against the place where she felt his heart to be. For a moment there was no movement as Jenkins closed his eyes. He began to tremble, and with her fingertips Maisie could feel him struggle to regain control of his body--and his mind.
The onlookers gasped as Jenkins began to weep. Falling to his knees, he pulled his Webley Mk IV service revolver from its holster and held the barrel to his head.
'No,' said Maisie firmly, but softly, and with a move so gentle that Jenkins barely felt the revolver leave his grasp, she took the weapon from his hand.
At that moment, as the audience watched in a stunned silence that paralyzed all movement, she saw lights beginning to illuminate the entrance to the quarry. Uniformed men ran toward the platform, shouting, 'Stop, police!' She abandoned Jenkins, who was rocking back and forth, clasping his arms about his body, and moaning with a rasping, guttural cry.
Maisie pushed the revolver into her pocket and moved quickly toward the lifeless body of Billy Beale. Archie and his assistant were nowhere to be seen. Maisie quickly took out her pocket knife and, holding back the flesh on Billy's neck with the fingers of her left hand, she slipped the blade against the rope, and freed Billy from the hangman's noose. As Billy fell toward her, Maisie tried to take his weight, and stumbled. She was aware that Jenkins was now flanked by two policemen, and that all around her the frozen moment had thawed into frenzied activity.
'Billy, look at me, Billy,' said Maisie, regaining balance.
She slapped his face on both sides, and felt his wrist for a pulse.
Billy choked, and his eyes rolled up into their sockets as his hands instinctively clamored to free his neck from the constriction that he could still feel at his throat.
'Steady on, Miss, steady on, for Gawd's sake.'
Billy choked, his gas-damaged lungs wheezing with the enormous effort of fighting for breath. As he tried to sit up, Maisie supported him with her arms around his shoulders.
'It's awright, Miss. I'm not a goner. Let me get some air. Some air.'
'Can you see me, Billy?'
Billy Beale looked at Maisie, who was now on her knees beside him.
'I'm awright now that you're 'ere, even if you are a bit 'eavy 'anded. Mind you . . .' he coughed, wiping away the blood and spittle that came up from his throat,'I thought you'd never get over chat-tin'wiv that bleedin' lunatic there.' Billy pointed toward Jenkins, then brought his hand back to his mouth as he coughed another deep, rasping cough.
'May I have a word, Miss Dobbs?'The man looking down at her beckoned the police doctor to attend to Billy, then held out a hand to Maisie. Grasping his outstretched hand, she drew herself up to a standing position and brushed back the locks of black hair that were hanging around her face. The man held out his right hand again. 'Detective Inspector Stratton. Murder Squad. Your colleague is in good hands. Now, if I may have a word.'
Maisie quickly appraised the man, who was standing in front of her. Stratton was more than six feet tall, well-built, and confident, without the posturing that she had seen before in men of high rank. His hair, almost as black as her own, except for wisps of gray at the temples, was swept back. He wore corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows. He held a brown felt hat with a black grosgrain band in his left hand. Like a country doctor, observed Maisie.'Yes. Yes, of course, Detective Inspector Stratton. I . . . .'
'. . . Should have known better, Miss Dobbs? Yes, probably, you should have known better. However, I have been briefed by Dr. Blanche, and I realize that you were in a situation where not a moment could be lost. Suffice it to say that this is not the time for discussion or reprimand. I must ask you, though, to make yourself available for questioning in connection with this case, perhaps tomorrow?'
'Yes, but--'
'Miss Dobbs, I have to attend to the suspect now, but, in the mean-time--'
'Yes?' Maisie was flushed, tired, and indignant.
'Good work, Miss Dobbs. A calm head--very good work.' Detective Inspector Stratton shook hands with Maisie once again, and was just about to walk away when she called him back.
'Oh, Inspector, just a moment. . . .' Maisie held out the service revolver she had taken from Jenkins.'I think you'll need this for your evidence bag.'
Stratton took the revolver, checked the barrel, and removed the ammunition before placing the weapon safely in his own pocket. He inclined his head toward Maisie and smiled, then turned toward Jenkins, who was now flanked by two members of the Kent Constabulary. Maisie watched as Stratton commenced the official caution:''You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.'
Maisie looked around at Billy, to satisfy herself that he was safe-- he was now on his feet and speaking with the doctor--then surveyed the scene in front of her. She watched as Maurice Blanche walked among the terrified audience of 'old soldiers' who still seemed so very young, his calming presence infectious as he stood with the men, placing a hand on a shoulder for support, or holding a weeping man to him unashamedly. The men seemed to understand his strength, and clustered around to listen to his soothing words. She saw him motion to Stratton, who sent policemen to lead the residents of The Retreat away one by one. They were men for whom the terror of war had been replayed and whose trust had been shattered. First by their country, and now by a single man. They were men who would have to face the world in which there was no retreat. Maurice was right, they were all innocents. Perhaps even Jenkins.
Jenkins was now in handcuffs and being led to a waiting Invicta police car that had been brought into the mouth of the quarry, his unsoiled polished boots and Sam Browne belt shining against a pressed uniform. Not a hair on his head was out of place. He was still the perfectly turned-out officer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
So, what I want to know,' said Billy, sitting in Maurice Blanche's favorite wing chair, next to the fireplace in the dower house, 'Is 'ow did you get on to Adam Jenkins in the end. And I tell you, 'e certainly 'ad me there. I was beginnin' t'think 'e was a crackin' bloke.'
