by Charles Todd
“Yes.”
“From the war.”
He nodded.
“She thought there might have been some ill feeling between you.”
“Not . . . ill feeling.” Rutledge fell back on the old cliché. “He was the enemy.”
Melinda Crawford considered him for a moment, and he felt like a schoolboy squirming under the gaze of a stern schoolmaster. “What happened to you in France, Ian? You were on the Somme, were you not?”
Rutledge could see his hand trembling as he lifted the glass. He set it down again and said, “Trench warfare.”
She smoothed the fabric of her skirt, as if she knew he didn’t want to meet her eyes. “When I was in India, I watched people die. Sometimes peacefully—sometimes quite horribly. Not just in the Mutiny, you know. It was a poor country, and people simply died. Along the road, in the courtyard of a mosque, in the shelter of a banyan tree. I have seen the Taj Mahal, one of the most elegantly beautiful shrines in the world. I’ve lain in a blind in the middle of a night to watch a tiger walk softly down to the river and drink. But I had nightmares for years about the butchery at Cawnpore, where the women and children were massacred in the Bibighar. I heard my elders describe how some of the murderers were blown from cannon rather than hanged. Do you think you can shock me?”
He said, boxed into a corner and trying to shift the conversation, “Did you offer to drive one of the Marling victims home one night? Did you take him up in your motorcar?”
“Yes. I saw him limping down the road and instructed my driver to stop. Hadley was horrified, but I didn’t care. Compassion takes many forms.”
“You should have told me!”
“Why? I didn’t murder him. I only saved him from a long walk home.”
Rutledge said, “All the same—” And then, he answered her question in the only way he knew how. “I can’t tell you about the war. Please don’t ask me to tell you about it.”
“Does this German know what you won’t tell me?”
“Only a very small part of it—” He reached again for the whisky, and nearly spilled it. “For God’s sake, don’t ask me!”
“Then there is nothing that this man can tell Elizabeth that would harm you? Or that she could use against you?”
“No—nothing.” It wasn’t completely true, but he could think of no one who could profit from the knowledge that Gunter Hauser possessed.
“Then you are free to do whatever is required, to take him into custody if that becomes necessary, and there will be no repercussions?”
He could feel himself beginning to breathe again, the tightness in his chest no longer bands biting into the flesh. “I can’t believe—” he began, and then realized that he didn’t know Elizabeth any longer.
“I think she must have gone to find him—and Elizabeth isn’t stupid, she can put facts together exceedingly well. She must have some idea where to look.”
He hadn’t considered that. “She thought he was living in a hotel in Rochester. It was a lie; he’d been living in the kitchen of an empty manor house on the Marling road. The Morton house—”
“And you took him back there. I find myself wondering why.”
“I took him back there because I needed information. I don’t know if that was right or wrong. Still, it was a personal decision, not a professional one.”
“Yes. I see that. Did you owe him your life, Ian?”
“Not precisely. But I nearly got him killed after the war had ended.”
“My dear, I can’t imagine that you would have taken the man anywhere but gaol if you truly believed he was a murderer.”
“I don’t know,” he said with honesty. “I can’t be sure.”
“As far as I can see—and I have known you much of your life—your judgment is no more impaired than mine. Whatever transpired in France, you must never let it conquer you. Do you understand me?”
“Understanding is one thing—living up to that standard is another,” he said wryly.
Melinda Crawford said, “I recognize courage when I see it, Ian. Now, what are we to do about Elizabeth, before she makes an utter fool of herself?” She took his glass and added to it.
He was able to lift the whisky to his lips this time. And the warmth seemed to spread through the icy grip of tension.
“I’ll have to go back to Marling—”
“And I shall go with you. If I’m there, we can probably salvage her reputation.”
They left ten minutes later.
WHEN RUTLEDGE REACHED the Mortons’ drive, he already knew what he would find in the manor house kitchen.
In the event, he was wrong.
Elizabeth Mayhew sat at the table where Rutledge had left Hauser only a matter of hours ago. She faced him with a shaky calmness.
“He’s not here,” she said. “I told him to go back to Germany, while he could. I told him that for Richard’s sake, I couldn’t marry a German. But I promised I’d find that cup for him. Somehow. My penance, if you like.”
“You shouldn’t have interfered!”
“Because you believe he’s a murderer? I don’t know the answer to that question. I don’t care. I want him out of England. Out of my life. Out of my mind.”
“For God’s sake, there are three men dead—” Rutledge began, the stress of the morning leaving him short-tempered.
“Then find out who killed them.” She got to her feet. “I told him to take the horse as far as the Helford railway station. I’d send someone later to fetch it.”
The outer door had opened and Mrs. Crawford stepped in, distastefully regarding the signs of occupation in the kitchen—the tins of food, the bedding on the floor, the water pitcher next to jam jars, and a whisky decanter on the table.
“You should have told him to come to me, Elizabeth. I’d have taken him in and kept him until this business has been sorted out,” she said. “You’ve put Ian—and yourself—into an extremely difficult position! You aren’t in love with this man, you know. You’ve fallen into an infatuation. You haven’t known him long enough to destroy other people’s lives on his account. Now I suggest we all leave this place as quickly as possible. I’ll understand, Elizabeth, if you would rather not return to my house.”
She lifted her skirts to walk gracefully out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them standing face to face.
Hamish was saying, “I’d search the house, if I were you.”
But Rutledge was aware of the emptiness around him, of the sense of someone having walked out of a room just before one walks into it. Hauser was no longer here. . . .
RUTLEDGE DROVE ELIZABETH Mayhew in to Marling, and left her at the door to her house. It was clear that she didn’t want his company or anyone else’s at the moment. When he walked out to the motorcar again, Melinda Crawford told him, “We’ve missed our lunch. If you ask me to dine at the hotel with you, I won’t say no. I shouldn’t worry about Elizabeth if I were you. She’s feeling quite self-righteous at the moment, but it won’t last.”
As they drove past the Cavalier on his plinth, Mrs. Crawford gestured in the statue’s direction. “My husband’s family,” she said. “He was quite a hero, defending Charles the First to the death. It was seen as a brave thing, at the time. But the family lost its title and its lands under Cromwell, and never recovered.”
When they arrived at the hotel, Rutledge offered to order a room for her, to rest.
“Nonsense. I’m not as fragile as I look, my dear.”
“I’d like to speak to Inspector Dowling before we go to the dining room. Do you mind waiting? It’s a matter of unfinished business.”
“I understand. I’ll sit comfortably in the lounge and beg a glass of sherry from the clerk.”
Feeling as if he’d been ground in the mill of the gods, Rutledge walked on to the police station, to find a grinning Inspector Dowling sitting behind his desk like the Cheshire cat.
“Your theoretical victim walked in half an hour ago and gave himself up.”
Stunned, R
utledge said, “Why on earth—” and stopped himself short.
“He said he was innocent of murder, and wanted his name cleared. He said he was attacked on the road north of Marling by someone who mistook him for the killer. From the look of the knife wound in his chest, someone was very nervous indeed!”
“I’d like to see him.”
“He’s in Dr. Pugh’s surgery at the moment, with Sergeant Burke in attendance.” The grin disappeared. “What do you know about this business?”
Hamish hissed, “Walk softly!”
“Hardly more than I’ve told you. As for why I didn’t bring him in, the first reaction of everyone in the county would have been, We have our murderer. He’s a very fair candidate. The newspapers will be full of righteous condemnation.”
Dowling sighed. “Yes. And you were right, reputations will fall over this. But now he’s given himself up, and what am I to do with the fool?”
“God knows. Keep him here for a few days, let him help you with your inquiries.”
“Is it true that Jimsy Ridger is dead?”
“So I’m told.”
“Then,” said Dowling, “if I can’t charge this German, and Ridger is dead, we’ve got no case at all. We’re back where we started from when the Yard sent you to Marling.”
AT THE PLOUGH, the lobby was full of luggage. A steamer trunk with labels from expensive European hotels and ocean liners was surrounded by matching cases in calfskin, some six or eight of them. A uniformed driver was crisply instructing the housekeeping staff on what went where.
As Rutledge walked toward the sitting room, he found Mrs. Crawford watching from her chair by the door.
She said, “You’d require seven camels for that.”
Rutledge laughed. “Camels are thin on the ground in Kent. Who is the new arrival?”
“So far there’s only the driver on view. Judging from his demeanor, we’re being honored by no less than a duke.”
“The man from Leeds?”
“Very likely.”
They went into the dining room together, and after Rutledge had ordered for them, he said, “Hauser has turned himself in to the local police. But not under his own name. He’s using that of his Dutch cousin. He’s presently at the doctor’s surgery.”
“Pugh? He’s a good man.” She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Hauser is just the man for Elizabeth after all,” she declared. “Quixotic. They’ll be quite happy together.”
“I thought you would be opposed.”
“For Richard’s sake, yes. But that’s water over the dam now. We must learn to let go as well. I shall miss her. I can only hope that she’ll be happy. An English stepmother might not sit well with little German children. What will the police do with this man?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge answered as their first course was set before them. The dining room was filling up, with market-goers coming in for their meal.
“I can’t see what reason he might have had for murder. The monetary value of that cup is all well and good—”
“After the cup was stolen, his brother was killed in action.”
“Revenge.” She considered the possibility. “But a cold revenge, don’t you think? Without passion or satisfaction.”
“Hauser said much the same thing.”
“I lived in the East for a very long time, Ian. I suppose I’ve absorbed a little of their way of thinking. To kill in this fashion—with wine and then laudanum—you must apply yourself to the task. You must watch and weigh. Enough? Too little, and the victim will live to describe how he came so close to death’s door. Too much, and the victim empties the contents of his stomach before the drug has been effective. I think the question you need to ask yourself is why anyone would do such a thing. It’s far more grim, in my view, than using a weapon.”
It was an interesting point. But where did it lead?
As if she’d read his mind, Melinda Crawford said meditatively, “It would suggest that your killer is mad. Or that he derives some satisfaction from watching the process of death. As if to acquaint himself with it . . .”
Hamish said, “She’s no’ so verra’ far from death herself. She spoke no’ so verra’ long ago of her will—”
Rutledge heard him.
He couldn’t remember the rest of his meal. The conversation had taken another turn, this time to less dramatic topics, but in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shut out the words tumbling over and over, like stones.
“As if to acquaint himself with it . . .”
26
RUTLEDGE WENT TO THE POLICE STATION AFTER DRIVING Melinda Crawford back to her house.
Gunter Hauser was sleeping, but he heard the door to his cell open. Without opening his eyes, he said, “The doctor praised your handiwork. And asked me repeatedly who had seen to the wound. Should I tell him?”
“Elizabeth expected you to take the train to London.”
“Yes, well, she’ll be very disappointed.” He opened his eyes and sat up stiffly. “A bargain, Mr. Rutledge. We both have secrets, you and I. I would be very happy to keep yours, if you keep mine.”
“Early days to decide that.” There was a single chair in the room, and Rutledge hooked it with his foot, then sat down.
“I asked Dowling. He says there’s been no progress on finding your attacker.”
“You can hardly think I wounded myself!”
“Hardly. No, I’m of the opinion he’s not going to surface. He’s no fool; he can’t be sure who he slashed.”
“Yon drunk you questioned,” Hamish pointed out, “is a verra’ strong possibility. In the dark, he may have mistaken Hauser for you.”
“He doesn’t fit Hauser’s description—”
“Aye, well, you canna’ be sure o’ that!”
Rutledge concentrated his attention on Hauser. “At a guess, you didn’t tell Dowling how long you’d lived rough at the manor house.”
“It is one thing to confess. Another to confess everything. I learned that in the war, you know. There’s no certainty that others will see a situation quite as you do.”
Rutledge got up to leave.
“Elizabeth will blame you,” the German said. “But there’s not much either of us can do about it.”
“I’m not in love with her, if that’s what you’re asking.” It was true.
“No, but you feel a Cavalier’s responsibility. Elizabeth is stronger than you think.”
Rutledge went out the door without responding.
TIRED AND IN no mood to talk to Dowling or anyone else in Marling, Rutledge found himself driving toward the small cottage where Tom Brereton lived.
It was old, a half-timbered yeoman’s house with a crooked roof beam and a massive wisteria twining up the porch and into the thatch. Boasting only a few rooms upstairs and down, land enough around it for a pretty cottage garden, and an atmosphere of sturdiness that belied its age, it was ideal for a man living alone. At the gate a small sign next to a bicycle identified it as Rover’s End.
He left the motorcar on the grassy verge and went up the short walk to the door.
Brereton opened it, surprise in his face when he saw who had come to call.
“I’d offer you a warm welcome, but from the look of you, whisky would be more acceptable.”
“I expect it would.”
Rutledge had to bend his head to step through the door, and inside, the beams were hardly more than an inch or two above him. The room was small, but there were windows at either end, and a fire on the hearth. Bookshelves, chairs, tables, and chests were crowded in upon each other, as if Brereton had crammed the contents of two houses into this tiny space.
“For a man going blind, it isna’ a verra’ safe place to walk.”
Rutledge found a chair by the hearth and watched a gray cat rise up from it, yawning with arched back. It blinked at him and then leapt to the floor, tail high, as if reminding him that his use of the chair was at most temporary.
“That’s Lucinda. She came with th
e furniture. Both inherited. But I don’t mind, she’s company of a sort. Sit down.”
Brereton poured two small whiskies and handed one to Rutledge. “It’s prewar. I inherited that, too. An aunt raised me, and she detested sherry. Like the late Queen Victoria, she preferred the smoky flavor. What brings you here?”
Rutledge sat and stretched his legs out to the fire. “What do you know about these murders?”
“What do I know?” Brereton sounded surprised. “Only what I hear. And that’s generally what gossip considers worthwhile passing on. Are you looking for information?”
“No. Peace.”
Brereton chuckled. “You’ll find that in plenty out here. The only house near Rover’s End belongs to Raleigh Masters. And as neighbors go, he’s invisible. I can step out into my garden of an evening and hear nothing but birdsong or the cry of an owl. I like it. Most people would find it daunting.”
Most people, Rutledge thought, would find approaching blindness daunting. But as Hamish was pointing out, what was the alternative?
“How is your neighbor, by the way?”
“He just went up to London, to visit his doctor. I drove him. Bella—Mrs. Masters—didn’t accompany him. There’s no change in his condition. But colder weather won’t help his circulation. Six years ago he might have considered the south of France during the winter. Not now, not so soon after the war.” Changing the subject, Brereton added, “How are Elizabeth’s puppies faring? I ought to go see for myself, I suppose.”
Something in his voice, the way he looked away, caught Rutledge’s attention. A yearning. Was there an attraction there, carefully concealed?
“Thriving,” Rutledge replied. “What will Lucinda make of a dog joining the household?”
“She’ll whip him into shape, just as she did me.”
A comfortable silence lengthened.
Rutledge toyed with his whisky, watching the firelight in the swirls of amber liquid. He thought, If I gave up the Yard, I could live like this—but for how long? How long would I be content?
“Of an evening lately, I’ve been thinking about your murders,” Brereton said after a time. “And I’ve come to a possible answer.”