The chief inspector expelled his breath in another long sigh. He watched as a plain-clothes detective stepped over the broken door frame to deposit a white envelope in a numbered cardboard box, one of four standing in a row on the terrace. Close by was a leather holdall, Sinclair's 'black bag', containing equipment he deemed necessary for a murder investigation: gloves, tweezers, bottles, envelopes. The new scientific approach to crime detection was slowly gaining ground, though not without meeting resistance. Juries remained suspicious of forensic evidence. Even judges were inclined to give it little weight in their summings-up.
'I've sent for the mortuary wagon.' Sinclair was speaking again. 'We'll do the post-mortems in Guildford tonight, as many as we can. I want to run the investigation from down here, at least in the early stages. Bring a bag when you come tomorrow. You'll be sleeping in the pub.
'Meantime, there's that little girl to think about.
Get over to Dr Blackwell's house, would you, John?
Find out if the child saw anything. And arrange to have her moved to hospital right away. We can take the doctor's statement tomorrow. I must get back.' He glanced up at the house again. 'I want to keep an eye on that pathologist. He's new to me. I asked for the sainted Spilsbury, but he wasn't available. On holiday in the Scilly Isles, if you please! I had to take one of his assistants at St Mary's.' As he spoke, photographer's flash powder, like sheet lightning, lit up a window. 'All this and the Lord Lieutenant, too!'
'You met him, did you?' Madden donned his jacket.
'He was leaving when I arrived. With inky fingers and a foul disposition. He said you were impertinent.
No, damned impertinent.'
'He went inside the house — did he tell you that?'
Sinclair was amused. 'You are aware, are you not, that he's head of the magistracy and chief executive for the county of Surrey? Take care, John. That type likes to make trouble.'
Madden scowled. 'I've had a bellyful of that type.'
'Then again, someone stepped in that pool of blood in the study. I might send an officer after him to look at the sole of his shoe. That should spoil his supper.'
Madden's glance, straying to the bottom of the garden, was arrested by the sight of Styles sitting on a bench at the edge of the lawn. The constable's red hair was plastered to his sunburned forehead. He was picking burrs from his socks.
'Aye, I'm sorry about that.' Sinclair had followed the direction of his gaze. 'I shouldn't have landed you with a green one. There was no one else on hand this morning. I'll have him replaced tomorrow.'
Madden shook his head. A smile touched his lips.
'No, leave him,' he said. 'He'll do.'
2
The forecourt was becoming crowded. A second police van was drawn up behind the first, and on the other side of the fountain a big Vauxhall tourer was parked against the creeper-clad wall. The numbers of uniformed police had thinned, but several plainclothes men were gathered in a group near the front steps. Searching for Stackpole, Madden found him beside a trestle table on which plates of sandwiches and a large tea urn rested.
'Courtesy of the village ladies, sir. Would you care for a mug?'
Thank you, not now. I have to see Dr Blackwell.
Could you tell me the way to her house?'
'I'll do better than that, sir.' Stackpole emptied his tin mug and wiped his moustache. 'I'm going there myself. Mr Boyce sent a man over this morning, but he needs to be relieved.'
'You could do with a break yourself, Constable.'
'Oh, I'm all right, sir,' said Stackpole, who was thinking the same applied to Madden. The inspector's dark eyes seemed to have sunk even deeper into his gaunt face. 'And at least I'll get my supper later, which is more than can be said for this lot.'
He led the way out of the forecourt and through a kitchen garden. A gate in the high brick wall opened on to a path that joined the road some distance past the entrance to Melling Lodge. Looking back, Madden saw that the crowd of villagers had dispersed. But now there were several cars parked outside the gates.
That'll be the London press,' he said.
The winding lane ran between hedgerows. The two men tramped along it side by side. After a while, Madden spoke: 'Just between us, Constable, we're not inclined to treat this as a robbery. It looks as though the killings were deliberate, even planned.'
Stackpole sucked in his breath. 'That's hard to believe, sir. If you'd known the family…'
'Well liked, were they?'
'More than that. Miss Lucy — Mrs Fletcher — she was born here, at Melling Lodge. The house would have gone to her brother, but he was killed in the war.
When she and the colonel settled at the Lodge, it must have seemed like coming home to her. And as for the village — well, you won't find a soul who wasn't that pleased to see her back.'
They had come to a belt of forest, a spur of woodland spilling down from the slopes of Upton Hanger. The road bore to the right, but Stackpole pointed out a narrow track in the woods ahead. 'That's a short cut to the doctor's house, sir. It'll save us ten minutes.'
The path, dark as a tunnel, ran beneath a dense canopy of beech and chestnut. The sun had almost set.
When they came to a garden gate, Madden paused.
He took out his cigarettes. 'Constable?'
'Thank you, sir.'
'I was told you were with Dr Blackwell when she found the child.' He struck a match for them.
'So I was.' Stackpole drew in a lungful of tobacco smoke. 'I'd already been looking for her when Dr Helen — Dr Blackwell — arrived, and we started searching again. It was the doctor who found her, under her bed in the nursery. Poor little girl. She'd squashed herself up against the wall and was lying there with her eyes shut. She must have heard us calling, but she didn't make a sound. When Dr Helen pulled her out she was stiff all over and there were dust balls in her hair. She wouldn't say a word. The doctor wrapped her in a bedspread and put her in her car and drove her straight here.'
'Have you known Dr Blackwell long?'
'Since we were children, sir.' The constable grinned.
'Miss Helen's from the village. Fine doctor, they say.'
'But not yours?'
'Well, no, sir.' Stackpole looked embarrassed. 'I mean, the wife and children go to her, but somehow it doesn't seem right, her being a woman… Besides there's her father, old Dr Collingwood. He still sees a few patients.'
They put out their cigarettes. Madden unlatched the garden gate. Close by, a huge weeping beech spread its branches over a corner of the lawn. He saw the house outlined against the darkening sky. Like Melling Lodge, it faced the woods of Upton Hanger, deep and mysterious at this hour. The same stream they had crossed earlier that day divided the ridge from an orchard at the bottom of the garden, which was bounded by a low stone wall.
They walked up the sloping lawn to the house where the curtains remained undrawn on a wide bow window. Light from inside washed across a broad terrace lined with flower-pots. Roses clung to a trellis.
The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine.
As they drew near the house a dog began barking and a door opened. Stackpole touched his helmet.
'Evening, Miss Helen.'
'Hullo, Will.' The doctor was a tall silhouette against the light. 'Down, Molly!' she commanded as a black pointer slipped out of the door behind her and came prancing up to the men.
'This is Inspector Madden, from London. Sir… Dr Blackwell.'
They shook hands. Helen Blackwell had a firm grip.
'Come in, please.' She ushered them into the drawing-room.
'I've been expecting you. I only wish the circumstances were less appalling.'
Madden took off his hat. 'I'm sorry you had to be called in this morning, ma'am,' he said. 'I expect they were your friends.'
'They were. It was dreadful.' Helen Blackwell had thick fair hair, drawn back and tied with a ribbon behind her head. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, Madden noted, dark, almost violet-coloured. He registered her good looks, but was struck more by the signs of character in her face. Her glance was direct.