Remote the anguish seems;
The guns are muffled and far away,
Dreams within dreams.
And far and far are Flanders mud,
And the pain of Picardy;
And the blood that runs there runs beyond The wide waste sea.
5
Dressed in her maid's uniform and white lace cap, Ethel Bridgewater sat at the kitchen table reading yesterday's News of the World. Her attention had been caught by a half-page advertisement for something called the 'Harlene Hair-Drill', which promised users of the company's products 'a luxurious wealth of gloriously beautiful and healthy hair'.
For some time now Ethel had been considering having her own hair bobbed — more and more of her friends were doing it — but she was reluctant to take the step. Though a plain young woman, she possessed a head of rich chestnut hair and felt instinctively it would be a mistake to get rid of this crowning asset.
She was reading the advertisement for a second time when the door to the stableyard opened and Carver came in. He didn't speak, and neither did she. They seldom exchanged a word, going about their duties in silence when they happened to meet.
Glancing up, Ethel received a shock. Carver's looks had been transformed since their last encounter before the weekend. His moustache had disappeared and, shorn of this covering, his mouth was revealed as thin with a marked downward turn at one corner where a small scar was visible. It was entirely in keeping with their relationship that it did not even occur to the maid to pass comment on his changed appearance.
Ethel rose from the table and began to busy herself preparing tea for her mistress, Mrs Aylward. Carver opened the stove door and took out a plate of food which had been left there for him. He ate at irregular hours, and the cook, Mrs Rowley, who lived in the neighbourhood and would not be back to prepare dinner until later that afternoon, had been taught to leave his meals warming in the oven. He brought the plate over to the table, collecting a knife and fork from the kitchen cutlery, and began to eat.
Ethel hurried over the tea things. Once she had taken the tray into the drawing-room there was dusting work she could do upstairs. In truth, she didn't like to find herself alone with Carver for any length of time. If asked why, she would have found it difficult to give a reason. Certainly he had never offended her in any way. But his presence had a strange — almost physical — effect on her. After a while the air seemed to get closer, as though some unseen agent were consuming the oxygen, and Ethel would find herself becoming breathless. As soon as the kettle boiled, she made the tea and took the tray out.
Carver, whose real name was Amos Pike, carried his dirty plate to the sink and cleaned it. He washed and dried his utensils, returning everything to its place.
Using the hot water remaining in the kettle he made himself a cup of tea and brought it to the table. He picked up the newspaper and read it carefully, paying particular attention to the news columns. Satisfied, he washed and dried his cup and went outside into the yard.
Mrs Aylward's house, though modest in size, boasted a set of stables at the rear. Built by the previous owner, an enthusiastic horseman, they were no longer used for that purpose and had been converted into a storeroom and garage. Pike lived in a room on the floor above.
Employed primarily as a chauffeur, he was also charged with keeping the garden tidy. But his duties there were minimal, Mrs Aylward's interest in horticulture being confined to a conservatory that she had added to the house, attaching it to the side of her studio.
His job that day was to clean the greenhouse windows and he had already done the inside. Now he set up his ladder on the gravelled path that ran alongside the structure and mounted the steps with a bucket and mop. He worked automatically, his brow grooved with some inner preoccupation, his glance unfocused.
Pike had unusual eyes. Flat and brown, they seldom gave any clue to what he was thinking. Many people found them disturbing.
Deputy Assistant Commissioner Bennett rose as Sinclair and Madden entered his office. 'Inspector!
I'm relieved to see you in one piece.' He came round from behind his desk and shook Madden's hand.
'A pity you didn't nab him when you had the chance,' Sampson offered. The chief superintendent, in a mustard-coloured suit and matching tie, was already in his chair. He grinned to show he was making a joke. 'There were two of you, weren't there?'
Bennett looked at him sharply, but made no comment.
He took his own chair at the table by the window. The others joined him.
'Well, Chief Inspector?'
Sinclair opened his file. 'On the positive side, sir, we now know it's only one man we're looking for, and the military connection is solidly established. Mr Madden assures me that what he built in the woods was an Army dugout, down to the last detail. One of the villagers reported hearing a police whistle at the time of the attack. Police whistle, Army whistle they're one and the same. He seems to have acted as though he were going 'over the top'.' The chief inspector's tone indicated his distaste for the cliche.
'Apparently he wore a gas mask at the time.'
He took two pieces of paper from his file and passed them across the table. 'Those are drawings which the Fletcher child made later — as you know, she hasn't spoken yet. We didn't know what they meant until Inspector Madden realized they were an attempt by her to draw a gas mask.'
Sampson scowled. 'We haven't seen these before,' he said.
'I didn't include them in the file,' Sinclair admitted.
'They seemed to have no bearing on the case.'
'We'll have everything in future if you don't mind, Chief Inspector.' Sampson's small eyes had turned hard.
'As you wish, sir.'
Bennett stirred restlessly. 'But what are we dealing with here?' he demanded. 'What's this man about? Is he a lunatic? Have we any idea?'
Sinclair shook his head. 'He may prove to be, sir.
But I'm inclined to regard him as sane. Frighteningly so. Whatever mayhem he committed in Melling Lodge, all his preparations leading up to it, as well as his getaway, show the most detailed planning.
'And considering the events of Saturday, I'd say he kept his head to a remarkable degree. Instead of persisting with his attack on Mr Madden and the constable, he cut his losses and ran for it while he still had a chance to escape. We have eyewitness reports of him riding through both Oakley and Craydon and the most extraordinary thing, as far as I'm concerned, is that apparently he was going at no more than twenty miles an hour. Granted he didn't want to attract attention, but he must have felt an enormous urge to put his foot down. The man's an iceberg.'
Sampson clicked his tongue with impatience.
'Now, as to sightings, I'm afraid the news isn't good. After Craydon he effectively disappeared. That's to say, we've had any number of reports of motorcyclists travelling about the countryside, but given it was a Saturday afternoon, that's hardly surprising.
Some of them were stopped by the police, but without result. He seems to have vanished.'
Bennett hesitated. 'At our last meeting you indicated that the robbery was designed to mislead us. Are you still of that view?'
Sinclair looked unhappy. 'That seems less likely now,' he conceded. 'But I'm still puzzled as to why he would risk returning to Highfield.'
'No, really, we can't have that.' Sampson came to life, striking the table with his fist. 'There's a perfectly
