Rennie Airth
River of Darkness
I'm back again from hell
With loathsome thoughts to sell;
Secrets of death to tell;
And horrors from the abyss.
Part One
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
1
The village was empty. Billy Styles couldn't understand it. They hadn't seen a living soul on the road from the station, and even the green was deserted, though the weather was the kind that normally brought people out of doors.
The finest summer since the war!
The newspapers had been repeating the phrase for weeks now as one radiant day followed another, with no end to the heatwave in sight.
But here in Highfield, sunshine lay like a curse on empty cottage gardens. Only the headstones in the churchyard, crowding the moss-covered stone wall flanking the road, gave mute evidence of a human presence.
'They're all at the house,' Boyce said, as though in explanation. He was an inspector with the Surrey police, a thin grey man with an anxious look. 'Word got around this morning.'
Boyce had come to the station to meet Inspector Madden and Billy. In a chauffeured Rolls-Royce, no less! Billy wanted to ask who'd sent it, but didn't dare. With less than three months' experience in the QD he knew he was lucky to be there at all, assigned to a case of such magnitude. Only the August bank holiday, combined with the heavy summer-leave schedule, had brought it about. Scotland Yard had been thinly manned that Monday morning when the telephone call came from Guildford. Minutes later Billy had found himself in a taxi with Madden bound for Waterloo station.
He glanced at the inspector, who was sitting beside him staring out of the car window. Among the lower ranks at the Yard, Madden was reckoned to be a queer one. They hadn't met before today, but Billy had seen him striding down the corridors. A tall grim man with a scarred forehead, he seemed more like a monk than a policeman, the young detective constable thought. An impression that gained strength now each time the inspector's glance fell on him. Madden's deep-set eyes seemed to look at you from another world.
He had a strange history — Billy had heard it from one of the sergeants. Madden had left the force some years before after losing his wife and baby daughter, both in the same week, to influenza. The son of a farmer, he had wanted to return to the land. Instead, the war had come, and afterwards he'd returned to his old job with the Metropolitan Police. Changed, though, it was said. A different man from before. Two years in the trenches had seen to that.
They had cleared the village, leaving the last cottage behind. Rounding a bend in the road, the chauffeur braked. Ahead of them, blocking the narrow country lane and facing a set of iron gates, a crowd had gathered. Whole families were there, it seemed, the men in shirtsleeves and braces, the women wearing kitchen aprons and with their hair tied up in scarves and handkerchiefs. Children stood hand in hand, or else played together on the dusty verges. A short way down the road two little girls in coloured smocks were bowling a hoop.
'Look at them,' Boyce said wearily. 'We've asked them to keep away, but what can you expect?'
The chauffeur blew his horn as they drew near and the crowd parted to let the car through. Billy felt the weight of their accusing stares.
'They don't know what to think,' Boyce muttered.
'And we don't know what to tell them.'
The drive beyond the gates was lined with elms, linked at their crowns like Gothic arches. At the end of it Billy could see a house built of solid stone, clothed in ivy. Melling Lodge was its name. Madden had told him. A family called Fletcher lived there. Had lived there. Billy's mouth went dry as they approached the gravelled forecourt where a fountain topped by a Cupid figure, standing with his bow drawn, sprayed silvery water into the bright sunlit afternoon. Blue uniforms stirred in the shadows.
'We brought a dozen men down from Guildford.'
Boyce nodded towards a police van parked at the side of the forecourt. 'We may want more.'
Madden spoke for the first time. 'We'll need to search the land around the house.'
'Wait till you see the other side.' Boyce groaned.
'Woods. Nothing but woods. Miles and miles of them.'
Madden's glance had shifted to a group of three men standing together in a shaded corner of the forecourt. Two of them wore light country tweeds.
The third sweated in a double-breasted serge suit.
'Who are they?' he asked.
'The old boy's Lord Stratton. Local nob. He owns most of the land hereabouts. That's the Lord Lieutenant with him. Major-General Sir William Raikes.'
'What's he doing here?' Madden scowled.
'He was a weekend guest at Stratton Hall, worse luck.' Boyce pulled a face. 'He's been raising merry hell, I can tell you. The other one's Chief Inspector Norris, from Guildford.'
As Madden opened the car door, Raikes, red-faced and balding, came striding across the gravel.
'About time,' he said angrily. 'Sinclair, is it?'
'No, Sir William. Madden's the name. Detective Inspector. This is Detective Constable Styles. Chief Inspector Sinclair is on his way. He'll be here shortly.'
Madden's glance roamed the forecourt.
'Well, for God's sake!' Raikes fumed. 'What's keeping the man?'
'He's getting a team together. Pathologist, fingerprint squad, photographer…' The inspector made no attempt to disguise his impatience. 'It takes time, particularly on a bank holiday.'
'Indeed!' Raikes glared at him, but Madden was already turning away to greet the older man, who had joined them.
'Lord Stratton? Thank you for sending the car, sir.'
'It was nothing. How else can I help you, Inspector?'
He held out his hand to Madden, who shook it.
His face showed signs of recent shock, the eyes wide and blinking. 'Do you need any transport? I've a
