What he saw there sent a chill through him.
In the few minutes he’d been away a fresh set of footprints had appeared in the snow. They led from the gate straight to the back door. Whoever had made them had tried to get in. Or so it seemed to Madden as he quickly tested the door and found it still locked. The tracks led off in the direction of the woodbin, but although he leaned over the sink and peered that way he was unable to see how far they went. To do so he would have had to open the door and look out, an act he was unwilling even to contemplate. If it was Ash, and he was lurking just out of sight on the other side of the woodbin, the action might well prove fatal to him.
There was nothing he could do except pray that the police car would arrive soon, within minutes even. But then another thought came to him, a frightening image that sent him racing down the passage to the sitting-room. If Ash was circling the house searching for a way in, he would see Bess and Eva through the window, and if the Polish girl offered him a target he might well take the opportunity to shoot her.
But the room, when he reached it, was empty.
There was no sign of either woman.
Where were they, then? Still on the floor above?
Panting, Madden stood in the doorway, his mind racing.
He wondered if Bess had seen the same tracks as he had from the window of Eva’s bedroom — or, even worse, spotted Ash crossing the yard — and decided to stay upstairs. But if so, why hadn’t she tried to warn him?
Racking his brains for an answer he switched off the light at the door and went to the window. There was no sign of any footprint on the terrace outside, no indication that Ash had walked round the house.
So where was he now?
What was he planning?
With no weapon of any kind, Madden felt doubly exposed. But as he turned to leave, an idea struck him, and he went to the fireplace and reached up above it to where the shield and assegai were fixed. With a sharp wrench he pulled the spear free, and with its comforting weight now nestling in his hand he returned to the passage and set off in the direction of the hall.
His intention was to go upstairs and find out what had happened to the two women. But he got only as far as the kitchen door, then froze, stopping in his tracks.
Something was different … something had changed.
Madden felt the hairs on his neck rise.
Struggling to understand what it was that had made him halt, he caught a whiff of the spiced wine coming from the saucepan on the stove. Steam was rising from the pot. It was being borne to him on a breeze, he realized, a cool wind that brushed against his cheek, and with a flash of insight he knew this couldn’t be.
Stepping into the kitchen, he swept the room with his gaze and saw at once where the breeze was coming from: at the far end of the kitchen, behind the coloured lights of the Christmas tree, the door to the cellar stood open.
Madden stared at it. He remembered what Mary Spencer had said: that she would have to go down to the cellar again because her son had left the door to the yard open.
But she’d failed to do that.
Ash was in the house.
The shock was like a physical pain and he turned quickly, half-fearing to find that the soft-footed killer had crept up behind him, his garrotte ready. But the passage was empty: and since he knew that Ash could not have gone in the direction of the sitting-room — or else they would have met — that left only the hall where the stairs were.
He started towards them at once, straining to hear any sound as he tiptoed down the carpeted passage. The hall was in half-darkness: there was a light still burning in the passage and he saw it reflected in a small pool of water on the stoneflagged floor near the stairs, moisture that could only have come from the snow outside.
He paused then. There was still no sound from above, but the silence there was filled with menace and for a moment his heart failed him. He knew the danger that lay in wait for him and how much he stood to lose. In the past, when his life had hung by a thread in the endless slaughter of the trenches, he had learned like others to view his future, if any, with the eye of a fatalist. But those days were long gone. His love for the woman he had married, like some wondrous plant, had flowered into other loves, and now every moment of his life seemed precious to him.
But it was not in his nature to turn from the threat, nor even to wait the few minutes it might take for the police to arrive. Somewhere on the floor above him were two women in imminent peril, and though his fear stayed with him, he put it aside, as he had learned to do when he’d been a soldier. He considered the danger confronting him with a clear mind.
There was no point in ascending the stairs himself. If Ash was waiting in the passage off the landing above, pistol in hand, he would simply provide him with a target. The silence on the upper floor persuaded him that the killer was still searching for his primary victim, for Eva, going from room to room. One or other of the women must have seen him climbing the stairs in his officer’s uniform; now both were hiding and it was only a matter of time before Ash found them.
Unless he could be diverted.
At once his strategy became clear to him. He must draw the killer away, downstairs, if possible out into the yard — and then hope that the police car would arrive and Ash would be dealt with. Either way there was no time 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.