by Charles Todd
And then, coming down the road, whistling in a monotone under his breath, was Bob Rawlings. Frowning, apparently deep in thought, he was swinging the stick he was carrying rhythmically back and forth, back and forth in an unconscious counterpoint to whatever tune was in his head. In his left hand was an envelope, and as Rawlings got closer, Rutledge could see the stamp affixed to it and the black scrawl of a name.
He waited for Rawlings to come back again from the post office. And it wasn’t long before the man appeared, for he’d wasted no time in the village. The frown had deepened into a scowl, and he was wielding his stick like a scythe now, viciously whipping off the heads of the wildflowers along the verge of the road. Taking out on them the mood he was in.
Hamish said, “If he’s no’ a killer now, he’ll grow inta one.”
As Rawlings passed Rutledge’s vantage point, Rutledge could see the edge of an envelope sticking out of his pocket.
A reply to previous letters? Or one for Mrs. Bennett? Impossible to tell, but something had happened to infuriate the man.
Rutledge made certain that Rawlings was well out of hearing before cranking the motorcar and driving quickly toward the village.
The postmistress was reluctant to let him see the letter, but her feelings about the men at the Bennett house overcame her scruples once more, and Rutledge recognized the direction on the letter as the same one he’d seen on his last visit.
The postmistress glanced around, then leaned toward Rutledge.
In a whisper she said, “And I just handed him one from that same address.”
“Has he had replies before this?”
“Not one. But someone wrote this time, and when he tore it open, he didn’t like what he read. He went out of here looking like a thundercloud.”
And that, Rutledge thought, explained what he himself had witnessed.
What had been in that letter?
“I telt ye,” Hamish railed as Rutledge drove toward the Thames and the crossing for Essex. “He isna’ coming for ye himsel’. And you willna’ know the face of the man who will shoot ye.”
“It’s a risk I must take. And even so, that man will lead the Yard back to Diaz.”
“The tail of the tiger can be as dangerous as the teeth.”
Rutledge said, “It’s always possible for the goat to outsmart the tiger.”
“It doesna’ happen verra’ often,” Hamish said dourly, and blessedly fell silent for several hours, leaving Rutledge alone with his own thoughts.
It was very late when Rutledge reached Dedham, and a summer storm was breaking over the town, the flashes of lightning illuminating the stone face of the handsome church, the windows of the shops across from it, and the tall façade of the inn.
He found a room, slept hard, and in the morning, made his way to Dr. Townsend’s surgery.
It was three quarters of an hour before Townsend came in, late for his hours because of an early call from one of the outlying farms. He apologized to the patients waiting to see him, and then nodded to Rutledge.
“Will you come into my office, Inspector?”
Rutledge followed him, and as soon as the door was shut behind them, Townsend turned to him. “Mr. MacFarland has no recollection of what happened to him. He was sitting in the arbor studying something by Liszt, and the next thing he knew he was awakening in my examining room.”
“I had hoped for better.”
“I’m sure you had. It’s a wonder the man’s brain functions at all. He could have suffered irreversible damage.”
“That’s the other matter I came to discuss. It’s important for several days that you tell anyone who inquires that MacFarland has suffered just that. It will save his life. He knows something that has already proved dangerous once.”
“Miss French came to inquire, when she’d learned MacFarland was here. I told her he was still not stable, but I thought it possible that he’d make a full recovery.”
“Then let it be known that the man suffered a massive stroke as a result of his injuries.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t tell people he’s had a stroke, and then tell them I was mistaken, that he’s recovered completely. I’m a doctor—”
Rutledge remembered that Townsend had already been involved in a scandal because of his drunkenness and a missed diagnosis.
“Then tell them that you were asked to help the police in their inquiries. If you don’t,” Rutledge said, “someone will walk through that door determined to kill him, and you and your staff will be at risk with him.”
Alarmed, Townsend said, “Surely no one would carry this business so far?”
“Will you take that chance?” Rutledge asked. “Your wife and daughter are just next door. If there’s shooting and one of them comes running, what then?”
“Leave my family out of it,” Townsend answered, angry.
“I’m only saying—”
“Yes, I know what you’re saying. There has been enough unpleasantness for them to deal with already, and I won’t add to their troubles. People believe what they hear first, and don’t always accept what they’re told about it afterward.”
Rutledge thought it was more likely the father who was having trouble with the whispers. And he suspected that Miss Townsend might have accepted Lewis French’s proposal of marriage at her parents’ behest. She had been very concerned for him, but there had been none of the tearful pleas for information that usually followed a much loved fiancé’s disappearance.
Dr. Townsend was finally persuaded to see the advantages to himself of protecting the tutor, and then Rutledge went in to visit MacFarland. He was still pale and shaken, but he was quick to grasp what Rutledge had proposed. “I can’t think of any of my pupils who held a grudge. I don’t know what this is about.”
Rutledge made certain the door was closed and no one was listening outside it. Coming back to MacFarland’s bedside, he said in a low voice, “I think this has to do with the man who came unannounced into the house the evening you interviewed for the position of tutor.”
“But that’s decades into the past. I can’t imagine what it has to do with me.”
“You were there. You knew what had transpired. You could therefore point a finger at the man responsible.”
“Yes, but he is in an institution. Surely they knew why. There must have been some sort of treatment or the like. I’m not the only source of information. Am I?”
“They did know at the time why Diaz was there. But it wasn’t fully laid out in his records—perhaps to protect the French family. You are the last link with the truth. You could tell the police why Diaz came to St. Hilary and what he did that night that sent him to the asylum. You are not a member of the family, your evidence would be objective and accepted. And so you became a target.”
“Dear God. I’d not thought about it in years. It wasn’t until you came and asked questions that it popped back into my mind.”
“Do you remember anything at all about the attack on you?”
“Nothing. I seem to recall hearing a rustling in the high grass just beyond the arbor. I thought it was an animal foraging. We have quite a number of squirrels and other creatures that come quite close to the house. I sometimes watch them from my dining room window. And so I paid no heed,” he ended, regret in his voice.
Rutledge left soon after.
He found Agnes French at home, and reported to her that MacFarland had had a stroke as a result of his injuries. “I’m told you got a favorable report this morning. A sad turn of events.”
“Well, in a way it’s Mr. MacFarland’s fault,” she replied. “I’ve mentioned to him several times that he should clear out some of the undergrowth beneath the trees and open up the section of his property closest to our park. He harbors stoats and hares and heaven knows what else there, and we have trouble on our side of the wall because he refuses to do as I ask.”
Rutledge smiled. He had learned to expect Miss French to feel that other people’s problems were of their own ma
king.
She thanked him for his news, sad though it was, and he left, glancing up at the painting above the Queen Anne table. He thought perhaps it had been painted in Madeira, which explained its pride of place there by the door. And he was struck again by the strong emotions caught by the artist.
He had put off the reason for being here in Essex as long as he could. Turning the bonnet of the motorcar toward the church and the cottage where Valerie Whitman lived, he prepared himself for what had to be done.
Walking up the path to the door, he remembered how she had reacted to visitors coming out of curiosity rather than compassion. He would pay her the courtesy of taking her away without making it obvious that she was his prisoner, destined for a London prison.
Hamish said, “She willna’ care for that either.”
And Rutledge thought Hamish was right.
Knocking at the door, he waited patiently for Miss Whitman to answer his summons. When she didn’t, he knocked again, a little louder this time. She still refused to come to the door. He was reaching for the latch when it opened just the barest crack.
“Go away. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
“Will you walk with me? I’ve left my motorcar on the far side of the churchyard, as usual. I’d like to talk to you where your neighbors can’t hear us.”
“Unless you’ve come to tell me that my grandfather has been released from prison and his name cleared, I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say.”
“Then let me in, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
“No!” Her voice was sharp. “Please, will you go away and leave me in peace?”
“I can’t, Miss Whitman. I’ll stay here on your doorstep until you agree to come with me.”
Her voice changed in an instant, low and hurt. “Have you come to arrest me?”
“Yes.”
“But why? I’ve done nothing. I can’t leave St. Hilary just now. If I do—if I do, I shan’t be able to face any of my neighbors ever again. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“I’m sorry. I’m a policeman, Miss Whitman. I do what I have to do for the sake of the law.” Surprised at the depth of his apology, he added, “I don’t want to do this. But I’ve been given orders, and I must obey them.”
She made to close the door, but his boot was in the crack, preventing it.
“Give me time to pack a few things,” she pleaded.
“Once this door is shut, I can’t rely on its opening again.”
Suddenly angry with him, her eyes a blazing green in her pale face, she reached behind her for a shawl, then flung the door wide enough to step out in front of him before pulling it shut with a snap behind her.
“I’ll go as I am,” she told him, and set off down the path toward the churchyard.
“Miss Whitman—”
Catching her up, he walked beside her in silence until they had crossed the road and entered the churchyard. He wanted to take her arm and make her face him, to tell her that he was trying to free her grandfather and keep her out of prison. But he couldn’t do either of those things.
They were beside the church when she finally spoke. “I daresay they won’t let me have my own things in a prison, anyway. I’ve read about the way the Suffragettes were treated. It was inhuman. I don’t expect conditions have improved in ten years.”
“A little” was all he could say. The warders would be cold, distrustful, and inured to pleas of innocence, and the other inmates would be of a class she had surely never known.
The curate was coming toward them as they rounded the apse, a broad smile on his face. “Well met. I’ve just finished the painting. How does it look?”
And only as he finished his greeting did he realize that there was something wrong.
Rutledge said easily, “I’ve come to bring Miss Whitman to London. I’m afraid I can’t stop. But from here, it appears to be quite good workmanship.”
The curate turned to Miss Whitman. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Nothing has been right since my grandfather was accused of murder.”
“For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine that he— I mean to say, I don’t know him well, but it seems impossible . . .” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.
“Thank you. That was kind,” she rallied enough to say.
He walked with them the rest of the way to the motorcar and, with an expression of concern on his face, watched as Rutledge helped Valerie Whitman into her seat. As if mindful of his duty, he sprang forward to turn the crank. “Is there anything I could do? Please tell me.”
But she looked away, not answering him.
And then Rutledge was driving down the lane toward the main road, his face grimly set. Beside him, for the first time, Valerie Whitman’s calm cracked, and she began to cry, turning away to look out the window, so that he couldn’t see the depth of her despair.
Chapter Twenty-three
Rutledge found the turning for Flatford Mill and stopped up the hill from the river as he had before.
Valerie Whitman, alarm in her eyes, asked, “Why are we here? I thought you were taking me to London.”
“I am. We can afford a few minutes of grace. I shouldn’t worry if I were you. Let’s walk, shall we?”
He had to persuade her to go with him. They had reached the farm when he heard another vehicle stopping where he’d left his own. He thought it might be a motorcycle.
Someone had been following him at a discreet distance ever since he’d left Dedham behind, and he was worried. He had felt the presence, seen flashes of sunlight on metal, and yet no one caught up with him whether he slowed or sped up. He hadn’t expected Diaz to act so quickly. Not when there was a witness in the motorcar with him.
He urged her across the bridge and to the far side of the river, where there was a little more protection. The way they had just come was in the open. The reflection of the brick mill and the miller’s cottage was so perfect that it might have been a photograph. Not a ripple stirred it, and despite the age of the building and the need for repair, it was still a scene Constable would have recognized. But Miss Whitman ignored it.
They had just reached the trees when she stopped and refused to go on.
“What is it? I won’t go another step until you tell me.”
“The trees just there,” he said harshly, taking her arm and forcing her ahead of him. She turned on him, ready to struggle against his grip, when he saw something—someone—move to the top of the slope across the stream. But he had reached the shadows now, no longer a target for anything short of a rifle.
“Someone has been following us. I don’t know who it is. But I have made enemies during this inquiry. And I don’t want to drag you into my trouble.”
She stared at him, then turned to look back toward the slope they had come down. It had twisted and turned, shaped by oxen and drays and wains, but she could see no one.
“Are you certain?” Turning back to him, she studied his face. “I don’t see anyone. Is he waiting by the motorcar, do you think?”
“It’s possible.” He was still holding her arm, and he released it, stepping back.
“How did you make enemies?” she asked. “On my grandfather’s account? Or on mine?”
“I was looking into Howard French’s past. There was the possibility of an illegitimate child, and that was worth pursuing. But it led nowhere. And so I began to look at the other relationships in the family. That led me to something quite unexpected. One night a stranger came to the house and threatened French and his son. It was quickly covered up, the man taken away. I explored that link through MacFarland, and learned that the man not only was still alive but had been released from the asylum where he’d been locked up. I had little to work with, a hunch, the nature of the man himself, the feelings he must have harbored against the French family.”
“I’d never heard anything about this. Not from the family, not from my grandfather, no one,” she said. “Why haven’t the pol
ice arrested him, questioned him?”
His eyes still on the road, Rutledge gave her the briefest explanation, adding, “The problem is, whatever I want to believe, I can’t prove any of it. And the Yard requires proof. Evidence. Something to be going on with. In the eyes of the police, this man has not done anything wrong, and what’s more, there’s no real proof now he ever threatened anyone. Twenty years has seen to that.”
“Would what you believe clear my grandfather . . . and me?”
“Very likely. Yes, I think it would.”
Sunlight, filtering through the leaves, brought out the honey gold in her hair, and he found himself thinking that she should be painted this way.
Clearing his mind of anything but Hamish’s voice, he said, “Stay here. I’m going back to the motorcar. If no one is there, if the motor hasn’t been tampered with, I’ll come back for you.”
“No, I don’t want to stay here alone.”
“He couldn’t have reached the outbuildings over there without being seen. He’d have had to cross that patch of open, sunlit ground.”
“I know. But if you can circle around him, whoever he is, then he can circle around you. I’m safer if I go than if I stay.”
“If I give you an order at any point, you’ll obey it instantly, do you understand?”
“I do. I promise.”
“Then stay behind me.”
“He must know I’m here.”
“I’m sure he does. But any shot at me could hit you instead.”
“He’s armed?” That shook her, but she said stoutly, “I’ll stay clear.”
He walked briskly back around the millpond and over the bridge toward the clearing, his shoulder blades twitching as he waited for the shot that miraculously didn’t come. And then they began to climb the sloping, rutted track that led to the high ground where he had left the motorcar.
And still there was no challenge, no shot being fired.
Nor was there anyone there when they came in sight of his motorcar. It stood alone on the knoll. And although he looked the motorcar over carefully—tires, under the bonnet, and even under the frame—it appeared to be untouched.