A Fine Summer's Day

by Charles Todd

  For a moment she regarded him with those clear, intelligent eyes, then she shook her head firmly. “Of course it’s entirely possible, isn’t it? You must consider the likelihood that I did just that. But tell me what I had to gain by it? I had no reason to kill my brother. I didn’t need the money. I’m too old to start a gay and lavish life in London or Paris. He wasn’t the perfect companion, and nor was I. Still, we managed to rub along together. You do, after so many years. Now I shall be alone for the rest of my life, rattling about in this great house, achieving nothing but filling my days as best I can with reading and good works. If Joel had wanted to punish me, he would have killed himself and left me behind.”

  “Are you certain he didn’t do just that?”

  She said practically, “We never got to the point where we hated each other. I don’t know if we ever would have done. But Joel was quite content, I think, to have me look after him as Mama had done. And content people seldom look at suicide.”

  Rutledge said, “Did he fear his mind was going? I’m told he kept an almost obsessive eye on your trust funds. Was he really afraid that Simmons had played fast and loose with them? Or was he unable to be sure what he remembered, and therefore he suspected they were being manipulated by someone else?”

  Her open friendly manner stiffened. “I can’t think what you’re getting at, Inspector. My brother had all his faculties. To the very end. You can ask Dr. Graham if you don’t believe me.”

  It wasn’t the question he’d asked. But he had no choice but to be satisfied with her answer.

  In the end he went back to Wells and told Inspector Holliston what he had found out—that there were no realistic suspects in the death of Joel Tattersall.

  Holliston smiled. “My money is on Simmons. No matter what you say to the contrary.”

  “Who drank himself blind out of sheer guilt? Or a lost love? There’s no evidence that would survive the skills of a reasonably competent lawyer. The banks show no loss of funds, no replacement sums he’s hastily shifting from one account to the other. There has to be a trail to follow, in embezzlement.”

  Inspector Holliston grimaced. “I’ll keep looking.”

  Rutledge said, “Not too hard, if you’re wise. Neither of you will gain from it.” He rose and walked to the door. “What I suspect—and can’t prove any more than you can your own theory—is that Tattersall might have taken his own life, and at the last, when he changed his mind, left it too late.”

  Holliston stared at him. “How do you reckon that?”

  “The broken glass in the dustbin. Why would the killer tidy up after himself, if the postmortem is going to show an overdose anyway?”

  “Miss Tattersall was adamant that it couldn’t have been suicide.”

  “And so she would be, if she wanted to bury her brother in the family plot.”

  That gave Holliston something to think about. Rutledge on the other hand was not completely convinced. Likely? Yes, if Joel Tattersall’s memory was slipping. But he had run out of questions. There had been the man with the bicycle. But if no one had been seen entering or leaving the house, then the killer must have been inside. And he couldn’t believe that Miss Tattersall had murdered her brother.

  He left soon afterward and set out for London.

  He toyed with the thought that this case and the one in Moresby had certain factors in common. Somerset, for one, but people moved about now more than they had done in the past. That someone who’d once lived in Somerset had ended his life in Yorkshire was not astonishing. Laudanum for another. But it had probably been used to kill more people than had ever been discovered by the police. Finally because there was no clear-cut solution to the crime. No single piece of evidence that led to an arrest.

  But no one had tried to hang Tattersall. The style of the stairs in the Tattersall house hardly lent itself to that, but there had been a number of trees in the garden that might have served, if the killer had been determined to try.

  Rutledge smiled to himself. He would have been happy enough to name Holliston as the killer. Simply because he’d disliked the man.

  He settled himself for the long drive ahead. By the end of it, he realized that while he hadn’t found any sound reason for suicide, it was quite possibly the answer. Without a note, there was no way to look into Tattersall’s mind and explain such a decision. Still, that meant only that Joel Tattersall, always a private man, had carried his reason with him to the grave rather than giving others the satisfaction of gawking at his torment, whatever it had been.

  He wouldn’t have been the first to keep his own counsel. Nor the last.

  9

  Jean had returned from Warwick, pouting prettily as she accused Rutledge of neglecting her for someone in Somerset.

  While laughing with her, he found himself remembering Miss Tattersall with her red-rimmed eyes, calmly accepting it as her duty to answer his questions to the best of her ability. He assured Jean that on the contrary, it have been a dull inquiry that had dragged on too long.

  He’d learned early on that it was best not to share his work. Not with his sister, not with Jean or any of his other acquaintances. Murder was something few people ever encountered in their lifetimes, and yet he dealt with it every day. An unpleasant business at best, but someone had to speak up for the victim, or the killer went free.

  She was soon telling him about all the decisions she and her mother had been making, from caterer to florists to the right organist for the church, quickly losing him in the details of hats and dresses and matching shoes for her trousseau. And then something she was saying abruptly brought him back to the conversation.

  “Oh, Ian, it’s so wonderfully exciting. We’ve found just the right dressmaker, and I’m to go in a fortnight to choose my gown. And you must give Mama a list of the guests you wish to be invited. Jenny will stand up with me. She’s asked me to be in her wedding next April. And there’s Patricia of course. And Margaret. I mustn’t forget Georgina, I’ve known her since we were in leading strings. But I can’t decide between Maud and Elizabeth. What do you think?”

  “I’d like Frances to be in the wedding party.”

  Her face fell. “Mama says five bridesmaids. More would be pretentious.”

  “Still.” To soften the request, he asked, “And what about your own cousin, Kate? I’m sure she would like to be asked as well.”

  “I’ll speak to Mama. Kate will understand if she’s not included, I’m sure she will. Besides, I’m not speaking to her,” she added, glancing up at him teasingly. “You took her to the theater.”

  “She was coming down the stairs at your house, just as I called to see if you were there. She asked to borrow me.”

  “As long as it doesn’t happen too often,” she said archly. “I won’t share you. And speaking of sharing, I have a box of chocolates that my godmother sent to us.”

  She crossed the room for a box wrapped in silver paper, bringing it to him to open. He did, and offered her first choice. The chocolates were Belgian, and delicious. Jean went on, chatting about all the arrangements, whether to be married in the smaller family church or to choose a larger one. Her face was alight, and he’d never seen her so beautiful.

  Christmas seemed a long way off.

  When he reported to the Yard the next morning, he made a point of knocking on Bowles’s door first thing.

  The Chief Superintendent appeared to be in better spirits, looking up to greet Rutledge and asking him what the conclusion of the inquiry in Stoke Yarlington had been.

  “I’m not completely satisfied that it’s suicide, but there are more facts pointing in that direction than to murder.”

  He gave the Chief Superintendent his reasons, and after several pointed questions, Bowles nodded.

  “Sad case, then. Very well. There’s another file on your desk. This one in Kent. If you have any questions, speak up.”

  “Any news, sir, from Moresby?”

  “The reconvened inquest agreed with Inspector Farraday. King
ston will be tried for murder.”

  Rutledge wondered if he’d been sent to Stoke Yarlington in order to distract him from Moresby and the verdict of the inquest. It was the kind of thing Bowles would think of. He himself hadn’t been asked to give evidence . . .

  “I still disagree with Inspector Farraday,” he said briefly. “I could find no connection between Kingston and the dead man, Benjamin Clayton.”

  “Kingston was looking for what he could steal. He got caught, and tried to make Clayton’s death appear to be suicide. And you won’t be meddling in that decision.”

  It was a warning.

  Rutledge ignored it. “With respect, sir, I suggest you ask Inspector Farraday where Kingston found the rope he used to hang Clayton.”

  Bowles stared at him, tight-lipped. Then he said with barely concealed contempt, “It’s a harbor town. A port. There must be ropes to be had anywhere along the water.”

  “I agree, sir. But if Kingston only intended to rob Clayton, and then found himself forced to stage a suicide, where did he find the rope? Did he go rummaging in a shed behind the house, risking awakening the neighbors? It’s worth pursuing.”

  “It’s no longer your inquiry.”

  Rutledge left, walking back to his own office and standing for a time, looking out the window. He could feel the summer heat through the glass, and set his hand on it for a moment.

  He would be called on to testify in Moresby, when the trial began. That was a certainty. And he would do what he could then to present his case to the jury. Until that time, he would have to put it out of his mind.

  But he would ask Gibson to keep him informed. In the event Farraday persuaded the court that Rutledge’s evidence wasn’t needed.

  He turned and sat down, trying to concentrate on the murder in Kent.

  The Chief Constable had sent copies of interviews taken down immediately after the body was discovered.

  They were vivid, the shock still echoing through every word, especially in the statement by the housekeeper.

  He could almost imagine what had happened.

  One Jerome Hadley walked out to his hop gardens after his dinner on Tuesday evening, to inspect the crop. Hops were a vine, a preservative for beer, and at an early stage, as they emerged from winter dormancy, they were trained to run up strings attached to tall frames, fields of them in spite of the fact that in Kent, they were called “gardens.” In the spring poorer families came down from places like London to put up the frames and help string the vines. The trellis frames came from coppices of young sweet chestnuts that grew straight and tall and weathered well. Even the children did their bit, and the fresh air and good food were a welcome change for them. Many of them returned in the autumn to harvest the crop and remove the frames. In winter, the “gardens” were flat and nondescript, but in summer they could look like living sails that had lost their way inland. Rutledge had seen them often on his visits to Melinda Crawford.

  There was a glorious sunset that evening (according to Tom, the footman, who had stood in the stable yard for a quarter of an hour watching it. It was thought that Hadley had also stayed out by the fields as the sky faded to apricot and rose, before turning to gold and lavender. For it was late when Hadley had finally walked home by way of the oast houses where eventually the hops would be dried. One of the tenant farmers had seen him there, or so he believed.

  The staff had either gone to bed or returned to their homes in the village of Aylesbridge, and so Hadley must have let himself quietly into the house without disturbing them. According to the housekeeper, his wife was in Canterbury, visiting friends, but she was expected to return the next evening. Inspector Watson had verified this information.

  The next morning, Hadley was found in the room he called his library, lying by the long windows, which stood open, and he was already beginning to stiffen with rigor.

  The maid—Peggy Goode—who had come in to open the curtains and look for empty glasses on the drinks tray, raised the house with her screams.

  That brought the cook and the housekeeper and the one footman, Tom, running from the kitchen where breakfast was under way.

  The footman took one of the horses and set out for Aylesbridge for Dr. Wylie.

  By the time they returned, the maid had been settled in the kitchen with a cup of tea laced with a little whisky, the library door had been shut, and the kettle was still on the hob, ready for the doctor if he cared for a cup.

  Mrs. Tolliver, the housekeeper, had been particularly upset, and according to her statement, she had said to the staff, “I can’t think what I’m to tell Mrs. Hadley. If she’d been here, she might have noticed the spell he took and sent for the doctor sooner. She won’t forgive herself.”

  “But how could she have even known—sudden as it was?” Mrs. Bowers, the cook, had asked just as the doorbell rang. The housekeeper went herself to answer it, admitting the doctor and sending the footman round to the stable yard with the horses.

  Coming in briskly, the doctor had said, “Good morning, Mrs. Tolliver. Where is he?”

  “He’s still in the library, sir. There was no use to move him—we knew, you see.” She’d led the way down the passage and unlocked the door.

  Wylie had taken up the story at this point. “Wait here, please.” He’d walked carefully into the room and went to stand beside the body before dropping to his haunches and reaching out to feel for a pulse. But Mrs. Tolliver was right—Hadley had been dead for some hours.

  “When did you last see him yesterday? Do you remember?” he asked from where he was squatting. “He hasn’t changed for bed.”

  “He went out to the hop gardens after dinner. I left a little lemonade for him, in case he was warm after his walk, but he never touched it.”

  Wylie stood. “He drank something.” He pointed to the glass on the desk. It was empty, but there was a rind of milk around the top.

  “He must have gone down to the kitchen for it himself,” she said, frowning, trying hard not to look directly at her employer’s body. “The only thing is, he never cared for milk. I don’t remember ever seeing him drink a glass.”

  “Well, he managed to down one last evening.” He lifted the glass and smelled it, then with a finger, wiped up some of the residue in the glass. “It’s already turned in this heat,” he said with a grimace. “But I’d swear there was laudanum in it as well.” He lifted the glass and looked at it. “It’s of a size, depending on how much laudanum was in the milk, that it could have killed him. But I’ve never prescribed that for either of the Hadleys. Where did it come from?”

  The question wasn’t meant for Mrs. Tolliver, but she answered it anyway. “One of the maids had a little, when she broke her leg. Peggy.”

  “The one who found him. Yes, yes, but that was in the spring, and it was just enough to take the worst of the pain away at the start. I can’t imagine there would be any left, certainly not enough to kill anyone.” He put the glass down, precisely where he’d seen it sitting on the desk. “I’ll stay here with the body. Send that footman back into Aylesbury for Constable Roderick. And give me the key, while you’re about it, so that I can lock the door. Were the long windows open when you first came in this morning?”

  “They were. All I could think was, it got stuffy in here with the heat, and he opened them for a little air. He did sometimes. Mr. Hadley was never one to be shut up into a room.” She was taking the key out of her pocket as she spoke, but before she could cross the room to pass it to the doctor, he hurried to meet her at the door.

  And then her statement followed the main thread of the story, and she wrote that as she’d stepped into the passage, she realized that she had pictured poor Mr. Hadley dying alone, unable to make anyone hear his cries for help. But the doctor had given her the impression that this was not the tragic death of a healthy man in his prime, falling ill while he was alone, and it had come as a terrible shock to her. A police matter. In this house? She had refused even to think the words to herself and instead had d
ispatched Tom posthaste for Constable Roderick. She had told the rest of the staff that he’d been called because someone had to reach Mrs. Hadley in Canterbury.

  It was more than half an hour before Constable Roderick arrived, and Tom hurried down to the kitchen, demanding to know what had been happening.

  He admitted he’d fired question after question at the village policeman, only to meet with a solid wall of silence from the older man.

  But Mrs. Tolliver had shaken her head and refused to say any more.

  There was the statement from Peggy, who had found the body, but she had been so shocked at seeing her employer lying there, his eyes staring blankly at her, that she’d noticed nothing else. She added that he was never down at that hour of the morning, and she hadn’t even bothered to knock at the door before entering.

  Inspector Watson, from the town of Maidstone, had decided to ask for help directly, and in his message, attached to the interviews, he commented that so many of the hop pickers who came with any regularity lived in London, and if the inquiry was expanded to include any of them, it would be a mare’s nest for Kent to try to track them all down.

  He’d added, to be fair, Neither Constable Roderick nor I is aware of any problems existing between the hop pickers and Mr. Hadley, nor have I uncovered any after speaking to the three tenant farmers. Good people, one had called them, no trouble at all. One or two of the men had gotten themselves drunk of a Saturday night, but had caused no trouble to anyone but themselves the next morning.

  As he finished the file, Rutledge realized that he had calmed down a little, but the determination to give evidence in Moresby when the time came remained just as strong.

  He took out his watch and looked at it. If he hurried, he could reach Kent by nightfall with an early start the next morning in Aylesbridge. And because he would be away from the Yard for the next few days, he stopped by Gibson’s office and left the names of Constable Roderick and Inspector Watson with the sergeant, in the event he needed to be reached in a hurry. Bowles might not tell him when Kingston’s trial began, but he rather thought Gibson would, if only to spite Bowles.