"I want you to stay here, Sergeant. Just lie quietly.
I'm going to have a rough stretcher made out of some branches and then I'll be back for you. Try to relax.
Breathe easy.'
The expression on Madden's face reminded Billy of the day they had gone to Folkestone and he had watched the inspector talking to the one-legged soldier. Dawkins. That was his name.
They rejoined Sinclair in the clearing and Madden put a pair of constables to cutting branches. The chief inspector drew him aside. 'I've decided to leave the rifles where they are. This is Special Branch's business.
I'll have the place watched until they can get their own people down here.'
Madden nodded. 'They hadn't started filling in the hole. Whoever left that stuff may be back with more.'
Sinclair's glance shifted to their handcuffed prisoner.
He was sitting up now, but his gaze remained a blank.
'I've sent a couple of men back to Stonehill with Proudfoot to fetch torches and flares. Let me know as soon as the stretcher's ready.'
He looked up at the sky. Billy, who was standing nearby, followed his glance and saw that the stars were already appearing in the gathering gloom.
The chief inspector sighed.
Hollingsworth came into the clearing. He had Sinclair's hat in his hands and was brushing it off.
'Here it is, sir. I found it.'
'Thank you, Sergeant.'
Sinclair took the hat, but continued to stand bareheaded staring up into the darkness.
'Only two casualties, sir.'
'Two?'
'One of the constables fell and hurt his wrist. Looks like a break. They're seeing to him.'
Sinclair was silent.
'We were lucky, sir.' Hollingsworth tried to console his superior. 'It could have been worse.'
'Could it, Sergeant? Could it?'
To Billy it seemed clear that the chief inspector held a different opinion.
The Stonehill village hall echoed to the voices of a score of policemen. Folding chairs had been handed out from a stack at the rear of the building and most of the men had taken the opportunity to rest. They were sitting in groups with cups of tea in their hands and plates of sandwiches balanced on their knees. The food and drink had been provided by the women of the village at the request of Constable Proudfoot, who was now occupied in keeping at bay the crowd that had been gathering all evening on the green outside.
The stocky constable stood on the steps of the hall swaying on his feet. Billy didn't know how he kept going. He was feeling the effects of exhaustion himself and was sitting with Fairweather and another constable from Tunbridge Wells, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Billy had taken off his shoes and was massaging his toes. The other two watched enviously.
Regulations forbade them to remove any items of uniform without good reason and they doubted that a pair of aching feet would be held to meet the requirement.
The wounded sergeant — Billy had discovered his name was Baines — and the constable with the broken wrist were both on their way to Crowborough in an ambulance, which Proudfoot had summoned when he returned to the village. He had sent the other two men back with flares and torches, which the main party had needed to light their way.
The Stonehill hall, like the church hall at Highfield, boasted a raised dais, and it was there that their prisoner was being held under guard. His wrists were still handcuffed — but in front of him now — and he'd been fed and allowed one of the folding chairs to sit on. He had not yet given up his name, but a letter had been found in his pocket addressed to a Mr Frank O'Leary, care of a hotel in Liverpool.
Both name and address had been passed on to Special Branch by Sinclair, who had settled by the telephone in Proudfoot's cottage as soon as they got back. Three officers from Special Branch were already on their way from Tunbridge Wells, and more would follow from London first thing in the morning. In the meantime, two of the armed contingent from the Sussex police had been left on the wooded knoll overlooking the thicket, keeping watch, while a third officer was standing by to bring back any message from them. Inspector Drummond had volunteered to spend the night at Stonehill until Special Branch arrived to take over.
The chief inspector had rung Bennett at his home and given him a brief report on the unexpected outcome of the operation. The London detachment would be returning home shortly.
All this information had come to Billy courtesy of Sergeant Hollingsworth, who had joined them, pulling up a chair and lighting a cigarette.
'The guv'nor's in a proper bate. There's no use telling him he'll get a pat on the back from Special Branch. He thought he had Pike in his sights. But now?' Hollingsworth shrugged. He glanced at Billy with a grin. "I heard you were playing ducks and drakes over on the pond this afternoon, young Master Styles.'
'What?' Billy reddened.
'That's what the lads posted up on the hillock told us. That Inspector Drummond said you must be barmy.'
Billy set his jaw. If the sergeant thought he was going to try to explain1. Then he remembered what the woman had said — that she was going to lay a complaint against him — and he realized he might have to explain, whether he liked it or not.
On the other side of the room Sinclair put down his cup on the table beside the tea urn. He'd been talking to Drummond. Madden sat near them, bowed over his thoughts. The chief inspector walked towards the doorway at the rear of the hall with Drummond at his heels. Hollingsworth rose and went after them, and Billy followed, trying to tie his shoelaces at the same time. As he came through the doorway on to the steps he saw that Sinclair was speaking to Proudfoot.
"I want you to go home now, Constable, and go to bed. Everything's taken care of. There's nothing more for you to do at present.'
Proudfoot, red-eyed and unshaven, seemed disposed to object. He was shaking his head.
'I'd just like to say that in my estimation you've not put a foot wrong.' The chief inspector regarded him steadily. 'And that's from the time you spotted that man in the brush yesterday and decided to ring Crowborough. I shall include all of that in my report, and more. You may be sure a copy of it will be sent to the chief constable.'
'Thank you, sir, but…' Proudfoot struggled to find the words he wanted to say.
'Go on now, man.' Drummond clapped him on the shoulder. 'You've done more than your share. I'll be here all night and if any crisis develops, well, I'll know where to find you, won't I?'
Billy looked over their heads and saw that the crowd of villagers on the green was thinning. Across the road and on the far side of the turf lights burned in cottage windows. When he glanced at Proudfoot again he saw that the constable's gaze was turned away and was pointing in the other direction, up the street.
Billy looked that way and made out the figure of a man on a bicycle pedalling through the darkness towards them. The light on his bike wobbled as he lifted his hand and waved.
'Who's that?' Sinclair asked, in a tense voice.
'Hobday, sir. He's our local mechanic. Owns a garage.'
The figure was closer now and they heard his voice.
He was shouting something. Billy was suddenly aware of Madden standing at his shoulder.
"… the manor… the manor…' it sounded like to Billy.
The man was pedalling as hard as he could, drawing closer.
A frown creased the chief inspector's brow.
'What's he saying?'
'Something about Croft Manor, I think Proudfoot stumbled down the steps. The others hurried after him. As the bicycle careered down the road he stepped out into the street and held up his hand like a traffic policeman. The rider braked and slid to a halt with his front wheel protruding between the constable's spread legs. He was gasping for breath, half choking.
'… murdered… bodies… all dead This time Billy heard every word clear. As he did the chief inspector's response, softly spoken though it was.