The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  “No, sir. I’m afraid not.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. What led you to believe he might be here?” Davies asked, turning back to Rutledge.

  “I was told you’d recommended him to a man named Templeton. They were to visit a farm near Cambridge to look at a bull.” He took the advertisement out of his breast pocket and held it out to Davies.

  But it was already too dark to read it.

  “Let’s go to the barn,” Davies said, gesturing toward it. “I know Templeton, of course, have known him for fifteen years. But I don’t recall ever introducing anyone named Young to him.”

  They walked in silence back to the barn. It was full dark now, but in the cavernous confines of the building there was a small room where tack and lamps and a chest full of tools were kept. Davies fumbled with one of the lamps, found a match, and lit the wick. Light flared, dancing around the walls and giving a sinister cast to the faces of the men standing in a knot in the middle of the floor.

  Davies spread out the advertisement. “I’ve never seen this before. Bill?”

  The steward shook his head. “No, sir, I haven’t either.”

  Davies turned to Rutledge. “I think you’d better explain yourself, sir.”

  Rutledge took out his identification and held it out. “Rutledge, Scotland Yard,” he said. “I’ve just come from Wolfpit. It seems that Templeton went to the end of his drive last evening to meet a man by the name of Young, expecting to travel together with him to Cambridge to look at this bull.” He reached into his pocket again and took out the letter from Young. “See for yourself.”

  Davies read the letter carefully. “But I never met this man Young, much less suggested he speak to Templeton.”

  “Templeton believed you had. He went out at about nine in the evening to wait for Young, and instead he was found earlier today lying in his drive, shot dead.”

  “Good God,” Davies said blankly. “Bill, did you know anything about this?” He passed the letter to his steward, but he shook his head again.

  “It makes no sense,” he said. “I’ve never met this Harold Young. But why did he write to Templeton? What was the purpose of this letter?”

  “To lure Templeton out of his house,” Rutledge said. “Are you quite sure you’ve never met anyone by this name?”

  “I’d almost swear to it. I can certainly swear that I’ve never given anyone Templeton’s name, not like this. I’d have written to him myself and asked if I could recommend him to someone, giving him full particulars. He’s got something of a reputation in understanding better farming practices. He was the first to use a tractor to plow, and his yield of corn and sugar beets has proven his theories do work. I’ve adapted some of them myself. But that means he’s well known all over East Anglia. What disturbs me is that someone knew to use my name in this business. I don’t like it by half.”

  Bill cleared his throat. “There was that article you wrote for the Times, sir. I believe you quoted Mr. Templeton several times in that.”

  “That was a good six months ago. It had to do with irrigating after the winter rains.”

  Rutledge said, “Someone looking to contact Templeton might have come across it.”

  “I don’t like it,” Davies said again. “For that matter, who in hell’s name would wish to shoot Templeton?” Then to Rutledge he said, “Come up to the house. I want to hear more about this Young person.”

  “You know as much about him now as I do. And I’d prefer it if you said nothing to anyone else about my visit or any questions I might have asked about Young. For one thing, I don’t want such information spread about, and for another it might be best if you aren’t involved. Not until I have more to go on than this letter.”

  “Here. You’re not saying I’m in any danger.”

  “Another man has already been shot. What his connection with Templeton might be, I’ve yet to uncover. But it’s for the best, I think, to keep well out of this for now.”

  Davies studied Rutledge’s face in the glow of the lamp. “Who was the other man shot? Anyone I know?”

  “Wentworth. Stephen Wentworth.”

  “No. I don’t know him. A farmer? Like Templeton and me?”

  “A bookseller.”

  “Well, then, there you are. Very well, I’ll do as you ask. But you’ll keep me informed? I have a wife. Children. I’d rather not put them at risk. And I can vouch for Bill, here. He’ll say nothing to anyone about this.”

  He blew out the lamp, and led the way through the darkness of the barn to the door standing wide to the night. “What did you say at the house?”

  “Only that I had urgent business with you. I didn’t give my name.”

  “Good, good. I’ll let it be known you came about a piece of land I had been interested in buying. That will satisfy the staff and my wife.”

  “If you can find a reason to travel to Wolfpit, Constable Penny will take your statement. It will not be made public until the inquest.”

  “Too late tonight, of course. But I’ll be there by noon tomorrow.” He turned away to look across his land. “Shot. I find that astonishing, Inspector. I cannot think of anyone less likely to be a murder victim.”

  But people had said much the same thing about Wentworth.

  They had reached Rutledge’s motorcar. He thanked Davies, and gave Bill the Hunters to return to the house. The man and his steward were walking on, heads together in close conversation, when Rutledge rounded the bend and lost sight of them.

  Hamish said, “It was a verra’ clever ruse. And Templeton walked out to meet him.”

  “I wonder why. It would have been sensible to wait at the house.”

  “Aye, but ye ken, he had no reason to be suspicious.”

  And that was true enough. Still, it was odd, since Templeton had never met the man he was expecting to travel with.

  Or did he believe he had met Young before? A chance encounter somewhere that made him feel he could trust Young?

  Or—more likely—he had met someone by the name of Young, and assumed it was the same man . . .

  But how had his killer known all this? Had he made a study of Templeton, before writing that letter?

  As he had known, somehow, that Wentworth would be late coming down the Wolfpit road from the direction of the Hardy house on a Saturday evening . . .

  It was the dinner hour when he reached Wolfpit, and he found Dr. Brent in the midst of his own meal.

  “I’ve had no opportunity to examine Templeton,” he said, irritation underlining his words. “I had hours that ended just before my dinner. Come back tomorrow.”

  Rutledge drove on to the Templeton house. Someone had already put a bow of black crepe on the knocker, and Mrs. Cox was red-eyed when she opened the door a narrow space before she recognized Rutledge.

  “I was of two minds about answering,” she said. “For fear he might have come back.”

  Rutledge didn’t need to ask who he was. “I don’t think you need fear anything from Mr. Templeton’s killer. He has no reason to come back to the house.”

  “As you say, sir,” she replied doubtfully, and let him in, leading him back to the drawing room. It was dark, no fire on the hearth, although the curtains had been drawn, and she lit two lamps before turning to him.

  “Do you have any news, sir?”

  “I’m afraid not. I wondered if you had remembered anything that might be useful. For instance, why Mr. Templeton went out to meet this man coming to take him to Cambridge.”

  “He sometimes liked a cigarette after his dinner, sir, and Mrs. Templeton had always disliked cigarette smoke in the house. He’d go out into the gardens instead. I expect he smoked one on his way to the gates.”

  A simple answer, then. And yet it must have seemed a godsend to the killer, his quarry coming to him rather than the risk of being seen at the house by one of the staff.

  Would he have killed the housekeeper? But he hadn’t touched Miss MacRae, had he?

  Mrs. Cox was sayin
g, “Have you spoken to the solicitor, sir? I don’t know what I should be doing about anything. It’s not like when Mrs. Templeton died, is it? With Mr. Templeton here to tell us what to do.”

  “Was he here when she died?”

  “Yes, sir, he came home on compassionate leave, when I wrote that she was in a bad state. They were very close. It was always her fear that he would be killed. And God decided otherwise, didn’t he?”

  “I’ll speak to the solicitor in the morning. Meanwhile, carry on as you would if Templeton were here. He’d probably wish you to go on.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She hesitated. “Will the undertaker be wanting proper clothes for Mr. Templeton, sir? I’ll see to laying out what he might need.”

  “The solicitor will tell you what is necessary. But yes, I’d go through his wardrobe and choose something suitable.”

  She seemed relieved, as if having something to occupy her thoughts helped her forget.

  As he rose to go, she said, “The house seems so—empty without them here. Mr. and Mrs. Templeton. Cook was asking what to do about the dinner she’d made, and no one to eat it.”

  She stood at the door and watched him turn the crank before getting into his motorcar. And only then did she shut it, as if reluctant to lose even so small a contact with someone in authority.

  As he turned back toward Wolfpit, Hamish spoke in the back of his mind.

  “Ye ken, they were both alone. Wentworth and Templeton. No wives or children.”

  “I don’t know if that had anything to do with their deaths. But it simplified matters for the killer. Wentworth was on the road, and Templeton obligingly walked down to the gates.”

  He stopped at The Swan for a quick supper, then went to see Mrs. Delaney.

  She was upset by the news of Templeton’s death.

  “He was such a nice man. And I adored his wife, Rose. She kept that estate running all through the war, and still found time to encourage us to do whatever we could for our men. I must have knitted hundreds of pairs of stockings, and of course I lost count of scarves. We put up food to last us through the winter months, raised chickens and geese for their eggs, and did what we could for those who lost their sons and fathers. That’s how she contracted the influenza, taking food to families who were stricken, without a thought for herself.” She shook her head. “She put us all to shame, caring so much. But she said it was all to make the time fly and bring her husband back to her all the sooner.”

  “Was there any connection between Wentworth and Templeton?”

  “They knew each other, of course, but Frederick was nearly ten years older, and married. Not much in common there. The Templetons often came to the bookshop, of course. But that was mostly when my husband was the owner. Frederick sometimes asked us to find books for him, mostly on the subject of agriculture.”

  “Not even a shared interest in Peru?”

  She smiled sadly. “Not even that.” The smile faded. “You’re looking for something that might connect these two men in the eyes of a killer. And so you must be thinking that the same person shot both of them. But why? Why these two? They were good, law-abiding, quiet people who did no one any harm. It’s unthinkable that either one of them might be hated enough for someone to want to shoot them.”

  “But someone has, and I must find out why.”

  He left soon after, stopping by the police station. But Constable Penny wasn’t in. Rutledge looked for him, thinking he might be on his rounds, then gave up and went back to The Swan after leaving a note informing Penny to expect to see Davies the next morning.

  Tomorrow, he told himself, he would find the solicitor, and then he’d speak to Miss MacRae again.

  Everything he’d learned about Wentworth’s death had been turned on its ear. He needed time to consider what the death of Frederick Templeton had to do with Wentworth—or Wentworth with him.

  He opened the door to his room, and stopped short in the doorway.

  Inspector Reed was sitting there in the dark, waiting for him.

  11

  Silently cursing the man, Rutledge crossed the room and took his time lighting the lamp on the table by his bed. When the wick had caught well enough to brighten the darkness, he turned.

  “Good evening. Who let you in?”

  Reed’s mouth twitched, and his eyes were angry. “The clerk. Thank you for coming to Stowmarket to inform me of Templeton’s death.”

  Rutledge said easily, “I thought that was Penny’s responsibility. I was in Colchester, as it happens.” He went to stand by the window, so that Reed had to twist around in his chair to look at him.

  “Yes, something to do with a man by the name of Davies. Did you find him?”

  “I did. Apparently there’s no such person as Harold Young. It was a ruse to bring Templeton to his killer. Just when he expected to shoot him I don’t know. Templeton made it easy by walking down the drive in the dark. But I expect we know something about this man. He owns a motorcar. I found no sign of it where Wentworth was killed, but it could have been left anywhere, in any direction. The killer made certain it was well out of sight.”

  “What else do we know about him?”

  “It’s possible that he smokes a pipe. I can’t be certain. What’s more, he’s patient, and he plans meticulously. This wasn’t a crime of passion. A need to kill at any cost.”

  “Then what do the victims have in common?”

  “You’re the local man. You tell me,” Rutledge countered.

  Reed grimaced again.

  Rutledge was fairly sure now that Reed had been sitting here in the dark room for some time, nursing his grievances. He hadn’t been thinking about the inquiry or about the dead men.

  “They must have known each other. Of course they did. Wolfpit is a small village. How much they had in common is another matter,” he said finally.

  “I could have said just that after a matter of days here. Why would a killer stalk either man? Or both?”

  “Damn it, how can I speculate on that when you refuse to keep me in the picture?” The anger in Reed’s voice was overlaid now with irritability.

  “It isn’t deliberate, I assure you. But it was important to reach Davies before Templeton’s death became public knowledge. If Young was the man I was after, there was a chance I could find him sooner rather than later. Before he got the wind up and disappeared. I didn’t want to believe he didn’t exist. But I thought that it was very likely. And I was right. Still, Davies was the key.”

  “And you believe what he told you? That there was no such man as Harold Young?”

  “I do. He had no reason to lie. He hadn’t heard the news about Templeton. He was shocked by it. Why should he protect Young, knowing he was a killer?”

  Reed shook his head. “You should have brought him in for questioning.”

  “I questioned him. Meanwhile he’s worried that Young, or whatever his name is, will come after him or his family.”

  “Why?”

  “If this man is ever caught, Davies can testify that he never introduced Young to Templeton. That the letter was a lie. It could be the difference between a conviction and acquittal for lack of evidence.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  “Davies doesn’t think so. He has a wife and children.”

  “Which brings up a point. Neither Wentworth nor Templeton had families. Templeton was married but lost his wife two years ago. Did that matter?”

  Rutledge shook his head. “I can’t see how it did. Nor did the war, as far as I can tell. Wentworth was in the Royal Navy. Templeton was in France.”

  Reed got to his feet. “The truth is, I’m glad it’s your inquiry,” he said sourly. “My wife is wondering what happened to me. I should have been home three hours ago.”

  “If you have any suggestions, I’m willing to listen.”

  Reed regarded him for a long moment. “Why should I make your road easier?”

  “Because two men are dead. And before we’ve taken anyone i
nto custody, there could well be more victims. I’d just as soon have this stop at two.”

  Laughing, Reed said, “I’m sure you would. But it’s your inquiry, isn’t it? You made that plain from the start.”

  Rutledge said, “You won’t be rid of Wentworth just because he’s dead. You’ll always wonder, won’t you? And you won’t be able to ask.”

  The laugh vanished as his fists clenched. “Leave my wife out of this.”

  “It has nothing to do with Mrs. Reed. This is your ghost.”

  Wheeling, Reed walked out of the room, afraid to trust himself facing Rutledge any longer. The door slammed behind him, and Rutledge could hear his footsteps thudding down the stairs, fast and angry.

  “Ye didna’ need to make an enemy of yon Inspector,” Hamish was saying in the back of his mind.

  “He was already an enemy,” Rutledge answered him. “I just made it plain that he was. And that I knew he was.” He walked across the room and turned the key in the lock. “I would like to see Mrs. Reed. It might help me understand him a little better.”

  Rutledge undressed and got ready for bed. But once there, he couldn’t sleep. His mind kept turning the few bits of evidence he had over and over again.

  Had the killer spoken to Templeton before shooting him? As he had done with Wentworth? And if he had, was the answer to his satisfaction? Or would there be another death, and another, until he found the answer he was looking for.

  What the hell was he after, this killer?

  And what the hell was that question?

  If it had been Reed there in the darkness, facing Wentworth on Saturday night, Rutledge could imagine what that question might have been: Have you ever slept with my wife?

  That wouldn’t apply to Templeton. He had loved his wife.

  Hamish remarked, “Aye, true enough. Unless yon farmer was shot to throw ye off the track?”

  Rutledge smiled grimly. “I’d be willing to consider that, if it hadn’t been for the mysterious Mr. Young.”

  He tossed and turned, and finally, close to two o’clock in the morning, he got up, dressed, and went out to walk the streets of Wolfpit. Someone’s dog walked with him for a while, then trotted off to his home.