the rafters fell on the canopy, setting it alight.
Pike swung out of the stableyard through the stone-pillared gateway. The course of the drive wound around the projecting conservatory to the front door, but as he began to turn the corner he saw the headlights of a car at the front gate, and he wrenched at the steering wheel, dragging the Bentley off the gravelled driveway on to the lawn.
He was intending to make a wide circle on the grass and return to the stableyard from where he could leave by the back gate that gave on to the field. His own headlights had picked out a number of helmeted figures running across the grass towards him. A sudden blast of heat on his neck made him look round and he realised the car was on fire. Flames from the burning canopy licked about his head.
The men ahead of him dropped to one knee, as though on command. Next moment the windshield shattered, and as he swung hard on the wheel again, pulling the car around, he heard the sound of gunshots and felt a stabbing pain in his upper arm.
Pike drew back his lips in a snarl. Pain meant nothing to him. He accepted it as his due. But he had to duck his head to avoid the heat of the flames overhead, and as the bonnet of the Bentley came round he saw other blue-clad forms issuing from the stableyard. A bullet sang past his ear and buried itself in the upholstery behind him.
Directly ahead of him was the lighted conservatory where Mrs. Aylward stood framed in one of the panes like a giant moth, her white face staring out into the garden. They were firing from both sides now. Bullets rang on the car’s chassis. A shard of glass from the broken windscreen struck him on the forehead. Blood trickled down into his eyes.
Pike held the car to its course. Foot clamped to the accelerator pedal, he saw Mrs. Aylward step back from the glass and then stumble to one side, ponderous in her movements, struggling to escape the huge mass of metal that thundered towards her.
Roaring his rage, he drove straight at the glasshouse.
Come what may, they wouldn’t take him alive!
15
Cease fire!”
The bellowed order was drowned in the crash of breaking glass as the car plunged head-on into the conservatory, bringing down the entire structure in its wake as it ploughed straight on, smashing through the double doors and knocking a hole in the side of the house.
Madden sprang to his feet—he’d lain down flat when the shooting started—and ran through the line of marksmen towards the shattered greenhouse. Billy Styles was at his heels. They arrived at the same moment as a pair of uniformed constables coming from the other direction, from the stableyard. A huddled shape lay in one corner under a mantle of broken glass.
“That’s Mrs. Aylward—get her out of here,” Madden called to the two policemen. “Take care, she may be badly cut.”
He ran on over crunching glass to where the car was jammed in the wall. Its momentum had taken it most of the way through into the studio beyond. Only the rear protruded. Black smoke streamed through the broken doors above it. The canopy of the Bentley was still blazing.
“It’s no good. We can’t get through here.”
Madden caught hold of Billy’s arm and pulled him away. He stepped over the broken shards of a window-pane and ran around to the front of the house. The door was open and they went in and found a police sergeant already there with a constable. They were casting about in the hallway, unsure where to go.
The inspector pushed past them and turned to where the studio must be. He opened a door. Smoke poured out of the darkened room into the hall. The flicker of flames was visible inside and Madden caught a glimpse of the black bulk of the Bentley before he was driven back by the pungent fumes.
The two policemen were crowding at his back. Behind them was a staircase. Madden called to Billy, who was waiting in the hallway. “Go upstairs. See if there’s anyone there. Get them down.”
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he turned back to the studio. But as he started towards the door he caught a whiff of petrol borne on the billowing smoke cloud.
“Look out!” Madden flung himself to one side.
With a whoosh a huge tongue of flame erupted suddenly into the hallway. One of the policemen gave a cry and staggered backwards. A tapestry hanging on the wall beside the stairs caught fire. The lintel above the door was already ablaze.
“Out!” Madden shouted. “Everybody out!”
He pushed the two officers towards the front door, but turned himself to the staircase where the banisters now had caught fire. As he started up a figure appeared in the smoke above him. It was Billy. He had a body slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. He staggered as he sought to keep his footing on the smouldering stair-carpet.
“It’s all right, sir,” he called out. “I can manage.”
Walking backwards, Madden shepherded him down, keeping him close to the wall, away from the blazing banisters. The body was that of a young woman in maid’s clothing. Her long hair had come loose and the inspector batted sparks from it as he guided the young constable towards the front door. As Billy stumbled out on to the driveway a cheer went up from the assembled policemen.
Coughing, Madden caught sight of the chief inspector walking fast across the lawn towards them. He had Hollingsworth at his side. Booth stood in the driveway yelling at a group of officers who had just come hurrying around the corner of the house. “What are you doing here? Go back to the yard. Stay at your posts.”
The men turned tail and disappeared.
“John?” Sinclair was at his elbow.
“He’s trapped in the car, I think, sir.” Madden spat a mouthful of smoky saliva on to the gravel. “I couldn’t get into the room. The whole house is going up.”
As he spoke, one of the front windows exploded and flames leaped into the night. The policemen gathered in the drive drew back.
“It’ll be hours before we can get in.” Booth had joined them.
Madden’s eye picked out the figure of Billy Styles kneeling on the grass beside the young woman he’d carried from the house. She was also on her knees, bent over, retching. Billy supported her with his arm about her waist.
A uniformed sergeant appeared before them. “I’ve sent a man down the road to look for a telephone, sir. He’ll call for an ambulance and the fire brigade.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Sinclair said. “What about Mrs. Aylward?”
“Her cuts don’t look too bad, sir. They’re mostly on her back. She must have managed to turn away. But she’s in shock. We’ve got her covered up and lying down over there on the grass.”
The chief inspector looked about him. Light from the blazing house illuminated a broad swathe of lawn. Some of the policemen had sat down.
Cigarettes were being lit. He shrugged and took out his own pipe.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do now except wait.”
By midnight the fire had burned itself out. But it was well after dawn before the commander of the fire engine sent from Folkestone gave permission for them to enter the smoking ruins of the house.
In the meantime, two ambulances had arrived, one for Mrs. Aylward and her maid, the other for Billy Styles, who was found to have burned hands as well as blisters on his face and neck.
“I’m fine, sir,” he pleaded with Madden, who nevertheless ordered him into the vehicle and shut the doors on his protests.
Sinclair, watching the scene from a distance, was chuckling when the inspector rejoined him. “Do you know? I think that young man might make a copper, after all.”
A watch was kept on the house all night. Sinclair had brought a dozen uniformed officers with him from Folkestone and the sergeant in charge had organized them into shifts. Madden and the chief inspector retired to one of the cars and snatched a few hours of fitful sleep.
The first flush of dawn brought a new arrival: Chief Inspector Mulrooney, from Folkestone. A big, florid man with a jovial manner, he greeted his London colleagues warmly. “A good night’s work, I trust.”
The Folkestone chief had arranged for a delivery of tea and sandwiches from Knowlton, and the men gathered about the van in a group, yawning and stretching.
Shortly after eight o’clock, following an inspection of the house, the fire chief came over. There had been little that he and his men could do. The blaze had been well out of control by the time they arrived and, like the police, they had spent the night watching and waiting.
He spoke to Sinclair: “You can pop in now, sir, but only for a minute. It’s still hot as a furnace in there.”
The chief inspector and Madden donned boots, helmets and heavy coats lent by the other firemen. At the last moment, Mulrooney decided to accompany them. “Why should you fellows have all the fun?”
The fire chief and one of his squad, armed with axes, led the way in through what was left of the front door. The walls of the house still stood, but the roof had been destroyed and daylight streamed in through blackened beams. All about them the skeleton of the house stood smoking. The heat was intense.
Following Madden’s directions they picked their way through the debris-strewn hallway to the studio. The hulk of the Bentley, standing in the middle of the ruined room, was hidden by rafters from the collapsed ceiling and chunks of masonry that gave off heat like live coals. The acrid smell of smoke was mingled with other odours.
The two firemen attacked the heap with their axes, hauling pieces of carbonized wood and stone off the car. First the stove-in bonnet was uncovered, then the iron frame of the windscreen. Working quickly, they cleared the driver’s area and stood back.
A dreadful sight was revealed. Sitting at the steering wheel—seemingly welded to it—was a charred human figure. White bone gleamed through blackened flesh. Empty eye sockets stared. The teeth were bared in a lipless grin.
“My God!” Sinclair murmured. He’d never seen anything like it.
Madden, to whom such apparitions were all too familiar, looked away.
Only Mulrooney seemed undisturbed. He nodded with evident satisfaction.
“Now there’s a sight to gladden the eye!”
16
The road to Mrs. Aylward’s house ran through orchards and winding hedgerows. Little more than a mile from Knowlton, both house and stables were invisible from the lane, hidden behind a high privet hedge and surrounded by fields and orchards.
“Pike must have liked it here,” Bennett commented, as a policeman waved them through the front gate on Friday morning. “No prying eyes.” He had come down from London by train. Sinclair had met him at Folkestone station and together they had driven out to Knowlton.
When he saw the blackened ruin the deputy shook his head. As their car drew up in front of the house a booted figure in blue overalls came out on to the front steps carrying a bucket of charred debris.
“We couldn’t start searching the place until late yesterday,” Sinclair explained to him. “So far we’ve found Pike’s rifle and razor. They were both in the boot of the car. The razor was wrapped in some clothing. There’s no doubt he was about to skip. My feeling is we got here in the nick of time.”
“A pity about the house.” Bennett gazed about him. They were out of the car, standing in the driveway. A police van was parked nearby.
“Yes, but I don’t believe we could have handled it any other way,” the chief inspector declared. Pale and exhausted though he looked, Bennett was pleased to see that his customary poise and confidence had returned. “Both Madden and I were afraid he might leave, and we were right. He would have got rid of the car once he’d escaped. Then we’d have been back to searching for him. And who knows what he might not have done in the meantime?”
His look challenged the deputy, who conceded with a nod and a smile. “I’m not criticizing you, Chief Inspector. I’m just thinking of Mrs. Aylward. She’s lost her home, poor woman.”
“And been frightened out of her wits, into the bargain,” Sinclair agreed grimly. “But I couldn’t telephone her and warn her we were coming. Chances are, she would have panicked, and Pike would have picked that up in the blink of an eyelid.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Only briefly, sir, on doctor’s advice. I saw her at the hospital in Folkestone. She’s confirmed the visits to Highfield and Stonehill—she did paintings for both families. Bentham was different. She’d had an earlier portrait commission in the district and she’d noticed a house near the village worth painting. Bentham Court—Madden remembers seeing it from the road when he went there. A Palladian gem, to quote the lady. She got permission from the owners to spend the day there. She thinks she remembers Pike going off to look for petrol. He must have seen Mrs. Reynolds in the village and followed her home. Got the lie of the land.”
“How long had he worked for her?”
“About a year. He came with no references, but she gave him a month’s trial and he proved satisfactory. She was thinking of dismissing him, though. She said she found him ‘a heavy presence.’” The chief inspector raised a droll eyebrow. “That’s a gem in its own right. I’m saving it for my memoirs.”
He led Bennett around the house to the ruins of the conservatory and showed him the hole in the wall where the Bently had lodged. “I had it carted away to Folkestone this morning. We removed the body yesterday. That was a nasty business.”
“Where is it now?”
“With the pathologist in Folkestone. I didn’t think it worthwhile dragging Ransom down here. There’s little enough either of them can do. Not with what’s left.”
They walked on through the stone-pillared gateway into the yard. Sinclair pointed across the heap of blackened rubble that marked the place where the stables had stood.
“We found his motorcycle hidden at the bottom of that field. There was a bag in the sidecar with Mrs. Troy’s silver in it. I can’t believe he meant to leave it there. Perhaps he hadn’t had time to collect it before we arrived.
“Madden’s over at Rudd’s Cross today completing inquiries there. We’ve pieced that part of the story together pretty well. The Folkestone police are searching the area for Biggs’s body. It should be close by. Pike had a lot to do that night. He couldn’t have gone far with it.”
They walked back to the car.
“The commissioner wants a full report,” Bennett said. “And we’ll have to decide how much to release to the press. They’re clamouring for details.”
That morning’s papers had carried the news of Pike’s death. A bald statement issued by Scotland Yard had said the police were no longer seeking anyone in connection with the murders at Melling Lodge and Croft Manor.
“Will there be many loose ends?”
“Enough.” Sinclair put on a long face. “How did Pike fake his death?
How did he get back from France? How did he live before he found a job with Mrs. Aylward? Has he done things we don’t know about?” He gave Bennett a dark look. “As to his background, I’m hoping that file from the Nottingham police will be of help. It’s sitting on my desk in London. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. But there are some things we’ll never know. What set him off? Why did he start killing? And why those particular women?” The chief inspector shook his head with a sigh. “Questions, nothing but questions. And no clear answers. It’s the sort of thing Socrates used to enjoy, they tell me. But Socrates wasn’t a policeman.”
After a brief visit to Folkestone central police station to thank Chief Inspector Mulrooney for his assistance, Bennett caught an early-afternoon train back to London. He had named the following Wednesday as the day on which Sinclair would present his report to the commissioner.
“That should give us enough time to wrap things up, sir. I’ll leave tomorrow, but I’m going to Stonehill first. We need an account from the Merricks for the record of Mrs. Aylward’s visit and whether either of them recalls seeing Pike on that occasion. Chief Inspector Derry, from Maidstone, is doing the same at Bentham for us. I’ll speak to him over the weekend.”
“What about Madden?” the deputy asked.
“He’ll return to London tomorrow afternoon and go down to Highfield on Sunday.”
“Sunday!” Bennett was moved to protest. “For heaven’s sake, the man’s been working non-stop. Hasn’t he earned at least one day off?”
“He has indeed, sir,” Sinclair replied solemnly. “And I only wish you could persuade him of it.”
“Ah! I see! It’s his idea?”
“He insists on going himself. But that’s Inspector Madden all over. A slave to his sense of duty.”
Quick-witted though he was, Bennett realized he’d missed something in this last exchange. But he could deduce no more from the chief inspector’s pious demeanour as they shook hands than that, in some fashion, his leg had just been well pulled.
