William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

Daniel Patchin stood absolutely still for a long while, staring at the ruined building which some villagers claimed was haunted by Ted Ames. Patchin did not believe in ghosts, spirits, heaven or hell: he believed that the universe was incomprehensible and absolutely indifferent to mankind. Suddenly he said aloud, “What a waste. Pity not to make some use of the old place.” The second sentence, spoken in a particularly mild voice, ended on a faintly questioning note, and for the first time he moved his head as though he were talking to someone and waiting for a comment on his suggestion. Then he gave the idea, engendered by his memory of a certain feature of the ancient fireplace in Ames’s kitchen, a mirthless smile and turned on his heel.

Throughout Calcot Wood there were piles of logs that Patchin built till he was ready to remove a truckload. There was also a hut where he kept a chain saw, tins of petrol, axes, and bags of wood chips and sawdust. He looked around to make sure that there was no one about and began to carry sacks of sawdust and chippings over to the cottage; he felt great satisfaction in commencing work on his plan.

On succeeding Sundays Daniel Patchin spent a good deal of time in transporting dry branches and brushwood; he also used his van to move cans of paraffin, half-empty tins of paint, plastic bags that had contained dripping, sacks of fat, soiled rags, and other rubbish. These he carefully planted throughout the cottage, gradually turning it into a massive potential bonfire.

While the preparations in Calcot Wood were proceeding satisfactorily, Patchin made a study of Ray Johnson’s working life. By casual questions to the village postmistress, who delighted in gossip, he wormed out the routine of Johnson and other postmen in the area. One of his discoveries was that Johnson often had either Monday or Wednesday afternoon off, and this was confirmed for him on the first Wednesday in July when Angela took a surprising interest in his fishing plans for that afternoon. Usually she was bored by angling, so he answered these questions with concealed, wry humour. Then, prompted by a whim, he took more time than usual in his preparations for the weekly expedition to the Thames. His fishing equipment was the simplest that could be devised — he despised the “London crowd” who invaded the river at weekends weighed down with paraphernalia. He had an all-purpose rod, a few hooks and floats, and one reel carried in an army haversack. As he pretended to fuss over these things and to take an unusually long time in making the flour paste for bait, he could see that Angela was very much on edge, nervous, and yet pleasurably excited at the same time. She had not mentioned going out, so he suspected that there might be a plan for Johnson to visit Pound Cottage while he was away. While the cat’s away the mice will play, he said over and over in his mind as he rolled the ball of dough between his strong, dry fingers.

When he at last set off in the van, he was again ironically amused that Angela came out to wave goodbye, as though to be certain of his departure. Patchin spent an hour on the riverbank but was not in the mood for fishing. The reeds were haunted by colourful dragonflies, and there was a brief darting visit from a kingfisher — sights that usually pleased him, but on this occasion he was hardly aware of anything about him, feeling rather like a ghost returned to haunt the scene of past pleasures.

Patchin drove back from the Thames with not much heart for what lay immediately ahead, but he now felt it was essential to make quite sure of the situation. In Pasterne he parked his van by the pond and appeared to stare down into its clear water for a while. Such behaviour on his part would not excite comment, for he had been known to catch sticklebacks and frogs there to use as bait when angling for pike.

After some minutes of staring with unseeing eyes, Patchin ambled back to his closed shop then walked through it into the garden that led up to Pound Cottage. He trod noiselessly over the lawn and entered the side door very quietly. Within a minute his suspicions were dramatically confirmed: through the board ceiling that separated the living room from the bedroom he heard the squeaking springs of his double bed, squeaking so loudly that it seemed as if the springs were protesting at the extraordinary behaviour of the adulterous couple. Then there began a peculiar rhythmic grunting noise, and his wife called out something incomprehensible in a strange voice.

Patchin retreated noiselessly, got back into his car, and returned to Hambleden Mill. He fished stolidly for three hours with a dour expression on his face, an expression that some North Korean soldiers had probably glimpsed before he killed them with his bayonet. Usually he returned small fish to the river, but on that afternoon he just ripped them off the hook and threw them on the bank.

Returning home again at about his usual time, Patchin found his wife in an excellent mood. Fornication seemed to be good for her health, as she appeared blooming. A delicious supper had been prepared for him, and Angela had popped over to the village stores to buy a bottle of the dry cider he favoured. She looked quite fetching with her flushed cheeks, her curly blonde hair freshly washed, and the two top buttons of a new pink blouse left undone, but Patchin could not respond at all; momentarily he found it difficult to keep up the pretence of not knowing about her affair and felt as though an expression of suspicion and cold contempt must appear on his face. When he went to wash he stared in the mirror and was surprised to find the usual phlegmatic expression reflected.

After supper Angela wanted to stroll around in the garden. It was something Patchin normally enjoyed, seeing the results of all his hard work, for in June the garden looked at its best, with the rose beds “a picture,” as Angela said, and usually it was very satisfactory to inspect the neat rows of vegetables. Instead he experienced a most unusual mood of emptiness and frustration: everything seemed hollow and meaningless.

While his wife bent down to smell a rose, Daniel Patchin stared up at the clear evening sky. He knew his enjoyment of life was temporarily lost and that it would not return until he was rid of the man who threatened his marriage. Angela came and stood by him, took his hand, and placed it on her firm, round breast, an action that would have been quite out of character a few months before; but her new sensuality did not move him at all, and when they went to bed, making love to her was like a ritual, quite spoilt by his memory of the protesting bedsprings.

Patchin decided to try to put his plan of murder into effect on the second Wednesday in July. Angela went for a walk again on the Monday of that week, so according to his understanding of the postman’s routine, it seemed probable that Ray Johnson would be working on the Wednesday afternoon. If so, he would then be driving down the narrow lane that skirted Calcot Wood to clear a remote, little-used postbox about 3 p.m.

On the Wednesday, Patchin felt quite calm and confident that everything would go as he devised. He set off from Pound Cottage promptly at 2 p.m. after an excellent lunch of roast loin of pork with the first new potatoes from the garden and a large helping of broad beans. His haversack had been got ready on the previous evening. It now contained some other things as well as fishing tackle: rubber gloves, matches, a ball of extremely tough cord, sticking plasters, and a foot-long piece of iron pipe.

Parking his van just off the lane by the wood in a cunningly chosen spot where it would not be seen, Patchin took his haversack and walked quickly through the wood to Ames’s cottage. He experienced pleasurable excitement in doing so and in inspecting the fire he had laid in the kitchen grate. It consisted of three fire lighters, paper spills and wood chippings, a few sticks, and numerous small pieces of coal. It had been constructed with the care that a chaffinch gives to making its nest, and he estimated that it would bum intensely for an hour or two. “Quite long enough to roast a joint,” he said in an expressionless voice as he got up from his crouching position in front of the grate.