hands thrust into his coat pockets – his attitude had implied a challenge, and Eddie was pleased to see that change now.
The man took a step back, raising his right hand in a gesture of surrender. He turned and began to move away towards the doors. Relieved to see the crisis was over, Eddie relaxed himself. The tension of the last few minutes had kept him on edge, his muscles taut as bowstrings. Now he let them go loose, shifting his weight back on to his heels, and was helpless to react when the man struck.
Without any warning the stranger suddenly wheeled round, bringing his left hand into view and swinging it like a boxer’s punch into Eddie’s unprotected side. So swift was his action Eddie caught only a glimpse of the knife in his hand before it was buried in his flesh. But the force of the blow made him gasp, and as the blade was withdrawn, then driven in a second time, up beneath his ribs, a pain like nothing he had ever experienced shot through his innards.
He sank to his knees, but was unable to stay upright and fell, like a tree toppling, forward onto his front. All but paralysed by the blows, he thought for a dazed moment he was back in the trenches, lying in the mud after the sniper’s bullet had struck him. Then his mind cleared and he realized what had happened, though not why.
The event overwhelmed him. He could make no sense of it. Only one thing was certain, and he knew it beyond question as he lay there unmoving. This time there could be no doubt. He was scuppered for sure.
The floor of the barn was only inches away from his staring eyes and at the periphery of his vision he was aware of a pair of shoes pointing at him. As he watched, one of them drew back, and then came forward, accelerating. His senses, drowned by the flood of pain that was spreading like fire from the centre of his stomach, barely registered the sharp blow to his side.
He heard a grunt from above, followed by words spoken in a foreign language. Harsh and angry-sounding, they served to jolt him into wakefulness just as his consciousness was fading. Hands grasped at his clothes and the next thing he knew he was being lifted and turned, the barn swinging crazily before his eyes as he rolled over onto his back.
Once more he almost lost consciousness: the surging pain inside him seemed to have no limit. But when his wits cleared – he was staring at the roof now – he became aware of some activity under way not far from where he lay, and by turning his head a fraction was able to make out the figure of his assailant, who had his back to him and was clearing a pathway into the heaps of stored furniture, pushing aside strips of trailing canvas and shifting some of the smaller pieces.
Just past his own feet he could see the pitchfork lying beside the gathered hay, but it was too far away for him to reach, and in any case all physical effort was beyond him.
Or so he thought until he heard the man returning to where he lay and through half-closed lids watched as he crouched to take hold of his legs. It seemed his assailant was bent on dragging his body to some other location, but his first attempt to shift it was thwarted by the boots Eddie was wearing which prevented him from getting a firm grip on his ankles. Muttering, the man tore open the laces and flung the boots aside. He had shed his coat and hat – that much Eddie could see through the mist of pain that enveloped him – but otherwise was little more than a silhouette against the brightness of the lamp behind him as he took a fresh grip and threw his weight back.
It was the moment Eddie had been waiting for. With what remained of his strength, he jerked his right foot free of the grasping fingers and kicked out with all his might, catching the man flush on the forehead with his heel and sending him tumbling over backwards. His despairing effort was rewarded by a cry of pain as the man rolled free of the upthrust prongs of the pitchfork, plucking at his back and cursing.
Eddie could do no more. Emptied now and strangely at peace, he watched as his attacker clambered to his feet and, with the pitchfork clutched in his hands and raised to strike, advanced on him.
He prepared himself for the death blow he knew was coming and was determined not to cry out. But at the end he was spared this final test of courage.
As he stared unflinching at the looming form above him his consciousness faded and the light that had shone so brightly in his eyes went out.
23
‘I wish I had better news for you, John. Or any news at all. We’ve been checking hotels and boarding houses, but there’s no trace of him.’ Angus Sinclair’s clipped tones couldn’t disguise the weariness in his voice. At the other end of the telephone line, Madden listened with a heavy heart. ‘It’s still going on, and I’m extending the search to the neighbouring counties. I pray we’re not wasting our time.’
More than a week had passed since the chief inspector had unburdened himself at their meeting; they had not spoken since.
‘And there’s been nothing from abroad?’
‘No sightings, if that’s what you mean. But the Swiss have been quick off the mark. The Geneva police have confirmed that Lang’s wanted there on a double murder charge. It’s been so long, the cases had been shelved. But they’re anxious to get their hands on him now.’
‘Do they know about his connection with espionage?’ Madden asked.
‘They haven’t said so. But they’ve promised to send us some background on him, so we’ll wait and see. We’ve also been in touch with the Belgian police. Lang – or Wahl, as he called himself – kept a small flat in Brussels. It’s been empty since he went to Germany, but he had an arrangement with his concierge to keep an eye on it. She hasn’t heard from him in nearly a year. It looks as though Vane was right: he’s cut and run.’
‘Did they search the flat?’
‘They did. No incriminating evidence was found and nothing to indicate what sort of man he was, either, what his business might be. Our friends from the Surete were naturally curious as to his background, but I was unable to enlighten them.’ Sinclair’s chuckle had a hollow ring. ‘Two interesting points, though. There’ve been no killings with his trademark in Belgium. He knew enough to keep his own doorstep clean.’
‘Two points, you said-?’
‘Yes, they found a number of works of ornithology in his bookshelves. So the birdwatching link is confirmed. I’ve had Styles making inquiries among the societies, incidentally, as you suggested. Nothing’s come of it as yet. But hope springs eternal.’ The chief inspector’s sigh seemed to suggest otherwise. ‘Will you give my love to Helen?’
The call came midway through lunch and Madden was relieved not to have to relate its contents to his wife, who had driven up to London earlier that day in response to an appeal from her Aunt Maud, a lady in her eighties, who had fallen and injured her hip the night before and needed comforting.
Only too conscious of the effect his involvement in the case had had on Helen, his guilt on this account was made heavier by his awareness of the debt he owed her. Having returned from the war a broken man – in his own mind, at least – he knew that the deep happiness he had found, his sense of wholeness restored, came from the assurance her love had given him, and in following her wishes and breaking with his past he had made open acknowledgement of the fact.
But the brutal murder on which he’d stumbled had sounded a summons he’d found hard to ignore. The hunter’s instinct, for so long dormant in him, had reawakened and as the weeks passed and the police investigation seemed to draw no closer to its quarry he had realized he would find no peace until the man who had turned Alice Bridger’s face to pulp was brought to answer for it.
Like his old chief, he was tormented by one anxiety in particular: that the longer the killer remained at large, the more likely it was he would strike again. But when news of a fresh tragedy reached him at the close of that same day, it came from a quarter he had not foreseen.
‘It was Molly Henshaw found him, sir. She’d been taking him his meals each day. After his wife left, that is…’
‘Mrs Bridger left her husband?’ Madden was finding it difficult to come to terms with what Will Stackpole was telling him. The Highfield constable, tall in his helmet, stood like a pillar in the misty driveway in front of the house. Drawn up a little way off was an old Morris with its bonnet raised. Billy Styles was leaning on the mudguard, peering down at the motor.
‘Not left, as such, sir. She hadn’t walked out on him. But she said she couldn’t go on living in that cottage, not
