The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  Triumphant, he strode back to his motorcar and got in, after safely putting the second wolf in his pocket with the first.

  Here was no coincidence. In his wildest imagination, he could find no reason for two such similar carvings to be found at the scenes of two different murders.

  He decided to speak to Audrey Blackburn. She was sensible and not given to wild speculations about people. And she had lived here most of her life.

  When he knocked on the door, the curtain in the nearest window twitched, and then someone was coming to open it.

  Miss Blackburn said, “We’ve already heard. It’s Mr. Templeton this time. Why aren’t you out taking a killer into custody, instead of annoying two defenseless women?”

  Rutledge laughed outright. “Hardly defenseless. May I come in?”

  “Oh, very well.”

  As she led the way to the parlor, he asked, “How is Miss MacRae?”

  “Better. She’s coming to terms with what happened. And she’s no longer threatening to go home.”

  “I’d wondered if perhaps her dream reminded her of something she might have forgot in the shock of that night. Something I might find helpful,” he said. “The mind sometimes refuses to face horrors. And then brings them to the forefront in a way we least expect.”

  “In my view, she’s worried about the fact that she lived. She didn’t think about that as Stephen was shot, but now it looms large. Why did that man let her live? And there’s the other worry. She’s afraid that, in the end, for want of any other suspect, you might accuse her of killing Stephen. After all, she was there. His blood was on her hands. I know, I cleaned up the sink after she tried to wash it off. And for two days she was Lady Macbeth, scrubbing the guilt away.”

  “But she couldn’t have killed Templeton.” It was as much a statement as it was a question.

  “Of course not. What a suspicious mind you have.”

  “It’s necessary in this line of work. What do you know about Frederick Templeton that I might not have discovered yet?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “You’re the policeman.”

  “And you’re the lifelong resident.” He considered her. “You also may know more than you realize. What do you dream about?”

  For a moment color flared in her face, angry and insulted. Then, to his surprise, she laughed. “I think I’m beginning to like you. But only beginning.”

  Rutledge grinned. “Yes, well, desperate times require desperate measures.”

  “What do you want to know about Stephen? Or Frederick Templeton? I know very little gossip about them. As a rule people don’t gossip with me.”

  “Do they have any hidden vices? Do they gamble? Have an attraction to other men, drink too much, kick small children, steal from the poor box when no one is looking?”

  “They were good men, both of them. I don’t know of any vices. I’ve never seen either of them the worse for drink. I’ve never heard them say anything that might lead me to think they gambled. And they treated everyone with courtesy and kindness. I could have gone to either of them if I’d been in trouble of some sort. I could depend upon them to understand and not judge me. Is this what you want to hear?”

  “No. Because these qualities don’t usually get a man killed.”

  “Well, I can’t make up something suitable.” She studied him for a moment, then said, “You should look at it this way. It’s possible that they were mistaken for someone else. Or someone led their killer to believe these were the men he was after.”

  For a moment he saw Mrs. Wentworth’s face in his memory. Twisted with hate. Would she throw her own son to the wolves, figuratively speaking, if she were given the chance? And hope that whoever it was killed him for her?

  It was not only possible but likely. Her hatred had become an obsession with her, and he wondered now if she could actually remember the dead child’s face or voice. There was the portrait someone had told him about, but he hadn’t seen it in the Wentworth house.

  “Ye ken, she would ha’ taken it to Norwich with her.”

  Yes, very likely. To fuel the fires of hate.

  But that didn’t explain Templeton’s death. Unless he was the intended target from the start.

  “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Miss Blackburn asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She smiled at him. “Glad to be of assistance to the Yard.” But he could see that she was curious and wanted him to tell her what it was that had occurred to him.

  Instead, he said, “To move on to another matter. Did Templeton and Wentworth regularly attend church services?”

  “Frederick’s wife was fairly religious, and so he attended with her. But if she wasn’t in town, he didn’t usually go on his own. Stephen seldom attended. On the holidays, of course. Christmas, Easter, Whitsun. He doesn’t sit where his parents always did. He prefers the back row.”

  “Then it’s not likely that the Rector would be able to tell me much about either man?”

  “Probably not.”

  “There’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask you. Did Mrs. Wentworth ever speak to you about your niece? Warning her off Stephen?”

  “Odd that you should ask that. What she said was so uncalled for, I didn’t really wish to repeat it. I think I simply told you that I didn’t care for her. You recall my saying something about Elizabeth playing tennis with Stephen on her earlier visits? Yes, well, it wasn’t long after they began to play that Mrs. Wentworth came up to me as we were walking to morning services. She asked me several questions about Elizabeth that were no more than thinly veiled efforts to discover whether my niece could be considered a suitable match. That was unpleasant enough, as if I had been throwing my niece at her son with the hope of snaring him. And then she warned me about a young girl spending so much time in the company of an older boy. This was her own son, mind you! As though he might prey on impressionable girls. I was astonished and sickened. I told her she was a vile woman, and I walked on. I can assure you I heard nothing of that morning’s sermon. I was seething with fury. Afterward, when I was cooler, I asked Elizabeth in a roundabout way if Stephen annoyed her at all. And I could see from her expression that she had no idea what I was talking about. What a foul way of trying to warn me off. I expect I should have stopped the tennis straightaway, but it seemed to me to be precisely what she wanted. And I was not about to give her that satisfaction.”

  But it hadn’t been that. Not in the way that Audrey Blackburn had understood the conversation. It had been designed to deny her son something that he enjoyed and leave him to wonder why Elizabeth MacRae no longer wanted to play tennis with him. To unsettle him and make him unhappy.

  “I’m rather glad you didn’t,” Rutledge replied. Changing the subject, he took one of the little wolves from his pocket. “Is there anyone in Wolfpit who might have been able to carve such a handsome little fellow? Or perhaps a shop that carries them?”

  She shook her head. “Why is this so important? You’ve shown it to us before.”

  “So I have. But I’m still curious about it. Unlikely as it may be, as a clue.”

  “Then you’re desperate for answers.”

  He was about to respond when they heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and Miss MacRae appeared in the doorway, hesitating on the threshold.

  “Inspector,” she said in greeting.

  He could see that she wasn’t herself. The blow to the head had left her pale, and he thought she must have a ferocious headache still. He was about to say something to her when he caught Miss Blackburn’s eye. There was a warning there, and he thought he knew what she was trying to tell him: Miss MacRae hadn’t heard about Templeton’s death.

  Smiling, he said, “I’m glad to see you looking rested.” She didn’t, but he thought she needed reassurance. “Do you feel up to a few questions?”

  Resigning herself to the inevitable, she said, “Not really. But I expect you need to ask them. This has all been rather”—she searched for the rig
ht word, then gave up and went on with a shrug—“exhausting.”

  “I’m sure it has been,” he said sympathetically. “But I need to know. Have you remembered anything else? Even details that might seem unimportant can help in an inquiry like this.”

  “I’ve tried, but remembering is very painful. I keep seeing Stephen there, just standing in the road, asking if he could help. He meant it, he was that sort of person, you see. He’d have done what he could.” She broke off, biting her lip to hold back the tears. After a moment she went on, her voice husky. “I don’t know that he even had time to realize what was about to happen. But I do, and I watch helplessly, over and over again, powerless to stop it. The worst of it is that there was no anger in the other man, no sadness, no emotion at all. He just shot Stephen and without looking my way, walked off. That’s what’s so horrid. Efficient. That’s the word that comes to mind.”

  “Did he limp? Was he heavy-set or slim? Broad shouldered? Stooped?” He fired the questions at her, trying to catch her memory of that moment while it was recurring in her mind.

  “Limp? No. Average, I expect. Young. The way he moved. No, young isn’t right. But not old. I’ve told you that. Like Stephen, perhaps, just something—I can’t explain it. Stephen liked tennis and cricket, he was active, and that’s what I saw in the man.”

  She had told him more than she realized, though the words had been halting as she tried to explain herself.

  “And you still have no idea what he said to Stephen?”

  “I’ve gone over that too, again and again. He kept his voice low. Well, he was face-to-face with Stephen, wasn’t he? He needn’t raise his voice.”

  He had learned all he could. Smiling again, he thanked her. “Every little scrap of information is helpful. I’m sorry to press you, but you’re my only witness.”

  “I wish I had never gone to that party,” she said then, her voice rough with pain. “I wish I’d stayed at home. But I thought it might be fun, you see. Oh, God, fun.”

  She buried her face in her hands, as if that would shut off the memories.

  Rutledge said gently, “You can’t change what happened. You had no way to foresee how the evening would end. And you were there when he died. He wasn’t alone.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him. It had never occurred to her to see events through Stephen Wentworth’s eyes. “I—I was. Wasn’t I?”

  He rose. “One final question. Did anyone pass you on the road Saturday night—or Sunday morning, as it actually was? Or overtake you?”

  “No. I remember saying something about that to Stephen. That even the motorcars had gone home to bed. He laughed, and told me he’d have to apologize for keeping his own out so late.”

  From the Blackburn house Rutledge went back to The Swan, collected his motorcar, and drove to Norwich, some two hours away.

  He found Mrs. Wentworth at home alone. Her husband, she informed him, was having lunch with friends, and Patricia had gone to do her marketing.

  He was just as glad, because he wanted to speak to her alone.

  “Have you found my son’s killer?” she asked, in the same tone of voice that she might have asked if he’d found a tailor to his liking.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you must not be a very good policeman,” she said.

  He smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t care for her, and he found it hard to disguise that. “Actually I’ve come to ask you whether Frederick Templeton and your son were friends.”

  “Frederick Templeton?” she repeated in surprise. “How should I know?”

  “There’s an age difference, of course. But I wondered if there was a mutual interest in books.”

  “You aren’t suggesting that Frederick Templeton killed Stephen?”

  “On the contrary. No, I was more interested in the fact that there appears to be some connection between them.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Frederick was such a nice young man. His mother brought him to tea once when he was about ten. Lovely manners. One could be proud of such a son.”

  “I’ve heard people say much the same thing about Stephen.”

  “He was very good at hiding the sort of person he was. Of course they were taken in.” Her voice was heavy with contempt.

  “Surely Templeton had some vices as well.”

  “I never heard of any,” she retorted. And then he saw her expression change as she remembered something.

  “What is it?” Rutledge asked when she didn’t go on.

  “It was nothing. Some small problem at school.”

  “I need to know, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  “Why?” She stared balefully at him. “It has nothing to do with the man he became.”

  “You can’t be sure of that, can you?”

  “But I can. Look at the good he does with his knowledge of farming. He has compensated fivefold for that one lapse. I have heard nothing but good about him.”

  “He’s dead, Mrs. Wentworth. Shot in the same way that your son was killed. In the dark, night before last, alone in his drive.” He was blunt on purpose.

  She stared at him, speechless. Had she thought that only Stephen could become a murder victim? That her son’s killer was finished when he had fired that revolver at point-blank range? Was she that self-centered?

  Rutledge waited. Finally she managed to say, “I think you’re lying to me.”

  “I wouldn’t be that cruel,” he responded coldly.

  She collected herself with an effort that he could see. “Who in heaven’s name would kill Frederick?” she asked softly, as if still absorbing the sense of what he’d said.

  “That’s what I am endeavoring to discover. What happened when he was in school?”

  “It was nothing—an argument on the playing fields. In the end, he hit the other boy with his cricket bat. He was twelve, and the other child had struck him first. He was just defending himself. Both boys were sent down for eight days, with an official reprimand on their records. Everyone thought it most unfair. His parents went to collect him and had a word with the Head. Of course it did no good, the punishment had been decided. But they made it clear how they felt.”

  Hamish said into the silence that followed, “Would she have done as much for her ain lad?”

  When Rutledge didn’t say anything, she went on. “He’s—he was a grown man. That was long ago. He has—had—put it behind him. I doubt anyone even remembers the incident now.”

  Yet she had. And that brought up the question of how many others had remembered it? The other child, for instance. But did one hold a grudge that long? How many years since Templeton was twelve and defended himself?

  That raised another question. In the dark, had someone mistaken Wentworth for Templeton?

  “Did they attend the same school, your son and Wentworth?”

  “No, of course not. Frederick was sent to Rugby. It was where his father and his uncle had been sent.”

  It was still possible that a mistake had been made.

  He thanked her and rose to leave.

  “You have told me the truth about Frederick?” she asked him for the second time.

  “I have.”

  She nodded. He walked toward the door, but she didn’t bother to see him out.

  Hamish said as he turned the crank, “It changes naething.”

  “No. I still must treat this as a random killing. Until we find out why. Meanwhile, I’ll look into Templeton’s war.” He had connections at the Ministry, he could ask for information. But that might well take longer than he could wait.

  There was the mysterious Mr. Haldane, who claimed to be a member of the Foot Police, but who knew far more about too many other subjects ever to have been a mere policeman. Rutledge had meticulously avoided putting himself in Haldane’s debt a second time. He’d had no choice but to call on his services once before, in another inquiry. And so far Haldane hadn’t asked for information i
n return.

  Rutledge had been relieved. Still, there was the knowledge that the day would probably come. He had no illusions about that.

  Hamish said, “Ask yon Sergeant in London.”

  But Sergeant Gibson was not an Army man and would have to go through channels. He had known about Robin Hardy’s London escapades because they had attracted the attention of the Metropolitan Police. Army records were handwritten, and any search would take days. Rutledge might not have days.

  He drove back to Wolfpit, still turning the matter over in his mind. Even so, he knew he had no choice.

  He left the motorcar at The Swan and crossed the road to the bookshop. Haldane was on the telephone, and after some hesitation, Rutledge finally put through the call.

  Haldane’s servant answered—Rutledge had never been precisely sure what role he played, from bodyguard to butler to man of all work—and after he had identified himself to the man’s satisfaction, Haldane himself came to the telephone.

  Rutledge could hear the amusement in his voice as he answered, and silently swore.

  “Good day, Inspector. How may I be of assistance?”

  “There have been two deaths here in Suffolk. Apparently random. I’d like to find out just what a man by the name of Frederick Templeton did in the war. Anything that might have made him the target of a murderer. A Dorset regiment. Rank of Major. The other dead man was in the Royal Navy. Stephen Wentworth. Captain. At least one ship was sunk under him.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Rutledge gave that some thought. Blake? Or Hardy? But there was no reason to include them. Not yet. The debt was great enough with only two names. “That’s all for the moment,” he replied, leaving the door open.

  “Very well. How shall I reach you?”

  Rutledge told him, and Haldane rang off.

  Rutledge put up the receiver, his mind on what he’d asked Haldane. There was no proof that the war was involved, it had ended two years before. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. He had always thought of the poetic symmetry of that. Eleven, eleven, eleven. It suited the war somehow. But while it had ended, it hadn’t gone away for many people. The dead were still dead, and families who had lost loved ones hadn’t forgot. Nor had the wounded, or the nation as a whole, healed. Two years was not enough time to heal.