by Charles Todd
“He was never near enough to speak to anyone. And he didn’t come to the committal service, either. By the time we walked back to the church again, he’d left.”
“You are certain he didn’t come to the luncheon.”
“I’m positive.”
“This is very helpful, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone else.”
“I understand.” She was a little flushed with pleasure, but as his words sank in, she said quickly, “You’re not thinking that Mr. Thornton is the murderer?”
“Every new bit of information fits into the puzzle,” he said. “I shall have to ask him what he saw while he was standing there.”
Mollified, she nodded. “I see.” But he didn’t think she did, and he was glad.
He excused himself soon after, and went out to the motorcar. It was a fair night, and there were no clouds on the horizon. It was later than he liked, but this couldn’t wait.
Setting out for Isleham, he thought, A second lie on Thornton’s part. He didn’t attend Major Clayton’s funeral—and he didn’t know Swift very well. What else has he lied about?
Hamish said, “It wouldha’ been better to wait until ye hear from London.”
“It will take too long to sift through regimental records, and Gibson has already told me that he couldn’t find very much about Thornton. I asked that he try again, but he’s not likely to learn more than he already has.”
“Still . . .” Hamish said.
Thornton, as it happened, hadn’t gone to bed. But he had taken a walk, according to the housekeeper whose prim mouth indicated that Rutledge was out of order for calling so late.
“Where is he walking?”
“I don’t know, sir. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep well. And then he walks for a few minutes or for hours. I never know which it will be. I just leave the door off the latch, and he locks up when he comes in.”
He could see that it was useless to ask to wait, at this hour.
Thanking her, he drove around to the far side of the church and left his motorcar there. And he walked the narrow streets of Isleham, looking for Thornton. He was nowhere to be found. Rutledge even stepped into the pub in the event he’d stopped in for a last drink.
If Thornton was in Isleham, he was invisible.
The only other possibility was that he’d called on someone. At this time of night?
Rutledge waited for a full hour, and still Thornton hadn’t returned.
Where the hell had the man got to?
Finally giving up, Rutledge drove back to Wriston. Priscilla Bartram had already gone upstairs and he was glad not to be asked where he’d been.
On the spur of the moment, he walked as far as the police station, but it was dark as well. London would still be lively at this hour, in many parts of the city, but in the Fens it seemed that people had little use for late-night revelry.
He went down Mrs. Percy’s lane and stood for a time staring out at the fields.
Here was where someone going home from The Wake had seen lights bobbing in the fields. But there was nothing out there tonight. Everyone had assumed that the sighting had something to do with the murders. But perhaps they hadn’t. Perhaps it had only been two boys making mischief or even oblivious to the stir they’d created, then were unwilling to step forward—
He heard something at the head of the lane and whirled.
Someone was pedaling down the High Street on a bicycle, hunched over the handlebars, as if tired and still a long way from home. The cyclist was heading toward the windmill. But where was he going from there? Burwell? Isleham?
His first thought was that this could be Thornton.
Racing up the lane toward the High Street, he skidded to a stop and looked both ways.
But the cyclist was nowhere in sight.
Had he heard Rutledge’s footsteps on the hard clay of the lane and speeded up? Or was he approaching the windmill, said to be haunted, and hurrying to put it behind him?
One ghost avoiding another . . .
The thought passed through his mind, and Hamish said derisively, “Yon rider wasna’ a ghost. Go after him.”
Rutledge ran on to the motorcar, turned the crank, and leapt behind the wheel. But by the time he’d reached Miss Trowbridge’s house and driven up and over the bridge beyond the windmill, he couldn’t see the cyclist—or anyone else—along either of the straight lines of roads.
It wasn’t until he had driven back to The Dutchman Inn that he realized that he hadn’t looked behind the mill. A man could conceal himself and his bicycle there and outwait the motorcar at his heels.
Cursing himself for a fool, he went back to the windmill, on foot this time, carrying his torch with him. Flicking the torch on, he shone it into the high grass at the mill’s broad base. Stems and blades had been bent and flattened. Very recently, because a few were already beginning to right themselves.
“Who’s there?” A voice came out of the darkness.
He turned.
Miss Trowbridge was standing in the road, a shawl around her shoulders against the night’s chill.
“Rutledge,” he said, coming round the mill so that she could see him.
“What on earth are you doing behind the mill? What are you looking for?”
“Curiosity,” he said, not wanting to frighten her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“But I thought I heard your motorcar just now, passing by and returning.”
“So you did. Did you hear anything else?”
“No. I told you. I’m used to the sound the bridge makes when something heavy, like a motorcar, crosses it. You probably haven’t noticed the slight noise. But I know it well.”
She must, living here on the outskirts of the village.
He walked through the high grass to where she was standing on the road. “Can you hear people on foot, say, or on a bicycle?”
“No, of course not.” She hesitated. “Are you telling me that you believe this is the way whoever shot Mr. Swift left Wriston without being seen?”
“It’s more likely,” he responded, “that he left by running along the embankment that separates the village from the fields on that side.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, thinking about it, “but he would have to know what he was about. We played there as children. The Loon River, although it’s presumptuous to call it that, once flowed on that side of the village. It’s hardly more than a ditch with standing water now.” And then she turned to him, her eyes large in the pale oval of her face, all he could see in the dark. “You’re telling me that he—whoever he is—must be a local man. That someone from Ely, or Cambridge, or even Peterborough wouldn’t have known he could escape that way.”
“Unless of course he’d studied the land. He must have done in Ely to know where the best concealment was. He didn’t intend to get caught.”
“That’s horrible to think about. That someone plotted to kill two men.”
Rutledge said, “I don’t want to frighten you. Still, since I’ve been here, I’ve seen Wriston so empty of an evening that you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the High or on the lanes. And yet someone has been abroad. On foot, on bicycles. Who do you think they are?”
She hesitated. “People do walk from place to place at night. I’ve wondered sometimes if they’re Travelers, using the roads when no one else does. The windmill often seems to fascinate them for some reason. Clarissa pricks up her ears and stares in that direction, then after a bit relaxes and goes back to sleep. She must hear something, not just a mouse in the wainscoting.”
“Does anyone come to your door?”
“No, never. Well, sometimes a London policeman lost in the fog.” She said it with a wry smile.
But he himself wouldn’t have found her door if there hadn’t been someone else in the mist that night. Someone who knew ther
e was a cottage here, and where to find the gate.
Someone who had searched his motorcar and his valise.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, as much for her own benefit as for his, he thought. “I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt very safe here in this cottage. As if my grandmother’s love still surrounds me.”
He said, “You shouldn’t have come out to see who was here. Remember that. And I’d still lock my door at night.”
“I do. And there’s Clarissa.”
Thinking about the ferocious dog that Burrows had borrowed to help him keep watch, Rutledge smiled.
They turned and walked back to the cottage.
“How much longer will you be here in Wriston?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Until I find a killer. Do you know a man called Thornton in Isleham?”
“I’ve met him a time or two. Very quiet, but nice enough.”
“Someone named Adam Lindsay in Soham?”
“Sorry, no. I don’t go to Soham very often. If I have marketing to do, I’ll go to Burwell. Or Ely.”
“Ruskin, the cooper there?”
“I know his work. People complained during the war—he was in France but he was needed here, they said. Is there any reason you’re asking me about these men?”
“Just filling out my knowledge of the Fen country. It helps to have different perspectives on the local people. Know anyone who was a sniper during the war?”
“Snipers? No.” Her tone of voice was enough. No one she might know could stoop so low.
He stood by the gate until she had gone in her door and closed it behind her. He waited and heard the latch turn, then went on his way.
I shouldn’t have stopped and talked to her, he thought. I should have driven on to Isleham, to see if Thornton came home on a bicycle. It would be a long ride, tiring for him. A man could sleep after that, if he tried.
Chapter 17
The next morning after his breakfast, Rutledge asked Priscilla Bartram if she would accompany him to Burwell and show him precisely where she had seen Mr. Thornton standing.
“Is it necessary?” she asked reluctantly. “I can’t be sure of the exact spot, I wasn’t really there to watch Mr. Thornton.”
“It doesn’t have to be precise,” he said easily. “Just the general idea.” He glanced at the window. “It’s a lovely day for an outing.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I’ll get my shawl, shall I? And my hat.”
It was nearly a quarter of an hour before she came back down the stairs wearing an attractive hat, carrying her gloves and a shawl. She was anxious as he followed her out to the motorcar and helped her into the seat. But once settled and on her way, she was a little more at her ease.
She said as they went over the bridge by the mill, “The butcher’s boy, when he delivered the sausages this morning, told me that Mr. Banner—the butcher—told him that his knee was throbbing at dawn. It means a change in the weather. Mr. Banner’s knee is as good as a barometer.”
Looking up at the sky, Rutledge said, “It appears to be clear enough now.”
“We’re due a little cooler weather soon.”
And that could mean fog.
When they reached Burwell, he left the car below St. Mary’s and they walked around to the west door.
“Were people gathering here before the service?”
“A few, greeting each other.”
“The door was open?”
“Oh, yes, the church was half full by the time I arrived.”
“And you went directly inside?”
“No, there were several people before me, standing just beyond the doorway, where their voices didn’t carry. But they had made it difficult for me to pass by. And so I stopped and looked around. That’s when I saw him. There.” She pointed to her left.
“Not under the trees by the churchyard.”
“No. That tree, the large one, just below that house. He was standing in its shadow.”
“And yet you recognized him.” There was doubt in his voice.
“Would you remember a pretty girl you’d seen one Sunday going into your church and sitting just ahead of you?” she asked tartly.
Rutledge laughed. “Very likely.”
“He’d changed, of course. After all, it’s been six years. But I knew him.”
“Was Captain Hutchinson standing outside the church at that time?”
“You know, I do believe he was. Yes, that’s right. He was one of the group of men waiting for the coffin. I’d forgot that. I didn’t know who he was, at that time, you see. Not until the luncheon.”
“This is why I wanted to bring you here. To help you remember. What did you do then?”
“The knot of people ahead of me turned and went inside, and I followed. It was getting on to time for the service. I didn’t wish to be late.”
“Did you expect Thornton to come in and sit down?”
“Yes, of course. There was a vacant place beside me. I’d moved over a little to make room.”
“But he didn’t come in?”
“No, at the first hymn I looked to see if he’d taken a place behind me. And then the service was beginning, and I didn’t think about him again.”
Rutledge felt that part not quite true, but he said, “And when the service ended?”
“The coffin was taken out, and Miss Clayton followed, with Captain Hutchinson supporting her, and the Colonel on her other side. I was not that far behind, the coffin was just being carried into the churchyard over there. The path. And I looked up. He was still there. Mr. Thornton. As far as I could tell, he’d been there all along.”
“Could you see what he was looking at?”
“Not really. I expect he was watching the coffin being carried out, and Miss Clayton with the Colonel on one side, the Captain on the other. You couldn’t have missed their uniforms, could you?”
“And then?”
“We went into the churchyard to the family’s graveside. I couldn’t see Mr. Thornton then. And when the committal was over we spoke to Miss Clayton. She was very cut up, losing her brother. After that we went in twos and threes to the luncheon. Mr. Thornton was gone. I didn’t know which direction he’d taken, and I thought perhaps the service was too—emotional, and he would join the mourners for lunch. But he didn’t. I didn’t see him again.”
Rutledge said, “Stay here, if you will. I’ll walk over to the tree where Thornton was standing. It will help me to see what he must have seen.”
He moved toward the tree, taking his time, and when he got there, just under the overhang of branches heavy with dark green leaves, he turned.
Lifting his voice a little, he said, “Is this about right?”
She could hear him, but barely. He thought that with the organ still playing as people left the church, Thornton could see but not hear what was happening. Even during the funeral service, he probably heard only the music and perhaps the responses.
“Yes, that’s it,” she answered.
Rutledge stood there, looking toward the church and the leafy, shaded churchyard. Could he pick out a face? Certainly he could recognize Priscilla Bartram. But someone else? Someone he hadn’t expected to see? A sniper was chosen for his superb eyesight.
Surely if Thornton had come this far, into Burwell, he would have joined the others in the church. And yet he hadn’t.
Why?
At that moment the door of the church, just behind Miss Bartram, opened and the Rector stepped out. Even at this distance, Rutledge recognized him at once. The Rector paused to speak to Miss Bartram, and Rutledge could just hear the murmur of voices. But reading her reaction to the Rector finding her there, he could see that Miss Bartram was at a loss for what to say.
Then, in desperation, she turned and gestured in his direction. The Rector, following her pointing
hand, seemed surprised. He collected Miss Bartram with a casual hand on her elbow, and the pair walked toward Rutledge.
He left his vantage point, having seen what he needed to see, and went to meet them.
“Good morning,” the Rector said. “A bit early for police work.”
“Miss Bartram was helping me understand what was happening during the funeral for Major Clayton,” Rutledge said easily.
“Yes, I see. But surely you aren’t suggesting that you now have evidence that involves St. Mary’s?”
“Not at all,” he responded. “But I did wonder at what vantage point someone might have been standing when Captain Hutchinson arrived. I’m not satisfied that the killing in Ely was the first that someone had seen of the victim. Perhaps it was here that the idea for killing him began.”
“Oh, I think not,” the Rector said. “That would mean someone in Burwell was the guilty man.”
“If not this village, then another one,” Rutledge reminded him. “Our killer must come from somewhere.”
“Well, I shan’t keep you,” the Rector said. “I have a betrothed couple to counsel. Good day, Inspector. Good day, Miss Bartram. I shall pray for our killer as you call him. And for you as well, as you close the circle on this man.”
With a nod he was gone.
Miss Bartram said, “I couldn’t think what to say when he asked what brought me to Burwell. It was such a shock to meet him again.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rutledge said. “You’ve been quite splendid,” he added with a smile. “It couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“No. Not when I realized that the Captain was there, not a foot from me. What if someone had decided to shoot him then?”
“I should think there wasn’t time to plan his death. But later, when he came to Ely, it was the best chance anyone could have asked for.”
He led her back to the motorcar, and as they walked, she said, “I shouldn’t like to be a policeman, always suspicious of everything and everyone.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Not everyone has a secret to hide.”
At that she looked quickly up at him. Then she changed her mind, in the end saying nothing until they were in the motorcar, driving out of the village toward the road to Wriston. “Why are you so interested in Mr. Thornton? You’re thinking he must be this murderer. But why? I don’t see that he could be that sort of man.”