by Charles Todd
14
Afterward he couldn’t have said when they went up to bed. They has sat in the study without talking for a time, then called it a night.
He hadn’t expected to sleep. But the driving he’d done in the past few days caught up with him, and the morning was well advanced by the time he opened his eyes.
Frances hadn’t come down to breakfast when he left for the Yard.
The streets were quiet, the Yard subdued. He made an effort to find Chief Inspector Cummins and tell him what he’d learned about two of the linked cases.
If he’d expected praise, he would have been disappointed. But it was in the way of a report rather than an announcement, and Cummins took it that way.
“It’s amazingly fine work, Ian. But we still need that list of jurors, and we’ll have to see if the Clayton family and Stoddard’s wife have had similar experiences. Still, we may have a better description now. Even if it isn’t earthshaking. You’ve spoken to Watson, you say?”
“Yes. He’s a good man. I need a few hours. I haven’t been to see Major Gordon. Or Jean. I must say, he was expecting this.”
Cummins squared his blotter with the edge of his desk, then moved the tall jar that held his pencils and fountain pen. “Sergeant Hunt went to enlist this morning. You’d have thought he was prepared to win the war singlehandedly. I expect Inspector Perkins may do the same before this day is out.”
“They’re both young.”
“At a guess, Hunt is a year older than you.”
Rutledge shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Before this is finished, old men will be called up for duty.”
“They’re already saying it will be over before the year ends. That’s why so many men are rushing to enlist. They don’t want to miss a tidy little war.”
“I hope it is finished before Christmas.” He made an effort to smile. “After all, if my future father-in-law is in France, the wedding will have to wait for him.”
“Good God, I hadn’t thought of that. All right, off with you. For once in my life I’m very pleased that I have daughters.”
Rutledge found the Gordon house in turmoil. Officers were coming and going, and Private Meecham was waiting in the entry for Major Gordon. He gathered from the chaos that Gordon was leaving for duty.
Just then Jean came to the head of the stairs, her face streaked with tears. She spotted him below and hurried down.
“Ian! I’m so happy to see you. Could you drive us to the railway station? Mama and I can’t leave with Papa, but we both want to see him off.”
“He’s not on his way to France?” he asked, surprised.
“No, he’s taking over the training of men from the Midlands. We don’t know when he’ll have leave. Mama thinks he’ll lead his men when they go over.”
The Major appeared then, his wife on his arm, and started down the stairs. He was already giving her instructions, but Rutledge thought she was heeding only one word in ten.
“Yes, George, of course I’ll see to that. Yes, yes, I’ll remember. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this, my dear. Jean? Oh, you’ve found Ian. Thank you for coming, Ian, there’s simply been no time to think. Where is your motorcar?”
“In front of the house.” He took the hand the Major held out to him. “Good luck, sir.” And then they were swept outside, and it was time to leave.
The railway station was in turmoil. Trains were being allocated to the Army’s use, and the platform even at this hour of the morning was almost impossibly crowded. Steam from the railway engines wreathed everything, making the heat seem more intense. One young woman had fainted in the crush, and several people were bending over her, ministering to her.
Rutledge left the motorcar where he could and followed the Gordons to the carriage waiting for the Major, again shaking his hand.
“Look after them, Ian,” he said briefly, then turned back to his wife and daughter for a final farewell. Carriage doors slammed shut, the signal was given, and the train began to move.
Mother and daughter waved the train out of sight, then took Rutledge’s arms, clinging to him as the crowds buffeted them. Another train was pulling into the track, and men were pressing forward to find their carriages. He did his best to protect them, guiding them through the throng of weeping families and grim-faced soldiers. He got them to the barrier and then through it. Mrs. Gordon, who had bravely held herself together seeing her husband off, began to cry into her handkerchief. Jean’s grip on his arm was so tight he could feel her nails through the cloth of his coat.
Mrs. Gordon, choking back a sob, said, “It never gets easier. I really don’t know why I think it should.”
Rutledge had to offer both of them handkerchiefs by the time they had reached his motorcar.
Handing them in before turning to the crank, he said, “Back to the house, Mrs. Gordon?”
“Yes, please, Ian. It will take most of the day to settle everything down again. The Aldriches were to have us to dinner tonight, but I expect that will change. The Captain was on the train. I saw him just as it was pulling out, stepping into George’s carriage. Or perhaps Mrs. Aldrich will want us there anyway. Can you be here at seven, Ian?”
He’d intended to leave for Yorkshire by five o’clock. But he smiled and said, “Yes, count on it.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Jean went upstairs with her mother, and after a few minutes came down again.
She said, appearing in the doorway to the morning room, “Mama will be in a frenzy for days, trying to see to all Papa’s instructions. It’s her way of coping. His solicitor was here this morning to make certain that everything was as Papa wanted it.”
“And how will you cope?” he asked gently.
“By being Papa’s brave girl. As always. We never went with him to his postings, you know. He always said it was a greater hardship for everyone if we were uprooted every few years. So it really won’t be much different now, will it? He could be on his way to South Africa or Egypt. Somewhere safe.”
“Who will take over the running of the estate?”
“His solicitor has already found an excellent man. Papa met him last evening and he was pleased. Their agreement is only for six months. With clauses for extensions of time as required. But that won’t be necessary. Don’t let’s talk about it any longer,” she said, pacing the room. “Tell me where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing.”
But he was fairly sure she didn’t mean that literally. And so he said, “To Somerset and to Kent.”
“But you’re back in London now? Because with Papa away, Mama and I will be counting on you to stand by us.”
“There’s a matter I must see to tonight. It won’t take too long.” He hoped he was telling the truth.
The Aldrich dinner party was canceled, as expected, and so Rutledge dined with Jean and her mother. Leaving there, he stopped at his own house long enough to collect what he needed, and by just after eleven, he was on the road north.
He arrived in Moresby late on the second day, which actually suited his plans better than driving into the village in daylight. Leaving his motorcar on a farm lane, he walked the rest of the way into the town and went first to the Clayton house.
To his surprise, it was Annie Clayton who came to the door, her face tight with uncertainty until she saw who it was.
“Inspector? I thought—are you here for the trial? But you can’t be, it’s far too early.”
“Actually, no, I haven’t come for it. When is it?”
“With the war and all, it’s been moved again. Two weeks from tomorrow. You can’t imagine how I dread it.”
“May I come in? There are a few questions I’d like to put to you.”
“I—yes. Of course.”
He followed her into the front room, surprised to see that the walls had been freshly painted, and the stairs had a new bannister and balustrades.
She noticed his surprise, and said, “Michael and Peter couldn’t get along. And so this was the compro
mise. I agreed to come back to the house if they would change—would improve on the room.”
“It’s quite well done,” he said.
Offering him a chair, she added, “Michael should be home soon. He’s working in the harbor with one of the chandlers. It’s not work he particularly cares for, but he hopes something better will come along, with so many young men enlisting. But I heard him tell a friend that he was considering the medical corps.” She bit her lip. “He hasn’t said anything to me yet.”
Rutledge said, “I’ve run into something that intrigued me, Miss Clayton. And I’ve come to ask you if your father ever received birthday greetings from someone from his past, someone he couldn’t remember?”
Her eyebrows went up in amazement. “How did you know? Mama always teased him, saying that it was his lost love. He thought perhaps it was the young man who worked in his father’s shop at one time. You could barely read the scrawled name. Papa said he was never good at penmanship, but it was the thought that mattered. Only he got the date wrong. Papa didn’t have the heart to tell him. So he just let it pass.”
“Did he reply?”
“I don’t believe so. The return address was a scrawl as well. But the greetings came faithfully. I always thought it rather sweet. And I did wonder if it really was a girl he’d known before he met Mama.”
“Do you have any of those letters by any stroke of luck? We’d like to have a look at one.”
“I don’t think it ever occurred to us to keep them. And there wasn’t one this June. Papa thought Danny might have taken ill or even died. Why are you interested in Danny? Does this have anything to do with what happened to Papa?”
“Just tying up loose ends. There’s one more question. In the week before your father’s death, had anyone come to your door with a parcel or to ask for work? Possibly even bringing clean sheets to the wrong house?”
“Do you mean to speak to Papa? No. I don’t remember anything like that.”
“Could your father have seen this person, if you didn’t?”
“He was usually in the shop from early morning to later in the evening. There was always something to be done, turning a piece or staining it and waxing it. After Mama’s death, he tried to stay as busy as possible.”
That was a disappointment. But Rutledge persevered. “Would your father have mentioned such a visit to you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see why he should.”
So much for that. At least he’d verified the birthday message. And surely all Dobson would have had to do was follow Clayton home from the shop one evening.
Rutledge thanked her and walked back to where he’d left his motorcar.
Some miles back from the headland, he found a room for the night in a small inn along the road.
It wasn’t until he was preparing to drive on to Northumberland that he remembered the Clayton neighbor who had been so helpful on his first visit. She hadn’t given him her name, but he knew which house was hers.
Taking a chance, he drove back into Moresby and went to her door.
She was as surprised to see him as Miss Clayton had been, saying, “You’re that policeman, aren’t you?” and she invited him in for a cup of tea.
It was clear she wanted to gossip about the upcoming trial, and it was some minutes before he could bring her around to the question he had come to ask.
“Strange that you should bring that up,” she told him. “Such a nice young man. I was walking home from a friend’s house, and there he was, looking rather lost. I asked if I could help him, and he told me his brother had done some work at number seventeen, repairing a chair, and he was to meet him there so that they could walk home together. I had to smile, coals to Newcastle, you know, repairing a chair for the Clayton household. I told him that number seventeen belonged to the man who owned the furniture shop in Abbey Street, Mr. Clayton, and he wasn’t likely to hire the young man’s brother. He looked again at the scrap of paper in his hand, and laughed at himself—he’d got the number right but the street wrong. He thanked me and was off.”
“Do you remember him well enough to give me a description?”
“It was nearly dusk, and of course he wore a workman’s clothing.” She considered Rutledge. “Not as dark as you, nor as tall. Wide shoulders. But rather thin.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Oh, I doubt it. I was in a hurry, my cat was waiting. I wouldn’t have remembered just now if you hadn’t asked.” Her face slowly changed. “Are you saying—does that young man have anything to do with Ben Clayton’s death? Is that why you’re asking?”
He smiled, unwilling to worry her. “It’s important to question everyone who might have been out and about in the week before his death. Who knows what he or she might have seen that could help us?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, reassured. “I quite understand.”
Dobson had had long years of practice at hiding his feelings. At knowing how and when to please the people around him, so that he and his mother could eke out an existence in a hostile village. And he had probably learned to lie as well, discovering early on that a glib tongue was a shield against prying questions and callous indifference. He could hate in secret, and survive.
It would stand him in good stead as a murderer too.
Rutledge had reached the corner, on his way to his motorcar, when a constable approached him.
“Inspector Rutledge?”
He was wary, uncertain whether the constable had spotted him or was actually looking for him. The face was familiar, but Rutledge didn’t recall his name. He said with a nod, “Yes?”
“Inspector Farraday is looking for you, sir. He’s asking if you would step into the station.”
“I’ll be happy to.” But he was on his guard. He and Farraday hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and the man had gone against his express orders when he arrested Mark Kingston.
He turned toward the center of the little town, expecting the constable to continue on his rounds. Instead, the man fell in step with him, walking briskly at his side.
“A fine morning,” Rutledge said.
“It is that, sir.” The sun was warm on their faces, and the sea shimmered.
They went the rest of the way in silence, the constable staying with him until he opened the door to the police station and stepped inside. Was he under escort?
Farraday was at his desk, and it was clear at once that he’d been waiting for Rutledge.
“Nice of you to stop in and let me know you were on my turf. Still smarting over the arrest of Clayton’s murderer?”
Without waiting for an invitation, Rutledge pulled out the chair next to the desk and sat down.
“There has been a connection with another inquiry I’m pursuing,” he said easily. “I came to Moresby to find out if we might be looking at Kingston for another murder.”
Farraday wasn’t expecting that. He sat there, rearranging whatever was on his mind, and finally said, “Indeed? And why wasn’t I informed?”
“Because at the moment there’s more work to be done before we muddy the waters of Kingston’s trial.” He kept his face and his voice bland.
“Care to tell me what it is you’re after?”
“I asked Miss Clayton if there had been an unexpected visitor to the house before her father was killed.”
“And?” He was already jumping to the conclusion that this might have been Kingston.
“She said there was not.”
“This is what you were doing when Constable Blaine found you?”
“It was.”
“Why was it important enough for you to come all the way to Yorkshire to ask a question one of my men could have answered for the Yard?”
“Because I am on my way to Northumberland to ask a similar question.”
Farraday considered him for a long moment. “Well.” He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a telegram. Rutledge could see that it was already open. Farraday held it
for a moment, then tossed it across the desk to him. “This will change your plans.”
Rutledge’s name was on the envelope. He lifted the flap and drew out the sheet inside.
The telegram was brief.
If this reaches you, return to London at once. Urgent.
And the name at the bottom was unexpected.
It read simply Cummins. Without a title.
“Personal or professional?” Farraday was asking, his gaze sharp.
“I expect there has been a development in the inquiry I’ve been pursuing,” Rutledge said, giving the impression he was resigned to his orders. “The Yard has been waiting for other information to come in.”
But his mind was racing. What had happened in London that had made Cummins try to find him? The answer was, it could be anything, including Bowles demanding to know where Rutledge was. And it had been a risk on Cummins’s part to send a telegram here. Farraday was no friend. Unless Bowles had already guessed where he might be? Rutledge had made it clear enough that Kingston’s fate concerned him.
“They’ll ask me when I reach London. Has a date been set for Kingston’s trial?”
“As a matter of fact it has. The third Monday in September.”
“As a matter of interest, did Kingston’s father agree to see his son before he died?”
“I don’t know,” Farraday replied with some relish. “That had nothing to do with the inquiry, did it?”
“It was what had brought Kingston to Moresby.”
“So you said. There is a witness who claimed he was intent on setting aside the will by claiming to have reformed. But of course he hadn’t reformed, had he?”
“His cousin’s wife. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rutledge rose. “I’ll be on my way. Good morning, Inspector.”
He was not going to argue Kingston’s case here and now. Not until he could be sure he was right about Dobson. To try would do more harm than good. He left the office door open as he walked out, and behind him there was the sound of a fist coming down hard on the solid wood of a desk top.