‘What, then? What’s troubling you?’
The chief inspector sighed. ‘It’s what Madden thinks that worries me. He feels we’ve only touched the surface of this case: that there’ll be worse to come. And if past experience is anything to go by, I have to tell you his instincts in these matters are usually right.’
9
The Maddens’ house stood at the end of a drive shaded by lime trees. Alerted by the sound of the approaching car, Helen was waiting in the portico to greet Sinclair when he drew up in front.
‘Angus… how lovely to see you.’
She was wearing an apron, the sleeves of her white blouse rolled to the elbow, and as they exchanged kisses, the chief inspector was prompted to reflect that in years gone by, when Helen’s father was still alive and sharing the house with his daughter and son-in-law, visitors had invariably been met at the door by a uniformed maid: the times were indeed changing.
‘Mary’s busy in the kitchen helping Mrs Beck,’ she explained, as though in answer to his unspoken thought. ‘We’ve been bottling all morning. Come inside. I’ve got a surprise for you. Franz Weiss is here. He’s spending a few days with us.’
‘Is he really?’ Sinclair’s face brightened at the name. A psychoanalyst of note, Weiss had been a friend of Helen’s late father. Born in Vienna, but now living in Berlin, he was a man for whom the chief inspector felt not only affection, but uncommon respect. ‘I had no idea. How is the good doctor?’
‘Well enough, but worried. The situation in Germany’s so unsettled. They should never have left Vienna.’
She drew him into the house and they passed through the hall to the drawing room.
‘Come outside. He’s waiting to see you.’
As they stepped out on to the stone-flagged terrace, a figure emerged from the shade of the vine-covered arbour that stood at one end of it. White-haired, and somewhat stooped now – he was in his early seventies – Franz Weiss paused in his tracks to bow with old-world courtesy.
‘Chief Inspector! This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘So it is, sir.’ Smiling, Sinclair came forward to shake his hand. ‘But the pleasure is mine, I insist.’
Though fully two years had passed since their last meeting – the occasion had been a dinner given by the Maddens when Weiss had been in London for a conference on psychoanalysis – he was pleased to see that the doctor had lost none of his alertness; that his eyes, dark, and crinkled at the corners, shone with the same mixture of intelligence and wry humour which the chief inspector remembered with such pleasure from past encounters.
Their acquaintance went back more than a decade to the police investigation into the murders at Melling Lodge when Weiss, by chance, had been visiting England, and Madden, through his relationship with Helen, had obtained advice from him that later proved critical in tracking down the killer he and Sinclair were seeking. The episode had left a deep impression on the chief inspector, who had come to believe as a result of it that insights offered by the new discipline of psychiatry into criminal behaviour might well prove useful to the police in their work. It was a question he had continued to pursue with the analyst on the rare occasions when they met.
‘Are you staying in England long, sir?’ he asked. ‘I was hoping we might lunch in London next week.’
‘Alas, I leave tomorrow to return to Berlin.’ Weiss spread his hands in a gesture of regret. His English, though fluent, was marked by a strong accent. ‘But we have the whole day ahead of us. I’ve no doubt we will find an opportunity to talk.’
He turned to Helen.
‘The chief inspector’s work is a source of endless fascination to me. My occupation, I fear, must seem dry by comparison to his. But he is good enough to pretend otherwise.’
He smiled at his hostess.
‘And now, my dear, would you excuse me? I have only been waiting here in order to greet our friend. I must return to my labours. We will meet again at lunch… yes?’
With a bow to them both, he left the terrace. Helen’s eyes followed his departing figure.
‘Franz has been up to London twice to talk to old colleagues of his,’ she informed Sinclair. ‘Men who gave up their practices in Germany to settle over here. He wants to do the same himself, but there are difficulties. Mina is unwell for one thing. He’s not sure she’s strong enough to travel.’
‘Are things so bad in Berlin, then?’
‘Bad enough. And likely to get worse, if you happen to be Jewish, or so Franz says. He thinks the Nazis will soon be in power. Who knows what will happen then? I do worry about them all.’
Her concern came as no surprise to the chief inspector, who knew that as a young woman she had spent six months with the doctor and his wife in Vienna, learning German, and that they had treated her like a daughter.
He was still seeking for some words of reassurance when she turned away to look out over the garden, and he followed the direction of her glance, taking in the vista of the long lawn, bordered by shrubs and flower beds and backed by the green woods of Upton Hanger. It was a view he’d come to love over the years, one he associated with the many happy hours he had spent in this house.
‘John’s down in the orchard. He’s waiting for you.’
The chief inspector said nothing. With some foreboding, he had sensed a slight change in her manner. The memory of their recent conversation at the village fair was still fresh in his thoughts, and he wondered if he was about to be reminded of it.
‘You’ll find Lucy with him. But don’t be deceived by appearances. She’s in deep disgrace.’
‘Oh, dear…’ In his relief, Sinclair allowed a grin to escape his lips.
‘You may smile, but it’s no laughing matter.’ Helen’s own expression suggested otherwise. ‘On her first day at school last week she poured ink over another child and was made to stand in the corner. A whole bottle, no less. People are kind enough to tell me I was just the same at that age, but I refuse to believe them. Ask John to send her up to the house, would you? It’s almost time for her lunch.’
She paused then, and he felt her gaze on him.
‘You and he can have your talk. But don’t be long, please. And remember what I said.’
‘I had a cup of tea with Jim Boyce in Guildford on the way down. Not only haven’t they laid hands on Beezy yet, they’ve not had a single report of his whereabouts. Your friend Topper’s been spotted, though, in the fields near Basingstoke last week. The local bobby was a bit slow off the mark. He sent a message to headquarters asking for instructions, but by the time the reply came back telling him to pick him up, Topper had disappeared again.’
Sinclair had come on his host jacketless and with his sleeves rolled up, hard at work sawing up an old plum tree. The orchard had long since been picked clean, but a sweet smell lingered in the dappled shade from fruit that had rotted on the ground and the sound of the saw was counterpointed by the higher, more delicate buzzing of wasps, few in number now and seemingly weary as the Indian summer drew to its end.
‘Tom Cooper’s down with rheumatism,’ Madden had explained as he broke off his labours to greet his guest. ‘I’m standing in for him.’
Mention of the familiar name brought a smile to the chief inspector’s lips. Cooper had been the gardener at Melling Lodge, a minor player in the tragedy that had first brought them to Highfield years before, and a reminder of the smallness of the world to which his old colleague had retreated; and where he had found such deep contentment.
Having relayed the message entrusted to him, he had seated himself on the low stone wall bordering the garden, taking out his pipe and tobacco, and waited while Madden went in search of his daughter, who was playing by the stream nearby, and whose cries of delight as she splashed ankle-deep in the shallow water showed precious little sign of repentance. Presently they returned, hand in hand, and trailed by Lucy’s companions of the morning, two floppy-limbed puppies, both wet from paddling with their mistress, and generous with the amount of water they distributed about them as they shook themselves dry.
Prompted by her father, the little girl had paused to welcome their guest. The chief inspector had been offered a damp cheek to kiss along with a smile so dazzling he had felt his heart skip a beat.
‘And remember to wash your feet under the tap before you go inside.’
