River of Darkness by Rennie Airth Page A

showed more signs of animation than on Madden's previous visit. Several women, weighed down with shopping bags, clustered in front of the village store. Further up the road, outside the Coachman's Arms, three men stood talking, their heads close together, like conspirators. Dr Black well parked in the shade of a chestnut tree growing on the lawn in front of the small church. 'Would it be all right if we saw Gladys Maberley first?' Madden asked her. 'Perfectly. From what I can gather, Mr Wellings is the more gravely injured of the two.' He hadn't seen her this way before. She was in a light, almost joyful mood. With a smile at them both she picked up her doctor's bag and walked off towards the pub. Stackpole led the way to a whitewashed cottage at the end of a row of houses. The front door was opened by a broad-shouldered young man with blunt features. He was dressed in rough farm clothes. 'Fred, this is Inspector Madden, from London. We'd like a word with Gladys.' He muttered something inaudible. Head bowed, he led them into a small kitchen where the young woman with bobbed hair Madden remembered seeing with Wellings was sitting at a table. She had a cut lip and a blackened, swollen eye. The other eye was red and swimming with tears. 'Well, Gladys Maberley!' The constable removed his helmet. 'You look like you could do with a cup of tea.' As the woman started to rise, the young man spoke for the first time. 'Let me, Glad,' he muttered. He busied himself with a kettle at the sink. 'This is Mr Madden,' Stackpole said. 'He's come all the way from London to talk to you, Gladys.' He put his helmet on the table and pulled out a chair for the inspector and another for himself. 'So tell us what you've been up to -- and mind!' The constable wagged a warning finger. 'Don't leave anything out.' Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the door of the Coachman's Arms. Stackpole was grinning with delight. 'I can't wait to see the look on his face, sir.' Inside, the smell of stale beer lingered in the taproom. Wellings was seated with his right arm resring on a bar table. Dr Blackwell was at work, strapping his wrist in a tight bandage. 'Not broken, just sprained,' she said to them, as they came in. 'Mr Wellings will live to fight another day.' 'I want to lay a charge.' Wellings shook his other fist at Stackpole. 'Have you got that? He came at me with a shovel. That's a weapon in my book. Do you hear what I'm saying, Constable?' 'I hear you, Mr Wellings.' For the second time that day Stackpole removed his helmet. He had stopped grinning. Helen Blackwell snapped her bag shut. 'I'll leave you now,' she said. She went out. Wellings ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. Stackpole spoke to him. 'You'll remember Inspector Madden?' 'Who?' Wellings looked over his shoulder and noticed the inspector for the first time. 'What's he doing here?' 'We'll ask the questions.' The constable sat down at the table. 'I'm not answering any questions until I hear what you mean to do about Fred Maberley.' Wellings looked defiant. Madden seated himself. 'Two weeks ago you made a statement to Sergeant Gates. In view of what Gladys Maberley has just told us, I now realize that you failed to tell the truth on that occasion.' 'Says who?' 'Shut your gob, you piece of filth.' Stackpole spoke in an even tone. 'Just listen to what the inspector's saying.' Wellings flushed. He glared at the constable. 'You knowingly made a false statement to the police. That constitutes an obstruction of justice, a serious matter at any time, but given the circumstances of the case we're investigating, exceptionally grave. You will very likely go to prison, Mr Wellings.' 'What?' He turned white. 'I don't believe you.' 'I will ask you now -- what were you doing on the night of Sunday, July the thirty-first? I am speaking of the late evening, after the pub was closed.' Wellings licked his lips. His glance strayed to the bar. 'You wouldn't have a fag, would you?' he asked.