River of Darkness (13 page)

'That was highly educational. I trust you were taking notes.' Sinclair's file landed with a thud on his desktop. 'I thought the clipping was a nice touch. He just happened to have it with him. And did you notice Bennett back-pedalling for all he was worth? All in all you won't see a finer example of the Ripper complex in action.' 'The Ripper, sir?' 'Jack of the same name. By the time he was done there wasn't a smart alec between here and Temple Bar who didn't have a theory as to who he was and how to nab him, and the only point on which they agreed was that the police were a bunch of lamebrained incompetents who couldn't catch cold in an igloo.' Madden was grinning. 'You may laugh, but there are people in this building who still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it. They're terrified of opening the door, even a crack.' The chief inspector sat down at his desk. 'Don't blame Bennett,' he said. 'He understands what we're up against. But if we call in an outsider and the newspapers get hold of it - and the chief super will see to it they do - all hell will break loose. Careers are made and lost over cases like this one, and I don't mean yours or mine. Bennett's own future is at stake.'

Late that afternoon the telephone rang on the chief inspector's desk. 'Hullo . . . yes, he's here. One moment, please.' He signalled to Madden. Then he got up and left the office. Madden picked up the phone. 'John, is that you?' Helen Blackwell's voice came to him from a long way off. 'Lord Stratton rang Father this morning. He told us what happened to you and Will . . . Are you all right?' Her voice swelled and faded on the trunk line. 'Yes, I'm fine . . .' Surprise robbed him of words. He didn't know what to say to her. 'I'll see you in a fortnight?' he asked anxiously. Her reply was lost in the crackle of the faulty line. 'What?' he called out. 'I can't hear . . .' '. . . less than that now . . .' he heard her say. Her soft laugh reached his ears, then the line went dead. A few minutes later Sinclair returned. With a glance at Madden he seated himself at his desk. 'Och, aye!' he remarked.

Billy Styles was at Waterloo station a good ten minutes before the time he had been ordered to report; it was only a short ride in the bus from Stockwell, where he lived with his mother. Mrs Styles had been widowed young - Billy's father had died of tuberculosis when he was only four - and she had had to support them both, by working first as a waitress in a tearoom in the high street, then later as a factory hand in a wartime munitions plant. Billy himself had tried to enlist in the last year of the war, when he was eighteen, but had been turned down by the doctor who examined him on the ground that he had weak lungs; a shock to the young man, who had never suspected he had any such flaw in his physical constitution. His suspicion that the doctor was conducting some form of private vendetta against the conscription policy was strengthened when some time later he passed a medical examination to gain entry into the Metropolitan Police without incident. The memory rankled with Billy, who felt cheated of his due. He had spent the past fortnight working with Sergeant Hollingsworth. Assigned space in a small office beside the chief inspector's, they had toiled over the list of discharged mental patients, dividing it up into regions and dispatching individual rosters to the various police authorities around the country. A number of ex-patients had already been interviewed and the results collated and assessed. The work was grinding and repetitive, but after experiencing initial boredom with it, Billy had found increasing satisfaction in the process of gradual elimination which he and the sergeant, under Madden's supervision, were engaged in. He had been allowed to study the cumulative file: a history of the case, which Chief Inspector Sinclair kept up to date. When he read the details of the attack on Madden and Stackpole in the woods above Highfield he felt fresh pangs of jealousy and envy. He felt it was he who should have been with the inspector, rather than the village bobby. Sometimes, in his imagination, he saw himself in the trenches under Madden's command. The inspector appeared with three minutes to spare and they walked on to the platform together. 'Do you know what this is about, Constable?' 'No, sir.' Billy had to add a skip to his step to keep up with Madden's long stride. 'Let's find a compartment first.' The telephone call had come the previous evening. Sinclair had looked across at Madden and raised a thumb. 'That was Tom Derry,' he said as he hung up. 'He's a chief inspector now - head of the Maidstone CID. We worked on that Ashford murder together. He thinks he may have something for us.' Derry had read the item about the Melling Lodge murders in the Police Gazette two days previously, but had not made the connection in his mind right away. 'He didn't handle the case himself,' Madden explained to Billy as the train drew out of the station. 'But then he recalled one or two details from the file. We'll find out more when we talk to him.' Billy listened in silence. Pride stirred in him. For the first time he felt Madden was treating him as a colleague. He was tempted to join in, to offer some observation of his own, but decided, on balance, it would be better not to speak. If the inspector wanted his opinion he would ask for it. 'Where do you live, Constable?' They had the compartment to themselves. The train moved at a steady clip through the green fields and hedgerows of Kent, a countryside still unmarred by the spreading stain of pink and white suburban villas. 'Stockwell, sir.' 'With your family?' 'Just my mother, sir. My father's dead.' 'Was he killed in the war?' 'No, sir. He died before.' For some reason he couldn't rationalize, Billy felt ashamed. It was as though he wished his father had perished in the conflict, rather than from a common disease. He wished, too, that he himself had worn a soldier's uniform, if only for a day. 'My uncle Jack now Mum's brother - he was killed on the Somme.' Billy hesitated. He could read nothing from the inspector's expression. Yet he knew he had been in the same battle. It was common knowledge at the Yard. One of the sergeants had told him Madden's battalion had been in action on the first day. Out of seven hundred men, the sergeant said, fewer than eighty had survived to answer their names at the evening roll call. Billy couldn't conceive of such an event, of so many men being cut down in such a short space of time, and he wanted to ask the inspector about it. But when he looked at Madden's face as he stared out of the window he decided it might be better not to.

Derry's office at Maidstone Central Police Station overlooked a corner of the market square. A profusion of pink geraniums overflowed two terracotta pots on the ledge outside his window and the chief inspector was busy watering them when Madden and Styles were shown in. He parked the can on the ledge outside and came over to shake their hands. 'How's Mr Sinclair? Bearing up? Be sure to give him my regards when you see him.' He had a bony, intelligent face and a swift glance, which showed mild surprise at the youthful appearance of Styles. 'Mr Sinclair wanted to come himself, sir. But the assistant commissioner called a meeting this morning.' 'Here's the file,' Derry said. He handed Madden a buff folder. 'But let me give you the gist of it so you'll know why I rang the Yard.' He directed his visitors to a pair of chairs and then seated himself behind his desk. 'It happened in the first week of April when I chanced to be on leave. I was only away for a fortnight, but by the time I got back it was all over. The derectives handling it felt they had a cast-iron case. They were even more sure when the fellow topped himself.' 'He was in custody, was he?' Madden inquired. 'They were holding him in the cells downstairs. He tore his shirt into strips and managed to hang himself from the bars.' Derry shook his head regretfully. 'I looked over the file, of course, but I have to say I didn't feel any doubts at the time. It seemed solid. Based on what I read, I reckon he would have swung.' Madden balanced the folder on his knee. 'But you changed your mind when you saw our item in the Gazette?' 'I wouldn't go that far. Let's say I'm in two minds right now. I just have a nasty feeling we might have picked up the wrong man.' 'Even though he hanged himself?' Madden was surprised. Derry shrugged. 'Caddo -- that was his name -- always admitted stealing the goods he was caught with. Perhaps he thought he couldn't escape conviction on the murder charge either, though he did maintain the woman was dead when he entered the house, and he never changed his story. Still, whatever happened he was going to spend a spell in prison.' 'I see he was a gypsy.' Madden had opened the file. 'A full-blooded Romany. They do say you can't lock them up for any length of time. They won't abide it.' Derry reached behind him and brought in the watering-can from the ledge outside. 'Caddo lost his wife a couple of years back. He was alone. A man can come to the end of himself, don't you think?' Madden didn't look up from the file. 'He owned a horse and caravan.' Derry brushed off his hands. 'He used to visit the district regularly - it's near a village called Bentham, about ten miles east of here. He had an arrangement with a local farmer, a tenant of the Bentham Court estate, and used to camp on his land for a few weeks in return for mending his pots and pans and doing other odd jobs.' 'Any past history with the police?' Madden was paging through the folder. 'Nothing serious. There was an allegation of sheep stealing a few years ago, but nothing came of it. A case of grab the nearest gypsy, if you ask me. The trouble started when the man he dealt with left the region and a new tenant took over the farm. Chap called Reynolds. He didn't care for gypsies, it seems, and he told Caddo when he turned up at the end of March that he'd give him a week to find a new site and then he wanted him off his land. They had a blazing row in front of witnesses. Caddo was heard to make threats. Next thing, Reynolds went to the bobby at Bentham and accused Caddo of having poisoned his dogs.' Madden looked up sharply. 'What?' Derry raised a ginger eyebrow. 'That was something we left out of the Gazette item, sir. The dog at Melling Lodge was poisoned a few weeks earlier. Do you remember what was used on Reynolds's animals?' Derry nodded. 'Strychnine,' he said. 'How about the other?' 'The same.' Madden weighed the file in his hand. The two men looked at each other. Derry clicked his tongue in chagrin. 'Damn it!' he said. He looked away. 'Did they search his caravan?' Madden wondered. 'The bobby did. Nothing turned up. Of course, he could have got rid of the stuff. Anyway, the constable spoke to him sharpish. Told him Reynolds wanted him off his land within twenty-four hours. It was a Saturday. The murder happened the same evening.' 'Caddo admitted going over there, to Reynolds's farm.' Madden was back in the file. 'He said he didn't have anything special in mind.' 'That was his first statement.' Derry pointed at the folder. 'He made another later and he was more forthcoming. Admitted he meant to do Reynolds harm. Said he thought of setting fire to his barn.' 'That would have been what time?' 'After six, Caddo said. It was starting to get dark. His story -- his second version -- was that he approached the house and saw lights on and the back door standing open. He waited a few minutes and then went closer. He didn't see anyone about. He'd lost his nerve about firing the barn -- so he said -- but he thought he might slip inside and help himself to whatever he could find. When he got to the door he noticed the lock had been smashed, but he couldn't hear anything so he went inside. He took a bag from the kitchen and started putting things in it -- a clock from the mantelpiece, some knives and forks from a canteen of cutlery. He found his way to Reynolds's study, opened his desk and pocketed twenty quid and a gold watch.' 'Where was Reynolds all this time?' 'Less than a mile away, looking for some sheep. With his dogs dead he was having a hell of a time running his flock and a number of them had strayed. He had a neighbour with him, fellow called Tompkins, who'd come over to lend a hand. Tompkins saw Mrs Reynolds before they went off, so that put the husband in the clear. Both men were out of sight of the house for an hour - that could well have been a factor.' 'Might have saved their lives,' Madden remarked. Derry cocked his head. 'You think it was your man?' 'It could be, sir.' Madden scowled in frustration. 'So what did Caddo do then?' 'He went upstairs, just to take a look, he said, to see if there was anything worth lifting. His story is he found Mrs Reynolds's body in the bedroom and got out of the house as fast as he could and ran all the way back to his camp-site. They picked him up in his caravan on the Ashford road next morning.' Madden was wondering. 'Since you didn't know about the poisoned dog, what made you think there might be a connection with Melling Lodge?' 'The murder itself,' Derry replied. 'The woman having her throat cut that way and her body thrown across the bed. And . . . well, this is a strange thing to say, you'll think . . . but the fact that she wasn't raped. Just like your Mrs Fletcher.' 'That struck you as strange?' Derry nodded. 'He dragged her out of her bath and threw her on the bed. Why? She was naked, a good looking woman, too. I mean, why didn't he rape her?' He looked uncomfortable. 'Hell of a thing to find yourself wondering,' he muttered. 'If it's any consolation, sir, Mr Sinclair had the same reaction.' Madden returned to the file. 'What about the murder weapon?' he asked. 'According to our pathologist, probably a cut-throat razor. Caddo had one. It was tested, but nothing came up.' 'Prints?' 'None.' Derry got to his feet. 'I dare say you'd like to have a look at the place, Inspector.' 'I would, sir.' Madden ordered the papers in the file. 'What would be the best way of getting there?' 'I'll take you myself,' Derry said. 'This business is like a bone in my throat. I have to know one way or the other.'

It turned out Derry had his own motor-car -- one of the new 20 h.p. Ford five-seaters. The cars were being offered on the market at only 205 pounds and Billy had a secret yearning to possess one, though he hadn't learned to drive yet. They left Maidstone by the Sheerness road, but soon turned off it and drove through the rolling chalk uplands of the North Downs. The August sun was hot on their faces and the breeze in the open car was welcome. At Bentham, a village nestling in the fold of a green valley, Derry stopped outside a set of wrought iron gates. He pointed up a long, straight drive, treeless but flanked at its furthest point by a pair of ornamental ponds. In the background, a handsome Palladian facade was visible. 'Bentham Court,' he said. 'The guidebooks call it an architectural gem. A family named Garfield own it now. Reynolds is one of their tenants.' They drove on for another mile, then branched off the road on to a narrow rutted track that ended at a patch of bare earth beside a chalky stream. 'This was Caddo's camp-site. Reynolds's farm is a mile or two away.' Although he hadn't handled the case, the chief inspector seemed to have taken the trouble to familiarize himself with the details. 'There's a path that runs along the stream.' They returned to the road and continued on the winding paved surface until they came to another dirt track, which Derry took, steering the car down a gentle gradient to the stream bed, which he crossed slowly, the water creaming about the wheels, and then ascending the grassy slope on the other side. A slate roofed farmhouse with a whitewashed barn behind it came into view. Sheep dotted the green contoured landscape on either side of the roadway. As Derry pulled up near the house, a man in rough clothes came out of the barn. He stopped some distance from the car and stared at them. There was no hint of greeting in his manner. 'Mr Reynolds?' Derry got out of the car. 'We haven't met. I'm Chief Inspector Derry, from Maidstone. This is Inspector Madden, and Detective Constable Styles. They're from London.' When the man didn't respond, he asked, 'Would you like to see our warrant cards?' Reynolds shook his head. 'I thought I'd done with you lot.' He came closer, but didn't offer to shake hands. 'Inspector Madden has some questions to ask you. And we'd like to have a look around, if that's all right?' 'I don't understand.' He was about forty, Billy judged, but somehow older. Unshaven and wearing a dirty, collarless shirt, he looked like a man who had lost interest in how he appeared to others. His eyes were dull and uncaring. 'I thought the bastard hanged himself.' 'Can we go inside for a moment? We won't bother you for long.' 'No,' Reynolds said flatly. He glared at them. Madden spoke: 'I understand how you feel, Mr Reynolds, but please oblige me.' Billy was struck by the gentle tone of his voice. 'I'm working on another case and I believe there may be a connection. You'd be doing me a great service if you'd help us.' The man didn't reply at once. He stared into Madden's deep-set eyes, until Billy began to think that some silent communication was passing between them. Abruptly he turned away. 'Go in, if you want to,' he said, over his shoulder. He walked off. Madden led the way through the front door, which opened into a small brick-paved entrance hall where they had to pick their way through a litter of muddy boots. Beyond was a sitting-room smelling of stale cigarette smoke. Sunlight streaming through smeared window-panes fell on a heap of dirty laundry lying on the floor in the middle of the room. An overturned ashtray spread its contents over the surface of a low wooden table where a pile of dirty plates and cutlery was stacked. The house was like the man, Billy thought. Something had gone. Snapped. He followed Madden and Derry to the kitchen at the rear of the house, where the inspector examined the back door: a fresh section of wood in the jamb, still unpainted, showed where the lock had had to be repaired. They returned to the hallway and went upstairs. The low-ceilinged bedroom displayed the same signs of neglect as the rooms below. The double bed was unmade, the bedclothes pushed aside, and the glassed top of the dressing-table was dulled by a thin coating of dust. Two framed photographs stood on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. One showed a smiling young woman with a wreath of flowers in her fair hair. The other was a picture of Reynolds in a private's uniform. Billy saw the dark buttons on the tunic and knew what they meant. Reynolds had served in the Rifle Brigade. Black-buttoned bastards. The bathroom was across a narrow passage and Madden walked from one room to the other. Billy saw that he was pacing out the distance between the big ball-and-claw-footed bath and the bed. It looked to be about twelve feet, the young constable reckoned. He saw what Derry had meant. Why drag the woman all the way to the bed and not rape her? If he'd wanted to kill her, why not do it in the bathroom? He realized that the same questions could indeed be asked about Mrs Fletcher's murder. Before they left the bedroom his eye was caught by a leather-bound volume on the bedside table. He glanced at the title. It was a collection of poems by a writer Billy had never heard of. Opening the book, he found an inscription in the flyleaf: To my dearest darling girl, with all my love, Fred. Outside, Madden stood in front of the house and let his gaze wander over the gently sloping hillside. The chalk downland was bare of cover. 'Shall we talk to him now?' Derry asked. He had just seen Reynolds appear from a fold of land below them. He had a young dog at his side. When it trotted away, he summoned it back, slapping his thigh, making the animal come to heel. 'In a moment,' Madden replied. He walked round to the side of the house. Derry and Billy followed. They found him gazing up the hillside behind the farmhouse at the crest of the ridge, about half a mile away, where a small coppice of beeches stood. 'There!' The inspector pointed. 'I want to have a look at that first.' As they walked up the cropped grass of the shallow incline Madden told the chief inspector about the dugout in the woods on Upton Hanger. 'We haven't made that public - we're being careful about what we put out. He used a rifle and bayonet for four of the five killings. And we think he was wearing a gas mask when he broke in.' Derry grunted. 'Sounds to me like you've got a weird one,' he commented. Billy, walking a respectful two paces behind them, thought that was putting it mildly. The coppice covered only an acre or two. The leaf carpeted ground beneath the trees showed no sign of having been disturbed. Madden stood in the shade at the edge of the treeline and looked down at the farmhouse. The barn behind it was set a little to one side, and from where he stood he had a clear view of the kitchen door and the backyard. Watching him, Derry saw the crease of frustration notched in his forehead. 'This is the spot. . .' Madden glanced left and right along the bare crest of the ridge. 'We know he likes to watch them first.' He took off his hat and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Derry noticed the ragged scar running along his hairline. The sense of familiarity he usually felt when he met another policeman was missing with Madden. He recognized that this grim-faced inspector was different. 'Sir?' Styles's voice reached them from inside the wood. 'There's something here, sir. A cigarette tin, I think . . .' Madden spun on his heel and strode over to where the constable was standing behind a low bank. As he approached Billy went down on his haunches. 'Don't touch it!' The two older men joined him. He pointed, and they saw the glint of metal in the deep shade beneath the bank. Madden crouched down. 'You're right, Constable.' Taking a pencil from his jacket pocket he lifted the cylindrical cigarette tin off the ground and held it up. 'No label,' Billy said regretfully. He felt he'd earned the right to make a comment. 'The man we're after smokes Three Castles,' Madden explained. 'If it's his it's been here since early April. You won't get a print off it now,' Derry remarked. 'True. But we'll take it with us, anyway. Constable - handkerchief!' Billy reached into his pocket, recalling, as he did so, the shame he had felt the last time he'd been required to produce one. As Madden was passing the tin over to him, he paused and looked at it more closely, holding it up to the light. 'Do you see that burn mark?' he asked Derry, and the chief inspector nodded. The inside of the tin was blackened. 'I want to search this patch of ground. We're looking for a piece of cloth, probably burned or charred. Anything that would serve as wadding. This tin's been used as a Tommy cooker. You can brew a cup of tea on it if you haven't got a stove handy. The troops used to put wadding at the bottom and soak it in methylated spirits.' Billy, with the tin safely stowed in his pocket, was already examining the ground around him. Madden and Derry joined in the search. To Billy's chagrin, it was the chief inspector who found what they were looking for. 'Isn't this what they call two-by-four?' Derry was down on his heels brushing away the dead leaves. Madden picked up the ball of charred cloth. A small square of flannel, unconsumed by the flames, was still visible. He took out his own handkerchief and wrapped it around the burned fragment. Then he returned to the spot where Billy had found the tin and got down on his knees. The other two watched as Madden laid his long body against the low bank in front of him and peered over the rim. They were a dozen yards from the edge of the coppice. Nevertheless, the inspector had a clear line of sight through the trees to the Reynolds's farmhouse below. 'There . . . that's it!' Madden growled his satisfaction. When they went back down the hill Reynolds was nowhere to be seen. As before, his figure emerged suddenly from a hidden hollow in the slope. The dog was trotting at his heels. It stopped and pricked up its ears as they approached. Reynolds waited, hands in pockets, his face expressionless. Madden wasted no words. 'Can you remember what time it was, Mr Reynolds, when you left the house and when you returned? It matters to me how long you were absent.' Reynolds blinked. He swallowed. 'We left the house, Ben Tompkins and I, just after half past five and came down here looking for strays. We were back soon after half past six. Say twenty to seven at the latest.' 'It was dark by then?' He nodded. 'You were out of sight of the house all the time?' 'Pretty well. We were further down.' Reynolds turned and pointed away. 'There's a dip in the land, it's not obvious from here.' 'I know you didn't see anything,' Madden said. Billy was surprised again by his tone. His manner with Reynolds now was businesslike, impersonal. Yet Reynolds was responding readily to his questions. 'But did you hear anything? It's important.' 'No, I already told the police.' For the first time he seemed eager to help. 'Nothing at all? Think hard.' Reynolds frowned. 'What sort of thing?' Madden shook his head. 'I'm not going to say. I don't want to put it in your mind.' Reynolds stared at him. 'I know I didn't hear anything,' he said. 'But I remember Ben saying something 'What was that?' The inspector leaned closer. 'We'd found a ewe caught by her leg in a cleft down by the stream. We were just easing her out when Ben looked up. I remember now ..." He kept staring at Madden. 'He said, "Did you hear that? It sounded like a whistle."'