River of Darkness

The chief superintendent's muddy complexion darkened. 'Are you finished?' he inquired.

'Not quite.' Sinclair turned to Madden. 'Inspector?'

Madden consulted his notebook. 'The Fletchers owned a dog,' he said. 'A Labrador. It died about three weeks ago, apparently of old age. In view of what Dr Tanner had to say about the cigarettes, I tried to get in touch with the local vet, but he's on holiday, in the Hebrides.

'However, I spoke to the Fletchers' gardener, Cooper, and he was able to tell me where he and the colonel had buried the animal. We dug up the remains on Saturday morning and I had them brought up to London for Dr Ransom to examine.'

'That must have made his weekend,' Bennett observed.

Madden's smile flickered briefly. 'He rang me this morning, sir. He found a heavy dose of strychnine in the dog's stomach. There's no doubt it was poisoned.'

'There's no doubt it ate poison,' Sampson interrupted in a tired voice. 'You're making assumptions again, Inspector.'

'Possibly, sir.' Taking his cue from Sinclair, Madden adopted a conciliatory tone. 'But I did speak to Lord Stratton and he assured me that his keepers are categorically forbidden to lay poison of any sort on his land.'

Bennett cleared his throat. 'All right, I've heard enough. From now on, unless we discover anything to the contrary, we'll proceed on the assumption that this is the work of one man.'

'As you wish, sir.' Sampson ran a hand across the slick surface of his hair. His face was expressionless.

'Now, I've been in touch with the War Office,'

Bennett resumed. 'They sent one of their people round, a Colonel Jenkins. He'd already looked into Colonel Fletcher's military record and found he was one of the most popular officers in his regiment. With all ranks — he made that point. As for our other request, he'll have a list of names of discharged mental patients ready for us by the end of the week.'

He rested his elbows on the table.

'No doubt you've all read the Sunday papers. The general opinion seems to be that we're in the dark, and for the time being I'm afraid we'll have to swallow that. We can hardly tell the public that a madman armed with a rifle and bayonet is roaming the countryside.

I'll put out a statement later about various lines of inquiry being pursued. Do you agree, Chief Inspector?'

'Yes, I do, sir.' Sinclair sat forward. 'But I'd like to add to what you've said. We must be careful at all times what information we put out. We've no reason to assume the man we're looking for doesn't read the newspapers. He'll want to know what we know about him. Let's keep him in the dark as much as possible.

Either you or I can speak to the press, when necessary.

Other officers should be directed not to discuss the case.'

'Very well. I'll so order it.' Bennett suppressed a smile. He stood up. 'That will do for now. We'll meet again next week. Chief Inspector, a word before you go…'

Bennett moved to his desk. The other men rose.

Sampson and Madden left the room. The deputy waited until the door had shut behind them. 'I take it that last remark was aimed at Mr Sampson.'

'Sir?' Sinclair looked mystified.

'I'm told the chief superintendent has many friends among the press.' Bennett sat down at his desk.

'Sampson of the Yard — isn't that what they call him?'

Sinclair thought it best not to respond.

'I'll issue an order as you suggest. But don't count on him obeying it. He's the senior superintendent in the force and he may not consider it even applies to him. He has, moreover… special connections in this building. You'd do well to remember that. We both would.' Bennett looked wry. 'In any case, it's not that that I want to talk to you about.' He sat back. 'Are you sure you've picked the right man to assist you in this case?' he asked bluntly.

This time the chief inspector's surprise was unfeigned. 'Madden's a fine officer, sir.'

'I don't deny it. Or he was…" Bennett held up his hand quickly. 'I know his history, Chief Inspector.

What happened to him before the war. His wife and child… I can't pretend to know what he suffered in the trenches, what any of them suffered, though it's plain to see on his face. But there's no point in beating about the bush. A lot of people think he was lucky to be taken back into the force at his old rank.' He glanced at Sinclair. 'I'm not one of them, incidentally.

But when I look at him now, he seems exhausted.

Burned out. So I ask you again — is he the right man?'

Sinclair took his time replying. 'I've known John Madden since he was a young constable,' he said finally. 'I picked him out because I thought he had the talent to make a good detective, and I was right.

It's an odd trade, ours. Hard work will get you only so far. There comes a moment when you have to be able to see through the facts, the mass of them that collect, to find what's important, what's significant.

Madden has that gift. I was bitterly disappointed when he decided to leave the force.' The chief inspector paused. 'With the bank holiday there weren't many names to choose from among those on duty, and Madden was the obvious pick. I've thought about it since. Whether I'd have chosen someone else if I'd had the opportunity. The answer's no, sir.' He looked straight at Bennett. 'I have the man I want.'

The deputy nodded his head briskly. 'That's plainly spoken,' he acknowledged. 'Let's hope you're right.'

A list of patients discharged from mental wards in Army hospitals, running into several thousand, arrived from the War Office three days later. It was delivered by Colonel Jenkins in person. He deposited the thick manila envelope on Sinclair's desk, but declined the chief inspector's invitation to sit down.

'I've been detailed to help you in any way I can. I thought we'd better meet.'

Even in civilian clothes, the colonel cut an unmistakably military figure in his sharply pressed trousers and Brigade of Guards tie. His manner was curt, with an edge of impatience, as though he thought his time could be better spent. Madden eyed him coldly.

'He's an old staff officer,' he told Sinclair, after the colonel had gone. 'It's written all over him. We didn't see much of them in the war. They never came near the front.'

Working out of Sinclair's second-floor office, Madden and Sergeant Hollingsworth began the lengthy task of breaking down the list of discharged patients into subsections to be sent to the various police authorities around the country.

'We'll ask them to find out if any of these men have a history of violence,' the chief inspector said.

'Though, given recent events on the continent of Europe, and the fact that they were all soldiers, the question seems redundant.'

Madden asked for Detective Constable Styles to be assigned to assist them. Sinclair was amused. 'I see you haven't given up on that young man yet.'

'He'll make a decent copper one day,' Madden insisted. 'He just needs standing over.' He glanced at the chief inspector. 'I seem to remember someone doing the same for me once upon a time.'

In another life, he might have added. The years before the war seemed far off now. He'd been a husband and father then, but that, too, was in a different world when he had been a different person.

The abyss of the trenches lay between.

On Friday morning, soon after they had gathered for work, the telephone rang. Hollingsworth answered it.

'For you, sir.' He handed the instrument to Madden.

'It's that constable in Highfield.'

Stackpole was waiting to greet him as he stepped off the train.

'It's a pleasure to see you again, sir.' He shook Madden's hand warmly. 'We've got him this time.'

The constable's broad, tanned face was split by a smile.

'Knowingly making a false statement, obstruction of justice. With any luck we can put the little weasel away for a spell.'