by Charles Todd
Hamish was saying, “Ye’ve been reduced to this, then. A distraction any green constable on probation could ha’ provided.”
“Not by choice,” Rutledge answered curtly, under his breath.
“Aye, he’s a bad enemy, yon chief superintendent. M’ Granny would ha’ found him in the bowl of water, and put a curse on him.”
“I wonder what my godfather would have to say to that.”
“He’s no’ a Scot. He wouldna’ be told what went on below the stairs.”
The voice was not really there-although Rutledge had never dared to turn his head to see. It was in his own mind, deep-seated since July 1916, when both he and Corporal MacLeod had cracked under the stress of the ferocious Somme Offensive. But it was Hamish MacLeod, the good soldier, the caring young Scot putting his men ahead of himself, who had faced the hastily collected firing squad intended to keep order in the midst of the bedlam of battle. The charge was refusing an order, but the order had been to lead his men back into heavy fire for one more hopeless attempt to reach the German machine gunners-one more suicidal command sent up from the rear. Hamish had continued to refuse, and Rutledge had had no choice but to execute his corporal. For the greater good, for the men who would have to die anyway, whether their corporal was with them or not. Military necessity. He himself had delivered the coup de grace, refusing to leave to any of his men that last horror-only to be buried alive moments later by a British shell fired too short.
And Rutledge knew then, and in all his waking moments since that dreadful half-death, that one more night-one more day-would have seen him refuse orders as well, refuse to be a party to more ungodly slaughter. Instead, he’d been patched up at the nearest aid station and sent back to the trenches, a man emotionally destroyed, trying desperately to protect his men, and all the while, the voice of a dead man ringing in his head and in his dreams and in his ears.
Rutledge said, “There’s the park.” He wasn’t aware that he’d spoken aloud, but the dog turned its head as if the words were meant for him. “Good dog,” he said, and then considered Hamish’s remark. Rutledge’s godfather, David Trevor, had shut himself away in his Scottish hunting lodge after the death of his son Ross at sea. There had been times when Rutledge had been sorely tempted to confide in Trevor about his own war, about what he had done, but Scotland held too many memories now. And however much Trevor had wanted Rutledge to befriend and guide Fiona, the young woman who was foster mother to Trevor’s grandson, it was not possible. She was the girl Hamish had intended to marry after the war, and she still grieved for her dead fiance. Every time Rutledge looked into her face, his own wretched guilt closed his throat.
It should have been Hamish, not himself, who had come home at the end of the war.
He could feel himself losing touch with the present, the London street he was crossing in the midst of traffic. His surroundings faded into images of torn and bloody young bodies lying in the mud, and the sounds of men who screamed in agony as they were mortally hit, or begged for their wives and mothers to help them. He could hear the bolts on the rifles of the firing squad as a round was chambered, and see his men shivering in a trench, deathly afraid of going over the top one more time, too exhausted to fire their weapons, and yet driven to climb the ladders out of the greater fear of letting their comrades down.
“’Ware!”
A motorcar’s horn blew in his face, jolting him into the realization that he and the dog were in the middle of the street, vehicles swerving to miss them.
Rutledge swore, pulled the dog’s lead closer, and managed to get them to the far side of the road as Hamish told him roundly to mind what he was about.
And what would Chief Inspector Phipps think of half of London staring at the madman and dog intent on getting themselves killed on The Mall? If that didn’t attract the attention of the murderer, nothing Phipps had planned would distract him.
But the shock of what had just happened reminded Rutledge that it was cowardly to ask another man, even his godfather, to hear what no one should have to hear, just to buy a little peace for himself. He’d managed on his own thus far. He could manage a little longer. But dear God, it was lonely!
Round and round it went, the circle that had nowhere to end.
They had reached Green Park, he and the dog, and Rutledge could see Bevins courting the police matron in her demure nanny’s uniform. The hardness of her face betrayed her, but Bevins was the epitome of a lovesick young clerk, leaning earnestly toward the woman, as if pleading with her. His Welsh charm was evident.
Thrusting his wretched mood aside, Rutledge slowly walked the dog through the park, giving the animal time to explore the smells frozen in the grass. The very image of a man with time on his hands, an ex-soldier, perhaps, down on his luck, the greatcoat and an old hat betraying his reduced circumstances. He made himself stoop a little, to change his appearance and fit his role.
The dog caught sight of Bevins, but the constable was prepared for that, leaping to his feet and coming to kneel by the animal, petting it while looking up at Rutledge, asking questions about the breed. When Rutledge called the dog to heel, Bevins got to his feet, touched his hat to Rutledge, and went back to his wooing. A good man.
During the interlude, Rutledge had glimpsed someone entering the park. It was Phipps, walking too fast for a man strolling, his eyes everywhere. He took in the nanny and the constable, looked across at a corporal who was leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette, and a heavyset sergeant in a checked tweed coat, seated on a bench casually reading the morning papers. But the Chief Inspector passed through without speaking to anyone. It was clear he had come to judge the authenticity of his actors, and was satisfied.
Rutledge finished his tour of the park and returned to the Yard, the dog thoroughly pleased with its outing.
He met Inspector Mickelson on the stairs, and they passed without speaking. Mickelson was dressed as a banker, furled umbrella, hat set squarely on his head, on his way to take his own part in Phipps’s play.
The dog growled deep in his throat as Mickelson went by, and Rutledge patted the massive head. Mickelson was a stickler for the rules, and one of Bowles’s favorites. He had also nearly got Rutledge killed in Westmorland. It was with some satisfaction that Rutledge accepted the dog’s judgment corroborating his own.
After half an hour, Bevins also returned, his face flushed with the cold wind.
“Any luck?” Rutledge asked, meeting him in the corridor.
“No, sir.” Then he grinned. “I’m a chimney sweep next. Got the clothes off a man we took up for housebreaking last week. Pray God there’s no lice in them.”
Rutledge had walked the dog the third time, glimpsing the sweep working on his brushes as if something about them troubled him. The nanny was now unrecognizable as a shopgirl flirting with a young army private. Another man was arguing with a friend, and Rutledge caught part of what Sergeant Gibson was saying so earnestly-his views on the Labor Party and what the government ought to do about people out of work.
We’ve got the same number of actors-Rutledge thought, bringing the dog to heel again after allowing it to explore among the trees along the edge of the grass. It doesn’t vary.
No murderer worth his salt would walk into such a carefully managed trap.
And then Phipps was there again, carrying his umbrella, a folded copy of The Times under his arm. He looked like a retired solicitor, his nose red from the cold, his attention fixed on the distant traffic, just barely heard here in the park.
It was a waste of time, Hamish was saying.
Rutledge answered, “One of the murder victims sold pipes in a shop. The other was a conductor on an omnibus. What did they have in common, that made them a target?”
“It wilna’ be how they earned their living.”
“True enough.” Rutledge let the dog walk ahead to the base of one of the great trees that had given the park its name. “This was a place where men dueled, once. A long time ago.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, aye? But to use a garrote properly, you must come from behind. No’ face-to-face. It’s no’ an honorable encounter!”
“A woman, then?”
Hamish answered, thoughtful. “There’s no woman, else yon Chief Inspector would ha’ had her name by now fra’ someone eager to turn her in for prostitution.”
“A gaming debt?”
“A warning,” Hamish countered.
And that, thought Rutledge, was very likely the case. A warning to stay in line-or die.
But for what? From whom?
He had come to the end of the park, Buckingham Palace gleaming in soot-streaked glory in the late-afternoon sun. His father had brought him here as a child to watch the Changing of the Guard. The ceremony had impressed him, and for a week he’d wanted nothing more than to be a soldier, with a bearskin hat. He smiled at the memory. He’d fallen in love with pageantry, not war. Just as so many young men had done in August 1914. And they’d learned the difference soon enough in France.
There was a man leaning against a lamppost, his face shadowed by his hat. Rutledge saw him but kept walking. From where this man stood, he could watch the comings and goings in Green Park, the bare limbs of the trees offering none of the protection of summer’s shade.
Rutledge passed him by, ignoring him. A hundred yards farther on, he found a constable and surprised him by handing over the dog to him. And then Rutledge cut through St. James’s Park, made his way back again to The Mall, and found a bench from which he could watch the man still leaning against the lamppost.
A low profile.
The wind was cold, and he could feel his feet growing numb, but he sat still, his hat tilted over his eyes as if asleep.
When the man finally left his post and turned away, Rutledge followed at a discreet distance.
3
Felicity never discovered why Matthew went to walk on the shale beach below the breakwater that morning. He enjoyed strolling by the sea. It was, he’d often said, a way of clearing his mind. The fact that he’d made it a habit of late had begun to worry her.
She’d heard nothing by breakfast, and ate her meal in anxious silence, pretending that it was normal for her husband not to join her when he had business of his own in the town. By ten o’clock when there was no word, she began to grow uneasy. She went to find his diary to be certain he’d had nothing scheduled for the day. She couldn’t settle to anything, moving from task to task, humming to herself to pretend all was well. But it was a farce, and failed to comfort her.
While Nan, the maid, was dusting the stairs, Felicity slipped out to look for the motorcar, and saw it was still in its shed. The horse that drew the dogcart had been fed, the stable mucked out, chores Matthew always dealt with before breakfast. The cart was there where it always was. Nothing had changed.
He couldn’t have returned from his walk. If there’d been someone at the door, she’d have heard it.
Matthew wasn’t in the gardens. He wasn’t in the house. A mist still concealed the Mole from view but she thought it was beginning to lift.
And no one had come to tell her that something had happened to him.
He couldn’t simply disappear-could he? She remembered those frightful landslips that occurred from time to time along the coast just west of here, when an entire cliff face could vanish into the sea. She shivered at the thought of never knowing what had become of him. Then scolded herself for letting her imagination exaggerate her fear.
By eleven, she was verging on real anxiety, pacing the floor, listening for the sound of the latch lifting or a familiar footfall in the hall. Listening for the knocker to sound.
Where was Matthew?
She had just gone up to her room for her coat and hat when she heard the knocker clanging hard against the plate on the door.
Felicity stood still for a moment, her heart thudding. And then, calling to Nan that she’d see to it, she flew down the stairs, almost flinging herself at the door, pulling it open with such force it startled the constable standing there.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” he said, as if he didn’t know her at all.
“Yes, Constable Jordan, what is it? I was just on the point of going out-”
He cut across her words. “It’s your husband, Mrs. Hamilton.”
His tone of voice as much as Matthew’s name stopped her in her tracks, one hand outstretched as if to ward off the blow that was coming.
“He’s dead.” She said it so flatly that Constable Jordan stared at her.
“No, madam-”
The relief was almost more than she could bear. “No,” she repeated.
“Here!” For an instant he thought she was going to faint before his eyes, and he reached out for her arm. “Steady on! He’s badly injured, but he’s not dead.” Yet, he added to himself. “They’ve sent me to take you to him, I can drive if you like.”
“Drive. Yes, he doesn’t have the car, does he?” She was bewildered, trying to understand. “Where is he? At Dr. Granville’s surgery?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Stop calling me madam!” she told him irritably. “You know my name, I’m not a stranger! Wait, I was just getting my coat-”
“Where were you going, if I may ask?”
“To look for him, of course. He hasn’t been home since early morning.” And she was already on her way up the stairs, ignoring what Jordan was saying to her back. In a flash she was back with her coat, and it wasn’t until she stepped into the motorcar that she realized she’d forgotten her hat.
Inspector Bennett knocked on the door of the house that was set above the little stream meandering down to the town through a broad valley. It had once been a major river, this forlorn little stream, but over the centuries it had silted up, and farmers had taken advantage of the fertile soil to carve out pasture and tillage. More a pretty cottage than a house, really, Bennett found himself thinking as he stood there, left behind when one of the more prosperous farmers had built his family a grander home upstream. Restored in the 1890s by a man retiring from ser vice in India, it was what all ex-patriots seemed to dream of: wisteria-covered doorway, sweetly blooming in the spring, thatched roof hanging low, whitewashed stucco over stone, and behind a white fence, a front garden that in summer was filled with flowers that loved the cooler English weather-lupine and roses and sweet william and larkspur, with hollyhocks towering over the lot. The kind of garden his own grandmother had had, come to that.
There was no answer to his knock, and he tried again.
The cottage was actually outside Bennett’s jurisdiction, set a good half mile from the town’s inland boundaries. He was within his rights to be here, due to the nature of events, and the charge would be murder soon enough.
The door seemed to open reluctantly, and Stephen Mallory stuck his head out. He was unshaven, and smelled of whiskey. Bennett made a mental note of that, examining Mallory’s eyes. They were bloodshot, and there was a cut on his cheekbone under the left one. But Mallory was fully dressed.
“That’s a nasty cut, sir. How did you come by it?”
“I don’t know. I think I fell out of bed. What do you want?”
“It’s in connection with a body we found this morning. Might I come in, sir?”
“A body?” Mallory seemed to gather his wits. “Here? You mean in Hampton Regis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not the war, then…” He wiped a hand across his mouth, relief evident. He’d dreamed-but let it go.
“No, sir.”
Mallory stepped out onto the vine-covered porch, his eyes wary now. “What body?”
“I’d rather talk inside, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Why? There’s no one here to listen, saving the occasional sparrow. What body?”
It was Bennett’s turn to feel reluctance. “An early riser found the body of a man down by the breakwater.”
Mallory seemed to relax. “Washed ashore, you mean?”
“No, sir, though the tide had nearly taken him. He hadn’t
been in the water long, as far as we could tell.”
“What’s it to do with me, then?”
“You sometimes take an early walk along the water or the cliffs. Did you do either today?”
“You mean, did I see the body and not report it. No, I didn’t walk this morning. I was-under the weather. Does this body have a name? Or do you want me to identify him, if I can? Is that why you’re here?”
Standing face-to-face with Mallory, Bennett found it difficult to measure his man. It would have been more useful-and more comfortable-inside, where he could have sat across the room and watched the play of emotions.
“We’ve identified the victim, sir. But I’d like to ask you a few questions first, if I may. Can you tell me where you were last evening and early this morning?”
Mallory was nothing if not quick. The truth began to dawn on him, and there was something in his eyes that startled the inspector. Relief? Anger, certainly, and then something else. A very real fear.
“He’s dead, you say?”
“I haven’t said,” Bennett responded. “If you’ll just answer my questions-”
“It’s Matthew Hamilton they’ve found, isn’t it?” For an instant Bennett thought Mallory was going to take the lapels of his coat and shake the answer out of him. “Isn’t it!”
“Why should you think that, sir?” Bennett asked, keeping his tone level, unchallenging.
But Stephen Mallory was already out the door, shoving him aside and racing toward the bicycle that Bennett had left against the gatepost.
He caught the handlebars, dragged the bicycle with him, and opening the door, tossed it high and into the rear of his motorcar. He wheeled to reach the crank, but Bennett was there, trying to catch him around the shoulders and wrestle him to the ground. Mallory threw him off with the strength of a madman, Bennett thought, as he found himself hitting a fence post with a crack that made his head swim.
It was all the time Mallory needed. He’d brought the engine to life with the crank and was already stepping into the motorcar when Bennett charged him again, tackling him around the hips. Mallory kicked out with his free leg, bracing himself with the frame of the door and the steering wheel. Bennett’s breath came out in a long whoosh! Then Mallory was free and throwing himself into the driver’s seat, reaching for the gears.