where he had left the motorcycle, taking his bag with him.
Before wedging it into place in the sidecar he unbuckled the straps and took out a piece of meat wrapped in striped butcher's paper, which he slipped into the pocket of his leather jacket, wrinkling his nose at the gamy smell. He had bought it the day before and it was starting to go off.
The doors to the drawing-room stood open and the curtains on the windows had been pulled back so that light from inside poured out on to the grass. Two maids were busy with trays, moving back and forth between the house and the table under the trellised vine. Beyond the stretch of lawn illuminated by the lights the garden lay in silvered shadow under the bright moonlight.
Pike sat with his binoculars nailed to his eyes.
He had been watching for more than two hours, propped against the trunk of the beech tree, motionless in a well of darkness untouched by the moon's rays.
The adult members of the family were eating dinner.
There were three of them, but two he barely noticed. His attention was fixed on the fair-haired woman facing him, whose bare arms and shoulders glowed like ivory in the flickering candlelight.
Some kind of celebration was in progress. All three were in evening dress. Champagne had been poured at the start of the meal and glasses raised to the older of the two women. Even from a distance Pike could see the wine froth and sparkle.
He had done this at Highfield. He had sat in the shadows and watched. But try as he might now he couldn't recapture the feeling he had had then: the sense of a pleasure postponed, but within his grasp. A fruit he could pluck whenever he chose.
The beast stirring within him now cared nothing for patience and detachment. Its demands were insistent.
He shifted, easing the pressure in his groin.
He turned his attention away from the table to the edge of the lawn, where the yew alley began, and then traced the course of the path that ran the length of the garden to the croquet lawn. Three-quarters of the way along the yew alley a subsidiary path branched out and led to the gate in the mossed wall. Pike's eye came to rest there.
But not for long. Slowly, with all the deliberation he could muster, he made the return journey with his glasses, following the pathway back to the yew alley and then up to the lawn and the house.
He pictured it all in his mind's eye.
The charge, with the rifle and bayonet thrusting ahead!
The glass doors shattering!
He heard the screams. He'd heard them before.
They only increased his excitement.
Heart pumping in his chest, he brought the binoculars back to bear on the distant figure of the woman.
His mouth turned dry at the sight of her bare arms.
The thought of her body beneath his brought a low growl from his throat.
'Call me Sadie… I want you to call me Sadie.' He whispered the words.
At Melling Lodge he had been unable to contain himself. His climax had come too soon, soiling his trousers, while he struggled with the woman on the bed, the shame and the blood and the pleasure all mixed together.
Recalling those moments now, he made a silent vow.
This time it would be different. This time he would call on his iron control.
But the last two hours had shown him he couldn't wait. His need demanded urgent satisfaction. Even tonight would not have been too soon.
He put down his glasses and lit a cigarette, deliberately allowing his body to cool.
The following weekend Mrs Aylward would take the train to London on Saturday morning. He had already been informed of her plans. She would go from there to visit friends in Gloucestershire, returning only the following Tuesday. He would have the whole weekend free, and Monday, too, if he chose.
Pike drew deeply on his cigarette. In a moment his mind was made up.
He had one more thing to do.
Extinguishing his cigarette, he rose and started down the hill, slipping between the trees, catlike in the sureness of his footing, a shadow among the shadows. At the bottom he left the treeline and joined the path that led through the water-meadow, walking silently between the ponds where the moon hung motionless on the dark surface of the water.
When he reached the garden gate he stopped and went down on his haunches. He could hear their voices. The silvery notes of a woman's laugh came to him on the still night air. He thought of her white throat.
He began to whistle. Softly, almost inaudibly at first. Then a little louder. He went on that way, the grating tuneless air growing in volume all the time.
He was rewarded after a minute by the sound of a yelp coming from the direction of the lawn. Then almost at once he heard another noise in which whining, panting and scurrying movement were all mingled, and the dog burst into view on the pathway ahead of him, skidding around the corner from the yew alley, heavy ears flapping.
Growling a challenge, it ran towards the figure crouched behind rhe barred gate.
It was after midnight when he returned to Rudd's Cross, switching off the stuttering engine of his motorcycle when he was still some distance from the cottage. It had given trouble on the ride back, the carburettor needed cleaning. He pushed the machine for the last hundred yards along the puddle-strewn dirt track up to the shed.
Once inside, he wasted no time, not bothering to light the paraffin lamp, locating the dust cloth by feel in the pitch darkness and flinging it over the motorcycle.
He was anxious to get home as soon as possible.
A long drive lay ahead of him the following day — Mrs Aylward had a client in Lewes.
Before leaving he cast a glance at the darkened windows of the cottage. He hadn't forgotten the old woman's strange behaviour. Something was troubling her. He must find out what it was.
He would come early next Saturday. There was much to do.
Grim-faced, Sinclair strode along the carpeted corridor with Madden at his elbow. 'So Ferris thinks my days are numbered — did you see that piece in Friday's Express? 'Is it time for a change?' I wonder, does he know something we don't?'
A breakdown in the Underground had delayed the chief inspector's arrival at the Yard by half an hour.
He had paused in his office only long enough to empty the contents of his briefcase on to his desk, secure the cumulative file from the drawer where it resided and signal Madden to accompany him.
'Let's leave that till later, John,' he said, when the inspector began to tell him about an idea he had.
'Let's get this over with first.'
Glancing at his colleague's face, Sinclair was pleased to see him looking rested and alert. He allowed himself to wonder whether a visit to Highfield had figured among Madden's weekend activities.
''Informed circles at the Yard,'' he quoted, as he led the way into the anteroom to Bennett's office.
'That's what Ferris calls his source. Do you think the chief super will have the grace to blush this morning?'
In the event, they had no opportunity to find out.
Bennett was alone in his office. The deputy, dressed in funereal black, stood by the window, hands on hips, gazing out at the morning traffic on the river. He turned when they entered.
'Good morning, gentlemen.' He ushered them to their usual chairs at the polished oak table. Their way led past his desk where a copy of Friday's Daily Express was ostentatiously displayed. 'We're on our own this morning.' Bennett sat down facing them. His brown eyes were expressionless. 'Mr Sampson has another appointment.'
Sinclair opened his file. Without haste he began to leaf through the typewritten pages. His neat, contained figure showed no sign of strain or anxiety.
'As you know, sir, we were hoping these wartime killings in Belgium would provide us with information that would assist us in our current inquiries.'
The chief inspector raised flint-coloured eyes from the file and looked squarely at Bennett. 'I'm afraid thus far they've proved a blind alley.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.' Bennett shifted slightly in his chair. 'None of these men fits the bill, then?'
