The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  She responded to the smile, some of her stiffness fading. “She was here, sir. They left about two in the morning. Mrs. Hardy’s son arrived late from France, and several guests stayed on because they know him.”

  “And she and Mr. Wentworth left at two, you say? Are you sure about that?” If they had, they would have arrived in Wolfpit long before Rutledge reached the village.

  “Yes, sir. But he volunteered to take Miss Hardy home first. She’s Mrs. Hardy’s niece. Her husband’s younger brother’s child.”

  And that would explain much.

  The maid was beginning to realize what Rutledge was asking. “You might inquire of Mr. Wentworth. At his family’s house. He keeps rooms there. The rest is closed up.”

  “I hadn’t thought to look there,” he said, apparently embarrassed. “Thank you.”

  He turned to go, but the maid added, “Miss MacRae wasn’t particularly happy about driving to Wickham first. She was tired and wished to be taken home. She and Mr. Wentworth argued while Miss Hardy went upstairs to fetch her coat.”

  She shut the door smartly before he could reply.

  Rutledge had the distinct feeling that she didn’t care for Miss MacRae.

  4

  The later morning services had just ended as he drove into the village. Rutledge watched as families came out the church door, speaking to the Rector. He could see that while there were quite a number of young children, some of them without their fathers in attendance, young people in general were missing, as they were beginning to be a vanishing breed in quite a few towns and villages. The young men had gone to war and the young unmarried women had discovered more freedom in the larger cities and towns where there was war work to be done. England had already changed while he was in the trenches, and it was still changing before his eyes.

  Shaking off his darkening mood, he looked for Miss MacRae among the churchgoers. He didn’t see her, but there was another woman, very likely in her early forties, tall, elegantly dressed, who left the church and walked briskly through the churchyard toward the road, waiting for him to pass before crossing it. She was alone, and a good candidate for Miss MacRae’s aunt. He hadn’t seen the aunt when he dropped Miss MacRae at her door, and it was purely guesswork, for there were others going in the same direction.

  When she turned up the walk to the house that Miss MacRae had entered, he drove on, giving her time to go inside, and then went back to leave his motorcar at The Swan.

  Five minutes later, he was standing on the small porch, waiting for someone to answer his knock.

  She had taken off her hat and coat, but her cheeks were still pink from her walk in the cold air. “Yes?” she said coolly.

  “I was calling to see how Miss MacRae was this morning. It was rather late before the Hardy dinner broke up.”

  “Then you’re out of luck,” she replied. “She’s still asleep. I looked in her room when my little dog woke me around three, and she wasn’t there. Apparently he heard something in the back garden and told the world to come and see the neighbor’s cat out hunting. But she was in her bed at eight, when I came down to breakfast.”

  Before Rutledge could speak, she went on.

  Considering him, she said, “It was Stephen Wentworth who came to collect her for the dinner party. Did he not bring her home? And who are you?”

  “My name is Rutledge. I met Miss MacRae last evening.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  “I’ll return later, when she’s awake.”

  But she was an intelligent woman, and quick to sense that Rutledge wasn’t a new beau eager to pursue last night’s introduction. “There’s something I don’t know about, isn’t there?” she asked calmly, her gaze intent on his, trying to read what he was not saying. “Three is rather late, isn’t it, to return from a dinner party?”

  “I’m sure Miss MacRae will explain when she’s awake.”

  “I’m asking for explanations now.”

  “Audrey. It’s all right.”

  Rutledge could hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and Audrey turned, then made to close the door.

  He put out a hand to stop the swing just as Miss MacRae came into view.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” she said. He could see the toll the night had taken. Her face was pale, strained, and her eyes were red from crying. “I didn’t think I could sleep at all. But I did.”

  “Sometimes that’s best,” he said, and stepped into a wide hall. He could see the stairs to his right, and beyond them a passage with doors. There was a large green plant on a table to his left, and a chair beside it. Overhead a pretty chandelier caught the sunlight outside and sent prism reflections around the ceiling.

  “My dear, you look terrible,” Audrey said, trying to conceal her irritation. “And since Mr. Rutledge appears to have invited himself inside, we might as well be civilized about this. You need to sit down.” She took her niece’s arm and led her toward one of the doors. It was a sitting room, done up in the palest yellow, bright and cheerful. Rutledge closed the outer door and followed them.

  Audrey had rung a bell after Miss MacRae had taken a chair covered in a pale green-and-cream chintz. “I think we need tea. Mr. Rutledge, do make yourself at home. I shall be interested in talking to you. Ah, Lily, we’d like tea, if you please. Lunch can wait.”

  The maid disappeared, closing the door behind her.

  “Now then. Enlighten me,” Audrey said affably, glancing from her niece to Rutledge.

  Miss MacRae turned to him, her eyes pleading, asking him to answer for her.

  He said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Audrey Blackburn,” she replied.

  “Miss Blackburn. I’m afraid Stephen Wentworth is dead. He was shot last night while bringing Miss MacRae home from the dinner party. She was a witness to the killing, and is important to the police inquiry.”

  “Merciful God,” Audrey Blackburn said, turning to stare at her niece. “I was thinking . . .” She coughed a little, and then went to Miss MacRae, sitting on the edge of her chair and putting an arm around the younger woman. “My dear, I am so sorry. I had no idea—why didn’t you wake me up at once?”

  “I couldn’t talk about it. I wanted to forget.” She was gazing up into her aunt’s face, but Rutledge didn’t think she was actually seeing her. “It was horrible. It happened so fast, and yet I remember every second. It runs over and over again in my mind. Over and over and over.” She buried her face in her hands.

  Miss Blackburn turned to Rutledge, shock in her voice. “Were you there? Did you see what happened?”

  “I came on the scene shortly after it happened.”

  “Thank God, I can’t imagine . . .” She stopped, but he knew what she was saying, that it was better for her niece not to be alone. “Thank you,” she added as an afterthought.

  He said, “I’ve come to ask Miss MacRae if she’s been able to recall any more details of the shooting. I’m not officially in charge of this inquiry, but I’m an Inspector at Scotland Yard in London, and the sooner we can find this man the better for everyone.”

  But Miss MacRae was shaking her head. “He was just there, in the middle of the road. Our headlamps picked him out and Stephen slowed, waiting for him to move. That’s what haunts me. The way he just stood there. As if only waiting for Stephen to step out of the motorcar. I’ve tried and tried to think what he could have said to Stephen. What sort of question he could have possibly asked that would be an excuse for murder. I was frightened. I wanted to ask Stephen who the man was, but I was afraid to speak. There was something—hideous—about all of it. The way the man stood, the way he spoke to Stephen, and then the coldness with which he shot another human being.”

  “Did you by any chance smell pipe smoke, when the man came closer?” Rutledge asked her.

  “Pipe smoke?” She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, to ask such a nonsensical question.

  But sometimes scents carried in the cold night air, and the killer had apparently j
ust finished his pipe.

  “Looking for any possible clue to who he was,” he answered quietly.

  She nodded. “I do wish I could do more to help. He wore a hat, of course. That’s why I couldn’t see very much of his face, it cast a shadow.”

  “How was he dressed? Like a workman, perhaps, or a beggar?”

  “No, not at all. He wore a coat. Dark. Black? Dark gray? It could even have been a dark brown. Not too different from your own.”

  A man of means, then. His own had come from Oxford Street, from the same tailor his father had preferred.

  She added slowly, “He was rather—ordinary. And he put up a hand to shield his face from the glare of the headlamps until he stopped by the wing.” Picking at a seam in her skirt as she spoke, she realized what she was doing and smoothed it again. “It was all such a surprise. I mean, there wasn’t a house close by, no motorcar that had come to grief, just this man.”

  It was so often the case with witnesses. The shock of the crime, especially murder, wiped away any details that might have helped the police afterward.

  Audrey Blackburn cast a glance at her niece, then said, “Why do you think this man is a pipe smoker?”

  She was quick, he had to give her that. “We found a place amongst the hayricks on the far side of the road where he’d stood waiting and smoking. Pipe ash was left there where he’d emptied the bowl.”

  “And what if that’s merely a ruse, to confound the police?”

  Rutledge had the fleeting thought that he must introduce Miss Blackburn to Melinda Crawford. “There’s every possibility that he was that clever,” he answered her. “You must have lived here for some time. Do you know of any pipe smokers who might have had a disagreement with Mr. Wentworth?”

  “Not at present,” she admitted, “but I shall take that under consideration.”

  Lily brought in the tea tray, and Miss Blackburn busied herself with it. When her aunt wasn’t looking, Miss MacRae threw him a pleading glance. He could tell that she hadn’t fully recovered from what had happened, and talking about Wentworth’s death, even in a roundabout fashion, brought it all back too vividly.

  But it was clear, as Miss Blackburn passed Rutledge his cup, that she now had the bit in her teeth and was running with it.

  “And how did this man arrive on scene? Or leave it?” she asked.

  He answered before Miss MacRae could speak. “On foot, as far as we can tell. He went back across the fields, and so far there is no evidence of a horse or a motorcar.”

  “Clever indeed. Walking in a hay field would leave no prints. How far did you pursue this direction?”

  “As far as I could, this morning. There’s a copse just beyond the hay fields, and if you don’t mind muddy boots, after the hay there is a fallow field of what might have been turnips or marrows.”

  Finally satisfied, she nodded. “I know the place you are speaking of.”

  Rutledge smiled at Miss MacRae, drawing her back into the conversation. “How tall was this man?”

  “Oh—he was about the same height as—as Stephen. Not counting his hat, of course.”

  “Did he seem to weigh much the same?”

  “I—he was wearing a coat. But yes, I should think he was about the same size.”

  “Young or old?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know. Stephen’s age, I should think. He didn’t strike me as old. He walked—I don’t know—easily.”

  Miss MacRae had seen more than she realized.

  Remembering, he reached into his pocket and found the small carving. He held it out to her in the palm of his hand. “I found this on the road. Could it have been Stephen’s by any chance?”

  Miss MacRae examined it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before. It could have been Stephen’s, I suppose. Are you saying it fell out as he stepped out of the motorcar?”

  “It could have done,” he agreed, keeping his tone light. “Or the other man might have dropped it as he pulled out his revolver.”

  She winced at the thought. “If he did, I didn’t notice it,” she said doubtfully.

  Miss Blackburn picked it up from his palm. “Quite pretty. You found it on the road? You must have exceptional vision.”

  He ignored the comment, saying to Miss MacRae as he set his cup and saucer back on the silver tray, “I won’t tire you with more questions. But if you think of anything else, I’m staying at The Swan.” Miss Blackburn returned the little wolf, and he dropped it back into his pocket.

  Thanking Miss Blackburn, he rose to leave, and it was Miss Blackburn who saw him out, not her niece.

  “Elizabeth is very upset,” she said. “Thank you for being kind.”

  “She’s the best chance we have of finding Wentworth’s killer. He may realize that as well, and rectify any oversight in leaving a witness alive.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I appreciate the warning, Inspector. I will see that he has no opportunity to do any such thing.”

  Rutledge walked back to the square, watching a small boy of perhaps five or six rolling a hoop down Church Street ahead of him. The hoop hit a rut in the roadway and bounced, wobbled, and then went down.

  Heedless of anything that might have been coming his way, the child dashed into the middle of the roadway and reclaimed his hoop. As he was coming back to the verge, hoop in hand, he looked up and saw Rutledge for the first time.

  He stopped, his gaze on Rutledge’s face.

  “Hallo,” he said as he reached the boy.

  “Hello,” the little boy said. And then, with the directness of a child, “Are you a policeman?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You don’t wear a uniform like Constable Penny,” he said, still staring. “And you don’t have a helmet.”

  Rutledge smiled. “No. I’ve come from London.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t the police wear helmets there?”

  “Some of them do. The Constables and the Sergeants.”

  “Oh. Do you know the King?”

  “I have seen him.”

  Clearly disappointed, the boy went on. “Who will read to us on Saturday morning?”

  Momentarily imagining King George, fully robed and wearing the coronation crown, reading to a small boy, Rutledge suppressed a smile as he realized that the child must mean Stephen Wentworth at the bookshop. Word of his death had begun to spread. “I don’t know,” he answered in the same serious tone. “But I imagine it will be sorted out soon.”

  The boy went on staring up at him.

  Rutledge said, “Did you like Mr. Wentworth?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I did. He reads to us on Saturday morning.”

  Rutledge waited.

  And then the boy said, “He has a revolver in his desk. I saw it one day. He said I must never touch it, not until I am twenty. Then he would show me how.”

  Rutledge hadn’t found a revolver in the bookshop desk.

  “What else did he tell you?”

  The boy shrugged. “How to say hello and good-bye and please in French. And how to tie my shoes properly.” He held up a small foot. “And he told us The Well was haunted and we must not play there.”

  “The well?”

  Ignoring the question, the boy added, “Sometimes he wrote letters after he read to us. I saw him while I was waiting for Mama. He frowned a lot then.”

  “Where does Mr. Wentworth live?”

  The boy cocked his head. “I thought you were a policeman.”

  “A good policeman always asks questions, and checks every fact.”

  “There’s a W on the gate. Mama says it’s far too fine for just one person.” He settled his hoop in his hand, and said, “Oh ree vor,” with a cheeky grin and ran off.

  Watching him go, Rutledge walked on. He had the key to Wentworth’s house in his pocket, on the same loop as the bookshop key. It was time to have a look, before the family
arrived from Norwich. Or Penny came to ask for them.

  Hamish said, “It’s no’ yet your inquiry.”

  “Would you have me wait until the trail is cold? It will do no harm to proceed. I’m still a policeman. Even without a proper helmet.”

  He walked down the High, past The Swan, and soon found himself looking at a large house set back from the road. There was an iron gate at the end of the low stone wall. Within a wreathed circle in the center of the gate was a scrolled W. Rutledge swung it open and walked up the path between two narrow borders setting it off from the lawns. The door had a pediment above it and a large brass knocker, again in the shape of a W.

  “We’ll soon know if this is the right house,” he said under his breath as he put the key into the lock, but it wasn’t necessary. The door wasn’t locked.

  He opened it and stepped into a short hall, listening to the silence of the house around him. To his right was an open door showing a very elegant parlor, and on the left the matching door was closed.

  He worked his way through the house, careful to leave no trace of his presence there. The family had money—that showed in the furnishings, the paintings, and the general air of comfort and ease. The ground floor appeared to be unchanged from Wentworth’s parents’ occupancy. There was an unlived-in air about the parlor, a study, a sitting room, and the dining room, as if no one ever sat in the chairs or stood at the windows. There was no dust—there must be someone who did for Stephen.

  The kitchen did show signs of use: a cup and saucer on the drain board, a kettle on the cooker, and in a pantry, a small pitcher of milk and half a roast chicken.

  Upstairs were six bedrooms. One belonged to the absent parents, another must have been the daughter’s, judging from the feminine furnishings, a third was used by Stephen, and the rest kept for guests. He walked into each of them, to be certain he missed nothing.

  The daughter’s room and one of the guest rooms looked out over a terrace and gardens enclosed by three sides of an arbor walk. The vines were dead now, but they appeared to be wisteria, gnarled trunks growing around the supports and, at this season, rather picturesque.