The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  He’d been listening to her, his eyes on the road, and he hadn’t seen the look on her face as she finished speaking.

  She lurched for the wheel, fighting him for control. A strong woman, bent on having her own way, she gave no quarter, nearly sending them both headlong into a ditch. He managed to shove her away, wrenching the wheel with one hand, fending her off with the other. Her nails raked his face as one tire slipped on the crumbling edge of the ditch, and then he had the motorcar back on the road. It had been a near run thing. And still she fought him.

  He pulled to the verge, his face a thundercloud. “Try that again,” he warned her through clenched teeth, his grip on her arm like a vise, “and I’ll drag you the rest of the way on a rope behind the motorcar.”

  He was angry enough, his voice thick with it, that she believed him.

  The rest of the journey to Wolfpit she hunched against her door and had nothing more to say.

  It was nearly dawn when he pulled up in front of Constable Penny’s cottage and woke him from a sound sleep.

  “Inspector Rutledge?” he said, peering out into the darkness at the figure he could just see sitting in the passenger’s side of the motorcar.

  “I’ve brought in the killer of Stephen Wentworth and Frederick Templeton,” he said formally. “Prudence Margaret Alice Howard Montgomery, late of Little Tilton village in Essex. We can hold the inquest tomorrow if you like. Today,” he amended.

  “I don’t understand,” Penny said. “What’s happened to your face?”

  “It’s late, man, just bring your keys and let’s be done with it.”

  It took several minutes before Penny reappeared in his uniform and accompanied them to the police station in the rear seat of the motorcar, crowding Hamish.

  Mrs. Montgomery was taken back to the single cell, and she asked if she could have her valise with her. But Rutledge refused. The last thing he wanted was to find her hanging in her cell by morning.

  When she had been locked in, and the outer door had been closed as well, Penny said, “Are there witnesses, sir?”

  “I’ll give you a list tomorrow. Today. Go back to bed. I have several telephone calls to put through before I sleep.”

  He let himself into the bookstore, put through a call to the Yard, and when he reached the Sergeant on duty, he informed him of the arrest of Mrs. Montgomery and added that he had evidence that she had been the killer in Inspector Stevenson’s inquiry as well. Gibson was sent for, and he asked a number of questions. Rutledge dutifully answered them.

  When at last he could hang up, he put the next call through to Melinda Crawford, early as it was, and told her his news.

  She listened without interruption, then said, “I’m glad it’s done, Ian. I’m glad it’s finished. You sound very tired. Go to bed, and rest. You’ll need to be fresh tomorrow. Today.”

  He took her advice. He lit the fire laid ready for him on the hearth of his room, looked around at its spaciousness compared to the little dormer room, and then undressed for bed.

  Even Hamish couldn’t intrude that night.

  For once Rutledge slept without dreaming.

  Later that morning he went to speak to Blake, giving him the news. His next stop was at Mrs. Delaney’s. He was afraid she was going to cry.

  But she squared her shoulders, looked toward the street, and said bitterly, “I hope she hangs for what she did. It won’t bring Stephen back, will it? At least there will be justice done.”

  Rutledge didn’t think she found much comfort in that.

  He called on Miss MacRae and her aunt, telling them that Wentworth’s killer had been found, and watched their relief.

  Elizabeth MacRae shook her head. “A woman? But I find that hard to believe. I’m certain it was a man.”

  “You saw what you were expected to see. Someone in a man’s clothing, striding up to the motorcar with such confidence? It all happened too fast for you to have time to notice anything else.”

  “Still,” Audrey Blackburn argued, “you’d think she’d have been nervous, uncertain.”

  “You haven’t met Prue Montgomery,” he said dryly, remembering how she had fired into what appeared to be a sleeping man in a bed. Without thinking, without remorse.

  It was Dr. Brent who had protested the strongest. “The shots were too well placed. It had to be someone from the war, who knew what he was doing.”

  It had been Constable Wiggins who had given Rutledge the answer to that. He had shaken his head in disbelief as he handed over the statements he’d taken from the household staff and Montgomery himself. “You don’t expect it from the likes of Mrs. Montgomery. She’s a Howard, for God’s sake, connected to the Northumberland Howards. Her mother’s father was a respected Harley Street surgeon, top of the line. She’s a lady.”

  She was also a mother, Rutledge had had to remind the doctor. And she was willing to kill for her son’s birthright.

  Dr. Brent, only partially mollified, retorted, “A woman handling a revolver that well? Not trembling at the thought of doing murder?”

  “I’ll be happy to introduce you to one who will prove you wrong,” Rutledge answered, thinking about Melinda Crawford. She was a crack shot.

  He had left the Wentworths until last, after speaking with Mrs. Cox. It wasn’t a visit he relished. But it was his duty to inform them that the murderer of their son was in custody, and that the inquest into his death would be held the next morning.

  Mrs. Wentworth listened without comment. He might as well have told her the weather over the past few days had been drearier than usual for December.

  Wentworth was visibly relieved. What else he felt was hard to tell. He’d been used to hiding his feelings for most of his married life, choosing his wife over his son again and again.

  Rutledge found himself thinking that the elder Wentworth and Montgomery had much in common, weak men who valued their peace more than their duty.

  Hamish said, “Montgomery couldna’ ha’ known his wife would kill.”

  And Rutledge had answered him silently. He told her about the rebinding of the book. If he hadn’t, three men would still be alive.

  Hamish persisted. “But he didna’ know.”

  As Wentworth saw him to the door, Rutledge said, “There’s one last matter I need to clear up. What does gate keeper mean to Mrs. Wentworth?”

  Stephen’s father looked away. “I’d rather not answer that.”

  “I can ask it at the inquest, when you’re under oath to answer.”

  Wentworth looked over his shoulder to be sure his wife wasn’t within hearing.

  “Please, you mustn’t do that. She told Stephen once—years ago, when he was perhaps six or seven—that she was the gate keeper of his life, and she would see to it that happiness never reached him as long as she lived and could stand in its way. That it would be her revenge for taking away her beloved boy.”

  “And you let her tell your son that?” Rutledge demanded, appalled.

  “I tried to explain it to him afterward. I’m not sure it did much good. But I did try.”

  Rutledge turned on his heel and left him standing in the doorway.

  After the inquest into the deaths of Stephen Wentworth and Frederick Templeton was finished, and Mrs. Montgomery was bound over for trial, Rutledge left the stuffy room in The Swan where it seemed everyone from the village had crowded in to hear the proceedings. Even Robin Hardy was there, and he’d brought Evelyn Hardy with him. Rutledge noticed that her left hand was bare of rings. Her engagement had ended. He could only think it was a good thing.

  Hardy nodded, not speaking, when Rutledge greeted the two of them. And then before Rutledge turned away, he said, “You give sound advice. For a policeman.”

  “You listen well,” he replied, “for a rebellious man.”

  Hardy grinned, but didn’t answer.

  Templeton’s sister-in-law, a quiet woman in the heavy black of mourning, sat stoically in a back row, her head down, through the giving of evidence. Miss Bla
ckburn and her niece kept her company. Miss Mowbray had not come from Cambridge, and he hadn’t expected to see her. Mr. Wentworth was there, and so was Inspector Reed’s wife, defiantly facing her disapproving husband as he was questioned.

  One other person besides Mrs. Wentworth hadn’t been there, and Rutledge searched the churchyard for the sexton.

  He ran him to earth in the vestry.

  Taking out the note he’d found in his room shortly after arriving in Wolfpit, he held it out.

  “You wrote this, I think.”

  Pace shook his head. “No, you’re wrong there.” He relished saying it, grinning at Rutledge.

  “Then Mrs. Wentworth wrote it, and you delivered it.”

  “I’m not admitting anything. Think what you please.”

  “Why are you so loyal to her? She was vicious to her son.”

  “I grew up on her father’s estate. And I followed her here when she wed. I’ve kept an eye on her all these years.”

  “And you buried her dead son.”

  “Well, I buried the little casket. But he’s not under the lamb. She wanted to keep him with her. And so I buried him under the sundial in the walled garden of that house, while everyone was at the funeral. It was what she wanted.”

  Rutledge shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

  The grin was gone. “It doesn’t matter what you believe. It only matters what she believes.”

  And he walked away.

  It was late Friday evening when Rutledge unlocked the door of his flat in London, and stepped inside.

  It had seemed foreign, a place he hardly knew, on the Saturday evening after his sister’s wedding.

  Now it seemed to welcome him. It wasn’t home. Home was still the large white house on the square where his sister and her husband would live. But this was the place he’d chosen for himself, and it would do.

  It would have to do.

  He went through his post and found a letter from Frances. As he read it, he could hear her voice, brimming with happiness. He was glad for her. He would always be.

  The other letter was in a handwriting he recognized at once.

  It was from Kate Gordon, inviting him to a Christmas Eve party at her father’s house.

  He held it for some time, looking at it, tempted.

  Then he put it back in the envelope and set it in the drawer of his desk.

  There were still several days until Christmas Eve.

  There was still time to think about it.

  About the Author

  CHARLES TODD is the author of the Bess Crawford mysteries, the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live on the East Coast.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Charles Todd

  The Ian Rutledge Mysteries

  A Test of Wills

  Wings of Fire

  Search the Dark

  Legacy of the Dead

  Watchers of Time

  A Fearsome Doubt

  A Cold Treachery

  A Long Shadow

  A False Mirror

  A Pale Horse

  A Matter of Justice

  The Red Door

  A Lonely Death

  The Confession

  Proof of Guilt

  Hunting Shadows

  A Fine Summer’s Day

  No Shred of Evidence

  Racing the Devil

  The Bess Crawford Mysteries

  A Duty to the Dead

  An Impartial Witness

  A Bitter Truth

  An Unmarked Grave

  A Question of Honor

  An Unwilling Accomplice

  A Pattern of Lies

  The Shattered Tree

  A Casualty of War

  Other Fiction

  The Murder Stone

  The Walnut Tree

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  the gate keeper. Copyright © 2018 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  first edition

  Cover photographs © Hayden Verry/Arcangel (clouds), © Henry Steadman/Photolibrary/Getty Images (gate), © Craig Aurness/Corbis/VCG/Getty Images (car)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Digital Edition February 2018 ISBN 978-0-06-267873-7

  Print ISBN 978-0-06-267871-3

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