The Reckoning (42 page)

‘Look at it,' she said.

She had been standing motionless in a dark corner at the back of the unlit room near the empty fireplace, all but invisible at first. But now, as she moved forward, the light caught her face and Madden saw the pallid cheeks and wide, staring eyes.

‘Is your name Madden?' she asked. ‘J.H.T. Madden?'

‘It is.' Madden eyed her carefully. She was wearing a shabby coat, stained with what looked like blood high up on her left arm. Her hair was covered by a plaid scarf. ‘And you must be Alma Ballard.'

He saw the surprise flicker in her eyes. It was there only for a moment, however, and then the flat stare was back and he felt a cold hand settle on his heart.

‘If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here.'

Her voice was hoarse. He could see the exhaustion written on her face.

‘Quite the contrary.' He deliberately kept his voice calm. ‘In fact, I'm curious to know what business you think you have with me.'

‘You dare to say that?' Her gaze flared.

‘Is it because I acted on behalf of your father? Because I was his defender and failed to save him?'

He knew it must be so. But he had to confront her. He must show her no fear. He kept an eye on her right hand. It was hanging at her side, empty for the moment, but near her coat pocket.

‘His
defender
?' She spat out the word. ‘You never raised your voice; you never said a word on his behalf.'

‘And how would you know that? Were you there?'

When she was silent he went on.

‘You've read a court-martial record that was compiled by a man who had only one purpose in mind: to see that your father was convicted. It seems you've called
him
to account and, if your conscience is untroubled by that murder and the others you've committed, so be it. But don't deceive yourself that your hands are clean. You've killed innocent people along with the guilty, men forced by circumstances beyond your comprehension to lend their names to a squalid act. Men who, for all you know, lived with that guilt for the rest of their lives.'

‘My heart bleeds for them. As it will for you.'

Her eyes had gone blank again. She put her hand into her pocket and brought out a pistol.

‘So you can't be reasoned with.'

Madden fought to keep a note of desperation from his voice. No plea for pity would move her. He could see that from her eyes, which registered no emotion. He measured the distance between them. He could get no nearer to her as long as the table separated them.

‘The executioner has spoken. By now you must know what a cowardly business it is.'

He caught the sharp intake of breath.

‘To shoot down men before they've even had time to reach for their rifles, the way you did at that German roadblock? To put a bullet in that poor French boy's head after he'd been beaten senseless?'

Two red spots bloomed on her ashen cheeks.

‘Yes, I know all about you, Alma Ballard. You found that murder was simple, and you put the lessons you had learned into practice when you came back to England. A bullet in the neck was safest and quickest, but don't imagine you'll find it that easy with me.'

Madden had begun to circle the table towards her and, as he came nearer, she moved sideways onto the hearthrug, keeping a distance between them and raising her pistol at the same time.

‘I'll kill you now, if I have to.'

He heard the tremor in her voice.

‘Will you? I doubt it.' He halted. ‘You want me down on my knees, like the others. That way you won't have to look at my face. Well, let me tell you something about myself, Miss Ballard. It's a secret, something I've never spoken of. When I was in the war – the same war your father fought in – I killed a German soldier with my bayonet. I ran him through and looked into his eyes while I did it. It was by far the worst thing I've ever had to
do in my life, and I'll never forget it. If you want to shoot me now, then do it. But by God you'll look me in the eye when you pull the trigger.'

‘Stop it!' Her voice rose. The hand holding the pistol had begun to waver.

‘I knew your father. He was in my company. He was a fine soldier and a brave man, and what happened to him – what was done to him when the shelling robbed him of his senses and he couldn't speak – was wicked beyond measure. But if you can't see that what you have done is equally wrong, then you're no better than the men who put him before that firing squad. Now, either give me that gun or use it.'

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, and for a moment all hung in the balance as he saw Alma lift the pistol and steady it. But then her face seemed to crumple and it was she who fell to her knees. Bent into a ball, she clutched both hands to her stomach and, when Madden went down himself and tried to wrest the gun from her hand, she clung to it, turning the barrel towards her chest.

‘No, child, no!'

He saw what she meant to do and, in desperation, felt for her wrist, meaning to wrench the pistol away from her body, but before he could get a grip of it, the gun went off and she convulsed. A sob came from her lips. The pistol slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. As her body relaxed, Madden opened his arms and she fell into them. Her head came to rest on his shoulder and he looked into her blue eyes, still wide, but no longer staring. Already the life in them was beginning to fade.

‘Hold on . . .' he whispered urgently in her ear. ‘Stay with me . . .'

But he knew it was too late. Her coat had fallen open and the blood from her wound was all over her now, and him too.

She clutched at his arm. ‘Don't leave me, please . . . don't—'

The words died on her lips. In the silence that followed Madden caught the faint sound of a car door slamming. Hamish's anxious bay echoed from the stone-flagged hallway, and the next moment the front door opened and footsteps sounded in the corridor.

‘John? Oh, my God!'

Helen stood frozen in the doorway. She rushed to them.

‘Oh,
no!'

She had seen his blood-soaked front.

‘It's all right . . . it's all right.' Madden found his tongue. ‘It's hers, not mine.'

He kept the still form wrapped in his arms.

‘I think she's gone,' he said.

Helen went down on her knees beside them. She reached out to touch the pale throat with her fingers.

‘She's dead. Is it . . . ?'

She had already guessed. Madden nodded.

‘She didn't drown after all. She shot herself – I made her do it.'

‘John . . .' Helen took his hand in hers, grasping it firmly. She could see the shock in his face; his eyes were unnaturally bright, the pupils dilated.

‘I told her things she couldn't bear to hear.'

The pain in his voice found an echo in her heart and she touched his face.

‘My darling . . . Let me take care of this.'

‘No, it's all right.' He insisted. ‘It's all right. But I must ring Billy.'

He saw the concern in her eyes. She still held his hand in hers, and he pressed it in response.

‘Don't worry. I just need a moment.'

But he stayed where he was, still on his knees, with the body held tightly in his arms until Helen, sensing that he needed help, kissed him on the cheek.

‘John?'

‘Yes . . . yes, of course.'

Coming to himself at last, he carefully laid the body on the hearthrug. Buttoning the shabby coat, he loosened the scarf around Alma Ballard's fair hair and drew it off. He saw her face fully then for the first time. Empty of all life now, the blue eyes were still open and, with a soft touch, he brushed them shut.

‘Poor child,' he murmured. ‘Poor lost soul.'

EPILOGUE

‘D
EPRAVED
,
DISSOLUTE
,
DECADENT
. . . Those were the words he used. It was at the Labour Party conference in 1945. He was talking about the upper classes, of course, and I can remember thinking at the time: Oh dear, if only I could be
one
of those, but I never get the chance. He's probably a minister by now. I wish I could remember his name.'

Violet Tremayne bathed the Maddens' luncheon guests in her smile. Her glance alighted on Billy.

‘But do tell me, Mr Styles, are you a supporter of this government? Do you agree with their ideas? Do you believe that people can actually be made better – in the same way, say, that a lawnmower can be improved? I've tried asking Helen the same question, but I can't get a sensible answer from her.'

‘Well, I didn't vote for them myself.' Billy grinned. He caught Lucy's eye. The Maddens' daughter had returned from Paris with her beauty unimpaired, in spite of a new hairstyle. Gone were the long tresses he had always admired. In their place was a dashing new cut that fitted her head like a golden cap. ‘But my wife did – Elsie, that is. She thinks they'll bring better schools, better healthcare, better housing . . .'

‘A socialist paradise, in other words?' Violet's eyes glowed
with sympathy. ‘The poor dear. You must tell her to be brave. She's in for a grave disappointment.'

‘Lady Violet has been living in Moscow for two years,' Helen explained. ‘She says she's seen the future, and it doesn't work.'

‘Oh, very droll, Helen. I know you like to make fun of me, but one of these days you'll realize the error of your ways – only by then it'll be too late. Your communist friends will have taken over, and John will find he's managing a collective farm.'

Billy glanced down the table to where Madden was sitting and saw him smile for a moment, and then, as though distracted by some other thought, look away through the windows of the dining room out over the garden to the wooded ridge beyond. Three weeks had passed since Alma Ballard had breathed her last, and Billy himself had hurried down to Highfield to oversee the removal of her body to Guildford mortuary and to take a brief statement from his former mentor. Later Madden had given evidence at the inquest, also held in Guildford, and had appeared side-by-side with Billy and Chubb to answer questions at a crowded press conference. At his insistence, his own part in the investigation had not been disclosed, and he had been presented as someone whose advice had been sought after it was learned of his connection to the court martial.

That same week Alma had been buried beside her mother in a Richmond cemetery.

Madden had travelled up to London with his wife for the funeral, the arrangements for which had been left in Amanda Dauncey's hands. Word of the ceremony had been withheld from both press and public, and the only other mourner present had been Colin Finch. On learning from Billy about the part he had played in Alma's life, Miss Dauncey had invited the architect to be present, and before the coffin had been lowered into the grave he had placed on the casket a medal bearing the image of St George slaying the dragon.

‘It's the one that was awarded to her,' he had told the others
afterwards. ‘I'm not alone in thinking she was cruelly treated in being stripped of it. Our section head got hold of it somehow. This is where it belongs.'

It had originally been planned for Billy to bring his whole family to Highfield – Helen had invited them all down for the weekend – but an outbreak of measles in the Styles household had led to the visit being postponed to a later date, and only Billy had come down from London that Sunday for lunch with his friends. Though warmly welcomed by his old chief, he had found Madden quieter than usual, more withdrawn and, sensing that the time was not yet ripe to close the door finally on the mystery that had once surrounded Alma Ballard, Billy had resolved not to bring up the matter that day.

His instinct had been confirmed by Sinclair, when he arrived for lunch.

‘He doesn't want to talk about it now,' he told Billy. ‘He still blames himself for what she did – how she took her own life. But what else was left to her? John's words had struck home. She might even have believed by the end that what she had done was wrong. All the future held for her was the hangman's noose, and who can blame her for wanting to avoid that? We'll have a word together after lunch. You can tell me then whatever John might wish to know later. I'll pass it on to him when the time's right.'

Meanwhile the debate at the luncheon table had continued.

‘My
communist
friends?' Helen was incredulous. ‘I don't know any communists.'

‘That's what you think. But they're all around us. Isn't that so, Mr Sinclair?' Violet rounded on him.

‘I'm really not sure.' Cornered, the chief inspector cunningly passed the ball on. ‘But Lucy can tell us. She's just spent three months in Paris. According to what I've read in the newspapers, France is full of communists.'

‘Is it?' Taken equally by surprise, the Maddens' daughter
blinked. ‘I'm not sure I actually
met
any. I mean, people don't just come up to you in the street and say: “
Bonjour,
I'm a communist.”'

‘Exactly my point.' Lady Violet was triumphant.

‘Mind you, I did see Jean-Paul Sartre in a nightclub once.' Lucy brightened. ‘
He's
a communist.'

‘I hope you treated him with disdain.'

‘I didn't get the chance.' She giggled. ‘There were too many people around him.'

‘What were you doing in a nightclub?' Helen asked. ‘You were supposed to be learning French.'

‘Oh, Mother!'

Prior to lunch they had been treated to a fashion display laid on for Billy's benefit. Disappearing upstairs for a minute, Lucy had returned to the drawing room dressed in a garment the like of which he had never seen before. Cobalt-blue in colour, pleated and stretching almost to her ankles, the dress had billowed out like a sail as she pirouetted before them.

‘It's the latest thing from Paris, the New Look. You must have heard of it.'