by Charles Todd
“Ach, it will no’ be any trouble to add a verandah. It will take two months to put up the house, I’m thinking. If we begin in August or September, the inside will be finished by Christmas. I’d start this week if I could, but I’m told the builders willna’ have the time until well into August.”
“It will be a verra’ fine house,” she said, and reached out to touch his hand, a spontaneous gesture.
He froze. “Lass, don’t do that,” he said huskily. “I’ll be asking you to marry me now, this day.” He tried to keep his voice level. “And I havena’ asked your uncle if I could speak to you.”
“And you should,” she said quietly. “It’s the proper thing to do. Still, it would do no harm to inquire of the lady in question if she cares for you. That’s to say, before you add yon verandah.”
Rising quickly, he walked a little distance from her. “Fiona. I’ll no’ be rich. But you’ll want for nothing. You ken that. I’ll take care of you as long as there’s breath in my body.”
She rose as well, shading her eyes as she looked toward him. “I’ve never doubted you, Hamish MacLeod.” She hesitated. “Is it a proposal, then?”
“Aye,” he said, holding out his hands. “It’s a proposal. Lass, will ye have me?”
“I will,” she said softly. “Yes, I will.”
“Ye’re verra’ young, Fiona. I didna’ want to rush you, I do na’ want you to regret saying yes. Are ye sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve been sure for weeks, now.”
She came to him, taking his hands, leaning close for his kiss. He bent his head but kissed her on the cheek, gently.
He would speak to her uncle tomorrow. He had a feeling the man might make him wait until her next birthday, in September. But that was fair enough. He could wait forever for Fiona if he had to.
And on this same day, a man sat at the table in his mother’s kitchen and listened for the undertaker’s carriage. The doctor had just gone, and the silence in the house was almost more than he could bear. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed overly loud, and after a moment, to drown it out, he got up and began to make himself a cup of tea.
She’d died of a broken heart. No matter what the doctor had given as a cause of death, Henry knew better. It had taken years to kill her, that broken heart. She’d had a son to raise, a duty to his dead father to see him right before she could give in to her grief. And yet grief had been a presence in the house for as long as he could remember. Perhaps it was fitting that she had died on this day of all others. The anniversary of the day his father had been hanged for murder. He’d been five, and he’d sat beside his mother in this very kitchen as they watched the hands of the clock creep toward noon. And when it had chimed the hour, she had thrown the bowl of sugar at it, as if to stop it. To stop time. But the bowl had crashed harmlessly against the stone surround of the hearth, and he had knelt to sweep up the spilled sugar and the blue china bits that had been the bowl while she sat there and cried.
He hadn’t understood then. Murder and hanging were incomprehensible to him. But he remembered his father being taken away by two burly constables, his mother’s fists beating against their backs as she cried out and begged for a moment to say a proper good-bye.
He’d never seen his father again. He’d been left with his granny while his mother went to the Bristol Assizes and watched her husband convicted and then condemned to hang. She’d come home tight-lipped, her face nearly gray from sleepless nights and the strain of traveling to and from the trial.
“He didn’t do it. I know Evan, he didn’t. He couldn’t have,” she’d said, her voice harsh and bone dry.
He hadn’t been allowed to say good-bye to the condemned man. But on each anniversary of his father’s death, they had sat here together, he and his mother, his father’s photograph in her worn hands, and watched the clock.
“They killed him,” she’d said once. “They took him from us and killed him. It wasn’t right. He had a family, but no one in the village cared about that. No one in Bristol gave us a thought. Cold and black-hearted all of them, and they didn’t care.”
She had never told him what his father had done. But people seldom came to the house after his father had been carried off to gaol. And his mother had had to take in mending and then washing to make ends meet. It had taken every penny they could scrape together to keep food on their table, clothes on their backs. He himself had gone to work as early as he could, to help provide for the two of them. And it was then he’d learned why his father had been hanged.
“Killed Mr. Atkins,” they said. “That’s what he done. In cold blood. He claimed that Mr. Atkins’s son had cheated him, but it was all a lie. Young Mr. Atkins was upstanding, a good husband, a member of the church. And your father was ne’er-do-well, a nobody who liked his drink. You’re no better than he is, so keep your place if you want to work here.”
Henry had tried to ask his mother about what they had said, and she told him his father had been falsely accused, that Mr. Atkins’s friends had refused to believe that the man could be both cruel and mean.
They hadn’t cared. His mother had been right about that. When she was unable to wash the clothes of her betters, he’d done it himself, and never told a soul. Working in the back of the greengrocer’s shop all day and staying up to wash the linens and the bedding and the tea towels and the stockings and overalls and God knew what. Pressing them dry, folding them neatly, and carrying them back to the people who owned them, before going on to work another day in the shop.
Taking a deep breath he tried to think what to do, now that his mother was gone. He hated this village, he hated the people in it, and he only wanted to get away. He’d stayed this long for her sake. He couldn’t have left her. He could never have been that selfish.
The clock on the mantelpiece showed nearly noon. He stared at it now, waiting for the hands to reach twelve, and the little chimes to ring out. He got up and went to his mother’s room, to find the photograph of his father that she’d kept by her bed. Stopping only for a moment to look down at her worn, peaceful face.
And then he went back to the kitchen, held his father’s photograph in his hands as she had done and waited.
By the time the undertaker had come to fetch his mother’s body, he’d made up his mind. As soon as the funeral was over, he’d go away where he wasn’t known and could live a decent life.
But sitting there in the silent house, the memory of his mother’s voice and her presence filled the room. He could almost hear her telling him not to leave with his tail between his legs, not to slip away in the night like a thief.
He hadn’t slept the night before. He hadn’t rested all through the long, lonely day. He was nearly drunk with fatigue, he hadn’t eaten since noon on Friday. He couldn’t think clearly. As the long rays of the summer sun faded into sunset and then into darkness, he got up finally and began to pack. Taking only what he needed, only what meant something to him or to his mother, he would be ready to set out as soon as the service ended. When he had the money, he’d send to have a stone placed on his mother’s grave. A large stone. He’d see to it, if he had to starve to do it.
He debated about the clock, then took the weight off and padded the pendulum with rags, wrapping the clock and the weights in an old blanket before adding them to his bundle.
It was while searching through the house to find everything that he should take, that he found two things. In a drawer in his mother’s room, yellowed cuttings of his father’s trial, which his mother had never shown him. And something unexpected in the tiny room behind the kitchen.
Squatting, he stared at it. Found himself thinking about the contents of the pail. He wasn’t quite sure where it had come from, or why his mother had bothered to bring it here, or hide it behind a barrel of rags. Opening the pail, he peered inside, then put the lid back in place.
Later, after he’d read through all the cuttings, studying the notes she’d scrawled in the margins, the idea seemed to come o
ut of nowhere. As if his mother had spoken in his ear. He listened, considered the possible repercussions, and decided he didn’t care.
She must have had something like it in mind herself, for the feeling to be so very strong.
2
On the Monday morning, Rutledge called on Major George Gordon, and found him in his study, working on accounts. He looked up as Rutledge was announced, and smiled.
A broad-shouldered man with blue eyes and dark hair streaked with gray, he’d been a soldier all his life. In the spring, he’d retired to take over the management of the family estates from his younger brother, who had fallen ill. Even as he smiled, lines of worry bracketed his mouth. According to the doctors, it was not certain that Kenneth would live past the summer. And the brothers were close.
“Come to make it official, have you?” Gordon asked. “Jean’s feet hardly touched the ground last evening.”
She had promised Ian she wouldn’t say anything to her parents until he’d asked her father’s permission to speak to her. And perhaps she hadn’t, but she had made it clear that something had happened. The Gordons hadn’t found it hard to guess what that was.
“I’m sorry I spoke to Jean out of turn,” he said, taking the chair that Gordon had indicated. “If you wish me to withdraw my proposal, I shall.”
“Nonsense. It’s a good match. And she’s pleased. That’s what matters most to me. If you’ve come for my blessing, I give it freely.”
Relieved, Rutledge said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best to make her happy.”
“I know you will. I’ve been friends with your godfather, David Trevor, for some time. He tells me you have a strong interest in architecture. Any thoughts about joining his firm?”
Trevor had asked him, once it was certain that Rutledge wasn’t following in his father’s footsteps, if architecture held more interest than the law. “The door’s always open, Ian. Ross already has the makings of a fine draftsman, and he has an eye for detail. I’d be content to have both of you there, with a view to a partnership down the road. What do you say?”
But Rutledge had had to say no. With some regret. He was close to David and knew his future would be certain with the Scotsman.
Now, facing Gordon, Rutledge said carefully, “I’ve considered his offer, sir. Perhaps one day.”
“Yes, yes, best to keep an open mind.” Gordon nodded. But Rutledge noted the slight frown in his eyes.
If Gordon had had a choice, he would gladly have seen his daughter marrying a career Army officer. But a solicitor with a noted firm, or an architect, would have done very well. He could hardly tell Rutledge to leave the police. But it was clear that he hoped as this man’s responsibilities grew, he’d come to his senses.
Rutledge, on the brink of answering the thought, wisely held his tongue.
Gordon offered him a celebratory drink, early as it was, and then toasted the future, saying, “She’s my only daughter. This day was bound to come, but every father has his concerns about the man his child will choose. You’ll understand this better, once you have children of your own. Meanwhile, I can say that Jean’s mother and I are both delighted and wish you every joy.”
Rutledge couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Thank you, sir. Jean has made me very happy.” He finished his whisky and set the glass down on the tray.
“Her mother and I would like to arrange a party, once the announcement has been sent to the Times. Friday evening in two weeks’ time? Will that suit?”
They had already discussed the party, the Major and his wife. That was clear.
“Yes, of course.” And then, remembering what he did for a living, Rutledge added, “I shall put in at once for leave that evening.”
Gordon nodded, and then walked with Rutledge to the door, clapping him on the shoulder as he said, “Have the two of you considered a date for the wedding?”
“Jean has said she would like it to be at Christmas.”
“Not surprising. Elizabeth and I were wed at Christmastime. Quite a pretty affair it was. I was a young lieutenant at the time, and I can remember being terrified of her father, the Colonel. He had mustaches that were as fearsome as he was. But as I got to know him, I grew quite fond of him. I hope you and I go on as comfortably together.”
“I’d like that.” Rutledge took his leave and walked out to where he’d left his motorcar. The wash of relief he felt left him almost euphoric. Gordon had been welcoming and gracious. He’d had a far more formidable reputation with his men, although unlike the Colonel, his own father-in-law, he didn’t favor mustaches.
He smiled to himself at the thought. Gordon didn’t need them.
Arriving at the Yard, Rutledge found Chief Superintendent Bowles fuming, waiting for him to appear. There was a murder in Dorchester, the county seat of Dorset, and Rutledge was to leave at once to support the local man on the scene.
“The dead man had connections,” Bowles pointed out as he went over the file. “And it won’t do to ignore that fact. I depend upon you to act with discretion and to take great care in conducting your interviews, so as not to upset anyone. I don’t wish to hear complaints from the family or the Chief Constable.”
Rutledge had received similar instructions before, and he accepted them with a wry understanding of their source.
For Bowles, Rutledge was a useful tool. Even as he resented the man’s social presence and his education, he had profited from both. Cases such as this one required finesse, and he knew all too well that he and more of the Yard than he’d cared to count still had the rough edges of someone who’d come up through the ranks from lower-middle-class origins, and however high he rose, he would never shake those roots nor the occasional slip in accent that exposed them for all the world to see. It galled him to admit that Rutledge could move easily in circles closed to him. Still, what made Rutledge palatable was his ability to collect sound evidence that saw to it a case stood up in a courtroom. The reflected glory that accrued to the Chief Superintendent when Rutledge successfully closed an inquiry was recompense enough. For the moment.
As Rutledge packed his valise, his mind already occupied by the details forwarded by the Chief Constable, he found himself distracted by the thought that in less than six months’ time, he would be a married man. That brought a smile to his face as he walked out the door.
He was halfway down the walk when he found himself thinking that he had smiled often in the past four and twenty hours. It was, in a way, the measure of his happiness.
Despite the distance to Dorchester, southwest of London almost to the coast, he had taken the time before he left the Yard to write to Melinda Crawford, to David Trevor, and to Ross, giving them his news. He owed it to them to see that they learned of the engagement from him rather than the Times. It occurred to him as he put stamps on the envelopes that he would like to ask Ross to stand up with him. There would be an opportunity for that later.
He was glad to find Frances at home, and when he came into her sitting room, he told her, quite simply, “There’s an inquiry in Dorset. I have to leave straightaway. But before I go, I wanted to tell you. I spoke to Jean and to her father. She’s accepted me, with his blessing.”
Later, on the road to the West Country, he still wasn’t sure how she’d taken it. She had turned away for a moment. “I thought perhaps you’d say something to me first. To let me know what was in your mind.”
“I thought I had,” he’d replied.
“In general terms.” She’d turned to face him. “Well. I want you to be happy, Ian. More than anything. You know that.” And she had come forward to kiss him on the cheek.
He had put his arms around her, saying lightly, “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
It would have been better, he thought now, if he could have spent the evening with his sister, perhaps taking her out to dine, giving her a chance to talk to him about the future. But he was expected in Dorset as soon as possible. There was no time for such consideration.
Te
n days later, Rutledge walked into the Yard and encountered Chief Inspector Cummins on the stairs.
“Just in from Dorchester?” Cummins asked. “I’ve been reading the early reports. Well done.”
“Thank you,” Rutledge answered. “I can’t say I’m particularly happy with the outcome, but there you are. The evidence was overwhelming.”
Cummins smiled. “Even nice people kill, Ian.”
“Sadly, yes. It will be up to a jury now, of course, but I rather think in the circumstances I might have done the same as Mrs. Butler. He was a right bastard, that man. He made everyone’s life wretched. I daresay most people were relieved rather than shaken by his demise.”
Changing the subject as they reached the top of the stairs, Cummins said, “I saw the notice of your engagement in the Times. I wish you both every happiness.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you’ll have an opportunity to meet Jean sooner rather than later.”
“Set a date, have you?”
“Christmas, I think.”
Cummins nodded. They had reached his door. “By the bye. A warning. The Chief Superintendent is in a foul mood. That case in Northumberland blew up in Penvellyn’s face. Three witnesses, and they’ve recanted, to a man.”
Both Rutledge and Cummins had been aware from the start that Inspector Penvellyn had not been the best choice to take on Northumberland. A Cornishman, he’d never been north of Birmingham. He knew very little about the border counties. And that business in Alnwick had needed delicate handling.
“Bowles isn’t thinking of sending me there in his place?” Rutledge asked, realizing that the word warning might mean just that. He’d been given leave on Friday for the Gordons’ party, but Bowles could rescind that as quickly as he’d granted it.
“No, I think Martin is going to be the unlucky man. But on a lighter note,” Cummins continued, “Davies has run into an odd case. In Somerset actually, a village outside Bristol. In the night someone crept into a churchyard and blackened several graves. Sludge more than paint, according to his report, and the very devil to clean. I doubt they’ll have it removed in six months’ time. Nothing else touched. And the graves weren’t even in the same part of the churchyard. Random vandalism, apparently.”