bush. A lot of people think he was lucky to be taken back into the force at his old rank.' He glanced at Sinclair. 'I'm not one of them, incidentally.
But when I look at him now, he seems exhausted.
Burned out. So I ask you again — is he the right man?'
Sinclair took his time replying. 'I've known John Madden since he was a young constable,' he said finally. 'I picked him out because I thought he had the talent to make a good detective, and I was right.
It's an odd trade, ours. Hard work will get you only so far. There comes a moment when you have to be able to see through the facts, the mass of them that collect, to find what's important, what's significant.
Madden has that gift. I was bitterly disappointed when he decided to leave the force.' The chief inspector paused. 'With the bank holiday there weren't many names to choose from among those on duty, and Madden was the obvious pick. I've thought about it since. Whether I'd have chosen someone else if I'd had the opportunity. The answer's no, sir.' He looked straight at Bennett. 'I have the man I want.'
The deputy nodded his head briskly. 'That's plainly spoken,' he acknowledged. 'Let's hope you're right.'
A list of patients discharged from mental wards in Army hospitals, running into several thousand, arrived from the War Office three days later. It was delivered by Colonel Jenkins in person. He deposited the thick manila envelope on Sinclair's desk, but declined the chief inspector's invitation to sit down.
'I've been detailed to help you in any way I can. I thought we'd better meet.'
Even in civilian clothes, the colonel cut an unmistakably military figure in his sharply pressed trousers and Brigade of Guards tie. His manner was curt, with an edge of impatience, as though he thought his time could be better spent. Madden eyed him coldly.
'He's an old staff officer,' he told Sinclair, after the colonel had gone. 'It's written all over him. We didn't see much of them in the war. They never came near the front.'
Working out of Sinclair's second-floor office, Madden and Sergeant Hollingsworth began the lengthy task of breaking down the list of discharged patients into subsections to be sent to the various police authorities around the country.
'We'll ask them to find out if any of these men have a history of violence,' the chief inspector said.
'Though, given recent events on the continent of Europe, and the fact that they were all soldiers, the question seems redundant.'
Madden asked for Detective Constable Styles to be assigned to assist them. Sinclair was amused. 'I see you haven't given up on that young man yet.'
'He'll make a decent copper one day,' Madden insisted. 'He just needs standing over.' He glanced at the chief inspector. 'I seem to remember someone doing the same for me once upon a time.'
In another life, he might have added. The years before the war seemed far off now. He'd been a husband and father then, but that, too, was in a different world when he had been a different person.
The abyss of the trenches lay between.
On Friday morning, soon after they had gathered for work, the telephone rang. Hollingsworth answered it.
'For you, sir.' He handed the instrument to Madden.
'It's that constable in Highfield.'
Stackpole was waiting to greet him as he stepped off the train.
'It's a pleasure to see you again, sir.' He shook Madden's hand warmly. 'We've got him this time.'
The constable's broad, tanned face was split by a smile.
'Knowingly making a false statement, obstruction of justice. With any luck we can put the little weasel away for a spell.'
'Yes, but I want to know exactly what he saw that night.' They walked quickly down the platform towards the exit. 'Have you talked to Lord Stratton?
Can we use his car?'
'No need, sir.' Stackpole's smile flashed beneath his thick moustache. 'Dr Blackwell's offered to give us a lift.'
Madden stopped. 'I thought she'd gone to Yorkshire.'
'I should have gone to Yorkshire.' Helen Blackwell stepped out of the deep shadow of the platform shelter in front of them. She held out her hand to Madden. 'I would have gone to Yorkshire. But my locum managed to fall off a horse and break his leg and it's taken till now to find a replacement. He's due to arrive this afternoon.'
Remembering her pale face in the churchyard, he was pleased to see the colour back in her cheeks. She looked flushed in the bright morning sun. They went out of the station into the road. The Wolseley twoseater was parked in the shade of a plane tree.
'Meanwhile, as Will says, I'm going to Oakley. I have two patients to see there. I've a feeling they're the same people you want to speak to, but although I've used all my wiles on him, he refuses to tell me.'
'Now, Miss Helen!' Stackpole blushed bright red.
He left them to pull out the car's dicky and dust off the seat.
Dr Blackwell watched him, smiling. 'Poor Will. He kissed me once, when I was six and he was eight, and he doesn't know to this day whether I remember it or not.'
Madden burst out laughing, overcome by the pure pleasure of being in her company again.
She looked at him critically. 'You should do that more often, Inspector,' she said.
During the short drive to Oakley, Madden told her the reason he had come from London.
'So you got the story first from Fred Maberley?' She spoke over her shoulder to Stackpole, who sat crouched in the dicky, clutching at his helmet. 'He rang me, too. And then I had a call from Wellings. He seems to think his wrist's broken.'
'He'll have worse than a broken wrist by the time I've done with him,' the constable growled in her ear.
She glanced at Madden and smiled. 'I hope Fred wasn't too rough with Gladys.' Her gloved hands spun the steering-wheel and they left the paved surface for the dirt road that led to Oakley. 'He sounded shamefaced when he rang me.'
'Got what she deserved, that young lady,' Stackpole offered. 'What did she expect — going off to Tup's Spinney with a piece of trash like Wellings?'
'Shame on you, Will Stackpole. Just because Fred's her husband doesn't give him the right to hit her.'
'No, but…' Stackpole subsided in the dicky.
The single road through Oakley showed more signs of animation than on Madden's previous visit. Several women, weighed down with shopping bags, clustered in front of the village store. Further up the road, outside the Coachman's Arms, three men stood talking, their heads close together, like conspirators. Dr Black well parked in the shade of a chestnut tree growing on the lawn in front of the small church.
'Would it be all right if we saw Gladys Maberley first?' Madden asked her.
'Perfectly. From what I can gather, Mr Wellings is the more gravely injured of the two.' He hadn't seen her this way before. She was in a light, almost joyful mood. With a smile at them both she picked up her doctor's bag and walked off towards the pub.
Stackpole led the way to a whitewashed cottage at the end of a row of houses. The front door was opened by a broad-shouldered young man with blunt features.
He was dressed in rough farm clothes.
'Fred, this is Inspector Madden, from London. We'd like a word with Gladys.'
He muttered something inaudible. Head bowed, he led them into a small kitchen where the young woman with bobbed hair Madden remembered seeing with Wellings was sitting at a table. She had a cut lip and a blackened, swollen eye. The other eye was red and swimming with tears.
'Well, Gladys Maberley!' The constable removed his helmet. 'You look like you could do with a cup of tea.'
As the woman started to rise, the young man spoke for the first time. 'Let me, Glad,' he muttered. He busied himself with a kettle at the sink.
'This is Mr Madden,' Stackpole said. 'He's come all the way from London to talk to you, Gladys.' He put his helmet on the table and pulled out a chair for the inspector and another for himself. 'So tell us what you've been up to — and mind!' The constable wagged a warning finger. 'Don't leave anything out.'
