‘Well, yes. Since you put it that way.’ The Guildford chief sought refuge in his handkerchief. He blew his nose loudly. ‘And that sort of feeling can build up, can it not? You get pressure, more and more pressure, and when the dam finally breaks, well, it can be sudden and savage. That’s what happened here, I think. Whoever killed that girl lost control of himself.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ Madden’s quiet interjection took both his listeners by surprise. Boyce stared at him.
‘What are you saying, John?’ he asked. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not sure, exactly.’ Scowling, Madden seemed suddenly a prey to doubts himself. ‘I don’t want to burden you with half-baked ideas.’
‘Never mind that.’ Boyce frowned in turn. ‘Just tell me what you think.’ And when Madden remained silent. ‘Are you saying I should call in the Yard?’
Helen saw that her husband had been expecting the question. But his reply was not what she had thought it would be.
‘I don’t see how you can,’ Madden said. ‘Not yet. You could be right about the tramp. And in any case he has to be found. But I’d make sure the Yard was informed about this.’ He spoke more confidently now; his mind was made up. ‘And I wouldn’t waste any time, either, Jim, if I were you. I’d get in touch with them right away.’
The drive back to Highfield was a silent one. Madden’s habit of withdrawing into himself when preoccupied was deeply engrained, and Helen had learned from experience to be patient with him.
It had taken her many weeks when they’d first met to learn the details of his past. To draw from him the story of the young wife and baby daughter he had watched die in an influenza epidemic before the war: to hear from his own lips of his subsequent descent into the hell of the trenches, an experience from which he’d emerged so injured in spirit that, until fate cast him into her arms, he had ceased to have any hope or belief in his future.
Long dispelled, these shadows no longer troubled their lives. What concerned Helen now was the irrational fear she had felt at the sight of her husband being drawn once more into a police investigation after so long an absence from the profession. His decision to quit his job and start a new life with her had not been taken lightly. Nor was it one he had ever regretted. If he was allowing himself to become involved now it could only be in response to some deep anxiety, and this realization kept the pulse of uneasiness throbbing inside her.
The happy years they had spent together had been born out of tragedy, something she could never forget. Indeed, the thought was fresh in her mind as they drove through the village, past the green and the moss-walled churchyard and along the straggling line of cottages that led to the high brick wall surrounding Melling Lodge. Leased by a succession of tenants in recent years, it was empty at present and the locked gates and dark, elm-lined drive lent it a mournful air.
Time had dulled the pain of that summer morning more than a decade past when an urgent summons from Will Stackpole had brought her, the village doctor, speeding through those same gates to confront the unimaginable reality of a household brutally slain; her dearest friend among the victims. When she drove by now it was of her husband she was thinking.
Yet the two were inextricably linked. It was the subsequent police investigation that had brought them together, and although the love that had flowered between them had drawn a line under Madden’s tortured past, their future together had been dearly purchased. The case, one of the bloodiest in the Yard’s annals, had come close to costing him his life.
7
Feeling out of place in his town clothes – he was clad in a grey pinstriped suit and homburg – Chief Inspector Angus Sinclair paused at the edge of the green to take in the scene before him. Quite close to where he stood a cloth banner erected on poles bore the words HIGHFIELD FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SHOW in bold capitals, and beyond it, the broad stretch of grass ringed with cottages was filled with stalls, where the fruits of a long summer were on display.
Vegetables piled high in baskets – beans, peas, potatoes, carrots – rubbed shoulders with swollen marrows, while beside them there were tables overflowing with bunches of late roses and chrysanthemums. Pumpkins, apples, pears, blackberries, nuts, brown speckled eggs – there seemed no end to the variety of items arrayed for inspection and the avenues between the stands were thronged with villagers dressed in their Sunday best.
Searching the crowd, the chief inspector’s eye lit on a tall, elegant figure wearing a cream-coloured linen dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat standing beside a table stacked with preserves. He gave a grunt of appreciation. A widower now for several years, Angus Sinclair considered Helen Madden to be the best-looking woman of his acquaintance, and it always gave him particular pleasure to see her.
The long tresses she had worn when he first knew her, the fashion of the time, and a legacy of girlhood, perhaps, had long since vanished, but the chief inspector found consolation in the slender white neck their disappearance had revealed. His spirits, dampened earlier that morning by the pathologist’s report and accompanying photographs he’d been obliged to examine at Guildford police station, rose at the sight of her.
But his relief was shortlived. Aware of his approach, Helen put down the jar of honey she was holding.
‘I was wondering when you’d appear, Angus.’
Taken by surprise – he’d expected a friendly greeting at the very least – Sinclair stood abashed.
‘It’s that poor child’s murder, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here.’
Struck speechless, the chief inspector sought refuge in action. Bending beneath the brim of Helen’s straw hat, he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. The jasmine scent she’d always favoured was a reminder of happier occasions.
‘I’ll admit I’ve been at Guildford all morning, talking to Jim Boyce about it.’
‘And now you want to see John. Angus, you’re not to drag him into this. I won’t allow it.’ Her dark blue eyes offered no concession.
‘Drag him in! It was John who found the child’s body, for heaven’s sake.’ Sinclair broke off. The subject was a delicate one between them. He continued in a different tone. ‘My dear, I must speak to him. Surely you see that.’
The smile he tendered her was conciliatory. But in truth it was no more than a gesture. Though he had never doubted the strength of Helen’s feelings for her husband, he had equally never forgiven her for the part she had played in persuading the man she loved to give up his job with the police and start a new life with her. It still rankled with the chief inspector that an officer as talented as his former colleague should have quit the force, and fond as he was of Madden’s wife, he could never quite bring himself to absolve her of responsibility for this loss to the public weal.
‘Oh, very well. I see I’ve no choice in the matter.’
Relenting, she returned his kiss. In spite of their differences, they were firm friends.
‘He’s here somewhere. Probably over in that tent.’ She pointed towards a tan-coloured marquee topped with flags near the back of the green. ‘John’s had to stand in as chairman of the prize-giving committee this year. It ought to be Lord Stratton’s job, but he’s managed to come down with gout, rather cunningly.’ She paused. ‘Do stay for lunch, Angus. We don’t see nearly enough of you.’
‘I wish I could, my dear.’ The chief inspector recognized the olive branch he was being offered and declined with regret. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve an engagement in London. I have to get back.’
‘Then you must come down and spend a weekend with us. I’ll write and let you know when.’
Her smile brought momentary relief to Sinclair. But then her expression changed and she grew serious again.
‘You may think I’m making too much of this, but I know John. He won’t turn his back on it now. He feels involved, and that worries me. I can’t explain why, but I feel threatened. I know you have to speak to him, but don’t let it go further than that, I beg you.’