It was dark and very cold with no wind, the heavy rain falling vertically through the thinning leaves of the dripping trees to the sodden earth beneath. The appropriate setting, I thought grimly, for a search for a murdered body: and there's an awful lot of searching in four acres on a black and miserable night.
The beech hedge had been trimmed some time during the past month and the clipping piled up in a distant corner of the garden. We found Mrs. Turpin under this pile, not very deep down, just enough branches and twigs over her to hide her from sight. Lying beside her was the hammer I had failed to find in the tool-shed and it required only a glance at the back of her head to know the reason why the hammer was there. At a guess I would have said that the person who had tried to stove in my ribs had also wielded the hammer on Mrs. Turpin: my ribs, like the dead woman's head, bore witness to the insensate and unreasoning ferocity of a broken and vicious mind.
Back in the house I broached MacDonald's whisky supplies. He wouldn't be wanting it any more and as he'd carefully pointed out to me that he had no relations and therefore no one to leave it to, it seemed a pity to waste it. We needed it, badly. I poured out hefty tots, one apiece for Hardanger and myself, the other two for the police drivers and if Hardanger took a dim view of this theft of property and contravention of standing orders by offering intoxicating liquor to policemen on duty he kept it to himself. He finished his whisky before any of us. The two policemen left just as the General returned from the radio van. He seemed to have aged a year for every minute since last I'd seen him, the lines about the nose and mouth more deeply trenched than ever.
"You found her?" He took the offered glass.
"We found her," Hardanger acknowledged. "Dead, as Cavell said she would be. Murdered."
"It hardly matters." The General shivered suddenly and took a deep gulp of his whisky. "She's only one. This time to-morrow — how many thousands? God knows how many thousands. This madman has sent another message. Usual Biblical language, walls of Mordon still standing, no signs of demolition, so has advanced his timetable. If demolition doesn't start on Mordon by midnight he's going to break a botulinus toxin ampoule in the heart of London, at four o'clock this morning, within a quarter of a mile of New Oxford Street."
This seemed to call for some more whisky. Hardanger said, "He's no madman, sir."
"No." The General rubbed his forehead wearily. "I told them what Cavell found out, what we think. They're in a complete panic now. Do you know that some national dailies are already on the streets — just before six o'clock? Unprecedented, but so is the situation. The papers seem to be very accurately reflecting the terror of the people and are begging — or demanding — that the Government yield to this madman — for at the time of printing everyone thought it was just a crazed crackpot. Word of the wiping out of this segment of East Anglia is just beginning to come through on constant radio and TV news broadcasts and everyone is terrified out of their wits. Whoever is behind all this is a brilliant deviclass="underline" a few hours and he has the nation on its knees. It's the man's frightening speed of operation, the lack of time-lag between threat and carrying out of threat that's so terrifying. Especially with every paper and news broadcast plugging the theme that this madman doesn't know the difference between the botulinus toxin and the Satan Bug and that it may very well be the Satan Bug he uses next time."
"In fact," I said, "all those who have been moaning and complaining so bitterly that life is hardly worth the living in the shadow of a nuclear holocaust have suddenly discovered that it might very well be worth living after all. You think the Government will give in?"
"I can't say," the General admitted. "I'm afraid I rather misjudged the Premier. I thought he was as windy as they come. I don't know now. He's toughened his attitude amazingly. Maybe he's ashamed of his earlier panic-stricken reaction. Maybe he sees the chance to make his imperishable mark on history."
"Maybe he's like us," I said. "Maybe he's been drinking whisky, too."
"Maybe. He's at present consulting with the Cabinet. He says that if this is a Communist scheme he'll be damned if he gives in. If the Communists are behind it, he says the last thing in the world we can afford to do is to give in for though not yielding to their demands that Mordon be demolished may bring death to many, yielding to their demands will bring eventual death to all. Myself, I think that attitude is the only one, and I agree with him when he says he's ready to evacuate the city of London before he gives in."
"Evacuate London?" Hardanger said in disbelief. "Ten million people in ten hours. Fantastic. The man's mad. Impossible."
"It's not quite as drastic as all that, thank heaven. It's a windless evening, the met. office forecasts a windless night and it's raining heavily. It seems that an airborne virus is carried down to earth by heavy rain, having a much greater affinity for water than for air. The experts doubt whether in windless rainy conditions the virus will get more than a few hundred yards from its point of release. If the need arises they propose to evacuate the area between Euston Road and the Thames, from Portland Street and Regent Street in the west, to Gray's Inn Road in the east."
"That's feasible enough," Hardanger admitted. "Place is practically deserted by night anyway — mainly a business, office and shop area. But this virus. It'll be carried away by the rain. It'll pollute the Thames. It may get into the drinking water. What's to happen — are people to be told to refrain from washing or drinking until the twelve hour oxidisation period is up?"
"That's what they say. Unless the water has been stored and covered beforehand, that is. My God, what's going to come of it all? I've never felt so damned helpless in my life. We don't seem to have a single solitary lead into this business. If only we had a suspicion, the slightest pointing finger as to whom was behind all this — well, by heaven, if we could get to him I'd turn my back and let Cavell here get to work on him."
I drained my glass and put it down. "You mean that, sir?"
"What do you think?" He glanced up from his glass then stared at me with his tired grey eyes. "What do you mean? Cavell? Can you point a finger?"
"I can do better than that, sir. I know. I know who it is."
The General was a great disappointment as far as reaction went. He always was. No gasps, no wide-eyed stares, no emotional pyrotechnics. He murmured: "Half of my kingdom, Pierre. Who?"
"The last proof," I said. "The last proof and then I can say. We missed it and it was staring us in the face. At least, it was staring me in the face. And Hardanger. To think the country depends on people like us to safeguard them. Policemen, detectives. We couldn't detect the holes in Gruyere cheese." I turned to Hardanger. "We've just made a pretty thorough search of the garden. Agreed?"
"Agreed. So?"
"Hardly missed a square foot?" I persisted,
"Go on," he rumbled impatiently.
"Did you see any signs of freshly-built masonary? Huts? Sheds? Walls? Fishponds? Decorative stonework? Anything?"
He shook his head, his eyes wary. I was going off my rocker. "Nothing. There was nothing of the kind."
"Then what happened to all the cement in the empty cement bags in the tool-shed? The ones we saw when we found the tarpaulin there? It didn't vanish. And the few breeze-blocks we saw? Probably only the remainder of a fair stack of them. If outdoor masonry work wasn't a hobby of MacDonald's, then what would be the most likely place to find such masonry work? In a dining-room? In a bedroom?"
"Suppose you tell me, Cavell?"
"I'll do better than that. I'll show you." I left them, went out to the tool-shed and hunted around for a crowbar or pick. I could find neither. The nearest was a small sledge. It would have to do. I picked it up along with a bucket, went into the kitchen where the General and Hardanger were waiting for me, filled the bucket at the kitchen sink and led the way down the stairs to the cellar. Hardanger, apparently oblivious of the presence of the dead man dangling from the ceiling, said heavily, "What do you propose to demonstrate, Cavell? How to make coal briquettes?"