by Charles Todd
As he picked up a newspaper from the boy who seemed to haunt the Yard, hawking the papers in a voice that sometimes cracked, dropping precipitously from soprano to baritone, the heavy black headlines from Europe leaped out at him.
Whitehall was expressing growing concerns that Germany might use the tiny kingdom of the Belgians as a route into northern France as opposed to the heavily contested eastern border where the two countries were separated by the Rhine. The fear was, Belgium and the broad flat fields of Flanders offered a back door into Paris, as well as control of the Channel Coast.
Once more he left notes for Jean and for Frances, then he drove to the house where Melinda Crawford lived. It was no more than forty minutes’ distance from Aylesbridge, but late as it was, Rutledge had his doubts about finding a place in the village that could accommodate him for the night. And he had no desire to be left alone with his own thoughts about Bowles and Moresby.
Melinda fussed over him, seeing that he was well fed even though he hadn’t arrived in time to share her dinner—and what’s more, had arrived without any warning.
“Never mind the whys,” she said, cutting his apology short. “I’ve been trying to think how I was to amuse myself this evening, and here you are, breaking the monotony very nicely. Now tell me the news of Frances, and how Miss Gordon’s wedding preparations are going.” She sat beside him at the long table, their voices echoing in the large rectangular dining room, with two ornate—and working—fireplaces opposite long windows leading out to a wide terrace beyond.
Rutledge told her about Frances—“I’ve seen very little of her of late, and I was meaning to speak to you about that. She needs a chaperone, someone who can be certain she’s all right when I’m not there. At least until Christmas, when I bring Jean home.”
“You may not realize it, but Frances can look after herself. Still, I’ll find a suitable woman to come and stay, for appearance’s sake. Will that do?”
“It will, yes. And perhaps you can convince my sister to accept her.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Melinda replied, and smiled.
He told her about the wedding plans, and that he’d asked Jean to invite Frances to be one of the wedding party.
“And so she should. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Leave it to Mrs. Gordon. She’ll be sure that everything is done properly. What does Miss Gordon’s father have to say about this business in Europe?”
“Very little. But I think he’s more worried than he wants anyone to know.”
“Colonel Crawford tells me not to worry, but I think he wishes to spare me. He’s officially retired, but he knows everyone in the War Office.” Richard Crawford, Melinda’s cousin, had retired from his regiment—the same one Melinda’s late husband had served with—but still had many contacts where it mattered. He was young enough to be called up again if there was war.
The Major had also retired from active duty, but Rutledge said nothing about that.
It was early the next morning when he drove into Aylesbridge and found Constable Roderick already in the police station.
The door was standing wide to let in as much of the morning’s cool air as possible, and as Rutledge pulled up in front, Roderick stepped out to run an admiring eye over the motorcar. He whistled under his breath.
“She’s a beauty all right,” he said. “What I wouldn’t give to have one like her.”
Rutledge got down and introduced himself.
He greeted Rutledge man to man, without deference to his position at the Yard, one professional to another. Rutledge was reminded of Sergeant Gibson.
Nearing forty years old, Roderick sounded much like his own statement, solid, not easily misled, and a good judge of character.
“It was a tragedy, that death. Made no sense. A thoroughly nice gentleman who kept the hop farm prosperous after his father-in-law died. Even though they seldom saw eye to eye, the land mattered, and I think Mr. Graves knew that at bottom.”
“The farm came to Hadley through his wife?”
“Yes, I’ve known her girl and woman, and there’s no one kinder. She keeps an eye on the families who come for the hop picking and takes care that the children are fed and healthy. She’s summoned the doctor for more than one, and paid his bill too. Even if one of them took against her husband, the rest would see to it that he kept it to himself. I don’t see them hurting her.”
There were women in every village who knew how to look after those in need, to volunteer for handing out school prizes or Garden Day awards, and who did it with a graciousness that set everyone, even the losers, at their ease.
“And she was in Canterbury, visiting friends?”
“She was. Dr. Wylie went there to give her the news himself, since there was no way to reach her. He said he was glad she was with friends. It was the friends who brought her back here.”
“Surely someone has a suspicion about who did this? In as small a village as Aylesbridge? People gossip.”
“There’s none that I’ve heard. Mostly shock and disbelief. Mr. Hadley was no easy mark, mind you, he knew his business and he ran it with an eye to profit. But he wasn’t one to take advantage of people just because it lined his pocket.”
A man with no enemies . . .
He’d heard that often enough—indeed, as recently as Stoke Yarlington and Moresby. Sometimes it was true, and sometimes it was not.
It was easy to sift through a list of ill-wishers and find a killer. It was the victims who seemed to have lived an exemplary life who were hard to fathom. Sometimes there were secrets, hidden depths that no one saw behind the surface kindness and generosity. But it could be there, nevertheless, and the police had to dig for it, often hurting the innocent along the way. Even the truly good man could rouse jealousy, fear, and intense hatred.
And even a good man might kill himself and leave no note behind to satisfy his sister’s questions. Or be sitting in his own chair, half asleep, when an intruder came to his door.
“This time of year, the hop pickers have gone back to London? Yes? And so there is only the regular farm staff on the property. Have any of them seen anything out of the ordinary? Someone hanging about in the vicinity of the Hadley farm or asking unusual questions about the owner or his family? Even directions to the house.”
“We spoke to everyone. Surely you’ve read the interviews? I saw to it that the Inspector had extra copies.”
A lot of work to have them copied either by hand or by typewriter. Most small police stations didn’t run to a typist. But it was clear Constable Roderick took his work seriously.
Roderick quickly added, “My wife has a fine hand, sir, and I often ask her to do the copying for me. She’s discreet as well.”
As the wives of vicars and policemen often had to be, living in two worlds at the same time. His own mother, Rutledge remembered, had talked over cases with his father, because she could often bring an objective eye to the subject. And yet she lightly professed to have no knowledge of her husband’s clients, adding that she had no head for law. As she was a pianist of some note, she was believed.
“Yes, I’ve read them. Thank you. It was good work.”
They discussed the murder for several minutes more, and then Rutledge rose. “I think I’d like to speak to Mrs. Tolliver first. The housekeeper. She appears to have her wits about her.”
Roderick said, “I’ll be happy to take you up to the house, sir. But you might consider talking to her on your own. She might say more to someone from London. It’s worth a try.”
“Thank you, Constable. I’ll take your advice.”
And so he left the police station, directions in hand, and found his way to the Hadley farm. Driving to the house, he could see the lines of greenery, like lacey curtains blowing in the light wind, and he was reminded of the frame his grandmother insisted on using for her lace curtains after they’d been washed, to keep their shape.
He’d been intrigued to learn that it was the female blossoms of the hop plants t
hat were harvested and then dried in the oast houses, which in his opinion looked rather like truncated brick windmills. One could see them across the Kentish landscape, with their small white turrets that moved to keep the drying process going. The number of oast houses usually indicated the size of the hop gardens any given farm owned.
The Hadley farm boasted three. He could see tenant cottages beyond them, like a miniature hamlet, and then the drive split, the left turning leading up to the house.
It was a lovely old farmhouse that could even be called a small manor, brick with stone facings and newer wings to either side of the center block. They matched very well, but he could see slight variations in the brick that indicated they’d been added at different times.
He left the motorcar by the door, where the drive swept in a wide circle that in its day would have accommodated carriages and coaches. Walking up the shallow steps, he lifted the knocker.
A maid came to the door and asked his business. He didn’t want the staff gossiping until he was ready. And so he gave his name but not his rank and asked to speak to Mrs. Tolliver.
He was invited to step in and shown to the stairs that led down to the nether regions of the house. As there wasn’t a large family in residence, the kitchens weren’t bustling, but he saw several faces peering out at him as he followed the maid to the small sitting room that served the housekeeper.
Mrs. Tolliver was sitting at an old-fashioned upright desk, working on accounts. A slim woman with graying hair and a kind face, she looked up, frowned, and turned her attention to the maid.
“Mr. Rutledge, Mrs. Tolliver, to speak to you.”
She rose, frowning, and said, “Thank you, Peggy. That will be all.” When the door had closed behind the girl, she offered Rutledge a chair and said quietly, “Constable Roderick mentioned that someone might be coming down from London. Scotland Yard?”
“Yes.” As he took the chair she offered him, he asked, “Is that the young woman who found the body?”
“It would be a kindness if you don’t have to speak to her. I doubt she could tell you very much, even if you did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more frightened. I don’t believe she sleeps well, even now.”
“She had entered the room going about her usual morning duties?”
“Yes, that’s right. This time of year, we needn’t lay the fires for use, but we open the curtains, fluff cushions, set a room to rights before the downstairs maid begins to dust it. If the weather is fair, we might open the windows to catch what breeze there is. It’s been quite hot for the most part, and airing a room as early as we can is important.”
“And what did you see when you walked in?”
“I saw Peggy first, of course, and went directly to her to ask what was wrong. It was then I saw Mr. Hadley, and the long windows standing wide, as if he’d just come in from the terrace.”
“And you hadn’t seen him since early evening of the day before.”
“That’s true. As he was finishing his dinner, he said that as it was such a fine evening, he thought he might take a turn down to the hop gardens. As a rule he took the dog with him, but she died of old age at the end of May and he hadn’t got around to replacing her. He was quite fond of her, and he said not just any dog would do.” She paused, and looked across the room, where a small framed tintype of the house with only one wing added on held pride of place. “I did wonder, if he’d had a dog, if that wouldn’t have made a difference somehow.”
“Did you touch him?”
“No, there was no need. I’ve seen the dead before this.” It was said with a sadness that told him that she spoke from a sense of great loss still.
“Tell me about the glass.”
“It was odd, I never noticed it. Not even while I was waiting for Dr. Wylie. I was trying not to think, to tell the truth. And yet my mind was running on—that he hadn’t gone to bed, that the windows were standing wide, that Mrs. Hadley hadn’t been here to help him or comfort him—what I was to do about Peggy. I’d left her in the hands of Mrs. Bowers, the cook, and I could hear her still having the hysterics. For that matter we were all in a terrible state, I can tell you.”
He could hear the words of her statement in her voice as she spoke.
“Dr. Wylie saw the glass?”
“He said the milk had turned. But I’ve never known Mr. Hadley to drink milk. He must have walked down to the kitchen rather than wake one of us—he was thoughtful in that way. Perhaps he didn’t find anything else to his liking, or perhaps he thought it might settle his stomach, although I don’t recall his dinner being troublesome in that way. No spring onions, or the like. I wish now he had asked me to bring it—I’d have known, you see, if something was wrong. Dr. Wylie says it wasn’t his heart, but I still wonder. They do say that a sense of being gassy can be the first signs of a heart attack. Pressure in the chest.”
“But Dr. Wylie thought there was laudanum in the glass?”
“Yes, he tasted it. That’s when he told me the milk had turned. Well, it was that hot in the night, it very likely had.”
“Did Mr. Hadley’s body give you any reason to believe that he’d struggled with anyone, or that he’d been forced to drink the milk?”
She stared at Rutledge. “By whom?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know.”
“Nothing was amiss in the library. Even the glass was set tidily on the blotter, the sort of thing he’d be likely to do. But Dr. Wylie couldn’t explain where the laudanum came from in such a quantity to kill Mr. Hadley.”
No enemies. No signs of breaking in, no struggle. And that glass of milk laced with laudanum. These appeared to link three deaths. But why? How could they have been tied to a murder in Moresby, in Stoke Yarlington, and now here in Aylesbridge?
The connection had been slowly dawning on him, but the hanging in Moresby had confused the issue. Was that what it had been intended to do? Or had a killer been afraid that the laudanum hadn’t done its work?
Rutledge felt a surge of excitement and a fervent wish for access to a telephone. He needed to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson to find out if there were any other cases similar to this, cases handled by other Inspectors at the Yard, cases he hadn’t heard about. Something that might just indicate a pattern . . .
But it would have to wait. He must finish this interview and keep his mind on what he had come to do.
He said, “Do you think Mrs. Hadley is up to seeing me? I should like to ask her a few questions.”
“She wasn’t here—” Mrs. Tolliver began, then went on, “Of course, you’d want to know if anyone had a reason to kill him. For my own part, I’d have said no, that he was the last person to be murdered. I can name a name or two in the village, people who are always causing others hurt or bullying them, who might be more likely. But everyone seemed to like Mr. Hadley. He was that sort of man.”
Like Tattersall. Like Clayton.
She rose, leading him up the steps he’d just come down and putting him in a small drawing room, rarely used except for guests.
Unable to sit still, he paced the floor, oblivious to the pale cream walls and the heavy Turkish carpet under his feet.
If Tattersall hadn’t killed himself. If Clayton hadn’t been hanged. Take out the distractions, and look only at the similarities.
And these three cases fit together. Three men killed not at random but as part of a whole.
But what whole?
He didn’t have all the pieces. Not yet.
By the time Mrs. Hadley came into the room, nearly a quarter of an hour later, it was all Rutledge could do to conceal his excitement.
He began by offering her his sympathy. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and she looked as if she might have been resting. He felt a sudden distaste for having to disturb her.
A pretty woman with red-gold hair and blue eyes, of medium height and build, she had walked across the room with steady determination, as if to make certain she didn’t show any sign of weakness. And yet it
was there, the shock of a loss so great that she hadn’t managed to absorb it yet.
“I must apologize for asking to speak to you today, but for the fact that the sooner we begin our inquiries, the better chance we have to find the person behind your husband’s death.”
She said with a steeliness that surprised him, “It’s the one thing in this world I want just now. Other than to bring my husband back to me.”
“You weren’t here, of course. But you knew your husband better perhaps than anyone else. I’d like to know if there was anything on his mind. Anything in the present that worried him, or in his past that might have come back to find him.”
“No. He was such a good man. Yes, I know, every new widow says that, and means it at the time. But even saints are human. Jerry looked for the best in everyone, and expected to find it. And so sometimes he did, even when everyone else thought he must be mad even to try.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth as if to stave off tears that were far too close to the surface. After a moment she added, “I don’t see what anyone had to gain from his death. And sometimes that’s the only reason for murder, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m his only heir. And as this farm was my father’s, that’s how it should be. We don’t owe large sums of money. We haven’t ill-treated our people here, either the household staff or the temporary workers from London. In fact Jerry is rather generous in paying them, with the forward-looking idea that happy people seem to work all the harder. I’m told by Mrs. Tolliver that nothing appears to be broken or stolen. My husband had small treasures in this room and his study, but nothing of such great value that he might have become a target for thieves. We entertain friends from time to time, we’ve had a few small house parties, but they were always great fun, without any incident to mar them. No one has stormed out in anger.”
It was unexpectedly comprehensive. He thought she’d already gone over and over these possibilities, trying to make sense of the senseless. But he had to ask another question that would surely hurt her.