Running back to the car, he took the can of petrol from the back seat and began to spray the liquid about, splashing the walls of the building and the wooden partitions between the old stalls. He emptied half the can in this way and put the remainder back in the car.
Pausing only to check that the yard was still empty, he raced to the far end of the stables, struck a match and set fire to the heap of junk and old furniture stored there. Flames sprang up at once. He seized a burning picture frame from the pile and tossed it into the nearest stall, and then ran back to the car.
It took only seconds to crank the engine into life.
Pike settled behind the wheel. He had no plan, only a compelling need to break free of the trap closing about him, a desperate desire that burned as hotly in his brain as the fire that roared the length of the stables now, leaping from stall to stall. He waited until the flames were almost on him before putting the car into gear.
As the heavy vehicle rolled slowly out of the doorway a piece of flaming wood from the rafters fell on the canopy, setting it alight.
Pike swung out of the stableyard through the stone pillared gateway. The course of the drive wound around the projecting conservatory to the front door, but as he began to turn the corner he saw the headlights of a car at the front gate, and he wrenched at the steering-wheel, dragging the Bentley off the gravelled driveway on to the lawn.
He was intending to make a wide circle on the grass and return to the stableyard from where he could leave by the back gate that gave on to the field. His own headlights had picked out a number of helmeted figures running across the grass towards him. A sudden blast of heat on his neck made him look round and he realized the car was on fire. Flames from the burning canopy licked about his head.
The men ahead of him dropped to one knee, as though on command. Next moment the windscreen shattered, and as he swung hard on the wheel again, pulling the car around, he heard the sound of gunshots and felt a stabbing pain in his upper arm.
Pike drew back his lips in a snarl. Pain meant nothing to him. He accepted it as his due. But he had to duck his head to avoid the heat of the flames overhead, and as the bonnet of the Bentley came round he saw other blue-clad forms issuing from the stable yard. A bullet sang past his ear and buried itself in the upholstery behind him.
Directly ahead of him was the lighted conservatory where Mrs Aylward stood framed in one of the panes like a giant moth, her white face staring out into the garden. They were firing from both sides now. Bullets rang on the car's chassis. A shard of glass from the broken windscreen struck him on the forehead. Blood trickled down into his eyes.
Pike held the car to its course. Foot clamped to the accelerator pedal, he saw Mrs Aylward step back from the glass and then stumble to one side, ponderous in her movements, struggling to escape the huge mass of metal that thundered towards her.
Roaring his rage, he drove straight at the glasshouse.
Come what may, they wouldn't take him alive!
'Cease fire!'
The bellowed order was drowned in the crash of breaking glass as the car plunged head-on into the conservatory, bringing down the entire structure in its wake as it ploughed straight on, smashing through the double doors and knocking a hole in the side of the house.
Madden sprang to his feet — he'd lain down flat when the shooting started — and ran through the line of marksmen towards the shattered greenhouse. Billy Styles was at his heels. They arrived at the same moment as a pair of uniformed constables coming from the other direction, from the stableyard. A huddled shape lay in one corner under a mantle of broken glass.
'That's Mrs Aylward — get her out of here,' Madden called to the two policemen. 'Take care, she may be badly cut.'
He ran on over crunching glass to where the car was jammed in the wall. Its momentum had taken it most of the way through into the studio beyond. Only the rear protruded. Black smoke streamed through the broken doors above it. The canopy of the Bentley was still blazing.
'It's no good. We can't get through here.'
Madden caught hold of Billy's arm and pulled him away. He stepped over the broken shards of a windowpane and ran around to the front of the house. The door was open and they went in and found a police sergeant already there with a constable. They were casting about in the hallway, unsure where to go.
The inspector pushed past them and turned to where the studio must be. He opened a door. Smoke poured out of the darkened room into the hall. The flicker of flames was visible inside and Madden caught a glimpse of the black bulk of the Bentley before he was driven back by the pungent fumes.
The two policemen were crowding at his back.
Behind them was a staircase. Madden called to Billy, who was waiting in the hallway. 'Go upstairs. See if there's anyone there. Get them down.'
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he turned back to the studio. But as he started towards the door he caught a whiff of petrol borne on the billowing smoke cloud.
'Look out!' Madden flung himself to one side.
With a whoosh a huge tongue of flame erupted suddenly into the hallway. One of the policemen gave a cry and staggered backwards. A tapestry hanging on the wall beside the stairs caught fire. The lintel above the door was already ablaze.
'Out!' Madden shouted. 'Everyone out!'
He pushed the two officers towards the front door, but turned himself to the staircase where the banisters had now caught fire. As he started up a figure appeared in the smoke above him. It was Billy. He had a body slung over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. He staggered as he sought to keep his footing on the smouldering stair-carpet.
'It's all right, sir,' he called out. 'I can manage.'
Walking backwards, Madden shepherded him down, keeping him close to the wall, away from the blazing banisters. The body was that of a young woman in maid's clothing. Her long hair had come loose and the inspector batted sparks from it as he guided the young constable towards the front door. As Billy stumbled out on to the driveway a cheer went up from the assembled policemen.
Coughing, Madden caught sight of the chief inspector walking fast across the lawn towards them. He had Hollingsworth at his side. Booth stood in the driveway yelling at a group of officers who had just come hurrying around the corner of the house. 'What are you doing here? Go back to the yard. Stay at your posts.'
The men turned tail and disappeared.
'John?' Sinclair was at his elbow.
'He's trapped in the car, I think, sir.' Madden spat a mouthful of smoky saliva on to the gravel. 'I couldn't get into the room. The whole house is going up.'
As he spoke, one of the front windows exploded and flames leaped into the night. The policemen gathered in the drive drew back.
'It'll be hours before we can get in.' Booth had joined them.
Madden's eye picked out the figure of Billy Styles kneeling on the grass beside the young woman he'd carried from the house. She was also on her knees, bent over, retching. Billy supported her with his arm about her waist.
A uniformed sergeant appeared before them. 'I've sent a man down the road to look for a telephone, sir.
He'll call for an ambulance and the fire brigade.'
'Thank you, Sergeant,' Sinclair said. 'What about Mrs Aylward?'
'Her cuts don't look too bad, sir. They're mostly on her back. She must have managed to turn away. But she's in shock. We've got her covered up and lying down over there on the grass.'
The chief inspector looked about him. Light from the blazing house illuminated a broad swathe of lawn.
Some of the policemen had sat down. Cigarettes were being lit. He shrugged and took out his own pipe.
'Well, there's nothing we can do now except wait.'