The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  “Here—” Reed began, rising as well.

  “If you delay, and there’s another death, I’ll see that you take the blame for it,” Rutledge said shortly, and left.

  Fifteen minutes later, the two Constables came out to meet him, and he took them to their respective houses to pack what they needed.

  He was returning to Wolfpit later than he’d wanted, and it took him another hour to settle in the two Stowmarket Constables.

  With a thermos of tea beside him, Rutledge finally turned the bonnet on the road out of Wolfpit and set out for London.

  He arrived late, but slept in his own bed. Sorting through the post the next morning, he found a note from Frances, mailed from Calais.

  Opening it, he pulled out the single sheet and read it.

  Darling Ian,

  Thank you for everything. It was such a perfect day, and I’m happier than I ever thought I could be.

  My dearest love,

  Frances

  The words had been dashed off in haste, but he found himself smiling as he put the note back into the envelope and took it to his sitting room. Opening a drawer in his desk, he set it inside, then went back to shave and dress for his meeting.

  The book dealer’s shop was in the City, a narrow building not far from St. Clement’s, but he owned all four floors. It was closed because this was Sunday, but Matthew Williamson had not had a problem with meeting him this morning. Every available surface seemed to be crammed with books. Rutledge found himself thinking that it was a far cry from Wentworth’s shop, where the shelves were arranged to give a sense of light and space.

  He was taken up two flights of stairs to a room in the back where there was the windowless office of Mr. Williamson.

  The man behind the cluttered desk was in his early fifties, thin and balding. But his dark eyes were sharp with intelligence—and curiosity—as he stood up to greet his visitor.

  “Mr. Rutledge. You told me that this was urgent business to do with Stephen Wentworth’s loss of the book we sold to him.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I represent Mr. Wentworth. It’s imperative that I speak to the person who owned the book that was purchased by Mr. Wentworth for one of his customers. There’s new information that may show that the previous owner is in imminent danger. I’m here to ask you for his name. You were the intermediary in the sale.”

  “I was. The owner wished to remain anonymous.”

  “I am sure this is true, and I’d be willing to accept it if there wasn’t an urgent need.”

  “You haven’t told me what that need is.”

  Rutledge smiled. “No, I haven’t. The problem is, I can’t prove what I’m about to tell you. But I feel strongly enough about this that I’ve driven all the way from Suffolk to ask for your help.”

  “I am in the business of selling books for people who have personal reasons for parting with rare treasures. A death in the family, a financial loss—it varies. Most of them wouldn’t care to have such information made public knowledge. And I will lose my best source of income.”

  “I understand. But two people who have been associated with this book have been murdered.”

  It was Williamson’s turn to smile. “Are you suggesting that a book on medieval apples is cursed? That’s rather far-fetched.”

  “It’s not so far-fetched, if you stop to consider that someone stole the book from Wentworth’s shop. Perhaps it’s not so much a curse as someone else’s greed. Whatever it is, I need to find the original owner and learn why that book is far more valuable to someone than the price Wentworth paid you for it.”

  “You said that two people were murdered. In Suffolk?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Wentworth himself was the first victim. The second was the man for whom the book was purchased. Frederick Templeton.”

  “How did they die?”

  Rutledge told him.

  Williamson was silent for a long moment, and Rutledge thought he was debating with himself whether or not to tell him what he wanted to know.

  Instead he asked, “Exactly who are you, Mr. Rutledge? You tell me that you are here representing Stephen Wentworth, and then you tell me that Stephen Wentworth has been murdered.”

  “An inspector at Scotland Yard.”

  “May I see some identification?”

  Rutledge passed it across the desk, and Williamson studied it carefully before handing it back.

  What he said next left Rutledge speechless.

  “I’m afraid you’re too late, Inspector. I don’t know who owned this book before it was sold to Wentworth. And that is the truth. The sale was handled by this person’s solicitor. His name was Harvey Mitchell, and I have been told that he was killed earlier this week.”

  15

  Rutledge’s first reaction was to swear.

  Inspector Stevenson’s inquiry.

  And he’d told Sergeant Gibson that it should have been his.

  But more important than whose inquiry it should be was the fact that Harvey Mitchell was dead and couldn’t tell him who had owned this godforsaken book and why three people had had to die because of it.

  Williamson was saying, “I can see that you didn’t expect this news. But I’d have thought that if you are indeed with the Yard, you’d have been aware of Mitchell’s death.”

  “I am aware of it,” Rutledge said. “It wasn’t thought to be connected with my inquiry, and so it was given to another Inspector at the Yard. It will save time if you will tell me where in Surrey I can find Mitchell’s firm.”

  “It’s a small village by the name of Singleton. It’s not very far from Guildford. Are you certain that this book is the reason for three deaths?”

  “Not at all certain. But now I have a feeling that it isn’t the book itself so much as what it must represent to someone. How old is it? Do you know?”

  “Sixteenth century. As people were building grand manor houses instead of castles, there was an upsurge in interest about gardens, parks, orchards, and the like. Beautifying the surroundings rather than fortifying them, if you will. This book isn’t all that rare, there must be close to twenty copies still extant. But it is quite a treasure. Unfortunately, several copies were unbound and the illustrations framed for individual sale in the early 1800s, reducing numbers even further. The survivors as it were are in private hands and seldom come on the market. That brings us to a different kind of rarity, the rarity of opportunity. I was fortunate to find two books for Mr. Wentworth, but only because the sellers were in need of funds. Indeed, the seller of the original copy Mr. Wentworth purchased asked for assurances that this copy wouldn’t be destroyed.”

  “What do you think became of the book? Why was it stolen from Wentworth?”

  He smiled again. “That’s your task, isn’t it? You’re the policeman. But if you find the book again, I’m still interested in buying it, if the original owner is agreeable. This time not for any of my clients but for my own collection. I really was of two minds about letting Wentworth have it. It is a handsome book in a quite lovely binding, and I must tell you I was not happy when he told me it had been stolen.”

  Testing the waters, Rutledge said, “Mr. Templeton’s copy may soon be on the market as the estate is settled.”

  Williamson thanked him, saying, “I will keep that in mind, but only as a last resort. I fancied the other copy.”

  For an instant Rutledge wondered if he had had a change of heart and had stolen the book himself. And then decided it was unlikely. Williamson’s reputation depended on his honesty.

  He said, “If you had kept it, perhaps three men would still be alive.”

  “And I might not be,” Williamson replied dryly.

  Rutledge left then. By the time he’d reached his motorcar, he had already debated with himself about going to the Yard and explaining to Sergeant Gibson the connection between Suffolk and Surrey. But he had a feeling that he would only waste time, and Chief Superintendent Markha
m might still refuse to allow him to interfere in Inspector Stevenson’s inquiry. He knew, if the Yard didn’t, that he wouldn’t learn what he needed to know through secondhand accounts.

  And so he set out for Surrey. If he was careful, he might get in and get out without Stevenson being aware of it.

  “That’s all well and good,” Hamish said, “but if yon solicitor is deid, how do you propose to find out where the book came from?”

  Rutledge took a deep breath. “His clerk. The one who celebrated his birthday the night Mitchell was killed. He might be able to help me. Surely if Mitchell acted for a client, there will be a record of it. Failing that, there’s his wife.”

  “Ye ken, yon book was re-bound.”

  “Yes, I thought of that as well. Perhaps it was what was taken off—or what was put on—at the time that makes the book so valuable.”

  “I do na’ ken why.”

  “Neither do I,” Rutledge answered, and settled himself for the drive out of London and into Surrey.

  The solicitor’s office in Singleton was smaller than Blake’s in Wolfpit. But then the village was smaller as well. Relatively prosperous, it clustered around the main road from London and boasted three inns, one small church, and a pretty square. Just outside the churchyard wall were the stocks, and the police station appeared to be nearly as old. Rutledge left his motorcar by the church before walking on toward his destination. He was fairly certain Stevenson could recognize it.

  Rutledge had just found the solicitor’s door when he saw Inspector Stevenson stepping out of the police station. There was a lamp burning in the window, and he had been about to knock. He reached for the handle and his luck held. The door opened and he got himself inside before Stevenson turned his way.

  The Reception rooms were done up in a staid green wallpaper, with prints of private gardens in Cambridge colleges. Looking at them, Rutledge realized that they must have been plates from an illustrated book, taken out and framed. He saw then what Williamson had meant, that they belonged between the covers of a book rather than in frames on a wall.

  Still, they were better than the stuffed heads surrounding Blake’s desk.

  Mitchell’s clerk came through an inner door, nodding to Rutledge and asking if he could be of assistance. He was in his fifties, with broad shoulders and a quiet manner. But the tiny, spidery veins spreading across his nose suggested to Rutledge that he enjoyed his drink.

  “We are closed, I’m afraid. A death in the family,” he added apologetically. “But I will do what I can, in the circumstances.”

  “I’ve been notified that Mr. Mitchell is dead,” Rutledge said with a sympathetic smile, “but I’m also dealing with a death in the family, and I’d like to find out about a book that Mr. Mitchell sold for a client. I’d like to ask the client if he or she would care to have the book returned. I understand Mr. Mitchell worked through a dealer in rare books in London. Williamson is his name.”

  He could see a fleeting look of recognition in the clerk’s eyes, and knew at once that he’d come to the right source.

  But the man said firmly, “Mr. Mitchell’s death is being investigated by the police. I’ve been asked not to discuss our firm’s affairs with anyone.”

  Rutledge groaned inwardly. He’d have done precisely the same thing in Inspector Stevenson’s shoes, and that was the frustration. He couldn’t fault the clerk for following orders.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Broughton, sir.”

  “Thank you, Broughton. I’ll speak to Inspector Stevenson myself.”

  He left, and began to search for Stevenson. He wanted to avoid the police station if he could, and so he walked up one side of the High, and down the other, glancing in shop windows. He was just coming to the slight broadening in the road that was euphemistically called Market Square when he spotted his quarry stepping out of the bakery with a pork pie in his hand. He’d bitten into it before Rutledge could catch him up, and when he heard his name called, he turned with a frown, as if resenting being disturbed at his lunch.

  “What is—oh, hallo, Rutledge. I wasn’t expecting you. Sent by the Yard, were you, to tell me to get on with it? Well, so far I’ve hit a stone wall.” There was still a faint hint of his Scottish birth in his r’s, reinforced by his red hair and freckles he’d never outgrown. His green eyes were wary.

  Rutledge said, “Is there somewhere we might talk quietly? Preferably not at the police station.”

  The frown returned. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Nothing to do with your inquiry, I assure you. What brings me here is one of my own.”

  “Does it indeed?” He finished the last of the pork pie and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “There’s a bench in the churchyard. A memorial to someone who died in the Boer War. We can talk undisturbed there.”

  He led the way to the churchyard surrounding the rather simple stone church with its squat tower. The bench was beside a flourishing yew tree, the only thing still green to be seen. They were out of the wind as they sat down in its shelter. Services had ended. They had the bench to themselves.

  “All right, tell me,” he said briefly.

  Rutledge had had time to consider how to approach his request, and he’d come to the conclusion that until he knew more about his own search, it was best not to connect it in any way with Mitchell’s murder.

  “I’ve got two murders in Suffolk. And the only link I can find between them is a book. Yes, I know,” he added, seeing Stevenson’s expression of disbelief. “But it isn’t an ordinary book. It’s sixteenth century, and while it’s valuable, it isn’t worth a young fortune. It disappeared in November, which is why I’m interested in finding out more about it. I just came from London where I spoke with the rare-book dealer who acted as intermediary. And he told me that the anonymous seller’s representative was his solicitor. Who happens to be your victim, Harvey Mitchell.”

  Stevenson had listened carefully. Now he said, “Do you think his death might be related to this book? I find that hard to believe. I haven’t come across any connection with Suffolk, not so far.”

  “The book wasn’t his,” Rutledge pointed out. “It belonged to a client. I’d like to find that client and ask him if there was something about the book that I haven’t been told.” Even to his own ears the excuse sounded lame. He wondered how Stevenson would take it.

  He’d stirred, crossing one leg over the other, as Rutledge explained. Now he said, “What’s the book about?”

  “Apples,” Rutledge said firmly. “It’s a guide to medieval varieties. One of the dead men was a farmer interested in such matters.”

  Stevenson grinned. “My God, Rutledge, you do have a strange inquiry on your hands. All right, I’ll have a word with Broughton. But limit yourself to apples, mind you.”

  It was a polite warning not to meddle in other matters.

  Rutledge said, “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Fifteen minutes later he was seated in the clerk’s small office, repeating his reasons for coming. Stevenson had left after giving Broughton his permission, but Rutledge was still circumspect.

  He explained again about the book, although he was certain the clerk hadn’t forgot what he’d said earlier.

  “I remember the transaction, sir,” Broughton said.

  And Rutledge had been certain he would.

  “It’s a very personal matter, and I ask you to be careful in approaching the seller. She was reluctant to part with the book, but it was all she had to sell. She lives on a pittance of a pension that has shrunk to almost nothing over the past twenty years.”

  Surprised, Rutledge repeated, “She? Mitchell’s client was a woman?”

  “She was governess to a family somewhere north of London. She’s never said where. She left their employ in October 1899, and was given a pension, even though she was still quite young. Twenty-six. She had been ill, and the family was concerned that she wasn’t strong enough to resume her profession.” He cleared his throa
t. “What they didn’t know was that she was pregnant when she left. The father unknown, but there were two young men in the house at the time, and several footmen.” There was a defensiveness in his tone now, as if he was prepared for Rutledge’s disapproval.

  “Go on.”

  “Her parents were still living here in Singleton, and she came home to them. There was gossip at the time. One of the sons of the family—the younger one—visited once or twice, to be sure she was all right, but she asked him not to come again. On his last visit, he brought her a gift. The book on apples. She had been fond of it, and had used it to teach his young sister her lessons in art.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about her past,” Rutledge observed.

  “I lived nearby. I would have married her if she’d have me. In spite of the boy.”

  “Go on.”

  “She needed money to pay her son’s university fees. The bank that had made her a loan was calling it in. And she came to Mr. Mitchell one day and asked him to sell the book for her. She was afraid that if she tried on her own, she might be cheated. That was in the summer, and Mr. Mitchell had some difficulty finding the proper dealer. And then one of them wrote him to say there had been an inquiry about just such a book, and should the dealer pursue it. He was willing to pay any sum. Mr. Mitchell said yes, funds were sent to us through his bank, and he posted the book to the dealer. We discovered through the bank that the buyer was a Mr. Wentworth in Suffolk.”

  “Mr. Wentworth was murdered last weekend.”

  “Good God,” Broughton said blankly. And then, “Have you caught his killer?”

  “We haven’t. I’d like to speak to the owner of the book.”

  “I’ve told you all the details. I don’t see any reason to disturb her.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Rutledge was adamant, and the clerk did his best to dissuade him, but when they reached an impasse, Broughton said, “I shall have to ask if she is willing to speak to you.”

  They left it there, and Rutledge went to find a late lunch. He had been sorely tempted to follow Broughton, but he kept his promise to come back to the solicitor’s at four o’clock. It would delay his return to Suffolk, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.