were all the same brand — Three Castles — which Wiggins didn't smoke. Find out who smokes cigarettes in the village and what brand they favour.'
The chief inspector extracted a further piece of paper from the file. He studied it for several seconds.
'I have here a preliminary report from Dr Ransom, the pathologist,' he went on. 'A description of the wounds inflicted on the three victims downstairs at felling Lodge and on Wiggins. I expect to receive a further report on Mrs Fletcher's injuries by courier from Guildford later today. The four victims I refer to were all killed with the same weapon, or an identical one. Dr Ransom characterizes this as a relatively narrow blade — no more than an inch wide — with one angle acute and the other blunt. The depth of the wounds varies between four inches, in the case of Alice Crookes, the nanny, whose body was found in the kitchen, and six inches, in the case of Colonel Fletcher.
No exit wounds were found. Dr Ransom is unable to say whether the wounds were inflicted by a right- or a left-handed man. This is because they were struck with 'a remarkable degree of uniformity' — I'm quoting now — 'being both straight in relation to the skin surface and horizontal'. He adds one further observation:
'in each case some lateral damage to tissue was caused when the weapon was withdrawn.''
Sinclair replaced the sheet of paper carefully in the file. His glance met Madden's briefly.
'Dr Ransom agrees with Inspector Madden and myself that these wounds are typical of those caused by the standard British Army sword bayonet. I have one here.' Sinclair loosened the drawstring on the canvas bag and took out a sheathed bayonet. He withdrew the glittering steel from the scabbard and held it up. 'Notice the similarities to the murder weapon as described by Dr Ransom. One angle blunt,' he ran his finger along the top of the bayonet, 'the other acute. It may strike you as strange that a weapon of this length — it's twenty-one inches, in fact — should be used to inflict such relatively shallow wounds.
Inspector Madden will explain.'
Madden rose to his feet and faced the detectives. He spoke in a monotone. 'What I have to say will be familiar to anyone who has served in the ranks. For the rest of you, I'll describe briefly the training given to infantrymen in the last war. The average soldier, armed with rifle and bayonet, will automatically thrust the weapon in as far as it will go. Run his enemy through, in fact.
'He has to be taught not to do this. Skin and muscle cling to the blade making it difficult to extract.
The correct method, as taught by the Army, is a short, stabbing thrust followed by a half-twist to break the friction as the weapon is withdrawn. All the wounds we have been discussing show these characteristics.'
One of the Guildford detectives held up his hand.
'Sir, are you saying a bayonet fixed to a rifle was used in these killings?'
'I am.'
'Were they all killed by the same man?'
'I believe so.' Madden paused. 'You heard what the pathologist said. 'A remarkable degree of uniformity.'
I'll go further and say that whoever killed them was an expert in the use of this weapon. In each case only one thrust was required. Either the man was highly trained, or, more likely, was once an instructor himself.
Possibly an Army sergeant.'
Again there was a murmur from the assembled detectives. Madden glanced at Sinclair and sat down.
'Right!' The chief inspector looked at his watch. 'If there are no more questions, I suggest we get started.' 'Thank you, Chief Inspector. A fine summary, if I may say so.' Sir Clifford Warner paused at the top of the church hall steps to shake Sinclair's hand. Lord Stratton hovered at his shoulder. 'You'll keep me informed?'
'Of course, sir.'
The Surrey chief constable glanced curiously at Madden as he moved away.
'They were talking about you earlier, John.' Sinclair was filling his pipe from a leather pouch. 'Warner wanted to hear about your run-in with the Lord Lieutenant.'
'Has Raikes lodged a complaint?'
Madden's pallor seemed more striking in the morning sunlight. Sinclair wondered if he had been disturbed by the thought of the bayoneted bodies. They were colleagues of long standing, their acquaintance going back to before the war when Sinclair's eye had first been caught by the tall young detective, fresh out of the uniformed branch. Much had happened to Madden since then.
'Not that I know of, and not that I care. Let Raikes get back to doing what he does best, slaughtering innocent birds and beasts and stay out of police business.' The chief inspector struck a match. 'Oakley, you say?'
'Yes, sir.' Madden drew on the cigarette he had lit some moments before. 'It's on the other side of the ridge. I'd like to get over there. I think our man might have come that way.'
'You'll need a car, then.'
'Lord Stratton's offered to lend us one.'
'So he has. What's more I've accepted. God knows, we'll get no help from the Yard.' Scotland Yard's attitude towards motorized transport — they saw no reason why any policeman should be supplied with a vehicle when he had two perfectly good feet — was a pet grievance of the chief inspector's. Second only to his dogged and so far unsuccessful campaign to have a central police laboratory established. 'He took your side, by the way, Stratton did. He said Raikes was wrong to go inside the house and wrong to invite him along. Called him a blockhead. Quite brightened my morning, his lordship did.'
Madden trod on his cigarette. 'What about the press, sir? Have you spoken to them yet?'
'I'm meeting them at noon. Just for now, and between us, I'll not discourage the notion of a gang, if anyone brings it up. One man on his own — now that's a disturbing thought.'
They moved aside as the first group of villagers come to be interviewed gathered at the foot of the steps. Dressed as though for church, Sinclair noted.
Suits and ties for the men, hats for the women. He made his own silent prayer: Let just one of them remember something, anything, a face, a description…
A young woman knelt to tie on a toddler's bonnet.
The sight caused Sinclair's face to harden.
'I'll be seeing Dr Blackwell later,' he said. 'I'm not happy about that little girl staying in her house. She ought to be in hospital. It's something the doctor should understand. Can't she be persuaded to see reason?'
'Not an easily persuadable woman, sir.' Madden's face was a mask.
'Is she not?' The chief inspector's eyes lit up. 'We'll see about that. I intend to have words with this dragon.'
The car was parked in the cobbled courtyard of the village pub, where Madden had left his bag with the landlord earlier that morning. It was a well-worn Humber with a dent in the rear mudguard. Lord Stratton himself, bareheaded, stood talking to two of the villagers. When he saw Madden he came over.
'Inspector, I must apologize for what happened yesterday.' His thin, seamed face showed the ravages of a sleepless night. 'Raikes had no business taking me into that house, and I had no business accepting.
Well, I've paid for it.'
'Sir?'
'I can't get it out of my mind. The sight of the bodies… Poor Lucy Fletcher, laid out like a sacrifice.
What kind of man would do a thing like that? Then I find myself thinking perhaps there were more than one…'
'We don't know yet that she was raped, sir.'
'No… no… of course.' He thrust his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket and stared at the ground. 'The villagers keep asking me… There are some things one doesn't want to know.'
'How are they taking it?'
'Badly.'
Madden sought and obtained directions to Oakley.
He drove along the same road he had travelled the day before, past Melling Lodge, where two uniformed policemen stood on duty at the closed gates and a man lugging a heavy press camera leaned against a car parked on the grass verge. A mile or so further on he came on another set of gates and another uniformed constable. He stopped the car and got out.
