River of Darkness

'Yes, but I want to know exactly what he saw that night.' They walked quickly down the platform towards the exit. 'Have you talked to Lord Stratton?

Can we use his car?'

'No need, sir.' Stackpole's smile flashed beneath his thick moustache. 'Dr Blackwell's offered to give us a lift.'

Madden stopped. 'I thought she'd gone to Yorkshire.'

'I should have gone to Yorkshire.' Helen Blackwell stepped out of the deep shadow of the platform shelter in front of them. She held out her hand to Madden. 'I would have gone to Yorkshire. But my locum managed to fall off a horse and break his leg and it's taken till now to find a replacement. He's due to arrive this afternoon.'

Remembering her pale face in the churchyard, he was pleased to see the colour back in her cheeks. She looked flushed in the bright morning sun. They went out of the station into the road. The Wolseley twoseater was parked in the shade of a plane tree.

'Meanwhile, as Will says, I'm going to Oakley. I have two patients to see there. I've a feeling they're the same people you want to speak to, but although I've used all my wiles on him, he refuses to tell me.'

'Now, Miss Helen!' Stackpole blushed bright red.

He left them to pull out the car's dicky and dust off the seat.

Dr Blackwell watched him, smiling. 'Poor Will. He kissed me once, when I was six and he was eight, and he doesn't know to this day whether I remember it or not.'

Madden burst out laughing, overcome by the pure pleasure of being in her company again.

She looked at him critically. 'You should do that more often, Inspector,' she said.

During the short drive to Oakley, Madden told her the reason he had come from London.

'So you got the story first from Fred Maberley?' She spoke over her shoulder to Stackpole, who sat crouched in the dicky, clutching at his helmet. 'He rang me, too. And then I had a call from Wellings. He seems to think his wrist's broken.'

'He'll have worse than a broken wrist by the time I've done with him,' the constable growled in her ear.

She glanced at Madden and smiled. 'I hope Fred wasn't too rough with Gladys.' Her gloved hands spun the steering-wheel and they left the paved surface for the dirt road that led to Oakley. 'He sounded shamefaced when he rang me.'

'Got what she deserved, that young lady,' Stackpole offered. 'What did she expect — going off to Tup's Spinney with a piece of trash like Wellings?'

'Shame on you, Will Stackpole. Just because Fred's her husband doesn't give him the right to hit her.'

'No, but…' Stackpole subsided in the dicky.

The single road through Oakley showed more signs of animation than on Madden's previous visit. Several women, weighed down with shopping bags, clustered in front of the village store. Further up the road, outside the Coachman's Arms, three men stood talking, their heads close together, like conspirators. Dr Black well parked in the shade of a chestnut tree growing on the lawn in front of the small church.

'Would it be all right if we saw Gladys Maberley first?' Madden asked her.

'Perfectly. From what I can gather, Mr Wellings is the more gravely injured of the two.' He hadn't seen her this way before. She was in a light, almost joyful mood. With a smile at them both she picked up her doctor's bag and walked off towards the pub.

Stackpole led the way to a whitewashed cottage at the end of a row of houses. The front door was opened by a broad-shouldered young man with blunt features.

He was dressed in rough farm clothes.

'Fred, this is Inspector Madden, from London. We'd like a word with Gladys.'

He muttered something inaudible. Head bowed, he led them into a small kitchen where the young woman with bobbed hair Madden remembered seeing with Wellings was sitting at a table. She had a cut lip and a blackened, swollen eye. The other eye was red and swimming with tears.

'Well, Gladys Maberley!' The constable removed his helmet. 'You look like you could do with a cup of tea.'

As the woman started to rise, the young man spoke for the first time. 'Let me, Glad,' he muttered. He busied himself with a kettle at the sink.

'This is Mr Madden,' Stackpole said. 'He's come all the way from London to talk to you, Gladys.' He put his helmet on the table and pulled out a chair for the inspector and another for himself. 'So tell us what you've been up to — and mind!' The constable wagged a warning finger. 'Don't leave anything out.'

Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the door of the Coachman's Arms. Stackpole was grinning with delight. 'I can't wait to see the look on his face, sir.'

Inside, the smell of stale beer lingered in the taproom. Wellings was seated with his right arm resring on a bar table. Dr Blackwell was at work, strapping his wrist in a tight bandage.

'Not broken, just sprained,' she said to them, as they came in. 'Mr Wellings will live to fight another day.'

'I want to lay a charge.' Wellings shook his other fist at Stackpole. 'Have you got that? He came at me with a shovel. That's a weapon in my book. Do you hear what I'm saying, Constable?'

'I hear you, Mr Wellings.' For the second time that day Stackpole removed his helmet. He had stopped grinning.

Helen Blackwell snapped her bag shut. 'I'll leave you now,' she said. She went out.

Wellings ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. Stackpole spoke to him. 'You'll remember Inspector Madden?'

'Who?' Wellings looked over his shoulder and noticed the inspector for the first time. 'What's he doing here?'

'We'll ask the questions.' The constable sat down at the table.

'I'm not answering any questions until I hear what you mean to do about Fred Maberley.' Wellings looked defiant.

Madden seated himself. 'Two weeks ago you made a statement to Sergeant Gates. In view of what Gladys Maberley has just told us, I now realize that you failed to tell the truth on that occasion.'

'Says who?'

'Shut your gob, you piece of filth.' Stackpole spoke in an even tone. 'Just listen to what the inspector's saying.'

Wellings flushed. He glared at the constable.

'You knowingly made a false statement to the police. That constitutes an obstruction of justice, a serious matter at any time, but given the circumstances of the case we're investigating, exceptionally grave. You will very likely go to prison, Mr Wellings.'

'What?' He turned white. 'I don't believe you.'

'I will ask you now — what were you doing on the night of Sunday, July the thirty-first? I am speaking of the late evening, after the pub was closed.'

Wellings licked his lips. His glance strayed to the bar. 'You wouldn't have a fag, would you?' he asked.

Madden took out his cigarettes and placed them on the table with a box of matches. He waited while Wellings lit up.

'Gladys and I' — he took a long pull on the cigarette — 'we went to Tup's Spinney.' He blew out the match.

'What time?'

'About half past eleven, maybe a little earlier.'

'Where was Fred Maberley?'

'Asleep.' Wellings's smile flickered and went out.

'While you were there did you see or hear anything?'

Madden asked.

Wellings nodded. 'A motorbike. Just after we got there. It went past us through the fields.'

'In which direction? Away from Upton Hanger?'

Wellings nodded again.

'What make of motorcycle? Did you notice?'

He shook his head.

'What did you see?' Madden persisted.

Wellings puffed on his cigarette. 'When I heard it, I got up and went to the edge of the trees. I thought it might be someone else coming to the spinney. You know…' He grinned knowingly at Madden, but received no sympathy from the inspector's glance.

'There was a moon up, I saw it clearly. A motorbike and sidecar.'

'A sidecar — you're sure of that?'

'Yes, I'm sure. At first I thought there was someone in it, you know, a passenger, but then I saw there wasn't.'