by Charles Todd
“Damn it, man,” he said, turning sharply away. “She’s been in love with me since we were children. Or so she thinks. I didn’t want to encourage that, now the war’s over.”
“That’s not very gallant of you, is it, laying the blame at her door?”
Red in the face, Hardy swore. “Oh, shut up,” he said savagely. “What has this to do with Wentworth’s murder?”
“She appears to have known him nearly as long as she’s known you. Her feelings might have deepened in that direction while you’ve been away.”
Hardy was still angry. “Everyone liked Wentworth. He was that sort of man. Kind and thoughtful, never overstaying his welcome, and with something of the lost puppy looking for a home about him that made women in particular want to make him happy. He found in others what he never had from his family: a sense of belonging. I never quite understood it. Most parents would have given anything for such a son.”
And that told Rutledge far more than Hardy realized. It explained his wild and careless ways. In his own family, he must have got more attention for being the dashing adventurer than a proper, dutiful son. The younger brother who had to make his own way in the world, and who let it be known he preferred that place in life. Or pretended to prefer it.
Rutledge had also known such men in the trenches. Volunteering for any dangerous duty that would get them mentioned in dispatches, not to prove their bravery so much as to prove they mattered. To show their officers that they could be relied on, that they could take on whatever came their way. Just as they’d tried to show their fathers . . .
“Why do you think Wentworth was killed?” Rutledge asked, satisfied now that he knew his man.
“Mistaken identity,” Hardy said at once. “What else could it have been? Wentworth wasn’t the sort to get himself murdered. One must do something to earn such hatred. And he never had. He never would have. It was beyond him.”
“An interesting observation,” Rutledge said. “Was that why he went to Peru? To avoid being hated?”
Hardy frowned. “I never quite understood that. He was happy, as happy as I’d ever seen him. And the next thing I knew, he was on his way to the back of beyond. The thing that struck me was his utter lack of any reason to go to such a benighted part of the world. In his shoes I’d have chosen Rome.”
“I’m told he read about Peru as a boy. He found it a fascinating place.”
“Yes, I’m sure he did. He always had his nose in a book. And when he needed to go away, he remembered Peru, and he saw that it was the perfect solution.”
Rutledge was beginning to change his earlier opinion of Hardy. Beneath the dash was a brain. And that brought this man back into consideration as a suspect. Although he wasn’t sure he knew why at this stage, except that Hardy could have planned and executed a murder. He had the ability.
“What did you do in the war?” he asked.
Surprised by the sudden shift in the conversation, Hardy shrugged. “A little of this and a little of that. Like everyone else, I got to be very good at killing people, and that was noticed in certain quarters. I’m not particularly proud of my war. By the same token, we weren’t exactly winning, were we, and whatever we could do we did.”
Not a sniper, shooting from a hide. That wouldn’t have appealed to a man like Robin Hardy.
Rutledge spoke to him in German. “And what did you do behind the lines?”
Caught off guard, Hardy started to answer in German, and stopped himself in time. “Sorry. I’ve never had an ear for languages.”
When Rutledge said nothing, Hardy shook his head. “You’re wandering off the subject.”
Rutledge looked away. He’d learned what he needed to know. “So we are.” But he understood now why Hardy hadn’t wanted this interview to be overheard. There were too many minefields in his life to risk having them explored where others might hear.
“Look, Rutledge. I had no reason to kill Wentworth. We didn’t want the same things in life, Stephen and I, but we understood each other. Possibly because we were alike in some respects. I’d have given my right arm to inherit the family estate. My brother doesn’t value it as I did—do, if you want the truth. I loved it. He merely sees it as his duty. It’s rather like a woman, in a way. I’d have given her my heart and soul. He sees it as his duty to honor and protect her and love her as the mother of his heir. If I had it in mind to kill someone, it would have been my brother, not Stephen. Only then I couldn’t inherit, could I? And so he’s quite safe from me.”
It had been a wrenching confession, but for once Hardy wasn’t posturing. It was there in his eyes, the love and the loss of what he held most dear. Was that why he’d volunteered for the dangerous duties? Because he had nothing else to give his heart to, except excitement? Or because he thought it was the best way to die, without the onus of suicide?
Hardy walked away into the shadows and then came back. “You’re a damned good listener. Has anyone ever told you? You hear too much. And if you ever say anything about any of this, I’ll deny it to the end.”
“My only interest in you has to do with whether or not you murdered Wentworth. If you didn’t, you have nothing to fear from me.”
“Yes, well, I’m on safe ground then. I hope you catch the bastard.” With a nod, he turned toward his motorcar.
Rutledge let him go. But before Hardy opened his door and stepped in, Rutledge called to him. “She’s marrying the wrong man. She’ll be wretched if you don’t stop it. I heard that too.”
Hardy looked at him for one long moment. “She’ll be safe with him.” It was hard to read his expression.
“If safety is what matters,” Rutledge replied. “For my part, I don’t think it is.”
“Married, are you, and speaking from experience?”
“No. She married someone else.”
“Did she, by God. And was she truly happy?”
“I don’t know. She died in childbirth. I didn’t learn that until months later. She’s buried somewhere in Canada.” It wasn’t all of that history. But it was all he wanted Hardy to understand.
“Was it your child?”
“No. It was his.”
Hardy nodded. Then he got into the motorcar and drove away. This time without speed and panache. More with the air of a thoughtful man.
Rutledge watched his red rear lamps disappear. Hamish, just at his shoulder, asked, “Why did ye tell him that?”
“I thought it might help.”
“Noo. Ye wanted to hear yoursel’ say it, to see if it still hurts.”
Rutledge went to turn the crank. “Did it hurt?” he asked.
“That was anither life.”
Hamish was right. It was. The young man, wrapped in happiness, who had proposed to Jean in that almost-forgotten summer of 1914 when the world changed, seemed to be another lifetime, another man, one he’d liked once and remembered fondly but no longer knew well. And Jean had somehow faded into the past with that young man who had loved her. He was six years older now, four of them the bloody years of the trenches, two of them the nightmare struggle of finding his way back from the brink of madness, and never quite sure he’d made it safely—not even now.
He got into the motorcar, ignoring what Hamish was saying to him, and reversed it on the road, startling a badger that had just peered out of a sett under the hedgerow. It was too late to go on to Cambridge.
The next morning, reaching the Mowbrays’ mock Tudor house, he left his motorcar some distance down the road and walked back to the door.
He saw that in spite of the winter’s cold, it stood ajar, and he could hear voices inside speaking in hushed tones.
Rutledge stepped into the hall. He could see into the room across from the staircase now. Miss Mowbray was standing there next to an older man who seemed to be dazed with shock. They were listening to condolences from a man and a woman who had come to call. He could tell the visitors had nearly finished what they had to say and were about to leave. He waited.
After several
more remarks, they turned and stepped out into the hall. The woman was clutching a damp handkerchief, the man with her holding her arm. The older man had come with them, courteously seeing them out.
He noticed Rutledge as he began to close the door after them.
“I’m so sorry,” he began. “Are you from the undertaker’s?”
“No, sir, my name is Rutledge. I’m from the police. As much as I regret having to speak to your daughter at a time like this, I have a duty to perform.”
“Is it about young Wentworth?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Then of course you must speak to her.” Raising his voice slightly, he called, “Dorothea?”
When she didn’t answer, he took Rutledge by the arm and guided him toward the drawing room doorway. “She’s been very upset by her brother’s death. Be gentle, if you will.”
And then he was gone, leaving Rutledge to confront Miss Mowbray on his own.
She was standing at the far end of the room, looking out at the drive, her thoughts on the two guests who were just now walking down it to the street. Without turning, she said, “I hope that’s the last of the callers. I don’t think I could bear to listen to anyone else telling me how wonderful Arthur was. It makes it all the harder to realize I’ll never see him again.”
“I’m sorry to intrude on your grief,” he said quietly. “But there is another family grieving for a lost son. And I need to ask you a few questions.”
She whirled. “Who let you into this house?”
“Your father.”
She bit her lip, holding back whatever retort she was about to make. Then she said, “Well, be done with it. As for another grieving parent, how dare you compare what we feel to what the Wentworths must be thinking now.”
“Are you so angry with Stephen Wentworth that you can’t even speak kindly of him now that he’s dead?” He let it sound as if he were merely curious.
After a moment she shook her head. “No. I expect you’re right. Well, then, ask your questions and go.”
“Why did Stephen Wentworth go to Peru?”
Her fair eyebrows flew up in surprise. “You mean to say you don’t know? I should have thought his mother might have told you.”
“If she knew, she didn’t mention that she did.”
They were still standing, and as if she suddenly became aware of it, she gestured to the nearest chair, and then sat down across from him. “We were engaged, Stephen and I, and my parents gave a small party for us. It was held here in Cambridge, where both Stephen and I had friends. His parents were invited, but he thought it was likely that they wouldn’t be able to come. He seldom spoke of them, and I had the impression that he didn’t care for them.”
She turned to look out the window again. “What I didn’t expect was that they didn’t care for him. His parents arrived, stopping at a hotel. They came early to the party—we’d invited them to dine with us—and before dinner, Mrs. Wentworth asked if she might go upstairs and freshen up. I thought it odd, since they’d just come from the hotel. But I took her up to my room, and when we got there, she sat down on the edge of my bed, and she told me about Stephen. I couldn’t believe his own mother—but of course she must have known he hadn’t said a word to me. She told me she was certain he never would, but that if I wished to marry him, she would give us her blessing. But it was very likely that he had killed again, and there was no certainty that it had stopped.”
“She told you about his brother?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And who were the other victims?”
“I don’t know. She said that he’d disappeared a few times over the years, and when he came back he was different each time. She told me she would give me the names of the people he’d claimed he was visiting, and if I cared to, I could speak to them. They would tell me how he had used them to cover up what he was doing.”
Rutledge listened with fury rising within him. At Mrs. Wentworth for her cruelty, and for this woman who was so willing to believe, who had never questioned or wondered.
As if she had heard him, she added, “I wouldn’t have believed it if it had been anyone else. But for his mother to tell me such things—I asked why the police hadn’t stopped him long before this, and she said there was no proof. They hadn’t caught him at it. I was horrified.”
“But you had known Stephen for what? Several years, at the very least. Do you think he could actually be a murderer?”
“I didn’t know what to think. I went down the stairs afterward in something of a daze. Stephen was just coming out of the drawing room, where he and my father had been talking. And he looked at me, he looked up the stairs where his mother was just starting down. His face was awful, I’ve never seen such an expression. And he turned on his heel, walked out the door, and I never saw him again. Ever. Why would he do that, if he hadn’t done these things? He never tried to see me, he never wrote to me, he simply disappeared. Someone told me afterward—weeks afterward—that he’d sailed for Peru that same week. What’s more, that night my mother had to call off the engagement party, telling everyone I’d taken ill. But the fact was, I was in shock, hardly knowing what to believe. And I waited—waited for him to come here and tell me something that might explain what I’d heard.”
“Would you have listened, if he had come back that night? Or the next morning?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes—I’m sure I would have been willing to hear what he wanted to say.”
But he wasn’t as sure. Neither was she.
Why had Wentworth kept her photograph—and the ring—if she had treated him so shabbily?
It was Hamish who answered. “She didna’ love him enough.”
And Mrs. Wentworth had deliberately ruined any chance of happiness her son might have had with Dorothea Mowbray.
“And your parents? What did they have to say about the charges Mrs. Wentworth made?”
“I never told them,” she admitted after a moment. “I couldn’t. They cared for Stephen. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything but that I’d had a change of heart. It was true enough, after all.”
“Why do you think Stephen Wentworth was shot?”
“His mother told me the police never had enough proof to bring charges against him. I expect that someone decided to do something about it. What else can one think?”
“You were engaged to Wentworth—you were planning to marry him,” Rutledge said, in an effort to understand. “You must have found something in the man that you cared for and trusted. Did that count for nothing?” He realized suddenly that he was asking her the questions he’d have asked Jean, if she had ever come to see him again, once he’d released her from their engagement. And he turned away.
She took that as his judgment of her, a condemnation she couldn’t face.
“I was eighteen,” she said hoarsely. “I was young and inexperienced—and it was his own mother.”
She wasn’t Jean, she couldn’t know that Jean had been afraid and ashamed of him, the thin, haunted stranger who could hardly speak for fear of breaking.
Rutledge rose.
But she was still struggling to explain herself. “Everyone believed in the straw man he pretended to be. Even I believed in him. My parents. Everyone. If it wasn’t true, why didn’t he fight for me? Why did he dash off to Peru instead? He loved that bookshop more than he loved me. I knew that, I accepted it. And yet he abandoned it as well. Only a guilty man runs.”
“Or a man whose world has crashed into splinters around him, wi’ no hope of putting it to rights again.” Hamish’s voice was loud in the quiet room. But Dorothea Mowbray was looking at Rutledge, pleading for understanding.
He had never tried to see Jean again. Nor had she tried to see him. It was for the best. And he had come to terms with that.
Or had he?
He managed to thank her for seeing him and found his way to the door somehow, closing it behind him.
He could hear her crying before the door
snapped shut, and remembered too late that she had just lost her brother as well. Perhaps she was crying for him, and not for Stephen.
The door opened behind him.
He turned and saw that it was Dorothea.
“He was gassed at Ypres. My brother Arthur. It took him all this time to die.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rutledge said, knowing it was inadequate. But he meant it.
“That’s why I’m crying,” she added. “I can’t cry for Stephen. I won’t. Do you hear?”
Her father’s voice called from somewhere at the top of the stairs. “Is that the undertaker, my dear?”
“It’s no one,” she answered him. “No one.” And shut the door firmly.
10
When Rutledge drove down The Street into Wolfpit, he saw at once that something had happened.
There were knots of people standing here and there, looking up warily as he passed.
He went directly to the police station, but Constable Penny wasn’t there. Crossing to The Swan, he stepped inside, looking for the clerk who was generally somewhere about. But there was no one behind the desk in Reception.
Rutledge was about to go back into the street when a lad of about sixteen, tall, gangly, and red in the face from hurrying, nearly collided with him in the doorway.
“Inspector, sir?” he asked, falling back a step.
“Yes, I’m Rutledge. What is it?”
“Constable says, if I found you, please to come at once.”
“Come where?”
“The Templeton house, sir. I’m to show you the way.”
The lad had a bicycle outside, and Rutledge lashed it to the boot of his motorcar. Watching the knots of people staring their way, the boy said, “Should you say something, sir?”
“I can’t tell them what I don’t know. Get in, man!” He waited until they were driving on before asking, “What’s happened? What’s so urgent?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was riding by on my bicycle when Constable stepped out into the road and hailed me. He asked me to carry a message back to the village—I was to wait until I found you, sir, and see you got it.”