by Charles Todd
The room was cold, but they were both still wearing their coats. He took a chair on the far side of the table, and said, “You wanted . . . ?”
The tea nearly scalded her as she tried a sip, and she looked at him in desperation. He put a teaspoon of honey in it, and added milk without asking her.
“You wanted to know how Stephen Wentworth died.” It wasn’t a question.
She tried the tea again, and drank a little. It seemed to bolster her courage. “He won’t tell me. I don’t know why he should be so jealous. Or, yes, I expect I do. Once when we were courting, I told him that if he couldn’t take me to a party, I’d ask Stephen to take me. I’d known Stephen forever. He was always in the bookshop when he wasn’t away at school, but I’d never have done it. I’d have been so embarrassed if he said no. But I thought—I wanted to go very badly, you see. All my friends would be there. And my husband—well, he wasn’t my husband then—was reluctant to take me. I knew what would happen, he’d go by himself and spend time with his friends, while I stayed at home. So I taunted him. I shouldn’t have done it, it was wrong of me. I thought he’d laugh it off or dare me. I just wanted to have a bit of fun. And I couldn’t very well go alone.”
“And he’s still jealous?”
“I had no idea how possessive he would be when I married him. I love him, I truly do, but he’s wild sometimes.”
“Has he ever struck you?”
She quickly rose to Reed’s defense. “Oh—no, it’s not that. It’s just the way he questions me, wants to know everything. As if I’m a suspect and he’s the policeman. But I’m not, I’m his wife. Still, he makes me feel guilty when I have done nothing wrong.”
“That’s not why you came to see me today.”
“I can’t ask him, you see. He’ll start hounding me, wanting to know why it matters to me, if I’m still in love with him. But I need to know.”
“He was returning from a party. Someone stopped his motorcar just outside Wolfpit, and when Wentworth got out, the man simply shot him and walked away.”
The stricken look returned. “How do you know what happened? Was—was there a witness?”
“Do you think your husband killed him?” he asked gently.
“No. Of course not. No—” And yet she had come here, taking quite a risk. Mrs. Reed made an effort to change the subject. “I’ve always liked Stephen. He was nice to me. Not in any special way. I didn’t see more there than courtesy. I was just the greengrocer’s daughter, hardly someone he might care about. But it was lovely, when he was kind, and I enjoyed it. It made me want to be more than the greengrocer’s daughter, and I worked in the milliner’s shop, and learned something about clothes and how to do my hair. That’s how I met Larry. He brought his sister to the shop to choose something for their mother’s birthday.”
When she paused to draw a breath, he brought the subject around to Stephen Wentworth. “Do you know any reason why someone would want to kill him?”
“He must have been mistaken for someone else. That’s the only reason I can think of.”
But Wentworth didn’t look at all like Templeton. Even in the dark, someone coming face-to-face with him wouldn’t have made that mistake.
“The problem is, you see, there’s been a second murder. This time it was Frederick Templeton who was killed. In much the same circumstances.”
Her mouth fell open. And then she seemed to rally, as if he had just proven to her that her husband wasn’t guilty.
“He was? I didn’t know—no one said anything—but why?” she asked disjointedly.
“That’s what I’m here to discover. Did you know Templeton?”
“Well, I knew who he was. His wife often came into Georgine’s shop. She was such a pretty lady and she looked quite elegant in hats. Sometimes he came in with her and helped her choose. They laughed together, you could tell they loved each other very much.”
This is what a marriage ought to be . . .
He could hear the words as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud, for it was there in her eyes, a sadness that recognized the state of her own marriage. She was too loyal to admit to it.
“Did you ever see anyone quarrel with Frederick Templeton? Did he have any enemies, anyone who might have worried his wife, because he was worried? Women sometimes—talk—while they’re trying on a pretty hat.” He’d nearly said “gossip.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “The only time I ever saw him lose his temper was one evening in the autumn. Early October, that was. I was leaving the shop later than usual, because Georgine told me I might work on the design for my wedding veil after hours, and as I came down the street, Mr. Templeton was standing just outside the solicitor’s, talking to Mr. Blake. I hadn’t realized—they were keeping their voices down, you see, trying not to let the world and its brother know how angry they were. And by the time I saw it myself, it was too late to cross the road. Mr. Blake stopped in midsentence, tipped his hat to me, and Mr. Templeton turned quite abruptly, saw me, and raised his hat as well. I walked on past them, and I didn’t hear anything else.”
He kept his voice light, as if only mildly curious. “But you did hear something?”
She nodded. “Just a few words. Mr. Templeton had said something like ‘I tell you, it’s best to ignore it. What else can I do?’ And Mr. Blake was starting to say something like, ‘But it’s wrong, don’t you see?’ just as he noticed me.” She smiled deprecatingly. “I have a good memory. I can recall things people said and did when I was only a child.”
“A gift,” Rutledge agreed, then asked, “You never saw them quarrelling again?”
“I never even saw them together again.”
“Thank you for coming and speaking to me,” he said as she set her cup, still half-full, back on the tray. “It helps, when people are willing to cooperate with the police.”
But that caused a new anxiety. “Must you—will you tell my husband I was here?”
He might have to, if there was anything to her description of the argument between Blake and Templeton. Blake had said nothing about it, which was also interesting. Still, he said, “You’ve come to me in confidence. I respect that.”
Rutledge thought she was about to burst into tears of sheer gratitude. He saw her out and watched from behind the door, well out of sight, as she hurried across the street and turned toward the milliner’s shop.
When he was certain that she had gone inside and no one would connect his departure with hers, he also crossed the street and went to Blake and Sons, hoping to verify what he’d just learned.
Mr. Blake, he was told by the clerk, was still in St. Albans, where he had gone to inform the heir to Templeton’s estate of her brother-in-law’s death.
“I was told not to expect him until tomorrow morning,” he said, and Rutledge thanked him.
He stepped out and stood there by the road, debating with himself as he watched what traffic there was weaving its way through toward either Stowmarket or Ipswich.
Hamish said sternly, “You canna’ go to Surrey. Ye canna’ step into yon Inspector’s inquiry.”
Rutledge answered impatiently. “I’m well aware that it would be unprofessional. But damn it, it would help if I could know whether or not Surrey is related to these murders. If it is, then I’m wasting my time searching here in Suffolk. He’s moved on, and that means that Stevenson won’t find him either. He’ll kill in Gloucester or Lancaster or even Yorkshire, and no one will think to look in Suffolk or Surrey for his earlier victims. By the time we’ve managed to put all the facts together, he’ll be in Durham or Whitby. Or even in Scotland, where no one will expect him to be.”
“Aye,” Hamish answered him. “But if you discover what’s behind these murders, ye’ll ken to look in Surrey or Northumberland. Ye’ll be ahead of him.”
“I know that, of course I do. The problem is waiting to see if anything turns up in Surrey.” He turned toward Templeton’s house. He would speak to Templeton’s housekeeper again in light of what he’d l
earned from Mrs. Reed. That would have to do until Blake returned from St. Albans.
But Mrs. Cox shook her head. She knew nothing about a quarrel between the solicitor and Mr. Templeton.
Although Constable Penny had taken statements from them, and he had read them, Rutledge took the opportunity to interview the staff, but as he expected, they had neither seen nor heard anything the night that Templeton walked down the drive to meet Mr. Young.
They had gathered in the kitchen, washing up after the meal and enjoying a quiet evening of their own, with Templeton expected to be away overnight. He could sense a feeling of guilt, that no one had ventured down the drive and found Templeton sooner.
The head housemaid, Sally Beddoes, said, “He sometimes went out to smoke, and then did the locking up. But it was Mrs. Cox who saw to it that evening, didn’t she? The horror of him lying out there, all alone—it’s enough to make you cry, thinking about it. I’ve had nightmares, truly. Are you sure he didn’t suffer? Mrs. Cox told us it wasn’t a lingering end, but then you’d know what Doctor had to say, wouldn’t you?”
“No. He didn’t linger. Even if you’d found him straightaway, it would have been too late. Tell me what you know about his service in France.”
All they could tell him was the little his wife had felt she could share with them when his letters came. Small matters, a thank-you for a packet sent on his birthday, a reminder to look after their mistress in his absence, a word or two for each of them at Christmas. When he’d been wounded and in hospital, Mrs. Templeton had kept them apprised of his progress. But what else she had gleaned from his letters, what the censors had seen fit not to cut out, she kept to herself.
He thanked them and left soon after. He could see that while Mrs. Cox in her position as housekeeper had been of necessity aware of Templeton’s comings and goings, and had often been told more than was usual after his wife’s death, he hadn’t confided in her, nor in any of the other staff.
It wouldn’t have occurred to him to confide in them.
Returning to Wolfpit in a wind-driven rain that had come up while he was at the Templeton house, he could feel the winter cold seeping into the motorcar. He found himself thinking about Frances on her wedding journey and hoping that she had sunnier days. He’d tried to push any thought of the wedding out of his mind, and for the most part he’d succeeded. Not that he grudged her happiness. Not that he was jealous of it. But she shared her life with someone else now, and he would perforce take a different role. They had been close since the deaths of their parents, and this change left him feeling isolated, cut off. He couldn’t be sure how much of what he told her now she would confide in her husband. Not that she knew about his shell shock—or Hamish. But she had always been there if ever he’d found the courage to speak of the war. Now she was not.
There was always Melinda Crawford, he told himself. But he knew he would never tell her, any more than he’d be able to tell Frances. Shell shock carried a stigma. And it didn’t matter how many mentions in dispatches or medals he’d received, how well he’d served King and Country, it still branded him a coward. A man who lacked moral fiber, who couldn’t be counted on by his fellow soldiers. It wasn’t true, he’d let no one down but Hamish. But who would listen to any of that, once they knew?
He made a dash for The Swan’s door, and arrived wet and cold. Rutledge went up to his room, opened the door—and came face-to-face with an angry Inspector Reed.
“Damn it, this is my room, and the door was locked,” he said, incensed.
“What business did you have, questioning my wife when my back was turned?”
“Hardly questioning her,” Rutledge retorted. “She came to call in at the milliner’s with a friend.” He had no idea how much Mrs. Reed had told her husband. “I’ve asked people who knew Wentworth the same question, whether he had enemies. I’m beginning to think you may be one of them.”
For an instant he expected Reed to lunge at him. But the policeman got himself under control with an effort that was visible.
“Did she tell you that?” he shouted, fists clenched.
“Why should she? She’s so much in love with you she’s blind to what a bastard you are.”
Whatever Reed was about to say, that stopped him. “Damn you.”
“It’s time you put your personal life behind you and concentrated on dealing with two murders. Or I’ll have you reduced to Constable.”
“You can’t do that.”
“A word with the Chief Constable will be sufficient. Now get out of here, and find me a murderer.” If nothing else it would keep Reed busy and out of his way.
Reed stared at him. “What did you say to my wife?”
“What did you expect me to say?” Rutledge countered. “That you’re a fool? She probably wouldn’t have believed me.” He swung the door wide. “Out. Now.”
Taking his time, Reed stalked past Rutledge with a look that could kill.
As soon as he was across the threshold, Rutledge shut his door with some force. And later, when he was in control of himself once more, he went down and had a word with the clerk in charge.
“Give Inspector Reed the key to my room again, and I’ll have you locked up for aiding and abetting a trespass. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. He told me it was police business. Sir.”
“Police business is conducted in the police station, not my room. Have I made that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk looked frightened, and Rutledge regretted that he’d put the man in a difficult position, but he’d had enough of the Inspector.
But as Rutledge climbed the stairs back to his room, Hamish said, “He’s no’ Inspector Stevenson.”
“I’m well aware of the difference,” he retorted, and closed his mind to Hamish as best he could.
14
Rutledge spent an hour bringing his notes up-to-date, and when he’d finished, he sat there looking at them. A great deal of information, but it appeared to lead nowhere except to the fact that something was still missing.
He leaned back in his chair, trying to organize what he’d learned in a different way. What was unique about Stephen? Traveling to Peru?
That appeared to be a reaction to his broken engagement to Dorothea Mowbray. And the war had brought him back. But what had Wentworth done there? Where had he gone? Who had he seen there?
Had anything—anyone—from Peru followed him back to Suffolk?
It would have been easier to believe that if Frederick Templeton hadn’t been killed soon after Wentworth’s death.
The war?
But the two men had served in different branches of the military.
That left the bookshop.
To put it simply, a bookseller sold books. He ordered them from publishers and displayed them in a shop in order to attract buyers. Hardly a hotbed of criminal activity.
He was about to relegate that to the unlikely list in his head when he suddenly recalled something he’d seen in one of his books as a boy. A pen-and-ink sketch of a monastery library where large hand-bound books were chained to tables. Accessible but not to be removed without permission.
Books could be valuable for more reasons than just their contents. Shakespeare’s Folios, the Book of Kells in Ireland, the original Gutenberg Bible . . .
He reached for his hat and coat, made certain the bookshop key was in his pocket, and was halfway down the stairs when he realized that he hadn’t locked his room door. It didn’t matter.
The rain had let up, but only a little. Keeping his head down, Rutledge crossed the oddly shaped square and made his way to the bookshop. Letting himself in, he locked the door behind him, and without a light, found his way to the little room where Wentworth had done his orders and accounts.
He closed the door, found the lamp, and lit it. In the drawer of the desk were the orders that Wentworth had kept in a folder. He had already gone through them twice, first to see what they were and again to look for the title Gate Keeper. He had seen the nam
es of the publishing houses, all well known and reputable. Most of these orders were to stock or restock the shelves. But what about people who had requested special titles? He’d come across a listing of those, he’d scanned them twice, and nothing had leapt out at him then. Besides, they were fairly recent. Where would Wentworth have kept records of past orders? These must exist, if only to keep the shop’s accounts in good order.
Accounts.
On the shelf was what he was looking for. He groaned inwardly as he realized the accounts ledgers must go back through the years that Delaney had owned the shop. When he had scanned them sufficiently to establish the system, he was still no closer to finding the current year. It should have stood at the end—or the beginning. Instead, he discovered that Wentworth had set the current ledger in the middle of the long line, apparently because it was closer to hand at the desk.
Rutledge sat down in the desk chair and began to go through it, starting with January 1920. He could see that it was going to be a long night, because the names of buyers were interspersed with regular orders and the cost of keeping the shop open. Coal, oil for lamps, stationery, pens, ink, a new blotter, small diary, even the wages of the man who emptied the dustbins, all written in a stylish hand, neat and—thank God—in a dark ink that made them easier to work through.
The church clock was striking midnight when he reached mid-April, making notes of purchases as he went. Templeton, for instance, was a regular client, ordering books from Holland on irrigation and water management, from Italy on the care and maintenance of public fountains, from Austria on horse breeding. The solicitor Blake had ordered several volumes on jurisprudence, and the owner of the tea shop had asked for a French cookbook.
By now his shoulders were aching, but he soldiered on, finishing April and just beginning May when the telephone rang.
He raised his head, hearing the faint sound through the closed door. And then he was out of his seat and hurrying into the shop, praying that this was Sergeant Gibson with news from Inspector Stevenson.