by Charles Todd
Mrs. Hardy stared at her. “What are you saying, my dear?”
“Only that Mr. Rutledge might feel that I was betraying a confidence.”
Her mother sat there, uncertainty in her eyes, but her daughter remained firm, her own gaze on Rutledge’s face.
“For heaven’s sake, Mama, I’ve known Stephen for years,” she finally added in exasperation. “That’s not a secret. My brother was in school with him. And it isn’t Stephen that I’m engaged to marry.”
Mrs. Hardy stood up. “Very well, my dear. Mr. Rutledge, I bid you good day. Please don’t take advantage of my absence to upset my daughter.”
“That was never my intent on coming here,” he replied, rising as well.
When she had gone, Evelyn Hardy waited to hear her mother’s footsteps crossing the marble floor of the entry hall, and then she drew Rutledge to the far end of the room, by the bow window.
“Will you keep my confidences?” she asked. “I have to know.”
“In as far as I can. In a murder inquiry, anything that leads me to the guilty party has to be reported.”
She shook her head. She was slim and fair, with a pretty face, and Rutledge found himself thinking that she suited this pretty house she’d grown up in, more than her mother did.
“My confidences,” she repeated. “Not Stephen’s.”
“If I can. But I won’t know until I’ve heard what you have to say.”
She took a deep breath. “Very well. Mark Quinton and I had a quarrel on Saturday. It would upset my mother to know that. But sometimes he can be so very—very difficult. I wanted him to take me to the party, it was in my aunt’s house, after all, and he wasn’t happy about it. I don’t know why. Well, I expect I do. He doesn’t like some of my family. Still, he took me anyway, feeling rather put out about it, and before my cousin arrived late from France, Mark wanted to leave. I wanted to stay and see him. Mark claimed it was far too late to be out, he’d promised my mother to bring me home by midnight, and I thought he was being rude. Stephen offered to see me home, and Mark left in a huff.” She hesitated. “Thank you for not telling my mother who actually brought me back.”
The jealous man? Rutledge waited while Hamish stirred in the back of his mind. But she didn’t go on, and finally he had to ask, “Why doesn’t Mark Quinton care for the senior branch of the Hardy family?”
“Well, for one thing, they’re very much into politics, and Mark isn’t. Our grandfather was an MP, and I think my cousin Robin wants to stand for his seat as soon as our present member retires or resigns. He’s in poor health, you see. And now the war is over, Robin can do just that. He survived the war with only a little limp, and he wants to have a say in the way things are being done. He’s quite marvelous, you know, and very popular in the county. He was a fearless rider, very good at tennis, and just the kindest man. I shouldn’t think he’ll have much trouble winning the seat.”
Listening to her, Rutledge had the feeling that any jealousy on Quinton’s part had nothing to do with Stephen Wentworth and much to do with Robin Hardy.
“It was Robin who just arrived from France?”
“Yes. He’s been back there several times. He got himself seconded to an officer involved in the peace negotiations, and he has rather strong opinions on what reparations will do to Germany. The people, not the army.”
A good many people had discussed that, on both sides of the issue. Belgium and France felt that Germany was responsible for the damage to their countries, the loss of towns and railways, the destruction of farms and villages, the displacement of millions of people. Returning Belgium and the northern part of France to their prewar state was going to be costly. But the problem was, Germany was in no better straits, and possibly worse. Reparations would keep her economically broken for years to come. And possibly that was exactly what the Allies, save the American president, had had in mind. But the Treaty of Versailles had been signed and ratified by all the parties—again, saving the Americans—in 1919, on the same date as the event that had started the war had taken place.
28 June 1914, the day he had proposed to Jean . . .
He brought himself back to the pretty drawing room with an effort.
“Tell me about Stephen and your brother.”
“My late brother,” she replied. “Harry was killed in France in 1916. He had gone to school with Stephen, and sometimes he brought Stephen home with him. I liked Stephen, and so did Harry. But I had a feeling he must not have a family that cared much for him, because there never was any trouble on his part to accept invitations.”
“What was the problem with his family?”
“Harry and I talked about it once. We think Stephen must have disappointed his parents somehow. I don’t quite see how. He was a good student, a nice young man. My father liked him enormously, and that counted for much in this house. Robin liked him too, although Robin was some years older and only knew him through Harry and me. Stephen never talked about his family, or only in the most general terms. I wondered sometimes if he really felt loved by them. But he must have done, don’t you think? To have become the fine man he is—was?”
“I have heard that he was in love with a girl he met in Cambridge.”
“Yes, and Harry liked her too. He thought she would be good for Stephen. I never met her, but she was the daughter of someone in the colleges, and Harry said she would not begrudge Stephen his dream of having the bookshop.”
“What happened? Why did he suddenly decide to go to Peru? If it was likely that he might marry her after he came down?”
“It was the oddest thing. They were so close. Stephen told Harry he’d already found the perfect ring for her. He was quite excited about it. And on the night he was to propose to this girl, Stephen walked into Harry’s room very late, looking as if he’d seen a ghost—Harry’s words—and returned a book he’d borrowed. He said he was tired and was going to bed straightaway. And he left. Without another word. Harry thought there might have been a quarrel, and that it would be patched up the next day. But Harry didn’t see him the next day. Or the next. And when he did hear, Stephen had already sailed for Peru. Harry tried to speak to the girl, but she wouldn’t see him. He left Cambridge without knowing what had happened between them.”
“What was her name?”
She grinned, surprising him. “It was not for me to know. Well, that was years ago, and I was still a schoolgirl. Harry was up at university, quite lofty and secretive. And then one day he forgot and said her name. Dorothea. That’s all I learned. But after that, Harry did mention her from time to time. After I promised I’d never tell Stephen I’d guessed, of course.”
“And you are the Evelyn who gave him a book on his birthday?”
She blushed. “How did you know that? But yes. I did. It was a book he’d expressed an interest in. And I thought, how perfect for his birthday. Harry teased me unmercifully about it later. Coals to Newcastle, he said, to give a book to a bookseller. But I loved Stephen as a friend, nothing more. He was like another brother. And when Harry was killed, Stephen sent me such a wonderful letter, all about Harry. I would have done anything to help him be happy. He deserved to be.”
He had identified Dorothea and Evelyn.
But he’d got no real answers to help him find a killer.
And no question of Mark Quinton’s jealousy over Evelyn Hardy. Come to that, both Miss MacRae and Stephen Wentworth would have known Quinton by sight. After all, he’d attended the same party. Even if Quinton had stopped Wentworth’s motorcar to find out what Miss Hardy had done after his departure from the house, there would have been no reason for murder. A simple answer would have sufficed. Miss MacRae had also been in the motorcar, and the two women would have chaperoned each other, as far as propriety went. Even if Quinton was angry over the lateness of the hour.
“What was Wentworth’s mood on Saturday evening?”
“He seemed to be in fine spirits. If something was worrying him, he gave no sign of it. He kept us entertained wh
ile we were waiting for Robin to appear, just chatting and laughing, helping Mrs. Hardy in any way he could. The servants had gone up, and it was Stephen’s idea to adjourn to the kitchen and make tea.”
“I’ve been told that Miss MacRae was put out over Wentworth volunteering to drive you back here.”
She shook her head. “Not put out. She was afraid her aunt might be worried that she hadn’t come home, and I think that privately she felt it rather childish of Mark to behave as he had, walking out and leaving me there. Robin stepped in and said he’d be happy to take me, but he’d just driven all the way from Dover, and he was quite tired. Besides, I knew Mark wouldn’t care for that—he’s taken a dislike to Robin and my other cousins. He couldn’t complain about Stephen, not with Miss MacRae in the motorcar with us.”
“Why do you think he’s quite so jealous?”
She glanced toward the door, to be sure her mother couldn’t hear her, then said with noticeable embarrassment, “Please don’t think ill of him. It’s just that Mark has had a stricter upbringing, and my Hardy cousins can be quite lively at times.”
“I understand.” But he thought it might be more than their lively natures. Whenever Evelyn spoke Robin Hardy’s name, there was an unconscious warmth in her voice. And a man in love might not care for that.
He thanked Miss Hardy soon afterward, and left without seeing her mother.
What had Wentworth done to bring down such hatred on himself that someone had killed him? Aside from how his own mother felt, everywhere Rutledge turned people spoke well of him. Except for the man at the church in Wolfpit. The sexton, he thought. And Inspector Reed.
Unless Wentworth had a secret life that no one knew about, a wolf in sheep’s clothing as it were, he appeared to be blameless.
Rutledge turned his motorcar and went in search of Inspector Reed.
Reed was not in when Rutledge reached Stowmarket at teatime.
It was an attractive small town with a market charter going back to the Middle Ages, and he could see a handsome church closer to the river.
Reed wasn’t in the police station, and the Constable there seemed to have no idea where to find him. With Hamish busy in his mind, Rutledge walked up one side of Bury Street and down the other to pass the time. The shops were busy, the street crowded. No one seemed to take particular notice of a stranger among them, although small children, muffled to the ears against the cold, stared at him from their prams. And then Hamish said, “There.”
Rutledge looked down the street in time to see Reed just stepping into a tea shop with the speed of a man looking to avoid anyone searching for him.
Picking up his own pace, Rutledge reached the shop just as Reed was taking a table in the back, where he couldn’t be seen from the street.
He glanced up and saw Rutledge bearing down on him, and his mouth twisted in a grimace.
“Good afternoon,” Rutledge said affably, although it was going on five. “I was told you were out at one of the farms.” Before taking the other chair, he turned and smiled at the woman behind the counter, and she came over at once to take their order.
With poor grace, Reed gave his, and Rutledge asked for a pot of tea.
When the woman had gone away, Reed said, “You’ve come to ask me to take over the inquiry. I expected it would be too much for you.”
Rutledge felt like gritting his teeth. The man was a fool. And jealous . . . Not just about his wife, apparently. But then, an unhappy marriage could ruin the best of men.
Keeping his tone pleasant, he said, “I’ll soldier on today, if you don’t mind. No, I’ve come to ask if you know of any shooting similar to Wentworth’s that has occurred in, say, the past six months? Or even the past year?”
The other man grinned, waited for his sandwich and their tea to be set down, and then said, “Looking for a way out?”
“Answer the question, Reed.”
The change in tone from friendly to icy caught Reed off guard. He lost the silly grin and stared at the man from London.
“All right, then, I haven’t inquired of other jurisdictions. But nothing of the sort has come to my attention since I’ve returned to Stowmarket. Mainly men taking their service revolver out to the back garden and ending it. Three amputees in the month of October. That was the worst. There’s no work for them, and sitting around the house under the feet of wives or family begins to overwhelm them. There’s a church group trying to help, but mostly it’s people who weren’t out there in France. They do their best, but they don’t know. You were there, you understand what I’m talking about. It’s sometimes bloody awful, looking back.”
“You turned the corner. How did you manage it?” But even as he said it, he wondered if that was true. And wished he could take back the question. The edginess in this man, the jealousy, the provocative remarks might be the only way he could cope.
Reed looked away. “Never had any corner to turn,” he said brusquely.
Rutledge commented without emphasis, “You’re a lucky man.”
“Lucky in many respects,” he answered, nodding.
Rutledge knew he was speaking now of his wife. What sort of woman is she? he wondered. And why does she let the green eye of jealousy fester in this man?
But that wasn’t his problem. He had a murder on his hands, and Reed would have to attend to his own woes. Unless or until they cast a shadow on what had happened in Wolfpit.
He finished his tea and prepared to go. “I’ll be on my way. When there’s any news, I’ll let you know.”
“When,” Reed said, his tone biting once more, “is what we’re waiting for. Will you be holding the inquest any time soon? I’m told the Wentworths would like to bury their son.”
“Possibly by the end of the week,” Rutledge said, keeping it vague on purpose. “Where do you usually hold them?”
“Here in Stowmarket. Unless you insist on Wolfpit. There haven’t been that many murders in a while. We’re out of practice.”
Rutledge made certain he paid for the tea on his way out.
On the drive back to Wolfpit, Rutledge debated what direction the inquiry should take next.
So far there was no thread of trouble in Wentworth’s background, save for the very personal family problems, to indicate enemies. And while Hamish was favoring Reed as his killer, Rutledge thought it unlikely. Reed might well fret over his wife’s connection with Wentworth, but he hadn’t given out the signals of turning to murder.
Now the question must be what his wife’s feelings were. And Rutledge could think of no way to question her without sending Reed into a blind fury.
Hamish said, “Yon Miss MacRae or her aunt might know her.”
“I don’t want any gossip reaching Reed’s ears.” He concentrated on the road as he passed a farm cart carrying a boar. “It’s possible she has a father or brothers who blamed Wentworth for what was happening between Reed and his wife.”
It was long odds. But it would have to be explored. Sometimes the answer in a murder inquiry lay in long odds. He had always been rather good at following them up.
The question remained: How best to go about approaching Mrs. Reed with some delicacy?
He finally settled on Mrs. Delaney as the least likely person to gossip, though it was after six when he called on her.
“Mrs. Reed?” she asked in surprise, when Rutledge brought up the name.
“What do you know about her?” he said, holding his ground.
She smiled. “She grew up in Wolfpit, Inspector. Her father is the greengrocer. Her grandfather—her mother’s father—owned a Suffolk Punch farm before the war, and he’s trying to rebuild it now. But there isn’t a call for draft horses, with vans and lorries taking their place. That’s a horse, you know. Not a party beverage.”
Rutledge laughed. “I know.” Then he asked, “Would they step in if they had a feeling that her marriage was in trouble? Have a word with Reed, perhaps, or even with anyone who might be causing that trouble?”
“I hardly thi
nk so,” she retorted, more than a little shocked. “They’re a respectable family, and Mrs. Reed isn’t that sort of woman. If there’s a problem in that marriage, it’s the Inspector’s fault, not hers.”
“Then why does he appear to be jealous of Wentworth?”
“Is he? Oh, you aren’t thinking that he might have shot Stephen? He’s a policeman.”
He told her the truth then. “It’s affecting his work, this obsession with Wentworth. I need to know why.” A partial truth, but that was all she needed to know.
“Oh. I wish you’d told me that in the beginning. Let me see. She went to work in the milliner’s shop, the summer of 1914. She was only seventeen but she was quite good with a needle, and did rather well there. It was something of a surprise, so the gossip claims, when she announced she was to marry Inspector Reed. She’d seemed intent on making the shop her career.”
“I had a feeling when speaking to Inspector Reed that his wife had known Wentworth well.”
“I expect she did. She was in and out of the bookstore as a child. Stephen was often there as well. She told my husband she wanted to broaden her world, which was rather sweet. I don’t know whether she also had an eye on Stephen or not, but Mrs. Wentworth would probably have had something to say about that, even if she was hardly more than a child.”
“Once he was back in Wolfpit after the war, did he show any personal interest in her? Was she in the bookshop more often than was usual? She wasn’t a child then. Reed might have misunderstood.”
“I haven’t heard any gossip in that quarter, mainly because I don’t believe there was any. I don’t quite know where you’re taking this, Inspector. I’m sure her family would have been overjoyed to bring the Wentworth fortune into the fold. But I really don’t see Stephen being unkind enough to lead her on. In fact, he was very careful these past two years not to show interest in any direction. It wouldn’t have been good for business, to have such a reputation. Has anyone else given you the impression that he was a flirt? No, I didn’t think so! I do think that’s why he enjoyed Miss MacRae’s company. She’s only a visitor here, you see, and they’ve been friends for ages. If you want my honest opinion, if it hadn’t been for the girl in Cambridge, I expect he might have found himself looking at the Hardy girl.”