The line of the crest was uneven, broken by bumps and hollows, and twice they lost sight of their quarry as the ground dipped, only to see him again toiling up the next rise. Then he changed direction suddenly, veering off to the right, and when they reached the spot they found they were at the top of the path that ascended the ridge from the fields around Oakley. The hamlet lay beneath them surrounded by the broad sweep of farmlands.
The cough and stutter of a motorcycle being kicked into life sounded faintly.
'Blast!' Madden sank to his haunches.
'There he goes!' Stackpole started down the path, but the inspector called him back.
'It's no use. You won't catch him.'
They watched as a motorcycle and sidecar emerged from the treeline below and moved slowly along the rutted track through the cornfields. The rider, hunched over the handlebars, did not look back.
Madden cupped his hands like binoculars over his eyes. 'See what you can make out. Anything at all.'
The constable copied him. They crouched in silence.
'Cloth cap,' Stackpole panted. 'Just like Wellings said.'
'Black bodywork on the sidecar. What make of bike is that?'
'Harley-Davidson… I think. Hard to be sure from here. There's something in the sidecar, sir. Could be a bag.'
Madden stood up. 'I've got to get down to Melling Lodge and ring Guildford. I want you to stay here.
We have to know what road he takes when he reaches Oakley. As soon as you're sure, come down to the house.'
'Yes, sir.' Stackpole's gaze was riveted to the valley floor.
Madden turned and went plunging down the steep hillside.
Blue uniforms milled in the forecourt of Melling Lodge. To the chief inspector, as he stepped from his car, it seemed as though the scene of two weeks before was being re-enacted. The familiar form of Inspector Boyce materialized from the pale shadows cast by the limpid evening light.
'Sir.' He shook hands with Sinclair. 'We've been in touch with the Kent and Sussex constabularies.
There'll be officers on the look-out for him all over the south-east.'
Sinclair spied Madden's tall figure approaching.
'John?' His voice held a note of concern.
'I'm fine, sir.' They shook hands. 'Not a scratch. He missed us both.'
Sinclair looked at the two men. 'Any chance of him heading north or west?'
'It doesn't seem likely,' Madden replied. 'Stackpole saw him take the Craydon road. That rules out God aiming and Farnham to the west. If he passed through Craydon he'd come to the main road between Guildford and Horsham. He could have turned north there, but they're watching for him in Guildford. So either he turned south, towards Horsham, or he kept going east to Dorking and beyond.'
'That's assuming he sticks to the main roads,'
Sinclair felt bound to point out.
'Quite, sir. If he knows the back roads…' Madden shrugged.
'And he could cut up to London, if he wanted.'
'I don't think so.' The inspector shook his head.
'He's a country man.' Then he shrugged a second time. 'I'm guessing,' he admitted.
Boyce coughed. 'We've something already, sir.
Three witnesses saw him ride through Oakley this afternoon, two women and a man.' He took out a notepad. 'Same basic description. Big fellow in a brown jacket and a cloth cap. One of the women thought he had a moustache. Brown hair, she said.
About the bike, the women just saw a motorcycle and sidecar, but the man — he's a young chap called Maberley — he said it was a Harley, no question. There was a brown leather bag in the sidecar, the top of it was sticking out. Maberley saw that — he was interested in the bike, so he looked hard. Said the bag was like a cricket bag.' He checked his notepad. 'Oh, and the sidecar's painted black or dark blue.'
'And what do we have up there?' Sinclair asked Madden. He nodded towards the woods of Upton Hanger.
'A big hole that's been filled in, Stackpole says. He went up again and found it in a thicket above the path, well hidden.'
Madden explained how he'd stopped to examine the footprints. 'He must have seen us from above and realized we'd picked up his tracks. It's possible he recognized Stackpole as being a policeman.'
'How so?' the chief inspector asked.
'We know he's spent time in the woods, but he might have been in Highfield, too. If so, he'd know the village bobby by sight.'
The constable, like Madden, still in his shirtsleeves, appeared before them. 'I've got hold of a couple of spades from the toolshed, sir,' he said to Sinclair.
'We're ready when you are.'
Boyce looked at his watch. 'Nearly seven.' He called to one of the uniformed officers. 'Bring some flares from the van. We're going to need them.'
It took them forty minutes to reach the circle of beeches. From there Stackpole led the party up the hillside, past the line of ilexes, to an area dense with holly and tangled brush. Earlier, the constable had discovered a way into the thicket, a narrow entrance made to resemble an animal's track and masked by dead branches. The men had to crawl in one at a time.
Sinclair and Madden were the last to enter. The chief inspector had lingered at the bottom of the slope to examine the beech tree where Madden had sought cover.
'A narrow shave,' he observed, running his fingers over the bullet-gouged trunk. 'You must have had some anxious moments, John.'
Madden recalled the eerie calm that had possessed him. It was a throwback to his time in the trenches, and the realization sent a chill through him.
The mound of earth discovered inside the thicket was about ten feet long at its base and in the rough shape of a triangle. Some soil had already been shifted and lay in a heap beside it.
'Looks like he was digging it up when you disturbed him,' Boyce remarked, dusting off the knees of his trousers. 'What's he got down there, I wonder?
Not another body, I hope!'
The answer wasn't long in coming. The first constable detailed to dig struck a metallic object with the first thrust of his spade. He bent down and hauled out a silver branched candlestick from the loosened soil. A few seconds later a second was uncovered. Then three silver cups were unearthed, all bearing inscriptions noting that 'Captain C.S.G. Fletcher' had won them in target-shooting contests. They were found beside a rolled-up cloth, which contained a collection of jewellery comprising a garnet necklace, two gold rings, seven earrings — only four matched — and a locket on a golden chain.
Lastly, a mantelpiece clock, mounted in Sevres china, was pulled from the clinging soil. The porcelain was cracked and a piece was missing.
'That's all that was on the list,' Boyce commented.
Under the canopy of trees it was rapidly growing dark and Sinclair gave the order for the naphtha flares to be lit. Thrust into the ground at intervals around the site, the naked flames brought an air of ceremony to the grim proceedings, as though some blood sacrifice was being offered to the deities of the forest.
The digging continued, with the officers working in pairs now, jackets shed and sleeves rolled up. Six feet down the spades struck another obstruction. This time the object proved harder to dislodge, but eventually a broad strip of corrugated iron was uncovered and passed up. Brushed clean and laid out on the ground, it became the receptacle for a variety of other items retrieved from the loose earth near the bottom of the hole: a piece of tar soap, a length of two-by four, several wooden slats, cut to measure, numerous cigarette stubs, a piece of bacon rind, a bottle of Veno's cough medicine, a half-eaten jar of cherry jam, empty tins of Maconochie's stew.
One of the diggers handed up an earthenware jar.
'What's that for?' Boyce wondered aloud.
'Rum.' Madden spoke from the shadows. 'A half gill unit. Standard issue.'
Sinclair glanced at him. The inspector stood on his own in the shadows, away from the flickering light.