The scent of murder, p.25
The Scent of Murder, page 25
part #3 of Doctor Dody McCleland Series
‘Dody and Lady Fitzgibbon are at the workhouse; there has been an outbreak of scarlet fever,’ Florence said coolly.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Pike said. He had intended meeting Dody at the workhouse to search for Jessica Wilson’s records, but after Philips’s confession, he had been obliged to travel to Buxted to find a magistrate willing to sign Fitzgibbon’s arrest warrant.
‘I wanted to ask Lady Fitzgibbon where her husband has gone hunting. I have an arrest warrant in my pocket for him,’ Pike explained.
An excited gleam replaced the coolness in Florence’s eyes. ‘Really?’ she said, clasping her hands to her chest. ‘You are going to arrest Sir Desmond for what he did to Dody?’
‘No, actually, on suspicion of smug—’
‘When?’
‘Today, I hope, if I can find him, but—’
‘That’s easy. I know where he’s gone. Before he left he told us he was going shooting near the river. He didn’t want company, didn’t even take his man with him; he said he needed to be alone to think and that he would be back before dark.’ Florence paused, her eyes flitting around the entrance hall as she spoke. ‘If you’ll just wait a moment, I’ll find my coat—’
‘Out of the question,’ Pike interjected.
Florence stared back at him, started to bristle, then checked herself. ‘Oh, no, on second thoughts I suppose I can’t, but it’s not because of your say-so. I can’t leave Mrs Slater, you see. She’s naturally taken Tristram’s death very badly, and it would be awful to leave her in this big, spooky place on her own.’
The tension in Pike’s shoulders began to ease. The last thing he needed was Florence’s company in the woods.
Florence had told Pike that Fitzgibbon and his dog had left the Hall on foot, heading towards the river, which was about two miles north of the Hall. Pike drove the trap as far as the furrowed path would permit, then left the mare and trap tied to a tree and started walking. Every now and then the boom of a shotgun signalled the way. He followed the sound, climbing over stiles and slogging through fields until he reached the fringe of the woods.
He could have waited for Sir Desmond’s return to the Hall before making his arrest, but wanted to confront the man alone in the isolation of the wood. Not from any desire to rough him up, he convinced himself — he was not that kind of policeman, just as he had not been that kind of army officer. However, he felt that in the privacy of the woods he had more hope of convincing Fitzgibbon to admit to his assault on Dody. Pike had not been privy to any of the details, and the typed confession residing next to the arrest warrant in his inside pocket was unfortunately vague, but he was counting on it to panic Fitzgibbon into at least making some kind of acknowledgement of the crime. A direct confession from Fitzgibbon to Pike would mean less involvement for Dody in the trial, and, he hoped, aid the process of her recovery.
Pike was all too aware how difficult it was for women to stand up and testify in court about such delicate matters; he knew full well how hard the all-male legal system made it for them. The thought that Fitzgibbon might get away with what he had done to Dody was more abhorrent to Pike than that the man might wriggle out of the smuggling charges. He would make Fitzgibbon pay for it — through legal means, of course — and, if possible, make the procedure as humiliating as possible for him. The man obviously had no scruples about inflicting pain and humiliation upon Dody.
The scattering of trees increased in density until the stark branches of silver birch, elm and beech were an entwined, lacy mass above his head. Under his feet watery shafts of light shone dully on tangled bramble thickets, mouldy logs and yellowed bracken.
By the time he’d trod a path of soggy loam into the woods proper, the grey of daylight had taken on the graininess of an artificial dusk. Barely a breath of wind disturbed the branches and the sleet had dwindled to a soft drizzle. Still and gloomy, the woods seemed to have their own climate, almost as if they belonged to another world.
A shotgun blasted from the north. As if uncorked from a bottle, a flock of birds rose squawking into the sky. Pike tried to identify the position of the shooter. Another shot soon followed; it had come from closer to the river, he calculated. The path he was on should take him straight there.
The woods returned to their former silence. Pike followed the path, sometimes no more than a deer track, for about a quarter of a mile until the damp air in his nostrils gave way to a sweeter, wetter scent. He had never seen the river, but had been aware of its presence the night he drove Dody back to the Hall. It was not long afterwards that she had been attacked in the stables by Sir Desmond.
Pike increased his pace. His heart thumped in his chest and he found himself trying to stifle the rising emotion he’d earlier managed to repress with his civilised notions of justice. If Sir Desmond refused to sign the confession, what then? He’d make the bastard pay, whatever it took.
Gradually noises began to encroach upon the silence: the roar of the river, the crack of a gun barrel, the easy slide of cartridges followed by a smooth, well-oiled click. Through the gloom he made out the shape of Fitzgibbon, an overweight labrador at his side. The dog turned its head, pricked its ears towards Pike and whimpered. Pike froze.
Fitzgibbon, aiming high, paid his dog no heed. A wood pigeon had alighted on a branch. To shoot the bird in that position was usually considered unsporting, but the kind of behaviour Pike expected from such a man. Pike waited for the double boom before stepping into the open.
‘Go seek!’ Fitzgibbon hissed to his dog.
‘Fitzgibbon!’ Pike called out.
The man whirled around, the fired shotgun now impotent in his hands. ‘What the devil? Pike, is that you? You’re trespassing! Get the hell out of my wood!’
Undaunted, Pike approached. The dog returned with a shredded wood pigeon and dropped it at its master’s feet. Fitzgibbon patted the dog and shoved the remains into a small canvas bag slung across his shoulder. The bag was almost full, the canvas stained with the blood of small birds.
‘I have here a warrant for your arrest.’ Pike dug into his pocket for the document.
Fitzgibbon snatched it from Pike’s hand and examined it for a moment. ‘I can’t read in this light without spectacles.’
‘Then you’ll just have to take my word for it. Philips has turned King’s evidence. You are being charged with a smuggling offence and you are to return to Uckfield with me without delay.’
‘No one tells me what to do on my own property.’ Fitzgibbon’s hand crept towards the gun belt strapped across his chest, Boer-commando style.
Pike shook his head and pulled his revolver from his pocket. Fitzgibbon’s mouth fell open. He was obviously not used to being on the receiving end of a gun barrel.
And then he said, quite unexpectedly, ‘She wasn’t much good, you know. Uptight little bitch. Don’t know what you see in her.’
The remark threw Pike. A curtain of red dropped before his eyes. He could have shot the man there and then. Putting the revolver back into his pocket, he barely felt the pain of his right fist connecting with Fitzgibbon’s nose or heard the crunch of bone on cartilage. Fitzgibbon fell with a startled cry.
Fists balled in front of his face, Pike waited for Fitzgibbon to climb to his feet. ‘Get up.’
‘You’ve broken my nose!’ Fitzgibbon propped himself up on one elbow and probed the tender area.
‘It’s the least you deserve.’
Fitzgibbon lunged, wrapping his arms about Pike’s legs and pulled him down. With surprising agility he scrambled to his feet and slammed his boot into Pike’s solar plexus. The breath left Pike’s body with a whoosh and gave him no time to avoid the next kick, which caught him in the side of his head. Stunned, it took him a moment to come to his senses. As the tree canopy spun above his head, he was vaguely aware that Fitzgibbon was fumbling with his cartridge belt.
‘Stop,’ Pike croaked, hauling himself unsteadily to his feet.
‘No. You stop. Right there,’ Fitzgibbon growled as he aimed the loaded barrels at Pike’s chest. The labrador yelped excitedly beside him.
Pike swallowed. ‘What are you going to do now? Kill me? How will you explain that?’ he asked, his voice sounding considerably steadier than his heartbeat.
‘You walked between me and a cock pheasant.’
‘And the Buxted magistrate who signed your arrest warrant? You think he’ll believe that’s what happened? You’re a lot of things, but you’re no murderer, Fitzgibbon. Give the gun to—’
‘Shh!’ Fitzgibbon cut Pike off, scanning the surrounding woods through widened eyes. ‘Did you hear that?’
Pike shook his head. Surreptitiously he worked his hand into his deep pocket and grasped the reassuring butt of his revolver.
‘I don’t hear anything,’ he said, aware only of the breeze through the trees, the call of a bird, the rush of the river in the gathering twilight, and the rising damp.
‘Shh!’ Fitzgibbon said again, a finger to his lips, fear visibly spreading across his face. Then Pike heard it for himself, the sound of baying hounds somewhere to the south, and getting closer.
Fitzgibbon turned deathly pale. ‘The Witch Hounds,’ he murmured.
Pike took a step closer. What the devil is wrong with the man? he wondered. He seems to be having some kind of a fit. Surely I didn’t hit him that hard.
Moving fast, Fitzgibbon shoved the gun barrel into Pike’s chest, forcing him backwards. Then he took off, crashing his way through the undergrowth towards the river.
Pike set off in pursuit, sticks lashing his face, brambles tearing at his trousers.
They veered from the path into a dense thatch of vegetation, where they stumbled upon a small animal track that descended towards the river. When Pike finally caught up with him, Fitzgibbon was cowering behind a willow near the river’s edge, his black dog panting at his side, gun nowhere to be seen. He must have dropped it during the chase.
‘We have to cross the river,’ Fitzgibbon wheezed, his voice almost drowned by the sound of rushing water. ‘They can’t track our scent through water.’
Fitzgibbon had not been running away from him at all, Pike realised. It was the hounds he was afraid of. Compared with them, Pike’s threat was now inconsequential.
‘They won’t hurt us if we don’t panic,’ Pike said, maintaining his calm.
‘Ordinary hounds won’t, but these phantom killers will.’ Fitzgibbon scanned the river. The waters were high, topped up by recent rain. Rapids, tripping over partially submerged rocks, glowed phosphorescent in the failing light.
Pike guessed what the other man was thinking. ‘You can’t cross the river here,’ he said. ‘It’s far too dangerous; you can’t see where the rocks begin and end.’
‘There’s a continuous trail of stepping stones just below the surface somewhere around here,’ Fitzgibbon said, glancing about. ‘I know, I’ve walked it before.’
At once the air was filled with rustles, cracks, barks and yelps. The hounds were nearly upon them. The terrified man spun like a cornered animal. Pike put out a hand to steady him, but he pulled away, mouth opening and closing without a sound.
‘No, don’t!’ Pike said, guessing his intention. He reached again for Fitzgibbon’s arm and found himself grasping air.
Fitzgibbon had jumped, missed the submerged stones and plunged into the river.
Pike saw his head pop to the water’s surface, but before Fitzgibbon could strike out for the opposite bank, the current clutched hold of him and dragged him downriver. Pike tore along the river’s edge, straining for a glimpse of the helpless man. Every now and then he caught sight of a bobbing head and thrashing, outstretched arms.
Soon Pike was joined on the riverbank by a slobbering, pale shape, and then another. The foxhounds joined with Fitzgibbon’s black dog, running at Pike’s heels in an energetic game of chase. A large uprooted tree blocked their path. Pike slowed to skirt around it, heard a whistle and looked back in the direction he had just come. He saw the silhouette of a man on horseback with more hounds milling about him. The man carried a long curling whip. Perhaps together we can drag Fitzgibbon from the river with that, Pike thought, feeling a glimmer of hope.
He scrambled to the highest part of the uprooted tree and waved his hands in the air. The rider was sure to see him up there. ‘Help!’ he shouted, pointing towards Fitzgibbon. ‘Man in river!’
The horseman made no move; he merely gazed at Pike from atop his mount. Perhaps he had not heard. Pike cupped both hands around his mouth and called out again.
The horseman whistled. The foxhounds tore themselves away from the interesting smells among the tree roots and bounded back to their master. The rider took one last look at Pike and vanished back into the woods, hounds loping about him.
Pike cursed out loud. ‘Damn and blast the man! Could he not see me?’ He scanned the river, and released a breath of relief when he spotted Fitzgibbon clinging to some snagged debris about fifty yards downstream. He ran down the riverbank and called out, ‘It’s safe now; the hounds have gone. Can you make it to the bank?’
‘Can’t,’ called a strained voice. ‘My leg’s caught. Can’t move.’
Of all the bloody things, Pike thought as he pulled up. What the dickens should he do now? Should he leave Fitzgibbon and go for help?
One of the branches to which Fitzgibbon had been clinging succumbed to the tug of the current. Fitzgibbon screamed and scrabbled about, trying to keep his balance on his disintegrating island. ‘Hurry, man, it’s washing away!’ he cried.
Pike looked up and down the riverbank, hoping to find something to assist him. A discarded rope was too much to hope for, but he did find a long, stout stick. He took off his sodden coat and jacket, hung them on a fallen tree and edged down the muddy bank towards the rushing water. Standing at the water’s edge, he assessed the scene.
The foaming rapids confirmed the strength of the current. Below the surface he glimpsed a submerged bank of shale. It was a lot less steady than the path of stepping stones Fitzgibbon had attempted to use, but it might still do. How far into the river the shale-bank went, Pike had no idea. He prodded it with his stick and disturbed a few loose stones. The naturally formed bridge was unstable and slippery with river slime, but the water above it was relatively shallow. Pike lowered one leg into the river, then gingerly pressed the other down to join it. The bite of the cold reached his calves. The current was fierce and whipped at his trouser legs. Doggedly, he began to make his way across the shifting stone bank.
The water was now knee-high and the flakes of shale were slippery, but he managed to keep on the submerged path using the stick for balance and as a prod, sinking it before him to test for stability and depth.
Fitzgibbon’s face came into sharp focus, pale and round as the moon. Blood trickled from his damaged nose and down one side of his cheek.
God help them both if he was badly injured, Pike thought. ‘Hang on, Fitzgibbon! I’m coming!’ he shouted.
He had reached the edge of the shale and, probing the depth of the water before him, failed to touch the river bed with his stick. A deep sucking channel of about eight feet of swirling water separated him from Fitzgibbon and his disintegrating island. Pike found himself seized by as powerful an urge to save Fitzgibbon as his earlier urge to cause him harm.
‘Fitzgibbon, listen to me,’ he called. ‘I’m going to pass you one end of my stick. Grab hold of it and I’ll haul you towards me.’ He prayed to God to give him strength. ‘Have you managed to free up your leg?’
Fitzgibbon nodded, too exhausted to speak.
‘Good. Kick out with your legs as if you’re swimming; that’ll help me.’
Pike lowered himself onto his knees. The shale shifted beneath his weight. He barely felt the icy water rushing against his stomach as he stretched the stick towards Fitzgibbon.
Fitzgibbon extended his hand and grabbed the end of the stick, shoving himself from the island before Pike was ready for his weight. The sudden movement caused the stick to slip from Pike’s grasp. Pike pitched forward, icy water seizing his chest and lungs, his mouth barely above the surface. Before he could resume a stable position he heard a sharp snap.
Upon struggling to his knees he found that the island had broken apart, the nest of branches and logs washed away by the weltering river. Fitzgibbon was holding on to the stick, kicking feebly as he struggled against the current. He looked at Pike for a second through pleading and terrified eyes — just a one-second look — and then, like his island, he was swept away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The section of wood in which Dody and Joe found themselves was so dense with tangled ivy, saplings and brambles that it proved impossible to go further on horseback.
‘Is this where Edie was supposed to come?’ Dody asked Joe as she slid from the saddle, her feet sinking through layers of decaying leaves.
The boy shrugged. ‘Somewhere ’ereabouts. But if I’d knowed the woods was so thick ’ere, I would’ve skirted round ’em. Sorry, miss.’
Dody told him that it couldn’t be helped and thanked him for doing his best. A feeling of helplessness pressed into her, which she attempted to hide from Joe. Together they called Edith’s name, but received no answer.
After a few fruitless minutes, Dody said, ‘It’s probably easiest if I continue to search for Edie on foot. She might be hiding in one of these thickets, recognise the Master’s horse and be too terrified to show herself. You must ride to Fitzgibbon Hall and fetch Chief Inspector Pike. If he’s not there, he’ll probably be at the Green Witch or on his way there by trap. But you’re not to involve any other policeman, do you understand?’
Joe touched the peak of his cap. ‘Mr Pike only — I understand, miss.’ He hesitated, as if unwilling to leave her.
‘Off you go, now,’ she urged.
He flicked her a brave smile, turned the horse and pushed his way down a deer path towards Fitzgibbon Hall.
Dody was alone.
She turned slowly in a circle, trying to get some idea of how to penetrate the vegetation that pressed close all around her. On her third turn she spied a tunnel through the undergrowth, probably made by foxes and badgers. It was too small for a deer or a horse, but large enough for her if she were to crouch, and crawl. She dropped to her knees and scrambled her way through, mindless of the brambles tearing at her clothes and the damp seeping through her skirt. She emerged into a small clearing, dizzy, clothes torn and hat knocked skew-whiff.
