by Charles Todd
He finished his tea and left soon after, feeling a sense of failure. Where was the link between these two murders? Two very different men whose lives had ended in the dark, at the hands of a cold-blooded killer.
He wished he could find an answer.
Back in the village, it occurred to him that Mrs. Delaney lived alone, a widow. He turned toward her house, and told her what he had told Mr. Blake.
“I’m too old to change my ways,” she replied. “And I can’t think of any reason why anyone would wish to harm me. Besides, Mr. Rutledge, I’m not a man,” she pointed out, smiling.
“You knew Stephen Wentworth very well,” he told her, “and I still don’t have any answer to give you about why he died. Or Templeton.”
“I know, Inspector.”
“Just—be careful.”
She smiled. “If it will ease your mind, yes, of course. I will be.”
He left her then. Walking back the way he’d come, he heard the telephone ringing in the bookshop as he passed, and unlocked the door in haste, racing to catch it in time.
But it was a call from Ipswich, a customer of the bookshop wanting to order a title. He put them off and hung up. Standing there by the telephone, he told himself it was too early to hear from Gibson or Haldane, but it didn’t lessen his disappointment.
He was still there when the door opened, and Sergeant Penny stepped in.
“I saw you come in here. I thought I’d ask if there was any news?”
“Regrettably, none,” Rutledge answered. “I’ve searched Templeton’s house. He lived as quiet and steady a life as Wentworth did. People who are murdered usually have secrets.”
“I don’t know of any. There’s the Army in Templeton’s case, of course. He never talked much about his war. In November, on the first anniversary of the Armistice, there was a service of remembrance, and he was asked to say a few words about what it was like in the trenches in the last days of the fighting. And all he said was, ‘It didn’t matter how you died, I expect, but as the end of the war came nearer and nearer, dying was bitter. The lucky ones didn’t linger. For some few, it was relief. I saw enough of death to last me the rest of my life, and I will not walk behind another cortege. Ever again.’ And he sat down then, his head bowed. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that morning. We didn’t quite know how to take his words, but then most people said afterward that he was still grieving for his wife. And what a pity it was that she was taken like that.”
But Rutledge, listening to him, heard something else. What had happened to Templeton out there? Something must have done.
Penny was expecting a comment, and Rutledge said only, “All of us saw too much death.”
He moved toward the door, and Penny perforce had to turn and leave as well. “What’s to happen to the bookshop?” the Constable asked.
“I expect it will be sold, when the estate is settled. Someone else may be prepared to take it on.”
“I hope that’s true.” He sighed. “I had taken to liking reading, myself.”
Rutledge locked the door, then replied, “Did Wentworth ever recommend a book called The Gate Keeper to you?”
Penny scratched his chin. “I’m not saying he never did. But I can’t recall such a book, not offhand.” Then he turned to Rutledge, frowning. “Odd how that rings a bell. But I don’t quite know why.”
“Try to remember. It could be important.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Nor do I at the moment, but you never know.” He looked up at the sky. The clouds were gathering. “I think we may be in for a storm.”
“Not like the last one, I hope. Rained for two days, with some flooding in the meadows.”
“Keep an eye on several houses during your evening rounds if you will. Mrs. Delaney, Mr. Blake, and the two schoolmistresses.”
Constable Penny rounded on him. “That’s saying that this isn’t finished, that we’re likely to see more killing.”
“I don’t know that it’s likely,” Rutledge said, giving the impression that he’d been considering the question. He didn’t want to put the wind up the entire village, and yet some precautions had to be taken. He had warned Mrs. Delaney and the solicitor, but he still wasn’t certain enough to speak to the two young women. “But under the circumstances, we need to keep our eyes open.”
Penny nodded. “That I’ll do. Inspector Reed can let us have more men. He told me as much. Shall I send for reinforcements, just in case?”
“It would do no harm.”
“Then I’ll pass the word. Thank you, sir.” Hesitating, he finally added, “Have you given any thought to an inquest, sir?”
“I have. At the moment, it will end in ‘person or persons unknown.’ I’d rather have someone bound over for murder.”
Surprised, Constable Penny said, “There’s that, sir.” Touching his helmet, he hurried away, intent on duty, and Rutledge watched him go.
Hamish said, “If yon Inspector sends men to Wolfpit, they’re likely to be his creatures, and willing to spy for him.”
“Yes, I’d thought about that. But if there’s another murder, it’s likely Reed will try to persuade the Yard that I’m not the best man to deal with this. From the start, Chief Superintendent Markham had questions about the suitability of letting me take it on.”
He was walking back toward The Swan. The sun had vanished behind that heavy bank of clouds, and the light was quickly fading. He turned to survey the village. And as he did, he glanced in the direction of the church. He saw the sexton watching from the gate into the churchyard.
Rutledge wasn’t quite certain what it was about the man that disturbed him. It went beyond dislike, for there was something that drove the sexton. He wasn’t convinced that it had anything to do with the two murders, but it was possible that he knew something—had seen something—or was aware of something that Rutledge didn’t know. And had no intention of sharing it.
The sexton was the first to turn away when he realized that Rutledge had seen him. He walked on down the road without looking back, a studied arrogance in the way he moved.
Hamish said, “He’s from Yorkshire. And so is Mrs. Wentworth. If she kens what he did there, blackmail might persuade sich a man to kill for her.”
“An interesting thought.” He changed direction and went to the police station where Penny was writing out his request for more men.
The Constable looked up from the sheet of paper before him as Rutledge came through the door, bringing a swirl of cold air with him. “Sir?”
How did you explain intuition? Or that Hamish had given him a thought worth pursuing?
“The sexton. Pace,” Rutledge began, choosing his words carefully, “gives me the impression of a man with something on his mind. Or his conscience. I think it might be a very good idea if you asked him a few questions. He knows you, he might speak more freely.”
Penny said, “What sort of thing, sir? I can’t think what it might be.”
Changing tactics, Rutledge said, “Perhaps he’s seen something he might not feel comfortable telling Scotland Yard. For fear he may be wrong. And that’s what is bothering him.”
“He doesn’t live anywhere near either victim, sir. What could he have seen?” Pace had never been a troublemaker. And that was how Constable Penny had classified him over the years: not someone he needed to keep an eye on. Or question, if there was a problem.
Rutledge himself, as a Constable patrolling streets in London, had done much the same thing, assembling information about the people living there. He passed a few minutes with dustmen and nursery maids, workmen and cabbies, greeted householders and their families, and kept an eye on deliveries, until he knew the routine and the habits of nearly everyone on his rounds. Anything untoward got his attention. It worked quite well as a way to keep the peace, but he’d learned quickly that it didn’t always take into account that people were human and therefore not always predictable. Penny was a good man, but he had got comfortable with his patch, and that coul
d be dangerous.
“Keep it in mind, please, Constable. Or if you’d rather, I’ll speak to him myself.”
The threat worked.
Penny nodded. “I’ll make an opportunity, sir. Straightaway.”
But Rutledge intended to make certain that Pace would prefer dealing with Penny rather than the man from London.
He consulted his rough map of the village and found the cottage at the outskirts that was marked with a P. He was fairly certain it belonged to the sexton.
Two could play at intimidation. He strolled from the police station to the church, paused there to stare up at the tower, then continued to walk on past the school and to the straggling end of Wolfpit. Ahead of him stood the small neat cottage he was after.
It was as plain as the man, the paint a weathered gray, without a single garden to offset its austerity. Behind it Rutledge could see a large patch of turned earth, fallow at this season, where Pace grew his vegetables when not attending to church duties.
He walked up the narrow path to the door and knocked.
Almost certain Pace was in the house, even though there was no lamp lit in the front room, Rutledge waited and then knocked again.
But no one came to answer the summons. He’d have been surprised if Pace had.
Rutledge turned and left. As he walked down the path to the road and headed back to The Swan, he could feel eyes on his progress almost to the school. From one of the windows of that cottage, Pace was watching him go.
Let Pace wonder, he thought, why the man from London had wished to interview him.
After an early dinner, Rutledge went back to the bookshop, lit the lamp in the small room where Wentworth usually sat to read, then began to search the shop again. He had nearly finished, coming up with nothing to show for the time spent on the task, when the telephone rang.
When he answered it, the switchboard wanted to know if he was Inspector Rutledge, and then put him through to the Yard.
Sergeant Gibson was on the other end of the line, and he sounded tired.
“There’s been a development, sir. I thought you ought to know as soon as possible. There was another shooting reported to the Yard this afternoon. Happened in a small village in Surrey. Very similar to the one you reported there in Wolfpit. A man was walking home from the pub, it was shortly before closing, and the streets were empty. No one heard any altercation, just the shot, and when someone stepped out to investigate that, the killer was gone. Victim’s name is Harvey Mitchell, sir, Doctor says the weapon was a revolver. Nothing was taken, the body left where it had fallen. Mitchell was a quiet sort, no known enemies. We’ve dispatched Inspector Stevenson to deal with it, at the request of the Chief Constable. It seems the Chief Constable was a friend of the victim.”
“That should be my inquiry,” Rutledge said, stifling an urge to swear. It wasn’t Gibson’s fault. There was no point in blaming him.
“Yes, sir, I mentioned that to the Chief Superintendent. But he felt that it was too far away to be connected to your murder. All the same, I thought you should be informed.”
“There’s been a second death here.” He gave Gibson the particulars. “And very little to go on. I ought to be in Surrey. Were there witnesses?”
“No, sir, this was late, and there was a cold wind coming out of Wales. Not a night to linger outside. First a householder and then two men from the pub came out to see who was shooting, and that’s when they found him. He was already dead, died on the spot. No sign of the killer. How he managed to get away is uncertain. The thinking is, it must have been a bicycle. Fast and silent.”
“What do the police there know about Mr. Mitchell?”
“A solicitor, sir. In the war, serving in France. It was his clerk’s birthday, which is what took him to the pub that night. As a rule, he stays in most evenings with his wife and three children. Well, the eldest has just turned thirteen. The Chief Constable is with the family now. The local man has been thorough, likely because the Chief Constable knew Mitchell.”
Rutledge hesitated, and then asked, “Was there a small wood carving found somewhere near the body? Possibly an animal.”
“Wood carving, sir? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Will you ask Inspector Stevenson to look out for it? Small, perhaps two inches high at most. Well executed and polished.” But there wouldn’t be, he told himself. It would connect Mitchell’s death with the two in Suffolk. And the killer wouldn’t want that. Would he?
“What does that have to do with the murder, sir? Did it belong to the victim, or the killer?”
“I’m not sure. Just—mention it to Inspector Stevenson, if you will. And keep me informed, Gibson. If Markham is wrong, then what I know here in Suffolk will matter.”
“I will, sir. As for the other information you asked me for, I’ve not found anything I thought might be worth passing on. Have you considered a random killing, sir? It might suit the circumstances, in light of what happened in Surrey.”
“I’ve considered it. It’s still possible. But that may be what the killer wants us to think. Meanwhile, we can hope that Inspector Stevenson finds answers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while I have you on the line. There’s a man named Pace here, but he’s originally from Yorkshire. Oliver Pace. Older, lives alone, grows vegetables. Can you find out if he has any record of trouble there? Thank you, Gibson.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rang off. Rutledge put up the receiver, standing there, staring into space.
If the killer in Surrey was the same man who had shot Templeton, then he would have to own a motorcar. Train schedules wouldn’t have put him there soon enough to find and kill Mitchell. He’d have had to change trains in London . . .
Hamish said, “Unless ye ken, he’s already found his victims, already knows enough about them to be at the right place when they’re alone and vulnerable.”
It was true. How else could he have been waiting when Wentworth left the party that Saturday night? Or known when the solicitor’s clerk would be celebrating his birthday in his local—and that Mitchell would leave the party early, unaccustomed as he was to late nights in a pub drinking? Templeton had had to be winkled out of his house with a request he wasn’t likely to turn down. But the killer must have known that such an approach would work.
Why these three men? What had they done?
Pushing the questions away, he finished searching the bookshop. It had been a useless exercise, but Stephen Wentworth lived in a house where his parents might take it into their heads to appear at any time. And where there was a housekeeper who worked alone, without supervision, and she could indulge her curiosity whenever she chose. Hadn’t she known the names of the women in Wentworth’s life? Happenstance or opportunity?
And so any secrets, any pieces of his life that he wanted to keep to himself, would have had to be hidden here.
There appeared not to be any.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, this is a bookshop.”
Rutledge went to the shelves and looked for any books on the subject of wolves, either in history or in real life. The only one he could find had to do with the history of domesticating dogs, which included a section on wolves and their role as ancestors to the breeds of dogs that the English kept by their firesides.
Well, then, if not real wolves, what about the little wooden ones? How did they figure into the decision to murder two men? Besides the fact that both victims lived in a village associated with wolves.
Were the wolves gate keepers in any mythology or religious stories? Searching his memory, he couldn’t recall any such association.
In the end he blew out the lamp and left the bookshop, going back to The Swan and his chilly room. The fire had gone out, and he set about rebuilding it, all the while remembering a sentence in the book he’d just scanned.
Dogs that return to the wild will either starve because they have been too long accustomed to food in a bowl and have lost their hunting skills, or they will re
vert to their ancestry and in packs are no longer trustworthy . . .
But this killer didn’t hunt in a pack.
13
He slept poorly that night, restless and drowsing by turns. When he did dream it was of the war, this time standing in the cold rain, water quickly filling the trench beneath his feet, staring at the hands of his watch as he waited for the signal to launch an attack across No Man’s Land. The bombardment from the English artillery was to cease at four minutes before four o’clock, and the signal would come thirty seconds later.
It was going to be a disastrous attack, designed by HQ on the large maps covering the table while senior officers offered their viewpoints, but no one had looked out the window to see the sheets of rain coming down. For one thing, that made the black mud as slippery as ice, and for another, the distance his men would have to travel in the teeth of enemy fire was too far to charge in these conditions. Instead of a wave of men, there would be a jagged line as one after another they lost their footing, and the curtain of fire as they ran, intended to keep German heads down, would be more sporadic, allowing the Germans to kill at twice the casualty rate that had been predicted. But the artillery stopped firing on schedule, he could hear whistles up and down the line, and blew his own, sending men up the ladders, over the flattened wire, and into unexpectedly fierce resistance despite the heavy shelling of the German trenches. He realized almost at once that they were running headlong into a trap.
He began to shout at them to turn back, recalling them, as a machine gun opened up. And in slow motion, he watched them fall one by one: the middle-aged Sergeant, the two raw recruits who had just been sent forward, the Private who brought him his tea and shaving water every morning, the Corporal who went for the rum ration. He kept shouting, swearing at them, ordering them to come back, even as the bullet struck home, spinning him around, sending him into spiraling darkness.
He came awake with a shock, rising up in bed and gasping for breath. It was several minutes before he was completely free of the dream, his pulse rate slowing and his breath coming evenly again. Putting a hand to his head, just above his right ear, he felt for blood and then for bandaging, and touched only his hair, thick and dark. The wound had healed long ago . . .