by Charles Todd
“Yes, I’ve spoken with Evelyn Hardy.”
If Stephen hadn’t been close to Robin Hardy, had he stayed at the dinner party for Evelyn Hardy’s sake, because he knew she cared for her cousin? And volunteered to take her home, when her fiancé deserted her? That spoke of a different kind of affection.
“Her brother was a lovely boy, and he grew into a lovely man,” Mrs. Delaney went on with sadness in her voice. “The Germans took our best and brightest. It was unbelievably cruel. I shan’t forgive them. Ever.”
They lost their best and brightest as well, he thought to himself. But apparently that hadn’t counted in the Kaiser’s decision to go to war.
He nearly missed what she had to say next.
“It’s Robin I always wondered about. He’s come home, I hear.”
Rutledge kept his voice neutral. “He arrived the evening Wentworth was shot. It’s what delayed their return to Wolfpit, according to Miss MacRae and Evelyn Hardy.”
“Did he now?” was all she said.
Probing, Rutledge commented, “Evelyn appears to be fond of him.”
“Which doesn’t surprise me. He’s fascinating, is Robin. The younger son. People are drawn to him. And then they learn the hard lesson that he isn’t what he seems. I don’t know how to explain Robin Hardy. In the past he’d have been a highwayman simply for the devil of it. Or a pirate, perhaps. Something wild and full of adventure. You sense that in him. At least older people do. Younger people are often drawn in by that air of devil-may-care. It was once said of Lord Byron, I think, that he was dangerous to know. Robin isn’t a dashing poet with a dark streak in him. But he would have enjoyed being such a one.”
Frowning as he tried to read between the lines of her comments, he asked, “Was Mrs. Reed in love with him? Not Wentworth? Is that what you’re avoiding telling me?”
Mrs. Delaney smiled. “My dear Inspector. I don’t have any idea. I don’t know her secrets. But you see, while Stephen was the lad everyone admired and loved, the sort of child you might wish to have yourself, Robin was wild and interesting and unpredictable. And women find that irresistible too.”
Rutledge quietly let himself into the bookshop, locking the door again behind him.
The telephone was out of sight from passersby. He took out his notebook, then put through a call to the Yard, asking for Sergeant Gibson.
When Gibson answered, his voice gruff, Rutledge said, “I’m in need of information, Sergeant. Can you look into names for me?”
The gruffness dropped half an octave deeper. “I’ll do my best. Sir.”
He read a list of names, spelling some of them carefully. The final one was Robin Hardy’s.
Sergeant Gibson cleared his throat. “As to this last, sir. If that’s the Hardy I’m remembering, he was up before the London magistrates a number of times before the war.”
“Was he indeed?”
“He was taken up once for attempting to paint the Tower ravens a bright yellow. They can’t fly, you know. Not far at any rate. He was nearly successful with the first one. And on another occasion, he was attempting to fly a kite from the rooftops of St. Paul’s. He was charged with public drunkenness, but the Constable reported he was as sober as the magistrate was.”
“High spirits? Or maliciousness?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. Odd sort of chappie. He seemed to like the risk more than anything else. Paid his fine without complaint, no trouble to anyone, even apologized to the keeper of the ravens.”
“Any other incidents?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. Those are the only two that’ve come to my attention.”
Which probably meant, Rutledge thought, that Hardy had chosen other venues for his eccentricities. Gibson seemed to know everything of importance that went on in London and half the counties as well.
“I’d like very much to know what sort of war he had.”
“As to that, sir, I heard of one occasion when someone slipped behind the lines and stopped up the main guns on half a dozen German tanks before the alarm went up. They were taking bets in the Met ranks here that it was Hardy.”
“Were they indeed?” He’d heard the same story in France, but without a name attached to the foray. There had been speculation that it was apocryphal, rather than an actual attempt to spike the guns.
Gibson was saying, “I’ll get on to these names, sir. Anything to report to His Eminence?”
Rutledge smothered a laugh. The gruffness he’d heard at the beginning of the conversation was explained: Gibson had had a run-in with the Chief Superintendent and come away second best. He could imagine what it had been like at the Yard today, everyone creeping about and trying not to get caught in the cross fire. It also explained why Gibson was still there.
He was well out of it.
Hanging up, he stood there watching the foot traffic past the bookshop windows. Most people were preparing to sit down to their dinners, but a few men, holding on to their hats against the wind, were hurrying by.
Where was he to find the secret that would unlock the death of Stephen Wentworth?
It was there somewhere. A man like Wentworth wasn’t killed without a sound reason. His death caused too many ripples in the fabric of a village’s life, his family too important to be ignored by the police, the shock of the way he’d died too frightening to the people who knew him, and even those who didn’t know him well were touched by the strangeness of time and place. The hunt would go on until the killer was caught—or found dead. Public opinion would demand that.
As the man in charge, Rutledge would much prefer that to be sooner rather than later.
The fact that a comment had passed between killer and victim worried him. It meant that whoever it was must be searching. And there was no way of knowing whether Wentworth was the right target—or the wrong one, who still must die because he’d been asked a question and couldn’t be left alive to repeat it.
The only way to know which it might be was to wait for the next body to be found.
He left the bookshop and went to Miss Blackburn’s house to look in on Miss MacRae. He was just coming to the short path to her door when he saw the sexton staring at him from the churchyard across the road. He recognized the shadowy silhouette.
Without altering his pace, he set out across the street and went through the open churchyard gate.
By the time he could see where the sexton had been standing, the man was gone.
Rutledge stopped and waited, but the sexton didn’t reappear. And he wasn’t in the mood to give chase.
He went back to The Street and the police station, found Constable Penny at his desk, and greeted him.
Penny looked up warily from the daily log he was finishing.
“Good evening, sir. Any news?”
“A matter of curiosity. Tell me about the church sexton?”
“Not much to tell, sir. According to my predecessor, Pace showed up one day looking for work. Oliver is his given name, but I’ve never heard anyone use it. He said he found the Yorkshire winters too cold and had decided to move farther south. He worked for a time at the ironmonger’s, and then when the church sexton of the day had to retire because of his age, Pace took the position. There have been no complaints lodged against him that I know of. The church wardens are satisfied, and the Rector as well.”
“He doesn’t appear to be the friendliest of men.”
“No, sir, and that’s true enough. But we’ve got used to it, I expect.”
“Did he have any dealings with the victim? Or with the victim’s family?”
“None that I know of. That’s to say, everyone knows who he is.”
“There has never been any trouble between Wentworth and Pace?” he asked again. “In your position you’d have heard, if there had been?”
“No, sir. Pace doesn’t spend much time on The Street. He comes to the ironmonger’s or the butcher shop or the greengrocer’s, makes his purchases and leaves. He doesn’t frequent the pub or the tea shop, and I’ve n
ever seen him coming out of the bookshop. Or walking the streets at night. He has a small cottage on the edge of town, grows vegetables in season, and largely keeps to himself. Confirmed bachelor. As the older ladies in Wolfpit can attest to. More than one set her cap for him, according to Miss Goodwin. But I find that hard to believe, because he was never much for social events. Keeps to himself, as I said. I think that’s why being sexton suits him.”
And no one would know when he was at home—or lurking in the dark on the Wolfpit road.
“Was he in the war?” A revolver could be a war souvenir, even if Pace had served in the ranks.
“No, sir, too old for it.”
“And who is Miss Goodwin?”
“She plays the organ at St. Mary’s. She stepped in for Mr. Havers—he was organist for more years than I care to remember—a number of times during his last illness, and it seemed quite natural for her to continue.”
“Pace is from Yorkshire, you say? Did he know Mrs. Wentworth before she came to Wolfpit as a bride?”
“I never gave that a thought,” Penny said in some surprise. “I don’t believe so. That’s to say, I don’t recall I’ve ever seen them exchange a word in all these years. And Yorkshire is a large county.”
“So it is,” Rutledge agreed. But there was the note he’d found in his room. Not the sort of message he’d expect from most of the people who had known Wentworth. People who had admired him, people who knew nothing about his mother’s accusations. Pace’s attitude toward him since he’d begun the inquiry indicated a resentment of authority, and the man might just be bloody-minded enough to leave such a note, to complicate the inquiry.
Hamish, in the recesses of his mind, spoke, jolting him. “Ye ken, he might have left Yorkshire because he’d run afoul of the police there. And no’ just the local Constable.”
“Something wrong, sir?” Penny asked quickly, a frown between his eyes.
“Old war wound,” Rutledge managed to say, and then added, “Did anyone look into Pace’s background before he was offered the position of sexton? After all, he’d have access to the church and the communion silver.”
“I don’t believe the church wardens thought it necessary, sir. Here, you’re not thinking Pace could have killed Stephen Wentworth?”
He’d been exploring the possibility.
“I’d be remiss if I didn’t look into everyone, Constable.” He rose. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. Someone mentioned to me that you were noticed coming back on the Stowmarket road. Any news from there? Has Inspector Reed found any information that might help us?”
“Reed? No, he’s found nothing new.”
“Worst luck, that. I know the Wentworths are impatient to learn who it was killed their son. They made it clear when they called here. I’ve spent hours trying to find some reason for Wentworth’s murder, and the more I think about it, the more unlikely it seems that he was killed. It makes no kind of sense, sir.”
“It made sense to someone.”
“It must have done to his killer, sir. Else he wouldn’t have pulled that trigger.”
Rutledge was nearly to the door. “We’ll know when we have him in custody.”
“Yes but, sir, where is he now? He’s had time to cross half of England. He could be in Wales. Or Cornwall, for that matter, if he took a train. Well out of our reach. And there’s no description to be going on with.”
“I’m well aware of these possibilities, Constable.” Rutledge wondered if he was hearing an undercurrent of Inspector Reed’s voice in Penny’s concerns.
“But I’m saying, sir, that we might never know who it was.”
Rutledge turned, suddenly angry. “Who has been making these remarks?”
Penny flushed. “It’s what I hear on my rounds, sir. People ask. They want to know. And I don’t have anything to give them to stop them from worrying.”
“Or was it Mrs. Wentworth, Stephen’s mother?”
“Well, yes, sir, she was saying much the same thing herself. But I hear it elsewhere.”
“She doesn’t think we’ll find her son’s killer?”
“It’s more a matter of being afraid we won’t.” Penny realized all at once that the matter had got out of hand, that he was on the brink of betraying a trust. And he shut his mouth sharply.
“She’s asking you to request that I be withdrawn, and another man sent to Suffolk to take over the inquiry. When was this?”
“Before she left for Norwich, sir. I had to listen to her concerns, sir. She’s one of the people I serve,” Penny managed to say.
“Send that request to London,” Rutledge responded, his voice as cold as his eyes, “and I’ll see that you’re withdrawn as well, Constable.”
“She means you no disrespect, sir. It’s her son, after all. You’d be in a state too—”
“—if I’d lost my son,” Rutledge finished for him. “What does her husband have to say in the matter?”
“I don’t know, sir. He never has much to say on any matter.”
“And you would be well advised to follow his example. Hear me, Constable. I will have no more discussion about contacting the Yard to ask for a change in officers. From you, from Mrs. Wentworth, or from any other resident of Wolfpit. Or Stowmarket.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“I don’t think you do, Constable. Just see to it.”
And he stepped out into the street, closing the police station door with a firmness that was a pale reflection of his anger.
But it wasn’t the Constable who was to blame, and by the time Rutledge had twice walked to the outskirts of Wolfpit in either direction, he regretted his own fury.
His anger was directed at Mrs. Wentworth. For her unfeeling, self-centered war with her own child, and for her efforts to undermine his work here. He wondered why.
It was the undercurrent in her comments that had troubled him most.
That she might know—or believe she knew—Wentworth’s killer. And that she was willing to help him get away with what he had done.
Rutledge realized, when he came in sight of The Swan again, that it was too late now to call on Miss Blackburn.
9
It was time, he thought early the next morning, to pay a visit to Dorothea Mowbray. But how to find her? He wasn’t sure even Lydie Butterworth could tell him that. Mrs. Delaney hadn’t seemed to know which college Dorothea’s father was associated with.
He would have to speak to the local police in Cambridge.
When he got there, the town was in the throes of Christmas preparations. Shop windows were brightly decorated in goods and gift suggestions, and streets in Town were crowded with people. And yet he could feel, this December of 1920, the sense of loss that still permeated so much of life in Britain. There were wounded on the street corners, begging. And more young women in the shops than men of military age. Older women still wore the black of mourning for sons and brothers and husbands. Among them were a scattering of students hurrying to tutorials, gowns flying like gangly crows, and young girls who were laughing and careless of passersby, enjoying an outing and the glances of anyone who would notice them.
Reluctant to announce himself to the police except as a last resort, to avoid the questions they would ask, he decided to try another possibility first. He found a bookshop just down the street from Wentworth’s college and stepped inside, setting a little bell over the door to jangling softly. He occupied himself scanning a shelf of titles just inside the door while the man behind the counter wrapped a book for a customer and politely saw him out. He turned then and approached Rutledge.
“May I help you, sir?” the shopkeeper asked, peering over the rims of his glasses. “Looking for anything in particular, are you?”
“I am. I’ve been told that one of my cousin’s tutors has written a book. Mowbray was his name.” He had a sudden thought: What if Dorothea’s father was a groundskeeper and not a tutor? The shopkeeper was waiting, and he took another chance. “A history, I think
.” If the man was connected with Stephen Wentworth, it was more likely to be through history than mathematics.
“You’re thinking of a volume on the Great Mutiny. Just this way.”
Rutledge followed him toward a shelf along one wall where he was handed a work bound in leather, beautifully tooled. “This is a rather fine presentation. A private printing for friends and family. And here of course is the actual publication.” He pointed to the next book, in modern binding. “You have a choice,” he ended with a quiet smile.
Rutledge bought the leather-bound copy, thinking it might please Melinda, and as he was making his purchase he asked, “Does Mowbray still reside in Cambridge?”
“Oh yes, in the same house. It’s not four streets from here. Still threatening to retire, but of course he never will. He loves teaching too much.”
“So my cousin told me. Could you write down the address for me? I’d like to send a note around before calling. It might be inconvenient.”
Moving back toward the counter, the man peered at him again, this time with sympathy. “Lost your cousin in the war, did you?” He found a slip of paper and jotted something on it.
“I’m afraid so.”
“We lost a good many from here. My own son among them.” He took a deep breath, as if shutting away the past. “There you are. Thank you for stopping in, sir.”
Rutledge had some difficulty finding the house. It was mock Tudor and set back from the road behind a hedge. And the number on the door was hidden behind a large knot of black crepe. When he finally came back to the house, having counted backward to number 27, he left his motorcar on the street and walked up the short path to the door.
An older woman opened it, her brows rising in surprise to find a stranger on the doorstep.
“May I help you?” she asked, assuming he must be lost.
“I’m looking for the Mowbray residence. I’d like very much to speak to Miss Dorothea Mowbray.”