had fallen all around him. Then he felt something brush his cheek and he lifted his hand quickly- A leaf, spiralling down from the branches above, came to rest on his shoulder.
He heard the rustle again, quick and furtive, and this time recognized the sound as that of a small, scurrying animal. Prey or predator, he could not tell, but it was gone in a moment.
His anxiety had not abated and he began to comb his memory, running through the events of the afternoon, the conversations he had held, trying to track down the errant phrase that lurked like a fugitive at the back of his mind, refusing to show itself.
Was it something Stackpole had said?
He reached the end of the drive and crossed the short expanse of gravel in front of the house. The portico light was out, but the door was unlocked, as promised, and he went inside, switching on the light in the entrance hall. The way to the drawing-room led through the hall and across a passage and he went there without pausing.
The drawing-room was in darkness, but there was enough light coming from the hall to make out the various table lamps. As he began to switch them on, a reflection of the room sprang up in the wide bow window overlooking the terrace where the curtains had not been drawn. He caught sight of his own figure in the gold- framed mirror above the mantelpiece and frowned, remembering.
Not the constable. His wife!
It was something Mrs Stackpole had said.
Madden opened the door to the terrace and stepped outside. The mist was thicker on this side of the house, covering the lawn and cloaking the orchard at the foot of the garden.
He whistled and called out the dog's name twice: 'Molly! Molly!'
No answering yelp came from the silvered blackness.
Mist lapped at the flagstoned terrace.
The hairs on the back of Madden's neck rose. Like other long-term survivors of the trenches he had developed an instinct for danger that some had called a sixth sense but was, in fact, a learned reaction to small events and anomalies: a flicker of light in the depths of no man's land; the thrum of a barbed-wire strand in the darkness.
To things that were not as they should be.
He whistled again, and this time he heard a faint whine. The noise came from close at hand — near the foot of the terrace steps, which were hidden in mist but overlapping it came another sound from behind him: the high- pitched note of the Wolseley's engine approaching down the drive towards the house.
'Dick Wright says he's lost another pair of chickens. And they pinched some food from his kitchen, too.'
Madden whirled and made for the door, slamming and locking it behind him, and then sprinted across the drawing-room, running for the hallway and the front door.
Racing to head her off.
Before he had crossed the room he heard the pounding of footsteps on the terrace and turned to see his own reflection in the bow window shatter as a body came hurtling through it, smashing wood and glass, landing on the floor beyond the window-sill and then driving onwards towards him without a pause. He had time only to register the pale, blood-streaked face and the long pole that Pike held crossways in front of his body like a barrier before the man was on him!
Too late the inspector saw the gleam of the bayonet tipping the pole. He tried to fling himself to one side, but Pike followed the movement, and as Madden staggered backwards he made a darting, snakelike thrust, driving the blade deep into the inspector's body, then wrenching it out with a savage turn of his wrist.
Madden collapsed to his knees with a groan and toppled over. He lay unmoving.
Leaving her car's motor running, Helen Blackwell hurried into the house. As she ran through the lighted hallway she called to Madden: 'John, they want you back in London. That man who was burned wasn't Pike. He's not dead-'
She came into the drawing-room and stopped. Her eyes went from the smashed window to Madden's body on the floor, seeing both in the same instant. For the space of a heartbeat she stood rooted. Paralysed by shock. Then, as she opened her mouth to cry out, a hand was clamped across her lips from behind and her arms were pinned to her side. Hot breath blasted in her ear; bristles tore at her neck.
She knew who it was — who it must be. The knowledge came in a flash and, though terror-stricken, she fought back at once, throwing her body from side to side, trying to unbalance her assailant. Strong as he was she sensed weakness in him. His hoarse breathing bore a note of exhaustion. Mingled with the incoherent growling that came from his lips she heard grunts of pain.
Reeling about the room, crashing into furniture, sending stools and side tables spinning, they came before the mirror over the fireplace and Helen caught a glimpse of her attacker behind her. She saw a bloodstained forehead and lips drawn back over snarling teeth. She also saw a dark stain on the upper arm of his khaki shirt. Wrenching a hand free from his clawing grip she punched her knuckles into the mark with all her strength.
Pike let out a roar of pain and released her. But before she could react, a blow from behind sent her stumbling into the fireplace where her forehead struck the projecting ledge of the mantelpiece and she fell back, stunned, on the hearth rug, blood flowing from a deep cut above her eye.
Snarling with pain, Pike seized her under the armpits and dragged her inert form over to the sofa. He was moaning, half crying, muttering the same words over and over: 'Sadie… oh, Sadie Blood from his forehead dripped on to her blouse.
He pulled her hair from under her body, where it was trapped, and spread it about her shoulders.
'Oh, Sadie He ripped the buttons of her blouse, then reached down to drag up her skirt. As he pulled it above her knees he was caught from behind by his shirt and lifted and spun around. A tremendous blow to the side of his jaw sent him staggering backwards and he tripped over one of the tumbled stools and fell flat on his back.
'You murdering swine!'
Stackpole stood over him in his shirtsleeves. As Pike tried to clamber to his feet, grasping at the back of an armchair, the constable struck him another clubbing blow, knocking him face down on the carpet.
'Bastard!'
He grasped the back of Pike's shirt in one hand and his leather belt in the other and hauled him up on to his hands and knees. As the dazed man flailed about, trying to find his bearings, Stackpole ran him across the floor and pitched him head first into a glass fronted cabinet. Glass and china shattered, spilling on to the carpet. Pike's head emerged from the cabinet dripping with blood. The constable threw his body aside.
Breathing heavily, his face suffused with rage, he looked about him. Dr Blackwell was stirring on the sofa, raising her head, blinking blood from her eye- 'Look out!'
Her cry made him turn quickly and he saw Pike on the floor behind him gripping a long pole with both hands. His strike was so swift Stackpole had no chance to avoid it. The tip of the bayonet caught the constable in the thigh and he stumbled to one side and fell over a chair, landing heavily on his back.
Dazed, he saw Pike, his bloodied face twisted with pain, hauling himself to his feet. He was leaning on the pole, pushing himself upright, when all of a sudden the prop was snatched from his hands and he crashed to the floor again. The figure of Madden rose to his knees behind him. He held the pole in his hands. The inspector's front was drenched in blood.
His face was ghastly pale.
Pike lay groaning on his back. He seemed to have come to the end of his strength. As Stackpole clambered up he saw that Madden, too, was on his feet.
The inspector stood swaying over the man stretched out on the floor. He lifted the bayonet-tipped pole in unsteady hands.
'Do it, sir!' Stackpole urged him hoarsely. 'Kill him! Send the bastard to hell!'
'John!' Dr Blackwell called to him from the sofa.
Her voice was pleading.
Madden held the point of the blade an inch from Pike's chest. The brown eyes met his through a mask of blood. They showed no emotion.
'Amos Pike!' Madden's voice was faint. 'I'm placing you under arrest.'
The eyes flared. The bloody face contorted. Before the inspector could stop him Pike reached up and seized the pole from his failing grip. With a single thrust he drove the point downwards into his own chest, impaling his body to the floor. Blood fountained from his lips. His body gave a last convulsive heave and was still.
