The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  “Yet her husband condoned it, and the village turned a blind eye.”

  “Mr. Wentworth took great care that the village remained ignorant of her feelings. Even the Rector. As Stephen was old enough, he took his son for walks, he took him up in the carriage. He even took him to church services when Stephen was older. Only of course on Sundays when Mrs. Wentworth declined to attend. She was quite angry with God but put up a good public front of her own. She would have sent him away at seven, but for the fact that her husband forbade it.”

  “He never told the other boys in Wolfpit what his home life was like? Why was he allowed even to play with them?”

  She smiled for the first time, giving her face a softness he hadn’t seen before. “Ah, that was my doing. I protected him as best I could. And I tried to see that he lived a normal life. I took him out in his pram, I saw to it that he met other young lads his age and played with them. Out of his mother’s sight, of course. Several families had nursery maids, and naturally they were quite happy to let their own charges meet the Wentworth heir. And in summer when he was at home, he would come here on his bicycle and then go off to play. Even after he discovered a second home as it were with Mr. and Mrs. Delaney, he came here often. I’d always told him that people would be curious about how the Wentworths lived, and he was to smile and say, ‘Not so very different from the way you live, except that I’m to be sent off to school.’ Mothers were the worst, asking prying questions.” They heard the outer door open and close. Miss Charing waited until the other woman had gone to the rear of the house before saying in a low voice, “There were other problems, you know. And I think that added to Mrs. Wentworth’s hatred of her son. The boys were not identical twins, as I’ve said. Stephen had been an ugly baby. Even I must admit it. But that thatch of stiff black hair fell out, as it often does, and in its place his hair grew back as fair as his brother’s, and that scrawny body grew longer and stronger. That was the reason his mother swears he killed his brother. She called it sucking the life out of Robert, and when Robert died so suddenly, she swore that Stephen had got all he wanted from his brother and was finished with him.”

  On the drive back to Wolfpit, Miss Charing’s words echoed in Rutledge’s head, and Hamish said in disgust, “It’s a wonder she didna’ kill the lad hersel’.”

  “I think Stephen’s father feared she might. Especially in the years just after Robert’s death.”

  “Aye. It was a dreadful secret to keep. How the family stopped gossip is a wonder. Unless yon servants pitied him and didna’ wish the village to know, for his sake.”

  Rutledge remembered that Lydie, the daily, had wanted him to see that Stephen’s killer was found and taken directly to the hangman. He thought it likely that Hamish was right. “But he’s still the heir, isn’t he? His father would have something to say to that.”

  “There are grandchildren to inherit. If one is a boy, it’s no’ sae difficult to change a name. And their father is dead and wouldna’ be able to object. Even the mother would be tempted to see her lad raised up to heir.”

  Murder had been done for weaker reasons . . .

  He had been too busy to think of lunch, and it was nearly four o’clock. He went back to The Swan and ordered sandwiches and a pot of tea. He’d have preferred something stronger after the disturbing conversation with Miss Charing. But he was on duty still, and the Yard frowned on anything that might reflect poorly on its men.

  The son of loving parents himself, he couldn’t imagine how Stephen had grown up in such an environment. But there had been those who cared for Stephen and tried to make his life better. The Delaneys, Nanny, even his friends, who took him at face value and didn’t question the manner of his life. After all, he was in boarding school, he was bound to be different from them. And he let them believe that was all it was.

  The question was, When had Stephen himself recognized that other lads had very different mothers? And how had he dealt with that? In books, in escape into other people’s lives?

  His tea came and he poured himself a cup, still thinking about Stephen.

  Then Hamish warned him, and he looked up in time to see Inspector Reed crossing the dining room on his way to Rutledge’s table.

  Keeping a bland expression pinned to his face, Rutledge waited until the other man was near enough and said, “Reed,” with a nod of greeting.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Reed took the other chair at the table and sat down. “Any word?”

  “Early in the day,” Rutledge answered.

  “Hmmm.” He studied the scene beyond the window for a moment. “It has to be someone in Wolfpit. Stands to reason. Who else might know where Wentworth would be that evening? What about this MacRae woman? Do you trust her account of events? She might have been in touch with the killer.”

  “Where’s the motive for her to kill her companion? Or to agree to tell someone else where to find him?”

  “Still, she might know more than she’s telling.”

  There was always a caveat to certainty. He had to consider the possibility that Miss MacRae had realized in her dream that she knew Wentworth’s killer, and it had precipitated her decision to go home to Scotland. He couldn’t put off questioning her about that.

  “Women found him attractive,” Reed countered sourly. “And he didn’t seem to be interested in them. Makes you wonder.”

  “I was led to believe there was someone while he was at university who mattered,” Rutledge said casually. “And it precipitated his decision to go to Peru.”

  “A man like Wentworth doesn’t fly away to the ends of the earth over a broken heart. No, I don’t believe that’s why he went.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because he’s Stephen Wentworth, and spoiled into the bargain. He does what he feels like doing at the moment. Buy a bookshop. Go to university. Hare off to Peru. He doesn’t have to earn his bread the way the rest of us do. He can indulge whatever whim strikes his fancy. And if you ask me, that’s what led to his death. Whatever it was he fancied now, it got him killed.”

  It was, in fact, an interesting point.

  Rutledge said, “You have an ear to the ground here. What do you think that new fancy might be?”

  Reed shook his head. “How should I know? Playing fast and loose with another man’s wife, for instance.”

  Rutledge kept his expression mildly interested even as he understood that Reed was probably talking about his own fear. “How would I go about finding out a name? His friends won’t talk about his peccadillos. I can hardly ask his parents. Where should I begin?”

  With a shrug, Reed got to his feet. “Damned if I know. It’s your inquiry anyway. So I have been told.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. And with an abrupt nod he walked away.

  Rutledge watched him pass the window on his way to the omnibus stop that would carry him back to his own police station.

  Jealousy was a very strong emotion. And more than one man had killed because of it. Reed was a jealous man who probably wished the killer of Stephen Wentworth well for removing a thorn in the side of his own marriage.

  Hamish reminded him, “Wentworth took a lass home before bringing Miss MacRae back to Wolfpit.”

  Yes, and I think it’s time to look into that, Rutledge answered him silently as he smiled at the woman who had come to take away his dishes. He remembered to mention that he might be in late for dinner.

  There were signs of activity at the Hardy manor house. The new arrival had shaken up the middle-aged maid as well.

  When she answered Rutledge’s knock, he could hear voices and laughter in the background and there was even a slight flush in her face, as if all the excitement had brightened her own mood.

  When she saw him standing on the steps, he could almost hear what she was thinking: You again.

  He smiled formally this time, and her expression changed to wariness.

  “It’s urgent I find Miss Hardy,” he said. “It’s a matter of police business.”


  “What can the police have to do with Miss Hardy?” she demanded.

  “Her direction, please.”

  Uncertain, she stared at him. “I can’t give you that.”

  “Then I’ll speak to Mrs. Hardy.” He made as if to enter the house, and she stepped back.

  “Here!” she said quickly. “Mrs. Hardy has guests. You can’t come in.”

  “Then tell her, if you will, that Inspector Rutledge is here and would like a word with her about Stephen Wentworth.”

  Mrs. Hardy was middle-aged and still very attractive, with fair hair and hazel eyes.

  She came into the drawing room where the maid had left him while she inquired if Mrs. Hardy was receiving.

  “I understand you’re looking for my niece. I should like to know why.”

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Stephen Wentworth is dead, and I’ve been asked to conduct the inquiry into what happened. I should like to speak to Miss Hardy—I understand he and Miss MacRae took her home after your party.”

  She was still digesting his news. “Dead? There must be some mistake. He appeared to be perfectly fine Saturday evening. What happened?” She frowned. “You aren’t telling me that there was a crash—that there was a problem with the motorcar? But that’s why I allowed him to take my niece home. He’s a good driver, steady, reliable.”

  “I’m afraid it was more serious than that. Someone stopped the motorcar on the road when Wentworth and Miss MacRae were on their way back to Wolfpit. Wentworth got out to investigate and was shot. Miss MacRae was unharmed.”

  “Dear God.” She had kept him standing, and now she pointed to a chair and sat down herself, as if the shock had left her shaken. “He was just here. I can’t believe—I don’t want to believe you.” She blinked back tears. “Stephen is—Stephen was like one of the family. Why weren’t we informed sooner? I have guests—my son—what on earth shall I tell them? Everyone knows him.”

  He said nothing, letting her come to terms with death. It was a measure of her concern that she hadn’t been able to hide her emotions behind a social facade. The odd thing was, she hadn’t heard about Stephen. But then it had happened over a weekend, no tradesmen or dailies coming in bursting with news.

  “But who?” she asked finally, as the implications of what he’d said fully registered. “I mean, Stephen. He hadn’t an enemy in the world. Why?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I need to speak to your niece. She was in the motorcar shortly before that. I’d like to hear how he looked and sounded, and whether or not he was worried. Miss MacRae is in no condition to answer questions just now.”

  Not quite true, but he wanted very much to speak to Evelyn Hardy.

  “And I shall need a guest list from Saturday evening,” he added after a moment.

  She stared at him. “But surely you don’t think that one of our guests—it’s preposterous.”

  “Nevertheless, they were with him all evening, spoke to him, would possibly have noticed anything unusual in his manner, or heard him express any concerns he might have had. He could have said something that will help us find his killer.”

  “My guests—” she began, then realized the implications of what he was saying. “You think he knew—but he offered to take Evelyn home.”

  “She was in no danger. The shooting occurred after that.”

  “Stephen,” she said again, then shook her head. “I can’t quite—quite grasp this.” She looked away from him, and then, resolutely, she rose and went to a very elegant little desk by the windows. Lifting a sheet of paper out of the drawer, she took up a pen and began to write. Halfway through, she stopped and stared at nothing before resuming her task. After looking it over briefly, as if to make certain it was complete, she held the list out to him, and he crossed the room to take it from her. Miss Hardy’s direction was at the top of the sheet.

  “I shan’t say anything to my son and his friends,” she said quietly. “Not just yet. It will spoil his homecoming. There’s nothing he can do.”

  “And you yourself saw nothing Saturday evening that would have worried you?”

  “No. Sadly no. Gentle God. Stephen.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hardy.”

  “I wish you had never had to come to my door.” She rose and saw him out, shutting the door quietly as soon as he had stepped out into the drive.

  As he turned the crank, he remembered the look on Mrs. Hardy’s face. Death had come too close, and she had liked Stephen Wentworth, considered him almost a member of the family. After all, he had stayed to greet her son, in spite of the delay in his arrival. Late as it was. Rutledge wondered just how long she would be able to withhold the news from her houseguests. How soon they would read the shock in her eyes.

  It seemed that Miss Hardy lived with her widowed mother in the village of Wickham, just a few miles to the north of the Hardy household, and no more than ten miles from Wolfpit. He found the village easily enough, and then the house itself. It appeared to be a dower house, elegant and set back from the road by a low wall and a stand of tall evergreens that offered some privacy to the grounds. Like the houses around it, it had been built in a different era, and there was a certain air of gentility here on this short street that ran just off the High. If wool had built magnificent churches, it had also made the fortunes of those who knew how to profit from it. There was most certainly money in the Hardy family—where the senior branch lived, the estate had appeared to be well kept and prosperous. And the cadet branch had not done too shabbily here in Wickham.

  Painted a soft yellow with white trim, the dower house was quite attractive, and as he left his motorcar by the road, opened the low gate, and walked up a flagstone path to the door, he couldn’t help but admire the proportions and the decorations at the windows. A cake, he decided suddenly. With the loops and swags that pleased the eye, it could have been a wedding cake.

  And that reminded him of Frances and London. He pushed the thought away.

  The doorknocker was a beautifully polished brass pineapple. He let it fall against the plate, and waited.

  It would have to be done all over again, this telling of bad news.

  8

  Another middle-aged maid answered this door, and he thought she might possibly be related to the one at the Hardys’ house. Both women had the same square jaw and deep-set hazel eyes.

  He asked to speak to Miss Hardy, and received a frown.

  “May I ask who’s calling, sir?” she inquired politely.

  “My name is Rutledge. She doesn’t know me, but I am here about Stephen Wentworth’s death.”

  Her expression changed at once. It was clear that the news had already reached Wickham. He wondered who had carried it.

  “Indeed, sir. I’ll inquire if Miss Hardy is in.”

  A few minutes later he was being led to a small drawing room as elegant as the facade.

  Miss Hardy was standing in the middle of a pale green Turkey carpet, and an older woman, who must be her mother, was seated by the bow window.

  He could see that Miss Hardy had been crying earlier in the day. There was redness around her eyes, and a puffiness as well.

  “Mr. Rutledge?” she said at once. “You asked to see me? Word came at breakfast this morning. The butcher’s lad told Cook, and she told us. I hadn’t heard—”

  She stopped as if she couldn’t trust her voice. The other woman rose.

  “May I ask who you are?” Her manner was decidedly cool.

  “Scotland Yard has charged me with looking into the circumstances of Mr. Wentworth’s death.”

  “And what are these circumstances? We have only been told that something had happened on the road to Wolfpit.” She indicated a chair and resumed her own seat, but Miss Hardy stayed where she was.

  Rutledge sat down across from her. “He was returning to Wolfpit with Miss MacRae in the motorcar with him. They were stopped before they reached the village by a man standing in the road. He spoke to Stephen Wentworth
, who had stepped out of the motorcar to ask what was wrong. And then without warning, Wentworth was shot. He died at the scene.”

  “Dear God,” Mrs. Hardy said softly.

  Her daughter cried out, “But how awful!”

  “Do you have this man in custody?” Mrs. Hardy asked after a moment.

  “Sadly, no. That’s why I’m here.”

  “My daughter had nothing to do with murder,” she retorted sharply. There was no particular response to the death of someone she knew, only a self-centered concern about her daughter. He had the fleeting thought that she and Mrs. Wentworth would have much in common. This Mrs. Hardy, unlike her sister-in-law at the house on the Wolfpit road, didn’t appear to have shed a single tear over Wentworth’s death.

  “But she did know Mr. Wentworth,” Rutledge responded with the firmness of authority, “and I have come to ask for any information about his life that might help us find this man.”

  “My daughter is engaged to Mr. Quinton.”

  He had seen Miss Hardy move suddenly, and he made certain that his response was innocuous. “That’s not in question here. Anyone who was acquainted with Stephen Wentworth can add to my store of knowledge about the man. However little your daughter may know, it’s still more than I myself have discovered at this stage.”

  Miss Hardy was still standing stricken in the middle of the room. Now she sat down in what could be interpreted as sheer relief.

  “Mama, may I speak to Mr. Rutledge privately?” she asked then.

  “We have no secrets, Evelyn.”

  “No, Mama, but perhaps Mr. Wentworth might.”