River of Darkness

River Of Darkness

Rennie Airth

SUMMARY:
As rural England slowly emerges from the sorrow of World War I, a particularly vicious attack on a household in a small Surrey village leaves five butchered bodies and no explanation for the killings. A Scotland Yard inspector investigates.

River of Darkness by Rennie Airth.

The main protagonist of River of Darkness is a Scotland Yard detective so damaged by his experiences during the First World War that his superiors worry about his ability to do his job. This may sound like Charles Todd 's excellent series about Ian Rutledge, a shell-shocked cop from the same era. But Rennie Airth, a South African journalist who lives in Italy, has made his hero--Inspector John Madden--a somewhat different version of one of England's walking wounded. Madden is both gloomier (he lost his wife and young daughter to an influenza epidemic) and more pragmatic than the poetic, indecisive Rutledge.

Madden is sent to a town in Surrey where a local family has been massacred in what looks like a robbery gone wrong. He finds enough echoes of his recent battlefield experiences to conclude that the killer was just one man--most likely a former soldier using a bayonet. As for motive, it could well be perverse sexual passion, that "river of darkness" to which a psychologist introduces him. We meet the killer early on, watch him as he maintains a rigid control over every aspect of his life, then stare in horror as he periodically explodes into mad violence. Unlike Madden, this man has not been severely damaged or changed by the war; he has simply used it to channel and redirect his dark river. Airth's point--that survival comes in many shapes and sizes--gives a solid foundation to an impressive leap of imagination.

'Rennie Airth takes what at first sight seems to be a Twenties drawing-room murder mystery and transforms it into an edge-of-the-seat thriller set against a skilfully evoked backdrop of war-wounded England - compelling stuff.' Robert Goddard

'One of the most gripping thrillers I have ever read. The tension never lets up (I really did stay up half the night) and it never lets go.' Country Life

'If ever the phrase "just when you thought it was safe to go back in the drawing-room" applied to any tale of murder, mystery and suspense then this is that tale -- a tale that unwinds and then suddenly twists with the sickening lunge of the unseen knife.' Dublin Herald

'A tense literary thriller . . . skilfully shifting focus between the detective's search and the killer's plot to strike again, the gifted Airth builds suspense from elements that, with fascinating period authenticity, give the book a feel of a Christie or Du Maurier mystery.' Publishers Weekly

Rennie Airth was born in South Africa and worked for a number of years as a foreign correspondent for Reuters. He has published two previous novels, Snatch and Once a Spy. The idea for River of Darkness came to him when, among some family papers, he found mementoes of an uncle who was killed in the First World War. He is currently at work on a sequel to River of Darkness.

'It's the tactics and terrain, the morale and the characters, that make the difference between an average thriller and one as good as this.' The New York Times

By the same author Snatch Once a Spy

pan books First published 1999 by Macmillan This edition published 2000 by Pan Books an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd 25 Eccleston Place, London swiw 9NF Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.macmillan.co.uk

isbn o 330 37317 X Copyright � Rennie Airth 1999 The right of Rennie Airth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Extract from To The War-Mongers' � Siegfried Sassoon (from The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon, Faber & Faber) is reproduced by kind permission of George Sassoon.

'Picnic July 1917' by Rose Macauiay is reproduced by kind permission of the Peters Fraser & Dunlop Group Limited.

Extract from 'Sick Love' by Robert Graves (from the Oxford Anthology of English Poetry Volume II, Oxford University Press) is reproduced by kind permission of Carcanet Press Limited.

Extract from 'Aftermath' � Siegfried Sassoon (from Siegfried Sassoon Collected Poems 1908-1956, Faber & Faber) is reproduced by kind permission of George Sassoon.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham pic, Chatham, Kent

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

To the memory of my mother and father

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my thanks to Sue Lines, Assistant Curator, Royal Military Police Museum, Roussillon Barracks, Chichester, and to Major P. E. Atteridge, AGC (RMP), for their valuable assistance.

I'm back again from hell With loathsome thoughts to sell; Secrets of death to tell; And horrors from the abyss.

Siegfried Sassoon, 'To The War-Mongers'

Part One

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Wilfred Owen, 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' The village was empty. Billy Styles couldn't understand it. They hadn't seen a living soul on the road from the station, and even the green was deserted, though the weather was the kind that normally brought people out of doors.

The finest summer since the war!

The newspapers had been repeating the phrase for weeks now as one radiant day followed another, with no end to the heatwave in sight.

But here in Highfield, sunshine lay like a curse on empty cottage gardens. Only the headstones in the churchyard, crowding the moss-covered stone wall flanking the road, gave mute evidence of a human presence.

'They're all at the house,' Boyce said, as though in explanation. He was an inspector with the Surrey police, a thin grey man with an anxious look. 'Word got around this morning.'

Boyce had come to the station to meet Inspector Madden and Billy. In a chauffeured Rolls-Royce, no less! Billy wanted to ask who'd sent it, but didn't dare. With less than three months' experience in the QD he knew he was lucky to be there at all, assigned to a case of such magnitude. Only the August bank holiday, combined with the heavy summer-leave schedule, had brought it about. Scotland Yard had been thinly manned that Monday morning when the telephone call came from Guildford. Minutes later Billy had found himself in a taxi with Madden bound for Waterloo station. He glanced at the inspector, who was sitting beside him staring out of the car window. Among the lower ranks at the Yard, Madden was reckoned to be a queer one. They hadn't met before today, but Billy had seen him striding down the corridors. A tall grim man with a scarred forehead, he seemed more like a monk than a policeman, the young detective constable thought. An impression that gained strength now each time the inspector's glance fell on him. Madden's deep-set eyes seemed to look at you from another world. He had a strange history -- Billy had heard it from one of the sergeants. Madden had left the force some years before after losing his wife and baby daughter, both in the same week, to influenza. The son of a farmer, he had wanted to return to the land. Instead, the war had come, and afterwards he'd returned to his old job with the Metropolitan Police. Changed, though, it was said. A different man from before. Two years in the trenches had seen to that. They had cleared the village, leaving the last cottage behind. Rounding a bend in the road, the chauffeur braked. Ahead of them, blocking the narrow country lane and facing a set of iron gates, a crowd had gathered. Whole families were there, it seemed, the men in shirtsleeves and braces, the women wearing kitchen aprons and with their hair tied up in scarves and handkerchiefs. Children stood hand in hand, or else played together on the dusty verges. A short way down the road two little girls in coloured smocks were bowling a hoop. 'Look at them,' Boyce said wearily. 'We've asked them to keep away, but what can you expect?' The chauffeur blew his horn as they drew near and the crowd parted to let the car through. Billy felt the weight of their accusing stares. 'They don't know what to think,' Boyce muttered. 'And we don't know what to tell them.' The drive beyond the gates was lined with elms, linked at their crowns like Gothic arches. At the end of it Billy could see a house built of solid stone, clothed in ivy. Melling Lodge was its name. Madden had told him. A family called Fletcher lived there. Had lived there. Billy's mouth went dry as they approached the gravelled forecourt where a fountain topped by a Cupid figure, standing with his bow drawn, sprayed silvery water into the bright sunlit afternoon. Blue uniforms stirred in the shadows. 'We brought a dozen men down from Guildford.' Boyce nodded towards a police van parked at the side of the forecourt. 'We may want more.' Madden spoke for the first time. 'We'll need to search the land around the house.' 'Wait till you see the other side.' Boyce groaned. 'Woods. Nothing but woods. Miles and miles of them.' Madden's glance had shifted to a group of three men standing together in a shaded corner of the forecourt. Two of them wore light country tweeds. The third sweated in a double-breasted serge suit. 'Who are they?' he asked. 'The old boy's Lord Stratton. Local nob. He owns most of the land hereabouts. That's the Lord Lieutenant with him. Major-General Sir William Raikes.' 'What's he doing here?' Madden scowled. 'He was a weekend guest at Stratton Hall, worse luck.' Boyce pulled a face. 'He's been raising merry hell, I can tell you. The other one's Chief Inspector Norris, from Guildford.' As Madden opened the car door, Raikes, red-faced and balding, came striding across the gravel. 'About time,' he said angrily. 'Sinclair, is it?' 'No, Sir William. Madden's the name. Detective Inspector. This is Detective Constable Styles. Chief Inspector Sinclair is on his way. He'll be here shortly.' Madden's glance roamed the forecourt. 'Well, for God's sake!' Raikes fumed. 'What's keeping the man?' 'He's getting a team together. Pathologist, fingerprint squad, photographer . . .' The inspector made no attempt to disguise his impatience. 'It takes time, particularly on a bank holiday.' 'Indeed!' Raikes glared at him, but Madden was already turning away to greet the older man, who had joined them. 'Lord Stratton? Thank you for sending the car, sir.' 'It was nothing. How else can I help you, Inspector?' He held out his hand to Madden, who shook it. His face showed signs of recent shock, the eyes wide and blinking. 'Do you need any transport? I've a runabout at the Hall. You're welcome to use it.' 'Would you mention that to Mr Sinclair? I'm sure he'll be happy to accept.' 'Now see here, Madden!' Raikes tried to force himself back into the conversation, but the inspector ignored him and went on speaking to Lord Stratton. 'There's something I need to know. The woods behind the house, do they belong to you?' 'Upton Hanger? Yes, the ridge extends for several miles.' He seemed eager to help. 'I keep a pheasant shoot over by the Hall' - he pointed in the direction of the village -- 'but this side the woods run wild.' 'What's your policy on trespassing?' 'Well, technically it's private property. But the villagers have always had the run of the woods. Over on this side, at least.' 'Would you change that, sir? Make it clear no trespassing will be allowed and ask the police to enforce it.' 'I understand.' Stratton frowned. 'Better to keep people away.' 'I was thinking of the London press. They'll be here soon enough.' 'Boyce!' Chief Inspector Norris spoke. 'I'll see to it, sir.' 'One other thing.' Madden drew Lord Stratton aside. 'There's a crowd of villagers outside the gates. Could you speak to them? Tell them what's happened