48

  Dark Deeds

  Wallace moved across the hall to the door that opened onto the back of the house.

  Everything was quiet.

  He paused at the door and listened. The only sound he could hear was the quiet susurration of the ever-present draught that shifted through the house.

  He stood still, occupied by the thought that Melanie had dashed out to the hall, then vanished. For such a substantial person to disappear into thin air was no mean achievement. How on earth had she managed it?

  He looked around. Not a sight or sound out of place.

  The air escaping from around the door increased in volume, sufficient to sound a slight whistle as it passed through the gaps. Wallace put his hand to the door and listened. He could just hear a sound somewhere near: a door closing, perhaps?

  With care, he opened the door and took a look.

  A narrow corridor ran through to the main back door. A door led through to the kitchen on the left, with a storage cupboard on the right. The hall at the end of the corridor was lit from the glow of an electric light. It was so quiet, he could hear someone breathing hard.

  Wallace moved into the corridor, easing the door closed behind him. But as he took a few steps forward, the old floorboards let out a groan.

  He stopped and listened.

  “Is someone there?”

  It sounded like John Wells, but his voice was weak.

  Wallace moved down to the end of the corridor and looked around the corner.

  Wells was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, clutching his stomach. There was a lot of blood. Wallace crossed to him. “What happened?”

  Wells lifted his head; he didn’t seem to be fully aware. “Who’s that? Wallace? Is that you?”

  He knelt down beside the injured man. “John. What’s happened? Let me have a look.” He tried to prise John’s hand away from his stomach, but he wouldn’t yield.

  “He stabbed me. Stuck a knife in me. God, it hurts!”

  “You need to let me take a look, John. Let go and let me see the damage.”

  John reached over with his other hand and grabbed Wallace’s shoulder. “I did it for peace. You’ve got to tell Mrs Bright. All I wanted was peace.”

  Wallace tried again to get John to let go. He had pulled his sweater into a knot over the wound. His hand had closed into a desperate grip and would not release.

  “Tell me what happened, John, Who did this?”

  John moved his head towards the door, licking his lips. “They did it. Those blackguards. I went out to tell them to go, to leave, to tell them that the game was up. But the older one, the big one, he grabbed me and shook me like a rag.” His head dropped. “All he wanted was the notes. He told me to get the notes or it would be worse for me. I told him to go jump. I tried to get away, get back to the house. But then the other one, the mean one, he got in front of me and there was a knife in his hand.”

  “You showed them the way in, didn’t you, John? You prepared the French windows. You showed them the secret passage from the study?”

  He nodded. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt. That was her doing. Melanie and her little sneak.”

  “The man we detained in the library?”

  “Robert. The little sneak.”

  “You let him in, didn’t you, and gave him access to the study?”

  “All those hours, scribbling in his notebook…” He grimaced. “The idiot left them all there. Thought they were safe. But Mrs Bright…” He grimaced again.

  “Mrs Bright found them, and they panicked.” Wallace looked over at the doors. The outer set were open. They were solid wood, but the inner doors were less sturdy, with engraved and decorated glass panels. He couldn’t see a thing outside; it was too dark.

  Wallace felt the back of his neck prickle. Sitting in the pool of light from the overhead lamp, he would be visible to anyone outside. But he couldn’t leave John even for a moment; he was in a bad way.

  “Stay here, chum. I need to put the light out. Be back in a moment.”

  He had to prise John’s hand off his shoulder to get up. He lunged over to the wall and turned off the light. A flicker of movement outside drew his eye. He crouched and tried to focus on its source, but he had to wait for his eyes to adjust.

  A cold sweat broke out on his back.

  The fear was always there, lurking in the back of his mind like a beast in a cave.

  But now the smell was in his nostrils. That awful smell. The mud, the corpses, the rotting blood. And he was back there, and he could hear the noise.

  A shudder ran down his body. Now he was flat on the floor, his fingers scrabbling on polished wood as if he were trying to dig his way down. He swallowed, his throat dry.

  Wallace closed his eyes and bunched his hands into fists. He spoke in a whisper. “Not real! Not there. Here. Right here.” He opened his hands and laid them flat on the floor. It was cold, hard and solid under his hands. He composed himself, opened his eyes and lifted his head.

  Outside, on the stairs at the back of the house, a man leaned in with his hand up at the window, peering into the hall.

  In his other hand, held against his waist: a shotgun.

  The man turned away, and seemed to be talking. He turned back and moved away, walking down the steps out of sight.

  If Wallace had been on his feet, he would have been seen.

  The French windows. They were still open.

  Wallace sprang to his feet. He pulled his shoes off and laid them down on the floor. John groaned a little. “I’ll be back, old man.”

  He ran back, opened the door and took a look around the hall. He hurried through to the open door of the library.

  “Gods, man. I almost shot you.” Dunlop clapped a hand to his forehead.

  “And I almost brained you for good measure.” Sylvia had the poker lifted back over her shoulder.

  Wallace lifted a finger to his lips and pointed at the French windows.

  The heavy drapes were still in place. He paused and shifted an edge, just enough to look outside. No sign of movement. He looked back at Dunlop and whispered, “Two of ’em. I think they are headed this way. Armed. Shotgun and a knife at least.”

  Dunlop nodded. “Right, I’ll deal with them.” He went to the curtains, pulled them wide, and opened one of the French windows. He sounded a blast on his police whistle and ducked back inside for cover. “I am a police officer! You are under arrest. Give yourselves up now, or—”

  A shotgun blast interrupted him.

  Glass shattered. One of the windows twisted off its hinges and collapsed.

  Wallace and Dunlop had to throw themselves back with their arms up, protecting their faces as glass rained around them. Dunlop hit the floor, falling on his left shoulder.

  With a roar, a big man sprinted for the opening. He cast away his shotgun as he reached the window.

  Dunlop snapped off a shot. The crack of the pistol sounded slight and pathetic after the shotgun blast. If the bullet found its mark, it didn’t stop the man. He charged in, filling the opening with his bulk.

  “Damn you!” Sylvia ran forward and delivered a tremendous blow to the man’s head with the poker.

  A vivid gash opened in his forehead. He put his hand to it and staggered, groaning but still on his feet.

  Wallace stepped in and delivered a solid punch to his stomach.

  He folded over and hit the floor.

  The second man lunged into the room, and his knife sliced into Wallace’s jacket, snagging on the wool.

  Wallace half-turned and slammed his elbow into the man’s face.

  His head snapped back, and he went down on his knees. Wallace’s fist connected with his forehead and he went over.

  Dunlop stood over the big man, aiming his pistol. “Move a muscle and I will shoot, I promise you. Are you okay, Mrs Bright?”

  “Yes.” Sylvia sounded breathless. “I am. I don’t think these villains were quite expecting… us.” She laughed. “Well, Wallace? Unharmed?”

  “Just fine, old girl. Just fine.” He reached down for the man on the ground, and realised that there was a knife stuck in his jacket. “Although I rather think my tweed jacket has seen better days.”

  49

  A Reckoning

  Two policemen carried John lying on a stretcher out across the hall.

  Wallace looked grave as he watched them go by.

  “Will he be all right, do you think?” Sylvia sat down beside him. She was wrapped in a tartan shawl and looked pale and drawn in the morning light.

  “Hard to say. He’s lost a lot of blood. Even if he recovers from the wound, it won’t go well for him.”

  Dunlop came over to them. “Just off now. I need to get back to the office and write up a full report. That will take quite a while.”

  Wallace stood up and shook his hand. “We couldn’t have managed without your help. Much appreciated. Hope they give you a promotion and a medal.”

  He laughed. “You know it doesn’t work that way, they’ll probably promote the chief and reprimand me for acting without proper authority.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do…” Sylvia stood up and kissed Dunlop on the cheek. “Please let me know.”

  He smiled and nodded. “I just wish we could have laid hands on Melanie Arnott.”

  “No sign of her?” said Wallace.

  “Not a jot, God knows where she got to; we’ve had men go through all the outhouses, the garages and the building, top to bottom. Hannah was barricaded in her room, too terrified to move. When the constables broke in she screamed and collapsed.”

  “Is she all right?”

  He nodded. “She’s fine now, but she had a frightening experience. She was watching out of her window when John met with those two villains. And she saw him being struck, although she had no idea he had been stabbed. When one of them produced a shotgun and loaded it for use, she hid under her bed.”

  Sylvia shivered.

  Wallace put an arm around her. “All right, old girl?”

  “I would be happier with Melanie safely behind bars.”

  “She will surface at some point,” said Dunlop. “We’ll bring her to book. Have no fear.”

  “Have you heard about Henry? Is he all right?”

  “Still fast asleep. Just as well we didn’t drink that water or we would all still be unconscious while Melanie and her friends ransacked the house and made a clean getaway.”

  “What about the rest of them?” Sylvia looked out at the hall where the last of the police constables waited for Dunlop.

  “Attempted murder, assault, assaulting a police officer, conspiracy. A fair range of crimes can be laid at their door. The murder of PC Collins will be a matter for the courts, but this man Robert was carrying the gun that was used to kill him; the chances are that he will hang.”

  “Seems a barbaric thing to do in this day and age.”

  “It’s justice, Mrs Bright. He killed a man and must die for his crime.”

  “And poor John Wells? Will he be charged?”

  “That’s hard to say at this point. But he was certainly an accessory to a variety of crimes.”

  Sylvia sighed. “I think we all need a stiff drink and a decent rest before we deal with any more. Thanks again, Inspector.”

  Dunlop nodded to them both with a smile, then moved out to the hall.

  Sylvia sank into her chair. “No sign of Chief Inspector Saunders.”

  “Not today,” said Wallace. “Perhaps it’s too early for him.” He smiled. “I think it’s time for a spot of breakfast. What do you say?”

  “It is a ridiculous time in the morning. Hannah is probably still having palpitations. We’ve lost every other member of staff, and there is a good chance that the cook and the maids will stay away, with all the police and fuss. So how do you intend to get breakfast?”

  Half an hour later, Sylvia sat in the kitchen, watching Wallace fly around the kitchen assembling and cooking breakfast. “I can’t believe you have become so practical in your old age.”

  He came over with a plate of food. “It is amazing what one can do when there is no choice but to do it.” He put the plate down on the kitchen table in front of Sylvia. “There, fresh scrambled eggs, nice bread and butter and a scone with tea to round it off.”

  “Oh, this is wonderful.” She picked up her implements. “Suddenly, I feel ravenously hungry.”

  Wallace smiled and turned away from the table.

  Melanie. Covered in dust and cobwebs. Still wearing the black dress she had worn for the seance.

  She lunged at Wallace and clubbed him with a length of wood.

  He dropped to the floor, out cold.

  Melanie gave a sigh of satisfaction. “I’ve wanted to do that for some time.”

  “Might have killed him…” She shrugged and turned her attention to Sylvia. “We’ll see. After I’ve dealt with you.”

  Sylvia got up, keeping the table between them. All she could think of was the dreadful noise that had accompanied Melanie’s assault on Wallace. She glanced down at him; there was blood on the flagstones around his head.

  “You are completely mad!” Sylvia looked around for something to defend herself with. It was a kitchen; there had to be knives somewhere.

  Melanie moved round the table, blocking Sylvia’s path to the cupboards by the two sinks. “Steady on, Mrs Bright. No need to cast aspersions. The truth of the matter is that I have no choice.” She smiled and wielded the wood—a table leg—in both hands.

  “What do you mean, no choice?”

  “I’ve known for years. Ever since I was able to properly examine my physiognomy.” She circled round the table as Sylvia moved away, maintaining the distance.

  “Your what?”

  Melanie sighed, stopped for a moment and tapped the table leg in her hand. “My dear girl. Is it not obvious? I examined my own cranium and there was no doubt. The shape and irregularities of my skull clearly indicate a person inclined to criminality and violence.” She smiled and shrugged. “At first I struggled to contain my impulses, but I’ve come to realise that my efforts were completely pointless. The outcome was predetermined. I had no choice but to fulfil my allotted role.” She lifted the table leg in both hands with a frown. “I’d appreciate it if you would consent to fulfil your allotted role, of victim.”

  “Honestly, Melanie. I’d rather not. You are done for. Surely you know that?” Sylvia moved around the table, keeping out of range.

  “Am I? Are you sure? It’s only the sheer incompetence of the police that has saved you up to now. I hid a bottle, half-full of hemlock, a tincture with enough poison in it to kill half a dozen people, in the furniture store above the study. I copied your hand when I wrote out the label for it and, to make sure, I wrapped it in an old scarf of yours. Only the determined incompetence of the police has prevented its discovery. I moved it twice to more prominent locations, and still they ignored it.” She continued to circle as she spoke, then lunged forward.

  Sylvia jumped back, banging into a dresser. Dishes and pots clattered, and a plate fell on the stone floor and smashed. “I’m sure the police will be devastated once they realise.”

  Melanie laughed. “But I am enjoying this. It is compensation for having to hide away for hours.”

  “How…” Sylvia had to step over the prone Wallace. He did not stir. She feared for him, but could not check yet. “How did you manage it? How did you do your disappearing act?”

  She snorted. “I know this old house better than you. There’s a panel in the hall stair that opens.” She lunged again, forcing Sylvia to move too far back from the table.

  “Give up, Melanie. Surrender to the police. You might get a measure of leniency if you do. Carry on like this, and when you are caught—”

  “No-one is going to catch me.” Melanie moved with surprising speed and rounded the corner of the table. She charged at Sylvia.

  There was no room or choice. She had to retreat from the table, but now the wall was at her back.

  Melanie pushed forward. She roared and lifted up the table leg. In a moment of perfect clarity, Sylvia threw up her arm. She knew that it was futile, and an invitation for serious harm and a lot of pain.

  Melanie tripped over Wallace’s body and fell, full length, to the floor.

  Sylvia grabbed an iron pot from a hook as Melanie lifted her head to get up. She swung it will full force.

  There was a dull, ringing noise as her arm was jolted by the impact and the pot flew out of her hands. Melanie groaned and fell. There was blood on her forehead.

  Sylvia was gripped by an intense anger. So much wrong had been done by this woman; so many people had been hurt. With a cold determination she took down another, heavier, pot and gripped the handle in both hands. She took a balanced stance and waited for Melanie to lift her head again.

  Wallace groaned.

  Sylvia glanced over at him, her attention divided.

  With a wince of pain, Wallace lifted a hand to the back of his head and made an effort to sit up, but only managed to lean on an elbow.

  “Don’t move.” Sylvia shifted, putting herself between Wallace and Melanie. “Stay put. You’ve taken a bad knock to the head, but I can’t do much right now.”

  “What?”

  “Melanie hit you with a chair leg, or a table leg. A thick piece of carved wood.”

  “Can’t say I’m overly concerned about the provenance of the wood. Rather more occupied by its effect.”

  Melanie lunged to an upright position, blood streaming down her face, her teeth bared in a rictus.

  Sylvia delivered a terrific blow with the pot into the side of Melanie’s head.

  Once again, there was a distinct hollow ‘boom’ as the pot connected. This time, Melanie’s eyes rolled up, and she collapsed without a sound.

  Sylvia set the pot down on the table and sighed.

  “Now…” She rolled up her sleeves. “That’s that. Let me have a look at that head of yours.”

 

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