and gone forward. Captain Miller put two and two together. He reckoned Pike was his man and that he'd decided to end it on the battlefield rather than face a charge of murder. So we left and went back to Poperinge, and the captain sat down to write his report. While he was doing that we heard about the body being recovered. Captain Miller put it all in his report. He wrote a memorandum to go with the file, saying he believed Pike was the killer and giving his reasons and recommending the case should be marked closed. He was just finishing it when he got a message from the assistant provost marshal — Colonel Strachan — to send the file up to staff headquarters. The brass hats wanted to see it.'
'The General Staff?'
'Someone there had asked for it — we never found out who.' Tozer shrugged. 'Captain Miller sent the file off, and then a week later he was called in by Colonel Strachan. He came back hopping mad. He said they were going to bury the whole thing.'
'His investigation?'
'No, just his findings about Pike. The case was to be closed as far as the Army was concerned and the file sent to the provost marshal. But the captain's memorandum was removed. The Belgian police weren't to be informed of his findings.'
Sinclair sat back in astonishment. 'Could they do that?'
'In the Army} In wartime!' Tozer scoffed. 'You were just told to get on with it.' He touched the scar on his cheek again, running his fingers lightly over the ridged flesh. 'Captain Miller was given the full story later. Someone at headquarters thought he ought to know the truth. I mentioned about Pike being a hero.
Fact was, he'd won the Military Medal in 1916 and then he won it again the following year. Destroyed a German machine-gun post single-handed. So he was due the bar and since Field Marshal Haig was making a tour of the front around that time, handing out medals, they included Pike in one of the ceremonies.
That was just before he got concussed, so it would only have been a month or two before the murders.
There was a nice snap of the two of them taken by an Army photographer.' Tozer's grin took on a cynical twist. 'It appeared in some of the London papers.
'Field Marshal Decorates Hero.''
'And two months later it's 'Field Marshal Hobnobs With Mass Murderer.'' Sinclair scratched his nose.
'Yes, I can see how that might have concentrated a few minds.'
'There'd already been reports about the killings in the French newspapers. If they got hold of Pike's name from the Belgian police it wouldn't be long before the facts were out. So they made up a story about a gang of deserters being suspected and there being a big hunt under way for them.' Tozer looked scornful.
'Whoever it was talked to the captain said that since Pike was dead justice had been served and the whole business was best forgotten.'
'And how did Miller feel about that?'
'Hopping mad!' Tozer's eyes flashed. 'He said it was a disgrace.'
'Was that the end of it?' Sinclair asked.
'Pretty well. The captain swore an affidavit for the court martial at Poperinge saying Duckham had been of great assistance to him, but it didn't do any good.
They shot him just the same. He didn't forget about Pike. It was always on his mind. Almost the last thing I remember him saying before we got hit by that shell was how he wasn't going to let it rest. He was going to take it up with someone.'
Tozer fell silent. He stared at the floor.
Sinclair coughed. 'It's my impression you served under a fine officer, Mr Tozer.'
'I did that, sir.' The blue eyes lifted.
'And I deeply regret the injury you suffered. I think the force is the poorer for it.'
Tozer made a quick bobbing motion with his head.
The chief inspector got to his feet and Tozer followed suit. They shook hands.
'We may need to get in touch with you again. But in the meantime I'd be grateful if you'd keep this to yourself. We'll get Pike's photograph into the newspapers, but we need to be careful what appears in print.'
'Don't worry, sir. I won't breathe a word.'
He shook hands with Madden and nodded to the other two men.
'Constable Styles will see you out.' Sinclair sat down. 'And thank you again.'
Tozer had his hand on the doorknob when he checked and turned to face them. 'There's one more thing I'd like to say, sir…'
'Go ahead.' The chief inspector looked up.
'When you catch up with him, with Pike, you'll watch yourself, won't you?'
'Indeed we will,' Sinclair replied. 'And thank you for the warning. But why do you say that?'
'I forgot to tell you before, I should have mentioned it. We met him, the captain and me.'
'No, by God, you didn't mention it.' Sinclair was on his feet again.
'Only we didn't know, of course. Not then Tozer bit his lip. 'It was when the captain was interrogating those men from B Company. Pike was the man who marched them in.'
'The company sergeant major. Of course! What about him, Mr Tozer?'
'Well, the funny thing is we talked about him afterwards, Captain Miller and me.' Tozer frowned.
'The captain was just saying he didn't think it was any of the lads he'd questioned, and then he laughed and said: 'But did you get a look at that sergeant major? Now if he'd been in the line-up…' And I knew just what he meant, because I'd had the same feeling myself. As soon as Pike walked in, I thought:
Now there's a killer! Eyes like stones.'
Pike was able to keep to his schedule that Saturday morning. Mrs Aylward had caught the nine-twenty train to Waterloo, as planned, confirming with her last words to the household staff her intention of returning the following Tuesday. He had the weekend free, and although his employer had asked him to attend to some outdoor tasks on Monday he had no intention of obeying her wishes. He knew that neither the maid, Ethel Bridgewater, nor Mrs Rowley, the cook, would report his absence to their mistress. They took care not to cross him.
It was ten minutes past eleven by his hunter — the watch was engraved with his father's initials and had been his parting gift to him — when he opened the wooden gate in the back fence and stepped into Mrs Troy's garden.
Already his excitement was stirring, throbbing in the pit of his stomach like a deep, slow pulse. He was impatient to be on his way. But he'd been troubled by the memory of the old woman's distress on his last visit. He regretted having departed in haste then without first determining its cause. Unease had plagued him all week.
Now he walked past the shed and went directly to the kitchen door, entering without knocking as he always did. He deposited the parcel of food he had brought on the kitchen table and continued soft-footed through into the narrow hallway. The door to the front parlour was open. He paused on the threshold and looked in.
She was in her customary chair by the window with the tortoiseshell cat on her lap. The knitted shawl she favoured was draped about her shoulders and a plaid blanket covered her knees. The day was cloudy, the air cool and autumnal. Pike shifted on his feet, making a small sound. He didn't want to startle her.
'Mr Biggs…?' She turned eagerly.
'No, it's me,' Pike said gruffly. 'Grail.'
His words had an astonishing effect on her. She started in shock and clutched involuntarily at the cat, which she had been stroking. It let out a yowl of surprise and sprang from her lap. Her eyes stared blindly at him.
'What's the matter, Mrs Troy?' He seldom used her name.
Her mouth opened and shut. She seemed unable to speak.
'Are you sick? Can I get you something?' He had never made such an offer before.
'No…' At last she managed to produce a word.
'No, thank you Pike checked an impulse to approach nearer. He saw that she was terrified, but couldn't think why. He was accustomed to causing fear in others. In the past he had reduced men bigger and stronger than he to white-faced silence with a single look. They had sensed the menace he presented, terrible in its stillness. But he had never by word or action sought to intimidate her. The word 'irony' was not in his vocabulary, but he would have appreciated its significance in this instance. She was the one person who had nothing to fear from him. Her physical well-being was almost as precious to him as his own. He lived in perpetual anxiety that she might die suddenly,
