to lose.
At the bottom of the stairs was a cloakroom where he had seen Mary Spencer hang her son’s coat earlier that afternoon. The door was open a few inches, and for a brief moment Madden toyed with the idea of concealing himself there and attempting to seize Ash when he came running down the stairs (as he hoped he would). But the plan seemed rash — he had no idea whether he could overpower the younger man, who in any case was inured to violence — and he dismissed it. Instead he positioned himself at the bottom of the flight, assegai in hand.
‘Ash!’ He roared out the name. ‘Raymond Ash. I have a warrant for your arrest. Drop your weapon if you have one and give yourself up.’
His last words echoed in the empty hall. Expecting his quarry to appear at any moment on the landing above, he prepared to run.
There was silence for several seconds. Then a faint sound reached his ears. The stirring of movement. It came from the floor above and he peered up there.
A hinge squeaked.
This time the noise came from closer at hand, but Madden’s attention was so riveted to the scene above, his concentration so fixed on the few square feet of the landing, that only when something like a shadow passed before his eyes — it was no more than a flicker — did he react; and then only instinctively.
He thrust his gloved hand upwards and in that fraction of a second saved his life.
As the wire cut into his palm he realized in an instant what had happened: Ash had been hiding in the coat cupboard behind him and was set on killing him now.
Like two drunks they staggered about the stone-flagged floor, Madden roaring in his chest with the pain and with the effort he was making to fling off the man behind him, who equally clung to his garrotte, growling unintelligibly himself. First they thudded into the wall, then into the front door before ricocheting off that to a table that stood at the side of the hall with a brass tray on it. Knocked off its perch, the tray fell to the floor with a noise like a gong being struck. And throughout the eternity of seconds that passed as they writhed together, Madden kept trying to strike at his foe with the assegai, which he still held clutched in his right hand, thrusting backwards with the short stabbing spear, while his left held the wire at bay. Little by little, though, the pressure was choking him and he felt himself weakening.
Through bleary, tear-filled eyes, he saw two figures appear then, as if by magic, on the stairs, Bess in the lead, her heavy boots pounding on the carpeted runners, Eva at her heels. The sight galvanized him into one last effort. Seeing his attacker’s foot on the floor just behind and a little to one side of him, he drove the tip of the assegai into the instep with all his strength and was rewarded with a cry of pain. The band of fire at his throat slackened, and before Ash had time to recover he repeated the action and then threw himself backwards, sending his attacker crashing into the table again. All at once the wire loosened, and as they rolled apart Madden saw that Bess had reached the bottom of the stairs and was coming to his aid.
‘Run!’ he croaked to her. ‘Run!’ He had lost his assegai as he tried to scramble to his feet. He saw Ash was doing the same, fumbling in the pocket of his greatcoat as he got to his knees. But his own strength was gone: he knew he couldn’t tackle him again. ‘To the kitchen —!’
Whether Bess heard his choked cry he never knew, but she turned at once and grabbed hold of Eva’s hand. The girl was standing at the bottom of the stairs, paralysed by fright, unable to move, it seemed, until Bess jerked her into motion and then dragged her in the direction of the passage. Unsteady though he was, Madden began to stagger after them, but his feet struck the tray that had fallen to the floor and as he stumbled and almost fell, a shot rang out and he felt the sting of plaster on his face. A bullet had struck the wall beside him and he looked back. Ash had risen to one knee and was taking aim with the pistol.
Madden threw himself forward into the passage as he fired, landing on his hands and knees, then picked himself up and staggered down the corridor to the open door of the kitchen where Bess was waiting like some burly guardian angel. She swept him inside, slamming the door shut behind them as she switched on the light, then cursing when she found there was no key in the lock.
Still gasping for breath, Madden seized one of the chairs by the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Eva had fallen full-length on to the floor. Wide-eyed with shock, she was trying to pull herself up using the edge of the table. As Bess pressed her heavy shoulder to the door he slid the back of the chair beneath the doorknob. Before he could wedge it there, however, there was a muffled report and splinters of wood were blasted inwards from a hole that appeared suddenly. Another shot sounded and Bess clutched at her temple, the blood leaking through her fingers. She stumbled back into the big iron range behind her.
Next moment the door swung open, knocking the chair sideways, and Ash stood there, pistol raised. Seeing Madden, he swivelled to point the weapon at him, not realizing until it was too late that the danger was coming from another quarter. Bess had seized hold of the saucepan of mulled wine off the top of the range and as Ash turned his gun on her she hurled the boiling contents into his face. His scream of agony was accompanied by the sound of another shot and Bess fell to her knees. The saucepan clattered to the floor with her, and without thinking Madden bent and picked it up by its handle, rising in the same movement and swinging the heavy iron vessel around. He caught a glimpse of Ash’s face, blistered red and contorted with pain, before the saucepan connected with the side of his head and he reeled back, dropping the gun as he did so and clawing at his face. Grabbing hold of the handle with both hands now, Madden struck him again, bringing the makeshift weapon down on top of his head like a club.
Ash staggered against the door jamb, but did not fall. Instead, snarling through his burned lips, he dropped his head and charged at Madden, butting him in the chest and knocking him off balance. As his feet slipped beneath him on the wet floor, Madden grabbed at the table for support, but missed his hold, falling heavily on his back. Before he could rise he saw Ash bend to pick up the pistol at his feet.
Panting, he came over to where Madden lay. His face had turned scarlet and with his glaring eyes and snorting breath he seemed only half human. Swaying on his feet, he raised the gun and took aim.
The sound of the shot was deafening and it was followed by a shower of broken glass that fell on Madden’s upturned face like acid rain, leaving pinpoints of pain. The gun in Ash’s hand wavered. He took an unsteady step back. His heavy coat was unbuttoned and Madden saw a bloodstain appear on the khaki jacket beneath. As it spread like a flower opening its petals, another shot sounded, this one even louder in his ears. No longer able to control his limbs, Ash began to stagger backwards, the gun falling from his nerveless grip, and as he landed up against the wall a third shot took him full in the throat and Madden saw the blood leap and spatter on the plaster behind him.
Ash fell where he was, collapsing like a rag doll, ending in a heap on the floor.
Half-stunned and still struggling to comprehend what had just occurred, Madden lay still. He was panting heavily — without realizing it he had been holding his breath — and his limbs felt leaden. Finally, with what seemed like a great effort, he brushed the shards of glass from his face and hoisted himself up on one elbow to look behind him. There were lights in the yard outside: someone was hammering at the door and he heard his name being shouted. It was Billy, calling to him.
Only then did he notice the figure at the window and the unmistakable shape of the heavy Webley revolver that was pointing through the shattered glass. The man outside leaned forward, striving for a better view, and as his face came into the light, Madden recognized the lean, pockmarked features.
‘Got you!’ Joe Grace hissed, his tone gleeful as he peered at the crumpled figure on the floor. ‘Got you, you bastard.’
Madden started at the ring of the telephone — he’d been dozing in an armchair in front of the fire — and he looked at his watch. It was after seven. The phone had been quickly answered: he heard the murmur of Billy Styles’s voice, but not what he was saying.
He glanced across at the settee where Bess was lying on her back wrapped in two blankets and with her head bandaged. She seemed to be asleep. The wound to her temple was slight — the shot through the door had done no more than graze her scalp — but Ash’s second bullet had struck her in the side and she had lost a great deal of blood, most of it on the kitchen floor, before Madden, with Billy’s help, had stemmed the flow with a dressing made from a clean towel that was later replaced with one taken from Mary Spencer’s first-aid box.
Fully conscious all the time, Bess had been scornful of their fussing.
‘I was only winged. It’s a flesh wound, for goodness sake. Don’t carry on so.’
This last had been directed at Mary Spencer, who had been fetched from the Hodges’ cottage by Leonard. On
