Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the door of the Coachman's Arms. Stackpole was grinning with delight. 'I can't wait to see the look on his face, sir.'
Inside, the smell of stale beer lingered in the taproom. Wellings was seated with his right arm resring on a bar table. Dr Blackwell was at work, strapping his wrist in a tight bandage.
'Not broken, just sprained,' she said to them, as they came in. 'Mr Wellings will live to fight another day.'
'I want to lay a charge.' Wellings shook his other fist at Stackpole. 'Have you got that? He came at me with a shovel. That's a weapon in my book. Do you hear what I'm saying, Constable?'
'I hear you, Mr Wellings.' For the second time that day Stackpole removed his helmet. He had stopped grinning.
Helen Blackwell snapped her bag shut. 'I'll leave you now,' she said. She went out.
Wellings ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. Stackpole spoke to him. 'You'll remember Inspector Madden?'
'Who?' Wellings looked over his shoulder and noticed the inspector for the first time. 'What's he doing here?'
'We'll ask the questions.' The constable sat down at the table.
'I'm not answering any questions until I hear what you mean to do about Fred Maberley.' Wellings looked defiant.
Madden seated himself. 'Two weeks ago you made a statement to Sergeant Gates. In view of what Gladys Maberley has just told us, I now realize that you failed to tell the truth on that occasion.'
'Says who?'
'Shut your gob, you piece of filth.' Stackpole spoke in an even tone. 'Just listen to what the inspector's saying.'
Wellings flushed. He glared at the constable.
'You knowingly made a false statement to the police. That constitutes an obstruction of justice, a serious matter at any time, but given the circumstances of the case we're investigating, exceptionally grave. You will very likely go to prison, Mr Wellings.'
'What?' He turned white. 'I don't believe you.'
'I will ask you now — what were you doing on the night of Sunday, July the thirty-first? I am speaking of the late evening, after the pub was closed.'
Wellings licked his lips. His glance strayed to the bar. 'You wouldn't have a fag, would you?' he asked.
Madden took out his cigarettes and placed them on the table with a box of matches. He waited while Wellings lit up.
'Gladys and I' — he took a long pull on the cigarette — 'we went to Tup's Spinney.' He blew out the match.
'What time?'
'About half past eleven, maybe a little earlier.'
'Where was Fred Maberley?'
'Asleep.' Wellings's smile flickered and went out.
'While you were there did you see or hear anything?'
Madden asked.
Wellings nodded. 'A motorbike. Just after we got there. It went past us through the fields.'
'In which direction? Away from Upton Hanger?'
Wellings nodded again.
'What make of motorcycle? Did you notice?'
He shook his head.
'What did you see?' Madden persisted.
Wellings puffed on his cigarette. 'When I heard it, I got up and went to the edge of the trees. I thought it might be someone else coming to the spinney. You know…' He grinned knowingly at Madden, but received no sympathy from the inspector's glance.
'There was a moon up, I saw it clearly. A motorbike and sidecar.'
'A sidecar — you're sure of that?'
'Yes, I'm sure. At first I thought there was someone in it, you know, a passenger, but then I saw there wasn't.'
Madden and Stackpole looked at each other.
'Let me get this clear,' the inspector said. 'There was something in the sidecar?'
'That's right — a shape. That's all I could see. Like I said, at first I thought it was a passenger. But it just didn't look right, not for a person. It was too low.
There wasn't much showing over the rim of the sidecar.'
'How fast was it travelling?'
'Not fast. He was watching for the ruts.'
'He? You saw the rider?'
Wellings shook his head. 'Just his shape. Big bloke.
He was wearing a cloth cap. That's all, Mr Madden, I swear. It was only for a few seconds, then he was gone, heading back towards the road.'
Madden stared at him. 'You could have told us this two weeks ago,' he said.
Wellings said nothing.
The inspector stood up. 'Stay here.' He signed to Stackpole and the two of them went outside into the road. The constable filled his lungs with fresh air.
'I suppose he'll get off now, the little bastard.'
'Not at all.' Madden shook his head firmly. 'No bargain was struck. We're going to charge him. But don't tell him that yet. Get his statement first. Then tell him, but leave it for a few days. He may remember something more.'
Stackpole's grin returned. He took out his notebook.
'Before you go back in, I need a telephone.'
'There's only one in Oakley, sir, at the post-office counter. That's in the store. You'll have to go through the Guildford exchange.'
Five minutes later Madden was connected with the Scotland Yard switchboard. He caught Sinclair on his way out to an early luncheon appointment.
'We need to get the Surrey police on to this, sir.
They'll have to go over their tracks, question the same people in the same villages. On this side of the ridge, at least.'
'But now we've something specific. A motorcycle and sidecar. A big man in a cloth cap. Well done, John!'
'We've Stackpole to thank, sir. He doesn't miss much.'
'I'll be sure to mention that to Norris when I speak to him. What was he carrying in the sidecar, I wonder?'
Madden thought. 'Assuming he had a rifle with him, he wouldn't want to cart it around in the open.
Perhaps a bag of some kind?'
'Hmmm…' The chief inspector mused. 'It was after eleven when Wellings saw him. Say he quit Melling Lodge around ten o'clock, what was he doing for the next hour? It wouldn't have taken him that long to get back to his motorcycle.'
They fell silent. Then Madden spoke: 'I'll be back in a couple of hours, sir-'
'No, you won't, John. There's nothing we can do from here at present. You need a break. Take the weekend off. I'll see you at the office on Monday morning.'
'But I think I should-'
'Inspector!'
'Yes, sir?'
'That's an order.' Sinclair hung up.
