by Charles Todd
They were passing fields of dry winter stubble, but ahead of them Rutledge could see a house set back from the road in a stand of trees that was encircled by a waist-high wall. Following the wall now, he could see gates ahead, obviously opening into a drive. The boy pointed. “Just there, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Rutledge slowed, stopping well short of the gates. Getting out, he took the bicycle from the boot and handed it over to the boy, gave him a sixpence, then walked away, leaving the boy to stare after him.
The doctor’s carriage was standing in front of the gates, blocking any view. Rutledge put a hand on the horse and ducked under his head. The boy, clearly disappointed at not learning more, pedaled on, still looking back over his shoulder as Rutledge started into the drive.
Constable Penny, his own bicycle pulled up just inside the gates, nodded as Rutledge came toward him. Just beyond him, Dr. Brent was speaking to a middle-aged farmer. At the farmer’s feet a black dog growled as Rutledge approached, and the man spoke sharply to it.
Beyond them, another ten feet into the drive, lay a crumpled figure, and by the stillness of the body, Rutledge knew at once that the man was dead. His coat was of good quality, as were the gloves on his hands and the boots he was wearing. Nearby, a hat lay upside down.
Dr. Brent turned as Rutledge walked past him. “Took your time getting here.”
“The boy found me in The Swan. Who is this?” He gestured toward the dead man.
Penny, catching him up, said, “Frederick Templeton. Gentleman farmer. He owns acreage here and closer to Stowmarket as well. That’s his house you can see beyond the trees. Mr. Martin”—he gestured to the farmer—“was passing the gates on his way to Wolfpit, and his dog bristled at something and began to whine. This was about two hours ago, sir. Martin walked up the drive to investigate, and he found Templeton lying where you see him. Dr. Brent says he’s been there since sometime last evening. Rigor is well set in. From what we can tell, he’s been shot once. Through the heart.”
Rutledge was already kneeling by the body, examining it without touching it.
Templeton looked to be in his late thirties, fit and healthy enough to have taken on his attacker. But it appeared he hadn’t known he was in danger until too late.
Very much like Stephen Wentworth, who had stepped out of his motorcar without realizing that such a simple act would lead to his death.
Getting to his feet, Rutledge said, “You’ve trampled the ground around the body. Were there any footprints here when you arrived? Signs of a bicycle—a horse? And what was Templeton doing out here? Arriving home? He wouldn’t have been on foot, surely. If he was leaving, he would have been in some sort of vehicle. Where is it?” He’d been scanning the terrain. Now he looked directly at the Constable. “Have you been up to the house?”
Constable Penny answered him. “I was making my rounds, and Mr. Martin found me over by the churchyard. I’ve looked, but there were no signs of anyone else having been here in the drive with Mr. Templeton. But then the drive is well used, sir, and not likely to show much in the way of prints. As for the house, we were waiting for you before walking up to the door.” He glanced toward the roofline beyond the treetops. “I don’t expect you could look out a window and see Mr. Templeton lying here, sir. Or the four of us standing here, for that matter. Else, someone would have come down to see what was afoot. Still, you’d think someone would have come looking for him before this.”
“Indeed.” He took out his watch. It was already half past three. A very long time for Templeton to be lying here. He looked back toward the gates. Passersby wouldn’t have seen him, unless they had been intentionally looking this way. Even then, it was the dog who scented death and not the farmer.
He said to Martin, “Why did you leave him here to go into the village for Constable Penny? Why not go to the house instead and ask them to send someone?”
“He was dead,” Martin said stolidly. “There was nothing to be done for him. And I could tell he’d been shot. I thought it best to look for Constable instead.”
It was clear he hadn’t wanted to be the bearer of such news. In his eyes, it wasn’t his place.
Rutledge nodded, looking again toward the house. “Why did no one hear the shot? And come out straightaway to investigate?” He turned to Dr. Brent. “Have you seen everything you need to see?”
“Yes. The similarity to the Wentworth shooting is inescapable. Still, I’ll know more later, but I don’t expect any surprises.”
“Was Templeton in the war?”
Dr. Brent nodded. “He was. Mostly in France. One of the Devon regiments. Attained the rank of Major before it was over, although he declined to use it when he came home.” He hesitated, then added, “He’s well known in Suffolk. Not politically inclined, but influential. He was interested in new farming methods, and was often asked to speak on the subject all over East Anglia.”
Constable Penny added, “He’s never been in any trouble as far as I know, sir. Respectable and respected, like Mr. Wentworth. The last person you’d expect to find murdered.”
“Married?” Rutledge asked.
“Widowed, sir,” Penny replied. “Mrs. Templeton died in the Spanish flu epidemic.”
“Doctor, will you and Mr. Martin stay with the body? Thank you. Now, I think it’s time to speak to the house.”
He led the way on foot, walking briskly up the drive to the circle in front of the door.
It wasn’t a grand manor, but certainly a substantial one, with wings to either side of the central block. The style was Georgian, handsome enough but without flourishes.
It was Constable Penny who stepped forward to lift the knocker and let it fall. When the housekeeper opened the door, she saw the Constable first, and then the man behind him. Her face changed.
“What is it, Constable?” she asked, suddenly anxious. “And is that the man from London?” she added, her misgivings deepening.
“That’s right, Inspector Rutledge. May we come in, Mrs. Cox?” Penny asked gently. “It’s best not to talk here on the doorstep.”
For a moment she didn’t move, and then she opened the door wider, allowing them to step into the spacious entry. Shutting the door behind them, she led the way to a room on her left.
It was a formal room, a pale lavender trimmed in cream and rose, far more feminine than Rutledge had expected. Mrs. Cox gestured to chairs, and they sat, although she remained standing, her hands folded in front of her.
“Something’s happened to Mr. Templeton,” she said, as if unable to wait for them to break their news.
“Where did he go, last evening?” Rutledge asked, without answering her directly. “Do you know?”
“Yes, sir. He left here just after dinner. A gentleman was stopping to take him to Cambridge to look at a young bull he was interested in. But Mr. Young was late, and Mr. Templeton thought he might walk down to the gate, to save a little time.”
“And did Mr. Young arrive to collect him?”
“I assumed he must have done, sir. Mr. Templeton didn’t come back.”
“Did he take a valise with him?”
“No, sir. He was expecting to return by this afternoon.”
“And no one has walked down to the gate since Mr. Templeton left?”
“No, sir. There’s been no need.” Her gaze shifted to Constable Penny. “Do you know what this is all about? I wish you’d tell me straight out. Is something wrong?”
Penny glanced uneasily at Rutledge, then said, “There’s been an accident, Mrs. Cox.”
Rutledge asked, “How did Mr. Young and Mr. Templeton arrange for this meeting?”
“It was three days ago, sir. Mr. Young has a motorcar and was to come by for Mr. Templeton.”
“Did anyone else know about this arrangement?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Hamish said sharply, “Put the poor woman oot of her misery. She canna’ help you.”
Relenting, Rutledge said gravely, “I’
m afraid Mr. Templeton is dead. We have just discovered his body near the foot of the drive.”
As he’d expected, the shock left her speechless for a long moment, and then as the full realization of what he’d just said struck her, she put her hands to her face, then sank heavily into the nearest chair.
Rutledge waited. There was no comfort he could offer. It was several minutes before she recovered enough to speak to them.
“Was it his heart, sir? I can’t bear to think of him going alone, there in the dark.”
“He didn’t suffer, Mrs. Cox. It appears that someone shot him. Dr. Brent tells me that he died instantly.”
“I don’t understand. Shot him? And where was Mr. Young? Why didn’t he come to the house to tell us? Or summon Constable, here?”
“We don’t know. Not yet. Can you tell us how to reach this man Templeton was meeting?”
Mrs. Cox shook her head. “Mr. Templeton never said. It was the advertisement about the bull—Mr. Young sent him a message saying he was interested in buying it, and would Mr. Templeton judge whether or not it would be a good investment.”
“When was this?”
“Three days ago. It was all in the letter.”
“Did Mr. Templeton keep that letter? Could you find it in his desk? Wherever he might have put it.”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t like going through his desk.” A fresh wave of grief overcame her, and he offered her his handkerchief.
“This could be very important, Mrs. Cox. Will you tell me where I will find Mr. Templeton’s study?”
She obviously didn’t want to tell him, but Constable Penny said persuasively, “We must do all we can to find out who did this. If Mr. Young was to meet Mr. Templeton, he might be in harm’s way too.”
Reluctantly she got to her feet and led them back to the entrance and past the staircase, then down the passage to a room near the end. She stopped at the door but made no effort to open it. Rutledge reached past her and turned the knob.
The door swung open. The room was a working study, crammed with books and shelves, photographs of livestock and various vegetables, and several very fine bronzes of bulls.
Crossing to the desk, he looked first in the open cubbyholes in the back, then through the piles of correspondence and advertisements and sheets of notes that cluttered the blotter. Constable Penny waited quietly at his shoulder as Rutledge worked.
Mrs. Cox, standing in the doorway, watched him sift through the papers. “Please, sir, he wouldn’t care to have his work disturbed.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Cox. I only need the letter,” he assured her, but clearly without relieving her anxiety. He was about to give up and turn to the drawers, when he saw what he was after.
The envelope was postmarked from Colchester on Monday morning, and the letter inside was brief, to the point.
Mr. Templeton,
George Davies has suggested that I write to you about a bull for sale at a farm outside Cambridge. Enclosed is the brochure. I should very much like your opinion on the animal’s value. My aim is to improve my own stock, but I have no real experience in choosing the right bloodlines. I am driving to Cambridge on Tuesday next, and will be happy to collect you at nine in the evening, if that’s convenient. I expect we shall be back from the sale by late afternoon. It will be my pleasure to pay for your accommodation in whatever inn is available. If I purchase the animal, perhaps you can tell me the name of the best carter to bring the bull to me. I am grateful for any assistance you might offer, and I shall look forward to seeing you shortly.
Harold A. Young
Rutledge read the letter again, this time aloud. Then he looked at Mrs. Cox.
“Was Mr. Templeton accustomed to receiving such letters from strangers, asking for his advice?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I can tell you that he was often willing to advise people. And he knew Mr. Davies quite well. He would have been happy to do a favor for him.”
The advertisement wasn’t in the envelope, but after shuffling through the papers again, Rutledge found it. It seemed genuine enough, with a sepia-tone photograph of the bull. He was to be auctioned to the highest bidder at ten o’clock this morning.
“Do you know how to reach Mr. Davies?” he asked, looking up from the advertisement to Mrs. Cox. “We shall have to speak to him, in order to locate Mr. Young.”
She nodded toward the top of the desk. “That box, sir. It’s where he keeps cards on all his friends and acquaintances.”
Rutledge took it down. Inside were cards filed alphabetically, each with names, directions, and a few notes about a person or firm Templeton had dealt with.
He looked first for young, but there was nothing under Y. Then he looked for davies and found that under the D’s. He took the card out, read it, then pocketed it.
“Here,” Mrs. Cox said, moving as if to stop him.
“I shall return it, I promise. But at the moment I need to borrow it.” He gave a final glance at the desk, then said, “Who must we notify regarding Mr. Templeton’s death?”
“I expect that would be his solicitor, Mr. Blake. Constable here can tell you how to find him.”
Rutledge nodded, and then said, apparently out of the blue, “And you never heard the gunshot last evening?”
Surprised, she stared at him. “The staff was downstairs, clearing away from dinner. I doubt anyone could have heard. But there’s only the five of us,” she added. “And with Mr. Templeton away, we were all there. Cook, a kitchen maid, two housemaids, and myself. The gardener and his son have a cottage at the bottom of the garden. I can’t think they heard anything—no one came up to the kitchen to inquire.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cox, you’ve been most helpful. Constable, will you speak to the staff? I’ll see Dr. Brent back to Wolfpit, and Martin as well. They’ll give you a statement about this afternoon.”
Penny was about to argue, then thought better of it. “You’ll see to notifying Inspector Reed, sir?”
“In due course,” Rutledge said.
“What about Mr. Davies?”
“I’ll see that he reports to you as soon as possible to give his own statement.”
He was ushering Mrs. Cox and the Constable out the door of the study as he spoke, and shut it firmly before asking for the key to lock it. Again Mrs. Cox protested, but he smiled, assuring her that this was what had to be done.
Once he’d seen the housekeeper and Constable Penny to the kitchen stairs, he went out to find Dr. Brent and the farmer.
It was arranged that Rutledge would send out the undertaker, while Martin and Brent would remain with the body, then give their statements to Penny as soon as he returned to Wolfpit. Brent was not best pleased, protesting that he had surgery hours that afternoon, and Martin argued for a good ten minutes that he had matters to see to on his own farm.
But Rutledge wouldn’t hear of any other arrangement, and a few minutes later was on his way back to Wolfpit.
The knots of people speculating earlier on what had taken the doctor and the Constable away in such a hurry had gone on about their business. Rutledge found the undertaker, went in to speak to him, and then set out for Colchester, where Davies had his own farm.
He was in a hurry, wanting to find Davies and question him about Young before the news of Templeton’s death sped across the countryside.
Hamish was already busy in the back of his mind. Rutledge tried to ignore him. But he had the strongest feeling, one that wouldn’t go away, that Young didn’t exist. And Hamish was of the same opinion.
The Davies estate was on the far side of Colchester, with a brick house set behind a barrier of trees that protected it from the road and the east wind. The original house had been much smaller, but with time and prosperity, it had grown into a large and handsome residence.
When Rutledge knocked at the door, he was told that Mr. Davies was out in the fields with his steward and not expected back until dinner.
“I’m afraid it’s rather urgent,” he told
the housekeeper. “And I can’t wait until he comes in. Can you send word to him? Or better still, tell me how to find him.”
She was a heavy-set woman with graying hair, and not given to haste.
“Mrs. Davies is in, sir, if you’d rather speak to her.”
“I’m sorry, but it must be Mr. Davies. Tell me how to find him.” This time the request was still polite, but the undercurrent of authority gave it weight.
She reassessed the well-dressed man on the doorstep. “There’s a lane just before the wall ends. If you drive down that, you’ll come to one of the barns. A path leads out into the fields from there. You should be able to see him fairly soon after taking that path.” She considered his well-polished boots, mud from the turnip field erased by the magic of the boot boy at The Swan. “You’ll need Wellingtons, sir. If you can wait a few minutes, I think there’s a pair in the back hall that might fit you.”
She was less than a few minutes, returning with a worn pair of Hunters from the trenches.
He thanked her, and carried them with him to the motorcar.
The lane was easily found, a simple wooden gate leading into it and standing open just now. It was wide enough for a hay wain, and the ruts were muddy from recent rains. He bounced over them for some distance, the barn the housekeeper had mentioned coming into view after the first bend. He reached it, pulled on the Hunters, and set out across the muddy fields. There had been more weather here than in Wolfpit, and he was grateful for the housekeeper’s forethought.
He was halfway across the first large field, the fading winter light already close to dusk, when he saw two men coming toward him. The taller of the two, thin and slightly stooped, called to him when they were within hearing. “Looking for me, are you?”
“Mr. Davies?”
“Yes, that’s right. How can I help you?”
But Rutledge waited until they had met in the middle of the next field before answering.
“It’s rather urgent that I find Harold Young. There’s been a death, and I’ve been sent to find him.”
“Young?” Davies turned to his companion. He was older, graying, and stocky. “Do you know him, Bill?”