McBride nodded in the direction of the fire, burning low now, where most of the men who’d been sitting earlier were recumbent, some propped on elbows conversing in low voices, others snoring, deeply asleep. Seated among them, knees drawn up and head hanging limply between his circled arms, was Joe Goram. The gypsy had joined the group some time earlier, offering what remained of his bottle of gin like a ticket of admission as he sat down. It had gone the rounds and come back to him empty, at which point, having inspected it glumly, he’d settled himself in his present position, prepared to wait patiently until Madden had completed his business.
Before that, McBride had taken Madden to the edge of the clearing, past where Topper was asleep, and pushed aside the ferns growing there to show him Beezy’s body. Madden had shone his lamp on the corpse, moving the light slowly up from the cracked boots and canvas trousers, tied at the waist with a length of cord, over the old tramp’s torso, which was clad in a torn flannel shirt topped by a buttonless waistcoat, to his bearded face. He had held the beam steady while he bent close to examine the features, noting the missing right earlobe that had been mentioned in the police circular issued earlier that summer.
‘I’m not a doctor, but at a guess I’d say he died of bronchitis.’ McBride had made no attempt to hurry Madden, holding the ferns back while he made his slow examination of the tramp’s remains. ‘He had an attack earlier this year, Topper said. Anyway, he coughed and coughed and couldn’t clear his chest. In the end he must have suffocated. When it seemed there was no hope of him getting better, Topper had the idea of sending a message to your wife. But by then it was too late.’
Satisfied at last, Madden had turned away from the body and they moved closer to the fire, seating themselves at McBride’s suggestion on a pair of flat stones close to where Topper was sleeping.
‘We’ll share out Beezy’s clothes and possessions tomorrow. It’s our way. Then we’ll bury him.’
Madden shook his head. ‘The police won’t be satisfied with that, I can tell you now. They’ll want to recover the body.’
‘Of course they will.’ McBride seemed unconcerned. ‘But they know about this place. Once or twice a year we get a visit from the law. You can tell them he’ll be in a shallow grave just over there in the bushes, where he’s lying now. We’ll have moved on by then. A sip of whisky, Mr Madden?’
The Scotsman had produced a bottle from the pocket of his greatcoat and he offered it to his companion. Madden took a swallow from the neck for hospitality’s sake before returning it to its owner’s hand. He’d been eyeing McBride with some curiosity. Though showing all the marks of vagrancy in his dress and personal appearance, he was clearly a man of some education.
‘Each of us has his story, I suppose, though I never discovered Beezy’s.’ It was as though he’d read Madden’s thoughts. ‘But I dare say his experience was much like the rest of ours.’
‘And what’s your story, Mr McBride?’ Madden accepted the proffered bottle and took another sip.
The Scotsman chuckled. ‘I wondered if you would ask. But I’ve no great tale to tell. Despite collecting some souvenirs from the war’ – his hand went to the scar on his neck – ‘I emerged in one piece. But I seemed to have lost some bits of myself just the same. I’m told others had a like experience. Suffice to say the world looked different to me.’
He pulled up the collar of his coat as a sudden sharp breeze blew through the clearing.
‘My wife, meanwhile, had set out on a journey. To Canada, as it happened, and not alone.’ He shook with silent laughter. ‘But that wasn’t the reason I took to the road. No, I set off thinking I would walk for a while, and the walk grew longer. Mind you, I had some help along the way…’ He tapped the bottle with his finger. ‘I made only one discovery. There’s an invisible line in our lives, and once it’s crossed we can never go back. Invisible, that is, until we’ve crossed it, and then it’s all too plain.’ He turned his head and regarded Madden in silence. ‘But to return to Beezy…’ McBride straightened, stretching his cramped muscles. ‘I know next to nothing about him. This was the first time we’d met. They turned up a week ago – he and Topper – and even then he was in no fit state to hold a conversation.’
‘So he didn’t speak of the murder at all?’ Madden couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘He dropped some of his belongings near the scene of the killing, you know. That made me think he might have seen something that caused him to run off.’
‘Oh, I dare say you’re right about that.’ He nodded. ‘Beezy indicated as much to me.’
‘Then he did talk to you about it?’ Madden tried to understand what the other man was saying.
McBride shook his head. ‘I haven’t made myself clear. We had no conversation as such. When Topper went off three days ago to seek out your gypsy friend he asked me to keep an eye on Beezy for him, which I did. I brought him water and tried to keep him warm. He was talking a good deal, but making little sense.’ The Scotsman paused, frowning. ‘I knew about the murder at Brookham, of course. We all did. And I knew the police had been looking for this man. So I was able to guess what it was he was raving about. He kept speaking of blood…’
‘Of blood?’
‘That was the word he kept repeating. And then there was a man who was trying to wash it off. He wasn’t telling me a story, you understand, he was babbling.’ McBride looked keenly at Madden. “‘I saw him washing off the blood…” He said that many times. “I saw him washing off the blood, but it wouldn’t wash off… no… no…”’ The Scotsman mimicked the hoarse, drained tones of an exhausted man. ‘He went on that way, repeating himself, over and over, and coughing in between. Then he said something else, in a different voice, and I was struck by it. “He had the devil’s mark on him…” That’s what he said. “The devil’s mark… I saw it plain.”’
‘Just that? Nothing more?’
‘No. But he said it more than once, and I heard him right. You can be sure of that.’ He offered the bottle once more to Madden, who declined with a shake of his head.
‘The devil’s mark? What did he mean? Didn’t he describe the man at all?’
Seeing Madden’s frustration, McBride had endeavoured to explain. ‘You have to understand, he wasn’t speaking rationally, he was wandering. But I will say this: I believe he was trying to tell me something, to clear his mind of a burden, if you will.’
‘Perhaps he told Topper more?’ Madden eyed the sleeping form nearby.
‘Apparently not. At least, so Topper says. Mind you, that may be because he never asked.’ The Scotsman chuckled. He took a long pull from the neck of his bottle. ‘A curious character, our Topper, don’t you agree? Now there’s a closed book…’ He mused in silence a while. ‘When he arrived here a week ago I took him aside and told him if this friend he had with him was guilty of murdering that child they’d have to leave. We wouldn’t have them here. He said Beezy had sworn he was innocent, and he believed him. That was all, but I took Topper’s word for it – or rather, I trusted his judgement. I fancy you’d have done the same.’
‘I might.’ Madden smiled in the darkness. ‘My wife would have had no hesitation.’
‘At any event, they seemed not to have discussed the matter further. Topper was kept well occupied finding food for them both while Beezy stayed hidden. I gather he was terrified of going to the police. He was sure they’d accuse him of the crime. He’d been arrested once before and convicted on a false charge, or so he’d told Topper. He was quite deaf, by the way, poor man, and Topper has less to say than any human being I’ve ever encountered. I doubt they did much in the way of exchanging confidences. But they were friends. You could tell that. Topper was quite broken up when he died.’ McBride shrugged. ‘Wake him up if you like, Mr Madden, but you’ll get no more from him than I’ve told you.’
Madden had been considering the question for some time and had already made up his mind. He shook his head. ‘Let him sleep.’ He rose, stretching. ‘Will you tell him something for me, though? Will you say my wife was away from the house when his message arrived? He’ll wonder why she didn’t come herself. And will you tell him she’s concerned for him and wants to see him. It’s important you let him know that. She’s very attached to him and worries in case he’s not well and able to take care of himself.’
‘You may be sure I’ll pass that on.’ Rising in turn, the Scotsman bowed his head as though to seal the pledge. ‘Though I must confess to feeling some envy. I don’t know how Dr Madden’s name is regarded by the world at large, but none stands higher with us.’
‘Then I hope you’ll pass by Highfield some day so that you can meet her. Our door is always open. Thank you for your help, Mr McBride.’
The two men shook hands and Madden signalled to Joe, who rose from beside the fire, yawning.
‘Let me show you the way back down the hill,’ McBride offered, but Madden shook his head.
‘We’ll manage.’ Turning to leave, he paused. ‘You’re sure he was trying to tell you something… Beezy? He wasn’t simply delirious?’
‘That was certainly my impression.’ McBride peered at him through the firelight.
‘The devil’s mark, then – it might be something actual? Something he saw?’
‘It might. Or something he imagined.’ For a moment the Scotsman seemed unsure. ‘All I can say is it seemed real enough to him.’
18
As Probst reached inside the cab to pull out his suitcase, Holly beckoned to one of the porters standing nearby. The chief superintendent had insisted on accompanying Sinclair to Victoria station to say goodbye to their German visitor, who was catching the train and cross-channel ferry back to the Continent.
‘I feel I’ve hardly arrived, and already I must depart.’ Pausing in the concourse, Probst let his eyes dwell on the imposing station arch and the busy platforms beneath, as if to record the image. ‘I’ve often dreamed of visiting London. Although Miss Adamson was from Durham she passed a good many years here before coming to Berlin and she used to describe the city to me during our conversational lessons.’
‘What took her to Berlin in the first place?’ Sinclair asked him.
‘She was employed as a governess. When that job ended, instead of returning to England she stayed on and supported herself by taking in pupils. It’s entirely thanks to her that I have this fascination with all things English.’ He smiled.
‘Perhaps you’ll come again. If so, and even if your visit’s unofficial, please get in touch with me.’ Sinclair returned the smile. He’d taken a liking to the younger man, whose pleasant manner hid a mind as sharp as any he’d encountered in his profession. And another quality, too, of which the chief inspector had become increasingly conscious, was one which he would have characterized as moral stature, borne without display and far removed from the easy cynicism that accompanied so much police work. Observing the Berlin policeman, he’d been reminded of Madden, whose name had come up between them, and who in any case was much in his thoughts that morning.
Even before he’d sat down to breakfast the telephone had rung at his flat in Shepherd’s Bush and for the next twenty minutes he’d been glued to the instrument, listening while his old partner described his night’s adventures and revealed what he’d learned at the tramps’ gathering.
Prior to the final meeting he’d scheduled with Probst he had paid a hurried call on the assistant commissioner, but found him in a less than generous mood.
‘Sir, this is a piece of solid evidence, one we can pass on to Berlin.’ Sinclair had felt a renewal of his earlier frustration. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but it is cooperation I’m meant to be discussing with Probst.’
‘Spare me your sarcasm, Chief Inspector.’ A series of sleepless nights had deepened Sir Wilfred’s normal pallor. Dark shadows dwelt beneath his eyes. Sinclair had felt a momentary pang for his superior, who was clearly suffering the torments of the damned as the hour of their meeting with Philip Vane drew nearer. The Foreign Office had rung the previous evening to confirm their appointment and fix the time: it was set for three o’clock that afternoon.
‘This isn’t going to point him in Vane’s direction, sir. In fact, it’s not even evidence we could ever use in a court of law. It’s pure hearsay. Whatever the old tramp saw, he can’t tell us about it now. He’s dead.’ Sinclair had kept a rein on his temper. ‘But it’s one way of being sure that we’re after the same man, the German police and ourselves. That woman in Bavaria, the woodcutter’s wife, must be questioned again. Remember, she saw the murderer naked from the waist up.’
‘But only from behind…’ Bennett was becoming interested, in spite of himself. ‘What if this “devil’s mark” was on his front? Always supposing it wasn’t a figment of the tramp’s imagination…’ He put down his pencil. ‘What’s Madden’s view?’ He cocked an eye at the chief inspector. ‘Does he think it’s worth pursuing?’
‘He wasn’t sure until he heard what his wife had to say on the subject.’ Sinclair chuckled. ‘Forgive me, sir, but Helen Madden takes a dim view of John involving himself in what she sees as police matters. When he got home – it was two in the morning – he found her waiting up for him. He’d left her a note, of course, but that hardly sufficed, and he was made to sit down and tell her the whole story there and then.’
The chief inspector tugged at an earlobe, still smiling in recollection at Madden’s account of the inquisition to which he’d been subjected in the early hours.
‘The funny part is, the original message was meant for her, and had she received it, knowing Helen, she would have gone off without a second thought. As John pointed out, for all the good it did him…’ The chief inspector chuckled. ‘Anyway, once she’d calmed down she became interested in his tale and when he got to the bit about the tramp’s deathbed ravings she offered an explanation for them. Or a possible one. She suggested it might have been a birthmark he’d seen.’
‘A birthmark! On the killer’s face or body?’
‘Yes, but of a particular kind.’ Sinclair consulted his notebook. ‘The medical term is haemangioma. What you and I would call a port wine stain. It’s strawberry coloured and can be large and disfiguring. Helen Madden believes it’s quite possible that’s what Beezy was talking about. The man was washing the blood off himself, but the mark remained. It could well have looked like blood… blood that wouldn’t come off. And to answer your question, sir, Madden’s of the opinion it’s a solid lead. Even though the tramp was delirious, he kept repeating the same words. He had something on his mind, all right. And there seems little doubt he witnessed the murder, or at least its aftermath…’