The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  “You should have thought of the consequences before you broke into Wentworth’s bookshop.”

  “I only meant to help. She’s had a struggle. It hasn’t been easy. If she’s caught up in what I did—if she’s somehow drawn into what happened to Mr. Mitchell—it will undo all she’s worked so hard to make up for. The talk will all be dredged up again, and this time her son isn’t just a child, he’ll suffer with her.”

  “Where did she work before she returned to Singleton?”

  “I don’t know. I expect no one did, except perhaps her parents. They’re gone now. It was wrong of me, but I’ve looked in Mr. Mitchell’s file on her, and there’s nothing in it about the years she was away. There’s just her pension, paid into her bank every quarter. It comes from the account of a firm in London. There’s no way of knowing who their client is. I can show you the box, if you like. It also contains her will and the deed to her parents’ property. It’s as if her past didn’t exist, except for the fact that she has a son. That’s usually the way such matters are handled. A discreet income in return for silence.”

  That was all too often the case, although many women used Mrs. instead of Miss, to allay gossip. Something Miss Moss couldn’t do, coming home to her parents and a village that knew who she was.

  Rutledge took out one of the wolves and set it on the desk between them. “Have you ever seen a carving like this?”

  Confused by the shift in subject, Broughton looked at it, then shook his head. “Should I have? Is it important?”

  Rutledge picked up the little carving. “No. It’s a Suffolk matter. Does the phrase gate keeper mean anything to you?”

  “No, sir. But what are we to do about Miss Moss?”

  “I’m going to find this man as quickly as possible and put a stop to his killings. Meanwhile, if you’ve lied to me, Broughton, I’ll see you taken into custody. Whatever the repercussions are for Miss Moss.”

  As Rutledge got up to leave, Broughton reached out a hand, pleading. “You’ll make certain she’s all right. Please?”

  “The best way to do that is for both of you to keep absolutely quiet about who has this book. If this stays a secret that only three people know, she’ll be reasonably safe.”

  “If he killed Mr. Mitchell, whoever he is, do you think he’ll come back to look for me?”

  “Let’s hope not. But I’d advise you to stay in after dark, and think twice about answering a sudden summons. Even if you think it comes from a client.”

  He walked out the door, leaving the clerk sitting there staring after him, fright in his eyes.

  As he stepped out of the solicitor’s office, he saw Inspector Stevenson standing in a doorway across the street, out of the wind, waiting for him.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said cheerfully, catching Rutledge up. “What’s taken you so long?”

  “Disappointment,” Rutledge said shortly. “I’ve reached a dead end. By the way, did you find any small carvings where Mitchell was murdered?”

  “Sergeant Gibson was going on about that. The answer is no. Nothing of the sort. Where did that thought come from?”

  “From Suffolk. It wasn’t likely that our inquiries overlapped. But no harm done making certain.”

  They were walking along the High together, holding on to their hats as they did. Stevenson looked up at Rutledge out of the corner of his eye. “You have a reputation for going your own way in handling an inquiry. Do you know anything you haven’t told me about Mitchell’s death?”

  “I wasn’t here, I didn’t see the body. You’ll probably find an answer among Mitchell’s files.”

  “Broughton and I have gone through them. Spent one whole day, as a matter of fact, looking at each of Mitchell’s clients. We didn’t find anything I could use.”

  “A pity,” Rutledge said sympathetically.

  “Who was the young woman who came and went twice while you were there?”

  He shook his head. “Another dead end. She didn’t know anyone in Suffolk.”

  “A pity,” Stevenson said, and Rutledge couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or simply echoing his own comment. With his hand holding the brim of his hat, Stevenson’s face was half-hidden.

  They shook hands—perfunctorily—when Rutledge reached his motorcar, and Stevenson volunteered to turn the crank. “How does she drive?” he asked as he stepped away from the bonnet.

  “Wonderfully well,” Rutledge answered.

  “Been thinking about finding one for myself,” Stevenson said. And then he stood aside, watching Rutledge out of sight.

  “Ye didn’t play fair wi’ him,” Hamish was saying.

  “He’s not going to solve his murder.”

  “Ye canna’ be certain of that. There wasna’ a carving found by the body. The killer could be someone else. Yon clerk, as ye said.”

  “I doubt it. On both counts. But if our man is in fact looking for that book, the last thing I want is to drag Miss Moss into it.”

  “You threatened to do just that with yon clerk.”

  “I had to know if he’d stolen that book. And she seemed to be the one weakness in his armor. It worked.”

  Rutledge stopped briefly in London, paying a visit to Somerset House and the records there. He located Miss Moss and then her son. The father’s name wasn’t given.

  He found a telephone in a hotel and put through a call to the Yard.

  “I’ve been to Surrey,” he said, knowing full well that Stevenson would report his visit to the Yard. “It was possible that the murders were connected. I spoke to Stevenson while I was there.”

  Sergeant Gibson was not best pleased. “You shouldn’t have done that, sir. Not without clearing it with the Chief Superintendent.”

  “No harm done,” Rutledge said easily. “There was a person of interest living in the village. I wanted to interview her myself.” He considered asking Gibson to find out what he could about Vivian Moss. But the Sergeant might see fit to mention her to Inspector Stevenson, and that was the last thing Rutledge wanted to happen.

  Rutledge could hear the rustle of papers. He’d caught Gibson at a busy time.

  Then Gibson said, “Where are you presently, sir?”

  “On my way back to Suffolk. That reminds me. What did you discover about Oliver Pace?”

  “As to that, sir, we’ve come up with nothing. The Yorkshire police I’ve contacted have no record of taking anyone into custody by the name of Oliver Pace. I’ve even asked the Chief Super. The consensus is, if he has had a run-in with the police there, he’s changed his name.”

  Which made sense. If Pace had intended to start over in Suffolk, the first step would have logically been to change his identity.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  He put up the receiver, stepped out of the stuffy telephone room, which smelled strongly of perfume, and walked out of the hotel.

  Rutledge didn’t go directly to Suffolk. Instead he turned toward Kent and Melinda Crawford’s house. She was at home and, late though it was, very pleased to see him, telling him that she had also had a brief note from Frances.

  “It makes my heart sing,” she said, smiling. “I can still remember how it was when I was married. We went to Agra on our wedding journey, and sat in front of the Taj Mahal in the moonlight. Did you know it isn’t white by moonlight—it’s the loveliest soft blue. Quite magical. And in the first light of dawn, it’s the color of pearl and apricot. We spread a blanket in the garden there and watched the sun rise.”

  She had not married again, although Rutledge was sure she had had many offers over the long years of her widowhood. And unlike Queen Victoria, who had become the reclusive Widow of Windsor after Albert’s death, Melinda Crawford lived a full and exciting life on her own.

  Putting aside her memories, she grinned up at him. “My dear, I was about to have my tea. Come and join me. I expect you to spend the night, you know.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’m overdue in Suffolk even now.”

  Wh
en they were finishing their tea in her drawing room by a roaring fire that would have roasted an ox, she asked him if there was any way she could help. “Because you know, Ian, that I can tell when it’s my own charming self you’ve come to see, and when it’s something to do with one of your inquiries.”

  He laughed. “Am I so transparent? I’m afraid you’re right. There was something you mentioned—it must be years ago. You said that your books had arrived from India in poor condition and you had had to have them restored and re-bound.”

  “You wouldn’t have believed your eyes. Some of them were thick with green mold, long and hairy, as if they’d grown beards. It was the leather, you see. Thank God the pages inside were still in good condition. I sent the lot by train to London, where the binders met the boxes, and seven months later they presented me with beauty instead of a beast. Why do you ask? Is there something you need to rebind?”

  “Luckily, no. But there’s a particular book where the original binding was replaced, and I’d like to find out more about it. And possibly about who had ordered the work.”

  “Ah. The inquiry in Suffolk. As a matter of fact, I do recall the firm. It was Garamond, spelled like the typeface. I have no idea if the family is connected. The firm uses a particularly pretty G as its trademark. Garamond—the firm—served an elite clientele because it did such exceptionally fine work. And charged accordingly, of course. I’ll show you.” She led him into her library and at random pulled several books from the shelves. The Jane Austen books were bound in a soft rose leather, a history of India was in a rich cordovan, and the Greek tragedies were black with silver lettering.

  He found the stylish G on all of them.

  “You must know the present owners of the firm quite well.”

  “Yes, I send them work from time to time. I found a clean but undistinguished collection of Cicero that I had re-bound as a presentation for Winston. He’d worn his pages out, he said.”

  “Could you telephone them for me and ask about a certain volume they re-bound perhaps twenty years ago? I don’t know who ordered the work done, and that’s rather important.”

  She restored the books to their proper places on the shelves and handed him a sheet of paper. “Describe what it is you do know, and what it is you would have me ask about.”

  He sat at her mahogany desk and described the book and the binding.

  While she put through the call to London, he paced the passage outside of the telephone room until she ordered him to stop. “Darling Ian, there’s a decanter of whisky in the drawing room. You know which one. Pour a drink for both of us.”

  Rutledge did as he was told. When he returned, she was speaking to a clerk in the firm, asking after his children and congratulating him on a prize one of them had won at school. He forced himself to stand there, glasses in hand, and listen to her side of the exchange.

  Eventually she got around to the favor she had telephoned to ask, and she gave the information clearly and efficiently, as he had spelled it out for her on the sheet of paper. She looked up and smiled at him, then attended to the conversation on the other end of the line.

  Finally she thanked the clerk and hung up the receiver.

  “He’s going to have a look at their ledgers to see if he can find what you want. But it will take time, I’m afraid. More time than you’re likely to have.”

  “I wish I had a date for the rebinding. But Miss Moss was reluctant to tell me anything about her past. I could only estimate the year.”

  “Will you at least dine with me? In the event the clerk is able to find the information more quickly than he expects.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve been away longer than I should be, as it is. You can telephone me at the bookshop. I’ll make certain I’m there more frequently.”

  She knew when she’d lost. “Then I’ll ask Shanta to fill a thermos for you and put up some sandwiches.”

  Melinda saw him off some twenty minutes later, promising to let him know as soon as she had any news.

  It was quite late when he reached Wolfpit. The main door of The Swan was unlocked, and he went directly to his room. It was another hour before he could fall asleep.

  Monday morning was market day in Wolfpit. As he finished his breakfast, he could see early shoppers already walking among the stalls, chatting with the owners, and he realized it was a Christmas market, the first since the war. Among them, strolling about, was one of the Constables he’d brought from Stowmarket.

  He went directly to speak to Constable Penny.

  But Wolfpit had been quiet while he was away.

  “We kept an eye on Miss Frost and Miss Dennis, and the solicitor, Mr. Blake. And Mrs. Delaney, of course. And there wasn’t any trouble at all. Mrs. Wentworth came, looking for word about the inquiry. She blows hot and cold, sir, one minute seeming not to care, and in the next worrying about progress. I put her off, but she was not very happy about that. If you ask me, she’s got something on her mind, and it’s eating at her.”

  But Rutledge couldn’t risk the long drive to Norwich and back. It was important to be close by the bookstore for Melinda Crawford’s call.

  He spent an hour at the market, looking at housewares and farm sausages and round loaves of bread. One man was roasting chestnuts over a brazier, and another was selling little cups of mulled wine to the marketgoers. There was a decidedly jolly atmosphere around his stall. Others had Christmas decorations and fruit cakes and gingerbread, and baskets of holly and other greens.

  Rutledge even scanned the handmade toys for sale, but there were no small wood carvings that matched the skill needed to create the little wolves.

  He spent much of his time on the side of the market nearest the bookshop, in the hope that he would hear the telephone if it rang. As more and more people gathered in the square, that became increasingly unlikely.

  Blake found him standing near a stall filled with jams and jellies, and asked if there was any news, but Rutledge shook his head.

  “I’ve made inquiries in London,” he said. “We’ll see what that turns up.” And then he asked, “Did Wentworth know the name of the owner of that book on apple varieties?”

  “No, it was handled through a London dealer.”

  And the dealer, Williamson, would have known the name of Miss Moss’s solicitor as well as Wentworth’s name. But that wouldn’t bring them any closer to the previous owner, some twenty years ago. He was counting on Melinda.

  There was the rub, he thought, as Blake walked on. What if even the most diligent clerk failed to find a name? It was such a slender thread on which to pin his hopes.

  Hamish said, “Why are ye sae certain that the murders have to do with Miss Moss’s past?”

  Why is the book so important? he countered silently. There must be something about it that matters to someone. And damned if I know what that is. Yet.

  He let himself into the bookshop and sat by the telephone for an hour or more, willing it to ring.

  And it crouched there on the wall without making a sound.

  Finally, around eleven o’clock, he called Melinda Crawford himself.

  “Patience, Ian. A search of this nature takes time.”

  He understood, having searched through Wentworth’s ledgers, but it did nothing to help him endure the wait.

  He walked from one end of Wolfpit to the other and back again, and was not twenty yards from the Wentworths’ house when he saw their motorcar draw up in front.

  As Mr. Wentworth stepped out and turned to help his wife get down, he saw Rutledge coming toward them, and said something to Stephen’s mother.

  She stood there by the gate, staring at him as he approached, a cold dislike in her face.

  “Good morning,” Rutledge said, removing his hat.

  “Why are you strolling about the streets of Wolfpit, when there has been no inquest into the murder of my son and Frederick Templeton?”

  He said nothing.

  “I have written to Frederick’s sister-in-law, o
ffering my condolences. She’s understandably upset. And so are his many friends. I can’t leave my daughter’s house without being asked about the progress being made finding the murderer. And I am left to tell them that Scotland Yard has sent its most incompetent Inspector to handle this inquiry.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not pleased with the course of events,” he said.

  “It seems impossible that Frederick is gone,” Wentworth said in the brief silence that followed, trying to ease the tension between his wife and the man from London. “I’d seen him barely a fortnight ago at a dinner party. I remember how enthusiastic he was about a recent purchase, a book dealing with varieties of apples—”

  Rutledge broke in, his voice urgent. “When was this dinner party? Why hadn’t you mentioned it before this?”

  “I saw no reason to mention it. It had nothing to do with my son’s death.”

  “Where was this dinner party? And who attended it?”

  “I’m not sure I recall everyone who was there. Why should it matter?”

  Rutledge wanted to curse him for a fool but held his temper in check. “I need as much information as you can give me. Shall we go inside?”

  “You are impertinent,” Mrs. Wentworth said, “inviting yourself into my home without a by-your-leave.”

  “This is police business,” he told her bluntly, and took her arm. She shook him off and marched ahead of them while Wentworth, protesting, followed.

  Opening the door, Mrs. Wentworth started for the stairs, but Rutledge stopped her.

  “I’m rather tired from the drive down from Norwich,” she told him, but he shook his head.

  “You can speak to me here,” he said coldly, “or at the police station. It’s your choice.”

  She stared defiantly at him, daring him to carry out his threat.