The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  Wentworth stepped forward. “My dear. The sooner we finish this business, the sooner he will leave. Please. The drawing room?”

  She glared at him as if he had betrayed her, then marched into the drawing room and sat down.

  The drapes were still closed and the room was chill. Clearly no one had warned Lydie they were coming. Wentworth went forward and took a match from the mantelpiece, kneeling to light the fire ready laid on the hearth. For a moment only the crackling of the flames as they found the tinder and began to lick at the coal filled the room. Dusting his hands, Wentworth sat down halfway between Rutledge and his wife, as if expecting to referee the match to come.

  Rutledge waited until he had their full attention. “When I asked you about Templeton, you told me about a visit when he was ten years old. When was this dinner party you neglected to mention?”

  “It was a weekend before Stephen—before all of this began,” Wentworth answered. “It was in Kent, actually. Old friends, an early Christmas gathering. They’re spending the holiday in Ireland with their son and his family. I was surprised to see Templeton there, but FitzSimmons owns cherry and apple orchards, and I expect that’s the connection. I didn’t ask, of course, it would have been rude.”

  “How was he? In good spirits? Behaving normally, as if nothing was worrying him?”

  “Oh yes. Quite himself.” He glanced toward his wife, but she was maintaining a stony silence.

  “Go on,” Rutledge ordered curtly. “You mentioned a book?”

  “Oh. Yes. The subject of the book came up rather by chance. Mrs. FitzSimmons was telling us about the gifts she’d collected for her grandchildren. And Frederick said something about a book he considered an early gift to himself, and he added that he ought to have brought it with him, because FitzSimmons would find it interesting, but he was about to send it out to be restored. The cover wasn’t quite what he’d like. Then he looked our way and added that Stephen had found it for him, and that Stephen was going to contact a book binder before Christmas. Naturally FitzSimmons wanted to hear more, and so Frederick went on to describe the plates. I wasn’t particularly interested in medieval apple varieties, I wasn’t paying strict attention. Someone, I forget who, asked where the book had come from, and he replied that he didn’t know, but he could ask Stephen.” He glanced again at his wife. “My wife told everyone then that she was surprised that Stephen hadn’t kept the book himself, if it was so beautiful, or at least have found one for himself. That he was attracted to books the way a magpie was attracted to bright objects. She suggested that he could find a copy for FitzSimmons as well. For there must surely be other copies available.”

  Listening to him, Rutledge realized that Mrs. Wentworth might well have, wittingly or not, sent a killer after her son.

  And she said, as if defending herself against his condemnation, “Well, it’s quite true. He cares for that bookshop more than he has ever cared for us.” Forgetting to use the past tense, as if she hadn’t yet come to terms with his death. Or wasn’t willing to give up a lifetime’s anger simply because death had intervened.

  “What happened then?” Rutledge asked.

  “The conversation moved on, the way it generally does at dinner parties. I think one of the guests asked if FitzSimmons would be looking at brood mares while he was in Ireland.”

  “Will you give me a list of the guests at the party?” It was framed as a question, but there was an edge to Rutledge’s voice.

  “They were the guests of FitzSimmons and his wife, I don’t think that it would be appropriate for me to give their names to you,” Wentworth objected.

  Rutledge wanted to shake the pair of them. “It will be far more embarrassing to everyone if I am forced to call on Mr. FitzSimmons and ask him for their names. He won’t thank you for drawing him into a murder inquiry just before he’s set to leave for Ireland.”

  Wentworth flushed. “Very well.” He excused himself, and came back presently with paper and pen. He and his wife conferred and finally agreed on the list.

  “If you know where each of the guests lives, add that as well, please.”

  With poor grace they did as he asked.

  Handing the completed list to Rutledge, Wentworth said, “Now I must ask you to leave us in peace.”

  “There is one other matter,” he said, and took out the little wolves to show the two of them. Mrs. Wentworth barely glanced at them, but Wentworth seemed to find them interesting.

  “Where did these come from? And what do they have to do with my son’s death?”

  “I don’t know. This one was found near his body. The other one close by Templeton’s. Rather too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

  Mrs. Wentworth rose as he returned the carvings to his pocket. “Good day, Inspector.” It was dismissal.

  He rose politely but wasn’t finished with them. “Do you know why the words ‘gate keeper’ meant something to Stephen?”

  Mrs. Wentworth’s face flamed. “How dare you?” she demanded, her voice low and vicious. “How dare you throw that up at me in my own home!”

  Wentworth stepped forward, his hand raised, as if to stop her from attacking Rutledge physically.

  “You’d better go,” he said to Rutledge. “Please. We’ve done as you asked.”

  Rutledge turned to leave. He hadn’t taken off his coat, for the room had been too cold. Picking up his hat, he said, “Thank you,” and walked to the door.

  He was in the foyer when he heard Mrs. Wentworth cry out in fury, “If you let that man into my house once more, I shall never speak to you again. Do you hear me?”

  Her husband’s response was lost as Rutledge walked out the door.

  He didn’t look at the list of names until he had reached the bookshop. Shutting himself in, locking the door, he went to the room where Wentworth sat to read, and lit the lamp before settling himself into the chair.

  Hamish was saying, “You’ve made too much of that party. You canna’ be sure the killer’s name is on yon list. Or that Templeton hadna’ spoken of yon book before. One of the ither guests could ha’ mentioned the party to someone else.”

  “It’s a start. It’s all I have.” How many leads had already vanished like smoke?

  He unfolded the sheet of paper and read through the names. He didn’t recognize any of them, but that could be remedied. If Melinda Crawford didn’t know them, he could ask the Chief Constable in Kent to tell him who they were.

  Going through it a second time, he sorted them by county. Two couples from Suffolk, including the Wentworths, Templeton, two couples from Essex, one of them with their daughter, and four couples from Kent, in addition to the host and his wife. Twenty guests in all.

  He put through a call to Melinda Crawford and was told by Shanta, her Indian housekeeper, that she was spending the day with friends in Sevenoaks. She would also be dining with them that evening.

  “Has she had a telephone call from London? She’s been waiting for one.”

  “Someone telephoned earlier. I don’t know if it was from London.”

  “Tell her I’ve called, will you please, Shanta? I have a list of names to read to her.”

  On the off chance that Sergeant Gibson had found something that would help sift through the names on the list, as soon as he’d finished the call to Melinda, he put in one to the Yard.

  Gibson wasn’t on duty, and the Sergeant who was could find no notes set aside for Inspector Rutledge.

  “Sorry, sir. There’s nothing here.”

  Rutledge said, “Has Inspector Stevenson closed his inquiry in Surrey?”

  “Ah. That must have been what Gibson was talking about before he left, sir. He said there’s a complaint from the Inspector, something about poaching, sir. The Sergeant said he was going home to a Guinness and his newspaper. That was at midnight last night.” Rutledge heard him clear his throat, as if he’d remembered who he was speaking to. “Sorry, sir.”

  Rutledge thought wryly that if Stevenson had any idea of just how f
ar his patch had been poached, he’d be lodging a complaint with Markham, not Gibson.

  He put the receiver up, listening to the voices outside. A sudden burst of laughter echoed in the bookshop, out of place in the silence around him.

  Rutledge looked at the shelves ranging around the room. It was likely that he could put his hand on any title there after searching them and the orders and the ledgers so many times. It was another man’s life, and he had come to know it well.

  He had also come to know Stephen Wentworth rather well over the past week, and he had liked the man. He’d liked Templeton too. They hadn’t deserved to die at the hands of a murderer, and nothing would bring them back, not even taking their killer into custody.

  “What the hell,” he wondered aloud, “was so important about that lovely book that it cost three lives?”

  Hamish said, “It isna’ the book.”

  Rutledge had been about to put out the lamp by the chair, and he stopped, his hand reaching for the shade.

  It had been re-bound . . .

  But that was years ago. Why was it suddenly so important now, in December 1920, that murder was done?

  17

  Rutledge went out into the crowded square, hoping to find Mrs. Delaney among those enjoying market day. When he didn’t see her, he looked into the dining room at The Swan in the event she might be having lunch with friends.

  Making his way through the throng of people, he walked on to her house and knocked.

  It was several minutes before she came to the door, and he was beginning to feel more than a little concern.

  She said, “I’ve taken a chill, Inspector. You may be afraid to come in.”

  “I just came to look in on you. And to ask if you know any of the names on this list.”

  She took it from him, turning away to cough.

  “Shall I send Dr. Brent to see you?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “It will be over in a day or two.” She scanned the list.

  “The Wentworths, of course. And here’s Frederick Templeton. The other Suffolk couple, the Drysdales, live in Colchester. Lovely people. We’ve ordered books for them before. They were friends when my husband was married to Josephine, and became our friends after he married me. I don’t know the families in Essex or Kent. Sorry.” She looked up. “Where did you get this?”

  “From Wentworth and his wife. When I spoke to them earlier about Templeton, they neglected to mention attending a dinner party where he happened to be among the guests. It’s too close to his murder to ignore.”

  “Well, I should think that’s typical of them. Too haughty by half. But you can ignore the Drysdales. I can vouch for the sort of people they are.”

  “You shouldn’t be standing in this wind. Are you sure I can’t help in some way?”

  “You’re kind to ask. But no, I’ll be just fine.”

  He let her go, then, glad to cross the Drysdales off his list.

  That left Kent and Essex.

  He ran Blake to earth in his house, two doors down from the solicitor’s office.

  But Blake shook his head when he’d scanned the list. “I’ve met the FitzSimmonses a time or two. I don’t know the others. When was this party, did you say?”

  “Before the murders.”

  “I don’t quite see how this might have had anything to do with Stephen’s death. Templeton’s, perhaps, since he was present at the dinner. You’re on thin ice, Rutledge, trying to prove this damned book had anything to do with murder. Surely there’s some other reason?”

  He couldn’t explain about Vivian Moss. Or Harvey Mitchell. Instead, he smiled and replied, “Do you have a suspect in mind?”

  “I’m a country solicitor, for God’s sake. Not a policeman. Which reminds me, why are there two constables from Stowmarket roaming about Wolfpit?”

  “A precaution. Penny was hard pressed to keep an eye on the village night and day.”

  Blake said, “You think I’m still at risk?”

  “Truthfully? I don’t know. If I’m right, you’re in the clear. If I’m wrong, then we’ll have to start over again.”

  He was at sixes and sevens, waiting for Melinda Crawford to come home from her dinner party, and the rest of the day dragged. He stood in the window of his room, watching the market stalls being taken down as dusk approached, and a handful of men sweeping up the debris that had been left behind. It was still at least two hours before dinner, even an early one.

  At nine o’clock he went back to the bookshop and sat in Stephen Wentworth’s chair, hoping that Melinda would telephone him as soon as she got in and put him out of his misery. He hated idleness, but there was nothing he could do until he heard from her.

  He had uncovered the secrets in Wentworth’s life and in Templeton’s. Vivian Moss was turning out to be even more difficult. He wished himself back in Surrey, where he might have an outside chance of convincing her to trust him and confide in him. But she had kept her own counsel for twenty-some years, and it wasn’t likely that she would break her silence now, however much he might wish it.

  When the bookshop telephone rang shortly after eleven o’clock that evening, he all but leapt for it.

  Melinda’s voice came through clearly. “Ian, I’m so sorry. It was an obligation I couldn’t get out of. I did speak to the clerk at Garamond’s just before I left for Sevenoaks. And he has found a reference in the firm’s ledgers that could be just what you are looking for. A book on medieval apple varieties was re-bound in 1900, at the request of one Desmond Montgomery of Essex. He came to London with it, paid for the book in person when he collected it, and took it away himself.”

  He needn’t look at the list of names from the dinner party. Desmond Montgomery was there, along with his wife, Prue. He felt a surge of satisfaction. And be damned to Blake and his thin ice.

  “Melinda, you’re a worker of miracles. Where in Essex? Do you have any idea?”

  “I looked it up for you, before I telephoned. It’s a village called Little Tilton.”

  “You have my gratitude and love,” he said, preparing to hang up. “I’ll let you know if this is the man I’m after. Good night.”

  “Wait, Ian, there’s more,” she said quickly, stopping him. “I don’t know if this matters, but this man Montgomery asked that something be placed between the old cover and the new leather binding. The clerk says the note in the ledger referred to something to do with a marriage.”

  He was silent for so long, she said in alarm, “Are you still there, Ian? Have we been disconnected?”

  “No, I’m here. I’m just taking in what you’ve found out. And I expect that was worth killing for. Not a book about apples.”

  “Are you thinking what I am? That this is the proof that that young woman was married to her young man?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.” And then he remembered the thin ice, and added, “What else could it be?”

  “But why put it in the binding, then give her the book?”

  “Cruelty,” he said, his voice grim. “He could have destroyed it. Instead he has had the satisfaction of knowing she will never find it. She loved that book, she thought it was a kindness, to be given it. And she would never countenance having it taken apart. She even put a stipulation on the sale, that the plates were not to be taken out and framed. She cared that much, even though she was in such dire need of money.”

  “Then I’d be very careful, Ian, going after this man. He will be very dangerous.”

  He promised, his mind already on the morning.

  After he’d hung up the receiver, he changed his mind and went directly to his room in The Swan. He took the smaller of the two valises, put what he needed in it, and went down to his motorcar.

  The night was cloudy, no stars and no moon to light his way as he drove out of Wolfpit, gathering speed as he left the village behind.

  He drove with care, for there were stoats and hares and even a fox or two trotting along the road in the dark, then hypnotized by the brightness of the tw
o large headlamps that pierced the night and showed him his way.

  Following finger boards into Essex, he passed through silent villages, saw the silhouettes of farms just off the road, and once glimpsed the gates of a large manor house, shut at this hour of the night.

  It was well after three when he reached the outskirts of his destination. A cold wind had come up, sending the clouds scudding. The church tower was stark against the sky, and he saw two small pubs, the police station, and a number of shops along the High. When he had come to the far side of the village, he turned and drove back to the church. He’d noticed a stand of yews just where the churchyard wall ran back toward the rectory. The deeper shadows there were exactly what he had hoped to find, and he left the motorcar there, where it would be almost invisible until someone was nearly on it.

  Carrying his torch with him but using it sparingly, he began to hunt for the Montgomery house. He found it down one of the two lanes that crossed the High, at the end of a street of more prosperous houses. There were high stone posts topped with what appeared to be a bird of some sort—a falcon, he thought—and the gates between them were shut. Taking his torch with him, he followed the high wall for some distance and found another gate, this time into a muddy lane. It stood open. He went down that lane, coming at length to a yard formed by the stables and a barn. He could hear horses moving about their stalls.

  A dog began to bark in the distance, in the direction of tenant cottages whose rooflines he could just pick out, dark against the darker sky. He stayed by the yard until the barking had stopped, then found his way to the house.

  It was larger than Templeton’s town house, with extensive gardens laid out around it, tenant farms, and barns. There was a sheltered walk formed by yews, a more formal garden leading up to the terrace, and a large pond currently occupied by geese.

  Rutledge recognized the large white shapes in time to stop short. The Romans had used geese as watchmen, alerting the city to invaders. He gave them a wide berth and came to the front of the house. Looking up, he could see that it was handsome enough but architecturally rather plain.