Authors: Robert Goddard
Leaving me to debate with myself what would happen and how
I should react. When he realized Diana was not coming, would he come back or proceed to the house to seek an explanation? If the latter, what would he find? Was she still there? Or had Charnwood spirited her away? How had he prevented her from going through with the elopement? Was it perhaps possible he had not succeeded? No. On this point I was certain. Charnwood would have found some way to come between Max and his beloved.
Two o'clock came and went. Then the half-hour Max had set himself expired. There was no sign of him, no sight or sound, nothing in the blanketing darkness to reveal what he had done. By half past two, I felt sure he must have realized he was waiting in vain. If so, he was obviously not returning to the car. I forced myself to calculate what I should do if I knew only as much as I had claimed. And the answer was plain: go after him. I thought it through again and the answer was the same. It was vital I behave like the innocent I was not. Bowing to the logic of my own argument, I climbed from the car and started down the track.
Max had bought a brand-new torch a few days previously. Mine, found in a cupboard at the flat, was a much inferior model with a sloppy switch and a beam that began to fade almost immediately. I should have fitted new batteries, but of course I had not bothered to and now I regretted it, as, by the faltering light it cast, I advanced along a narrow but distinct path between gnarled old oak and beech trees, the leaf litter of countless autumns swamping my feet at every stride. After what seemed like ten minutes' walking, I considered calling out, but somehow felt forbidden to. By day, I might have been gambolling in a sunlit glade. By night it was a different place: silent, watchful and forearmed against my dull urban senses.
Then the path divided. It was a contingency I had not anticipated. Neither way seemed better trodden than the other and, even if I had been in the mood to play the tracker, I had not the skills for such a role. Nor could I call to mind the footpath routes marked on the map, which I had stupidly left in the car. I wondered if I should go back for it, then reflected that I was scarcely better at map-reading than tracking. I could simply have given up there and then, of course, but the situation seemed to demand rather more in the way of persistence. The left-hand way looked slightly broader and straighter. I decided to try it.
I soon began to suspect I had made a mistake. I had gone far enough to reach the stile, but there was no sign of one. Then the trees thinned and, almost before I had realized it, I was out of the wood and several yards into a field, an open gateway behind me. I cast about in dismay and was about to double back when, topping some unseen crest, I saw the lights of a house about a quarter of a mile way down the slope. The number and spacing of the illuminated windows suggested a substantial dwelling. It had to be Amber Court. The open gate implied there were no livestock in the field. On the face of it, there was nothing to prevent me walking straight down to the house. Max had said the path crossed a meadow beyond the wood, separated from the gardens by a ha-ha. If I stuck close to the edge of the wood, I must inevitably arrive at the same point. Yet it might still be best to go back to the fork in the path. At all costs, I had to avoid betraying myself. And I had to find Max. After some agonizing, I decided to retrace my steps.
I re-entered the wood, moving as quickly as the inky blackness permitted, anxious to minimize my use of the torch in case I needed it for something more important than dodging tree-roots. Suddenly, away to my left, there was a shout. "Who's there?" It was a woman's voice, raised in alarm, perhaps Diana's, perhaps not. Either way, it was not aimed at me. There was a crashing in the undergrowth from the same direction, somebody bursting through leaves and branches. Then the sound was on the path ahead. No, on the other path, reaching and passing the fork as I listened, the sound of somebody running headlong towards the road. "Who's there?" came the shout again. "Stop, I say!" It was Vita, not Diana, her voice cracking as she shrieked out the command. But the command was not heeded.
Anxiety flooded over me. What the devil was going on? I ran ahead, shining my torch at my feet to avoid tripping, and regained the main path. Whoever had raced by was now out of earshot. But where was Vita? What was she doing in the wood? "Oh, no!" came a cry from behind me. This time, surely, it was Diana's voice. "Oh, dear Lord, no!" Then silence. I hesitated for a moment, but the appeal for help in her words seemed irresistible. I started along the path, flashing the torch at intervals. Almost immediately, I reached the stile and scrambled over. A torch beam glimmered ahead.
"Hello? Is that you, Diana?"
"Guy?" I could not see her, but judged her to be about twenty yards away.
"Yes. It's me."
"Where are you?"
"Here."
Suddenly, I rounded a bend and found them. Vita was standing directly in front of me, wearing a shapeless felt hat, long raincoat and Wellington boots. She was holding the torch, shining it down to where Diana knelt at the side of the path, bare-headed but likewise booted and gaberdined. In front of her, supine in a patch of ferns, lay a figure in a black overcoat, tweed trousers and stout shoes. The soles of the shoes were muddy, but the uppers were newly polished, gleaming in the torchlight. I could not see who it was from where I stood. The head was obscured in a way I could not at first comprehend. I stepped closer. And then I saw. It was Charnwood. The whole right side of his head had been smashed into a blood-choked crater of bone and brain.
"Oh my God," I said, starting back instinctively.
"Papa," Diana murmured, reaching out to touch his chin. "My poor dear Papa."
"What are you doing here, Mr. Horton?" asked Vita grimly.
"I was with.. . That is .. ."
Diana looked up at me. "You were with Max, weren't you?"
"Yes. But '
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"We heard somebody running. Was it Max?"
"It might have been.!..."I heard it at the same moment they did. A car starting and accelerating away along the Dorking road, the sound carrying clearly through the trees. It was the Talbot, the note of its engine familiar and unmistakable. "I don't understand," I said. "This doesn't make any sense."
"My brother has been murdered," said Vita. "He came here to meet your friend after Diana had repented of her misguided plan to elope." Diana began to sob, slowly and insistently, but Vita took no notice. "When he did not return, we came in search of him. And this is what we found. My brother, bludgeoned to death."
"You surely don't mean '
"Your friend has fled, Mr. Horton. He has fled the scene of his crime."
"No. That's not possible. Max wouldn't murder anyone."
"In a fit of rage, realizing he could not have his way '
"No, God damn it, no! There must be some mistake!"
"I wish there were, Guy," Diana murmured in the hush that followed. "With all my heart, I wish there were."
I knelt beside her, averting my eyes from the sprawled body, the blood-spattered coat, the gory remnant of his face, the hideous gaping wound. "You can't stay here," I said. "You should go back to the house." I took her gently by the hand.
"Yes. Of course." She let me raise her to her feet. "Back to the house. But Papa '
"You can't help him now."
"Mr. Horton's right," said Vita. "Let him take you back. I'll wait here .. . with Fabian."
"It might be best if you escorted Diana, Miss Charnwood. This is ... no place for a lady."
"He's my brother," she said, jaw jutting protectively. "I won't leave him."
It was useless to protest. "Very well," I said.
"Call the police as soon as you reach the house."
Out of loyalty to Max, I wanted to object. But what could I reasonably say when the evidence of his guilt seemed so stark and incontrovertible? Already, I had ceased to wonder if he had killed Charnwood and begun to wonder why. But I knew why. We all did.
"There must be no delay," said Vita emphatically. "I want him found."
Diana and I said not a word to each other as we made our way out of the wood and down across the meadow to the garden-gate. She leant heavily on my arm as we went, breathing deeply to hold back the tears. I could think of no comforting words to offer, no explanation or apology I might venture. For my part, the meaning of what had occurred grew worse with every additional realization. There must have been an argument, I reasoned, one beyond peaceful resolution. Perhaps Charnwood had infuriated Max with a show of arrogance, even of contempt. Perhaps a weapon had come all too readily to Max's hand: a heavy stone, a lump of wood, maybe the torch he had been carrying. Whatever the weapon, it had been used in a frenzy, a spasm of murderous violence for which, in some measure, I was responsible. It could not be changed now. It could not be averted. The act was irretrievable. One human was dead. But a dozen others had to live with the consequences. I was aware of Amber Court as we approached it merely as a random scatter of illuminated windows against a dark mass of chimneys and gables. We entered beneath a high stone porch. Diana composed herself briefly in the panelled hallway, then went to alert the live-in staff: a cook, two maids and a chauffeur. She returned after a few minutes, led me into the drawing-room and proceeded at once to telephone the police. Some vagary of the line obliged her to shout to make herself understood and the words echoed around the room. "My father has been murdered. Please come at once." My gaze wandered to a portrait above the fireplace: an elegant dark-haired woman in a cream dress of Edwardian style. Her eyes were Diana's, set in another face.
"My mother," Diana said quietly, looking at me as she put the receiver down. Tainted thirty years ago." A tremor ran through her as she spoke. She hugged herself and closed her eyes.
"You should drink some brandy. I'll pour you a glass."
"I don't want any." But after she had sat on a sofa near the hearth, she accepted the brandy, with a trembling hand. "Thank you," she murmured.
"Sip it," I cautioned, lowering myself on to the sofa beside her. "It'll.. . lessen the shock."
"Nothing can do that."
"No. Of course not. But.. . What exactly happened?" I needed to know as much as she knew, more importantly how much. "What made you decide not to go through with the elopement?"
She looked at me and, for an instant, I expected her to throw the question back in my face, but all she did was shake her head in sorrow. "Papa found out what we were planning. He confronted me immediately after dinner and '
"Dinner last night?"
"Yes. He called me into his study and told me he knew about the wedding. He wouldn't say how he'd found out. Perhaps he just guessed what our intentions were and checked with every registrar's office between here and London till he found the right one. It doesn't really matter now, does it?"
I hesitated for a moment, then replied: "I suppose not."
"I admitted it. All of it. What else could I do? At first, I was angry angry that he'd been spying on me. We had the most awful argument." She put her hand to her forehead, pained, it seemed, by the recollection. "But when I saw how disappointed he was in me how stricken at the thought of my stealing away like a thief in the night I realized I simply couldn't do it. Not with Mama dead and no son or other daughter for him to put his trust in." She swallowed hard. "Max was asking me to betray Papa's trust, you see. In the end, that's what stopped me."
"And your father went to meet Max in your place?"
"Yes." She glanced down, then raised the hem of her dress and stared at several dark bloodstains hiding among the polka-dots. "Why did he do it, Guy? Why did he do such a dreadful thing?"
"I don't know. I was waiting in the car. I followed when he didn't return and took the wrong path. Until I came upon you, I had no idea ... no inkling .. ."
"Oh, God." Suddenly, she took my hand, then, turning, sank her head on my shoulder. I thought she would cry, but instead, after a few seconds, she pulled herself upright and took a long slow breath. Her eyes were moist, but there were no tears coursing down her cheeks. "Papa would want me to be strong," she said. "For his sake, I must be."
"Diana ... if Max did this .. ."
"Can you doubt it?"
"I don't know. But... If he did, he won't run far. That was just panic. When he realizes what he's done ... the enormity of it, I mean .. ."
"You think he'll give himself up?"
"I'm sure of it. He wouldn't have wanted... not for all the world ... to hurt you like this."
"But he has."
"He still loves you."
"Yes." She looked away. "That only makes it worse."
The police arrived in two detachments: a sergeant and some constables from Dorking, plain clothes detectives from Guildford. Diana insisted on leading them up to where Vita was waiting with the body, rejecting my offer to do so on the sensible grounds that I was unfamiliar with the route. She was tight-lipped and logical now, tearfulness and confusion set aside in her determination to behave as her father would have wished.
The officer in charge, a stout gravel-faced chief inspector called Hornby, left me with firm instructions to wait where I was. One of the maids lit the fire in the drawing-room and brought me some coffee. She professed herself stunned by the news. It was an understandable reaction, but not one I could afford to give way to. Smoking one cigarette after another and pacing up and down beneath the late Mrs. Charnwood's portrait, I began to consider what I should tell the police when the time came, as soon it would. The truth or only part of it? How much was essential, how little sufficient? If there had been any way of helping Max, I would willingly have explored it. But there seemed to be none. He had gone too far towards confirming his own guilt for my efforts to be of the slightest use.
At length, the sergeant returned with Vita and Diana. They joined me in the drawing-room, both of them pale and grim and silent. More coffee was served. The fire was stoked. The room remained stubbornly chill. Scarcely a word was spoken, cowed as we all were by grief or guilt or both. The night dragged its way towards dawn.