by Charles Todd
“Because of his blindness? But I thought only amputees were being killed!” Her hands covered her mouth. “I don’t understand—have you come for Gunter again—because of Tom?”
“I’ve come on my own. Inspector Dowling is still at the cottage, and they’re searching the wood that lies behind it. The problem is, we don’t know anything at this stage, but people will start pointing fingers soon. And it would be much better if I found Hauser myself, rather than wait for Dowling to do it. Time’s short, you see, and the longer it takes to catch up to him, the more suspicious it will look.”
“I tell you, Lawrence forbade me to speak to him—”
“Then I’ll go find Hamilton.”
“Take me with you!” Before he could argue, she ran for her coat and came back again, pulling it on with urgency.
Hamish reminded him, “Better under your eye!” It was true.
As they got into the motorcar, Elizabeth said, “Ian, I’m sorry. Lately we’ve been at each other’s throats, and I think it’s worry, and the strangeness of all of this business.”
And the fear, he thought but didn’t say aloud. She wouldn’t hear a word against Hauser, in her foolish certainty that he was all she believed him to be. But beneath that determined defense was, Rutledge knew, the niggling fear that she could be wrong.
When he didn’t at first respond, she went on. “I love you dearly, I always have. I always will. But I’m not Richard’s wife any longer. We can’t go back to that old comfortable life again—and you can’t protect me from the consequences of his death. I have to make my own way.” Then she added forlornly, “It’s just that nothing seems to be working out the way it should—nothing seems to be right—”
LYDIA ADMITTED THEM to the Hamilton house, startled by Rutledge’s grimness and the pallor of Elizabeth’s face. She led them to the room that Hamilton used for his study and, after a nod from her husband, went out again, shutting the door behind her.
Without preamble, Rutledge said, “Do you know where I can find your client?”
“He said he was going to Maidstone. Something about searching there for a relative’s grave.”
Jimsy Ridger’s, more than likely. Or looking for any of Ridger’s surviving family, who might have that damned cup?
“Is he coming back here?”
“He’s promised to return in the morning.” Lawrence Hamilton pulled out his watch and looked at the face. “It’s a long journey. He was hoping to find a lorry or a carter going that direction. Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s Brereton. He’s missing. And there’re indications of a violent struggle in his cottage. The police are there now, mounting a search. I want to find Hauser before Inspector Dowling thinks about looking for him.”
“Good God!” Hamilton was on his feet, staring at Rutledge. “You’re not telling me that this man could have anything to do with Brereton going missing? Elizabeth—you assured me he was perfectly respectable!”
Elizabeth said, “I’ve already been through this with Ian. No, he just thinks it’s best to find him—”
Over her head, Rutledge’s eyes met Hamilton’s. “Keep her here,” he ordered. “I’ll know where to reach you both—”
“Yes. Yes, I understand. You’ll send word as soon as you can?”
“As soon as there’s anything to tell you.”
He turned and was gone, leaving behind him a flurry of questions, Elizabeth’s voice higher with worry, Lydia coming in, begging someone to explain what had happened.
Hamish said, as Rutledge put on his headlamps, “Ye’re no’ going to Maidstone! You’ll never find him!”
“No. I’ve a feeling he may be closer than that. Where he was before. The Morton house.”
RUTLEDGE WENT BACK to the crossroads, and turned for the Morton estate on the Seelyham road. In the distance behind him he could see the lights of another vehicle—Weaver, very likely, ferrying men back and forth to Brereton’s cottage in commandeered motorcars.
Rutledge turned through the stone gates, driving to the stableyard and leaving his motorcar in the shadow of one of the sheds. The grass was still thick and high around it in the beams of his headlamps—the Morton motorcar was still inside. As he switched the lamps off, it seemed that absolute darkness fell, blacker than before.
There was no moon and the night was quiet. The crows, long since gone to roost in trees beyond the house, were silent. And the house loomed black, bulky, and uninviting.
Walking briskly, he went to the kitchen door.
Inspector Dowling—or someone—had latched it more securely now.
Working by feel, he spent several minutes on the length of wire, until he had it open. If Hauser was indeed here, he’d already heard the motorcar coming up the drive. He’d be waiting, but not in the kitchen. Otherwise he’d never have rewired the door so firmly. Rutledge’s efforts had given him time to prepare, to select his own arena for confrontation.
If he was here. And not in Maidstone, minding his own business. . . .
The kitchen was in darkness.
“Hauser? It’s Rutledge.”
He stood there, listening to his words trapped against the walls and ceiling. There was no response. After a time, he began to move around the room. His probing hands, outstretched, found the lamp. It was cold when he touched the chimney. The matches were just beside it. Nearly tripping over a chair as he stepped closer to work with the shade and the wick, Rutledge swore silently.
Light bloomed, a bright and golden glow that sent the shadows in the kitchen fleeing into corners.
There was no sign of occupation in this room. No food on the table, the pitcher back on the sideboard where it belonged, the bedding returned to whatever room it had come from. But then a man like Hauser wouldn’t be caught twice like a rat in a hole.
Rutledge waited until the wick had caught well, and then he took up the lamp and moved out into the passage. He could hear his own breathing in the confined space.
Swinging open the door, he said again, “Hauser? It’s Rutledge.”
The light preceded him out into the hall, picking out the sheets and the shrouded furnishings, giving an odd life to the long flight of stairs, and to the rooms he walked into one after another. He was clearly visible in the aura of the lamp, and took care to give no appearance of hostility.
It was an eerie experience, the silence fraught with nothing, the urgent whisper of Hamish’s voice in his head, his quiet footfalls as he moved slowly, carefully, examining any place large enough to hide someone. The lamp was growing heavier in his hand, the heat warming his face.
Anyone in the kitchen could have heard him fumbling with the latch—anyone in the house would have heard him stumbling against the chair. And there were many ways to disappear here. If Hauser was innocent, why should he hide? But then he’d learned to his cost that the police were not as sympathetic as Elizabeth Mayhew had been. . . .
Rutledge stood in the hall and called Hauser’s name again, then listened to the stillness around him. After a moment he walked on, methodically investigating, making certain that each room was empty before moving on to the next.
He was beginning to think he’d been wrong. That Hauser wasn’t here.
Rutledge climbed the stairs, no longer on guard, yet unwilling to stop until he was certain. He went into the first of the bedrooms, found nothing, and moved on. In the third, deep inside a man’s wardrobe, was a small valise. He set down the lamp and opened the bag. Inside were personal items, clean clothing, a pipe and some tobacco, and a worn photograph of a smiling woman standing by the gate of a barnlike house, her fair hair shining in the sun. And documents in the name of one Gunter Manthy, of the town of Gronigen, in Holland. On a square of paper someone had sketched a likeness of a chased silver cup, with details laboriously added. It was very convincing.
A prop—or an heirloom?
Hauser had never really left this house. He had given himself up—but he had concealed his belongings, including the photograph
, where they wouldn’t readily be found. The safest place he could think of. Someone had cleared away the bedding and food in the kitchen, to give the impression the house was no longer occupied. Allaying any suspicion that he might return.
Which meant he expected to come back and retrieve his possessions.
Had Hauser gone to Maidstone, just as Elizabeth believed he would? In the slim hope that Jimsy Ridger had passed that silver cup on to someone in his family?
“Then what’s become of Brereton?” Hamish asked. “If yon German is still alive and out of harm’s way?”
“A very pressing question now!”
He was at the end of the passage on the second floor when he heard something. The sound traveled far in the empty, silent house.
Hamish said softly, “’Ware!”
Brereton? Or Hauser? Who had followed him here?
31
RUTLEDGE STAYED WHERE HE WAS, LISTENING. HIS HEARING had of necessity been acute on the battlefield, where sound was a betrayer. And Hamish had always heard what he could not.
He asked, into the silence of his head, “Where?”
“On the ground floor . . .” came the reply after a moment.
And as Rutledge held his breath for an instant, to listen more intently, he heard it again.
—thump—
AT FIRST IT sounded as if someone had bumped into a chair in the dark—as he himself had done in the kitchen. And then as his brain processed the nature of the noise, identified it, documented and explained it, he was not prepared to believe it.
His first reaction was “No—!”
And yet—it made a dreadful sense. Here was the hidden killer, the murderer seemingly with no motive. One not driven by familiar emotions—not guilt nor compassion nor greed nor vengeance. A hidden face, turned inward toward a grief that had no means of expression. And how in the scheme of things, had that grief turned to murder?
Hamish pressed, “Are ye verra’ sure?”
“It has to be. There’s no other answer,” Rutledge responded grimly. “We looked at the wine, and not the laudanum. We looked for any connection with victims, and there was none. We looked for opportunity, and didn’t see how it could be accomplished. We told ourselves it was the darkness that mattered—we told ourselves it was the road—we believed it had to do with men who’d fought together. And in the end it was none of these things. It all came back to dying . . .”
The sound came again. A footfall, too heavy to be concealed, echoing through the silent house and rising up the open stairwell.
“In the hall, then,”
“Yes.”
“Aye.”
Rutledge stayed where he was, furiously thinking through his experiences in Marling.
Chief Superintendent Bowles had been aware of his revived interest in the Shaw case—and had laid his plans accordingly. He’d used the Chief Constable and Raleigh Masters to keep his eye on Rutledge, and he’d isolated his troublesome inspector in Kent, where he could do no harm. But it had backfired, this stirring up of passions and fears . . .
Raleigh Masters, whose own obsession was Matthew Sunderland, had been primed to dislike and distrust the man sent down from London. And he’d had no qualms about showing it publicly.
But the fear that drove Raleigh Masters had nothing to do with Matthew Sunderland.
Raleigh Masters had already suspected who the killer was, and had done his best to throw Rutledge off the scent. A subtle legal mind’s misdirection . . .
It had succeeded admirably, because Rutledge had been thoroughly blinded by Nell Shaw’s vehement determination, driven and cornered and harangued into half believing her web of lies. He’d been distracted by Gunter Hauser and Elizabeth Mayhew. By that sudden return of a missing part of his memory and the truth about the end of his own war. He had been vulnerable, and Masters, the wily barrister, had recognized that.
But what had Raleigh Masters seen that he hadn’t?
A multitude of small signs, the first withering of the spirit, eyes that looked away, a silence where there had been conversation, an empty bed, the sound of a motorcar in the night . . . Little wonder that Rutledge had missed them: He hadn’t been privy to them. And whenever there was a chance that he might see too much, he’d been passionately attacked by Masters, driving him out.
He set the lamp down in the room nearest him, where the door was still ajar, and with great care he closed it behind him, shutting off the light.
Walking with the quiet tread of a soldier accustomed to the stealth of night attacks, Rutledge went down the passage and then descended the flight of stairs to the first floor.
The darkness seemed absolute after the brightness of the lamp.
And he could feel, like pressing ghosts, the presence of someone else, standing below him, looking up toward him from the hall.
“Rutledge?”
The voice was pitched to carry.
“I’m here.”
“So you are.” There was an inflection of satisfaction. “Odd place to find you, I couldn’t think why you’d come here. But it suited me well enough, too.”
“Did you follow me?”
“With great difficulty, I’m afraid. Yes. And I’d seen you outside the gates before this, if you remember. The grass was beaten down.”
Rutledge began to descend the stairs. “Do you know where Brereton is?”
“It’s my blood, not his, flung around the sitting room. If that’s what you’re asking. I believe he went up to London on a private matter. Last week he’d mentioned something to that effect. It had slipped my mind.”
“Where is she?”
“I’d like you to see for yourself. What did you do with the lamp? I could follow it through the windows.”
“It’s in a room upstairs. A delaying tactic, if you will.”
“Leave it then. You must drive. I’ve done all that I can this day.”
Rutledge came down the last half dozen steps. In the darkness, the face of Raleigh Masters was shadowed with grief and pain, a caricature of the man who had ruled courtrooms like his predecessor, Sunderland.
They walked together through the hall, into the kitchen passage, and out into the night. Masters was limping heavily, leaning on his cane, as if in great pain.
The night air smelled of damp, as if rain was on the way. Underfoot the scurrying of mice rustled the leaves. There was no wind; the trees were stark against the black sky.
Rutledge cranked the motorcar, while Masters heaved himself with difficulty into the passenger’s seat, drawing his bad leg in after him.
The other vehicle stood halfway down the drive, where Masters had left it, and Rutledge was forced onto the lawns to drive around it.
“Did she use the motorcar, offering them a lift? And a little wine to keep out the cold? I didn’t know she could drive. You always had someone do that.”
“She learned, when my leg first began to trouble me. Porter, the chauffeur, is half senile. We use him only when there’s no one else.”
They had turned out of the stone gates, passing the tree where Will Taylor had been found.
Neither man spoke of it.
After a time Raleigh Masters said, “I would like very much to kill you, you know. It’s strange to admit, after years of serving the law, that I could so easily break the most weighty of them.”
“It’s all too easy to kill,” Rutledge answered, remembering Hamish.
“That was the war. It’s not the same.”
Rutledge didn’t argue.
Silence followed them the rest of the way. At the Brereton cottage, a lonely constable stood guard, touching his hat as he recognized Rutledge’s car. Somewhere among the trees the search for Brereton must be continuing, but there was no sign of lights or men. A mile or so farther on, as he turned into the drive that led up to Raleigh Masters’s house, Rutledge said, “Tell me about Brereton.”
“She went to kill him, you know, but he wasn’t at home. She believed, after you’d called on him, that
he must surely have witnessed her coming and going. The wine was there on the table, the first glass poured, when I walked in. She’d just sat there, waiting. She looked so tired. We argued, and when I reached for the wine, to pour it out, her face seemed to fall apart, like shattered porcelain. It was rather horrible. I tried to calm her down, and instead she fought me, like a tigress. As if taking her fear and her grief and her anger out on me. I was hardly her match. And I really thought she intended to kill me there and then. I fell twice, and the last time I lay on the floor as still as I could, until she’d gone.”
The scene, violent and shocking, was vivid in Rutledge’s mind.
Masters took a deep, shuddering breath. “I suspected. I didn’t know. But I suspected—”
“It was a practice for death.”
“Yes. She thought—God forgive her—she thought that it would be easier, when they removed the rest of my leg, just to end it. But she wasn’t sure how to go about that. It took her two attempts before she got the mixture right. The first man, Taylor, was hours dying—she told me this afternoon. It must have been dreadful to watch. And I had a nurse—she dared not risk arousing the woman’s suspicions by making me unexpectedly ill. Webber was easier, but to make absolutely certain, she tried again. Bartlett, that was. She chose men who were suffering. As I was. Not someone who was healthy—until Brereton. But there was his blindness, you see. It would have masked the real reason for killing him.”
He stopped.
Hamish demanded, “Do you believe him then?”
Rutledge silently answered him. “I’ll see what his wife has to say first. If she’s coherent. Please God, Dr. Pugh is still at Brereton’s cottage!”
“Aye.”
As the motorcar drew up in front of the house, Rutledge asked Masters, “Where are the servants? Is someone with her?”
“They were given the day off, early on. She didn’t want them to see her walking down the drive to Brereton’s cottage. Since Porter—our chauffeur—was gone as well, I had to drive myself there. Which meant I had to put on this damned false foot! And even so it was unbelievably difficult.”