Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

  “I did notice that among the letters from his parish, there was an envelope postmarked from Portsmouth in September. But the letter is missing. I wondered why the Rector kept the envelope and not the letter itself? Usually it’s the other way around.”

  “I never knew him to mention friends in Portsmouth. He said once that most of his friends were killed in the war. I think it must be true. But then he never did have all that many visitors, even before the war. He told me his friends at seminary were busy with their own churches, and not likely to be calling on him. They did write often in the first few years, as I remember, but friendships grow cold with the passing of time, don’t they? They must all be married now, and have families. He’d have little in common with them, a single man.”

  “Wright never married.”

  “No.” She put his cup of tea in front of him and sat down across from him. “It was sad. He came to this church happy to begin the next stage of his life. And he stayed here because it was something he wanted to do.” She looked away. “I never said. Rector was a private man, and it was long ago. But there was a girl once. He’d have married her if he could, I think, but she had better prospects than a clergyman.” Looking back at Rutledge, she said, “I never met that young woman. But I don’t think much of her.”

  He was reminded of Jean, who had been horrified to find him struggling to recover from a war that hadn’t taken an arm or leg or eye from him, but had left him with invisible scars in the mind. Not an honorable wound, shell shock. He had released her from their engagement, allowing her to think she had done what was best for him, when he’d needed her support more than ever.

  He was also reminded of something else. “Was she by any chance from Portsmouth?” An envelope kept—a letter destroyed . . .

  “She was from London, and she wanted a London life.”

  By the time Rutledge had finished his tea, Mrs. Saunders was pressing him to eat the Rector’s dinner instead. “I’ll only have to throw it into the bin,” she said. “It’s a sin to waste good food.”

  In the end, he let her serve him, if only to see if there was any merit in Barnes’s claims.

  There were potatoes, parsnips, and carrots roasted in goose fat, a roasted chicken with gravy and boiled onion, and a plum crumble “from plums I put up myself in the summer,” she told him proudly.

  “Why did Barnes prefer the pub’s cooking?”

  She smiled. “It’s a small parish. He’s afraid if he doesn’t complain about it, the Bishop will leave him here. It can’t be easy finding another Rector as caring as ours. And this one is accustomed to grander dishes, and invitations to dine with the gentry. East Dedham wouldn’t please him at all.” Her smile broadened. “I wonder what God thinks of that, now.”

  By Sunday morning, the rain had dwindled to a few showers, although the ground was wet and pools stood here and there in ruts, ponding where they could.

  The service at St. Simon’s was full, everyone wanting to hear what the new man had to say, and what he might tell them about the late Mr. Wright.

  Rutledge had gone out early, driving to Eastbourne to search for the woman’s shop, and he couldn’t be sure he’d found it. Still, in the window of one on a side street just behind one of the larger hotels, he saw the same pattern of violets that had attracted him to the tray he’d bought for Frances. This time they were on the backs of a mirror, a pair of brushes, and the handles of a set of combs and nail files as well as a round powder bowl.

  He told himself it was unlikely that another shop would carry exactly the same pattern, and he looked for the owner’s name so he could take it to the local police to ask for their help in his inquiry. But there was only the name of the shop: Past Perfect.

  By the time he’d returned to East Dedham, parishioners were just leaving the church, and judging from their faces, they had been sorely disappointed in the new man.

  He wondered if this was a part of Barnes’s plan to be turned down for the vacancy at St. Simon’s, or if he was the Bishop’s assistant because he was better at administrative tasks than he was in the pulpit.

  It was time, he thought, to try to reach the Yard. He needed someone to run down information for him.

  He discovered that the telephone hadn’t reached East Dedham. The nearest would be in Eastbourne, he was told, and very likely in one of the larger hotels catering to holidaymakers.

  He located one on his first try. It was in the rear of the lobby and free at the moment. Most of the guests were in the dining room, ensuring him a modicum of privacy.

  When the call went through, Sergeant Gibson answered. Apparently it was his turn at weekend rotation. A gruff man who was not so much Rutledge’s friend as the former Chief Superintendent’s enemy, the two had come to an uneasy alliance that had continued after Bowles’s heart attack. Mainly, Rutledge had decided, because Gibson hadn’t yet made up his mind about the Acting Chief Superintendent, who was not from the London ranks but from Yorkshire.

  When it came to ferreting out information through what appeared to be endless contacts across half of England, Sergeant Gibson had no peer.

  Pleased at his luck, he said, “Rutledge here, in Sussex. I’m in need of information.”

  “It’s murder, then? The death of the Rector?”

  “It appears to be. I have a list of names for you. Background, mostly. Captain Roger Standish. The Rector, Nathaniel Wright, who was a chaplain in the war. A priest named Jonathan Barnes, acting on behalf of his Bishop. A young woman, Emily Stuart, who lives in this vicinity, although I can’t be sure of the village or town. And a Timothy Grant, here in Burling Gap.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.” He paused. “There was a call that came to the Yard for you. She didn’t leave her name. And I didn’t recognize the voice.”

  Not Frances, then. Gibson would have known her.

  “How did she sound?”

  “Educated, upper class.”

  Not Kate Gordon, surely. He could think of no reason why she should call the Yard seeking him. Someone like Emily Stuart, wanting to be sure he was what he claimed to be? He had a feeling that it could easily be Miss Stuart, having second thoughts after talking to him.

  He thanked the sergeant and put up the receiver, glad to be out of the small telephone room that seemed to be closing in on him as he talked to the Yard.

  Rutledge would have liked to add the name of Wright’s correspondent in Portsmouth, but he knew it was unlikely that he would ever discover who wrote the missing letter.

  And then a possibility occurred to him.

  He drove back to East Dedham and went in search of Trotter.

  He found the mechanic in the garage, where he seemed to work, eat, and sleep. When the man opened the door, Rutledge thought he could smell chicken cooking.

  “Sorry to interrupt you on Sunday morning,” he said before Trotter could tell him that the garage was closed, even to the police. “I need to know what was found in the Standish motorcar when you first examined it. Anything that might have belonged to the Captain or the Rector.”

  Trotter frowned. “The usual. A torch and an umbrella in the boot. And a rug. A Thermos of tea. I expect that was Rector’s. A map, a fountain pen. A handkerchief. That’s about the extent of it.”

  “The map. Was any place marked in particular?”

  “It was just a map. I looked at it.”

  “No letter? I was looking to find a letter. Not an envelope, just the contents of one.”

  Shaking his head, Trotter said, “If there was a letter, it must have been in his clothing.”

  But Neville had looked through Wright’s pockets, and there had been no mention of any letters, with or without envelopes.

  Rutledge thanked Trotter and turned away.

  No letter in the desk, none in the motorcar, none in the Rector’s pockets. Had Wright burned it, after all?

  It seemed more than likely.

  The men and women who had brought goods to the market in East Dedham had arisen early a
nd cleared away their stalls, their wares, and the water-soaked tents. A few scraps of paper scudded across the wet space that had been so lively yesterday, and a dog walking with his owner stopped to sniff the ground where the butcher’s stall had been.

  As Rutledge drove on to interview Mrs. Grant, he pondered the question of the bicycle. If Wright had left the rectory on it, he must have still had it when he reached the Captain’s stable. The only solution Rutledge could think of was that he’d taken it with him, wherever he’d been going, perhaps expecting to need it, and for some reason left it behind. But where—and why? It was a long, wet walk from the Standish house to the rectory, with little protection from the storm most of the way. No man in his right mind would want to face the distance on a bicycle, never mind on foot, knowing he’d be wet to the skin before he reached his door.

  Hamish said, “Unless, ye ken, he was expecting yon Captain to drive him back.”

  That was an interesting point. Had Wright expected to find Standish at home? But why would Standish leave for Brighton instead, and then lie about Wright?

  Rutledge reached the cottage where Mrs. Grant lived. Someone had hung black crepe on the door, and a woman was just leaving, an empty bowl in her hands.

  Inside, he found several more women sitting with Mrs. Grant, and there was an array of food on a table against the wall.

  She looked up as he stepped through the door and her guests fell silent, staring at the tall policeman from London.

  They seemed to be in no hurry to leave, and after offering his condolences a second time, he asked her, “When did you last see your husband?”

  She sniffed, holding back tears. “On Friday it was. Nearly a fortnight ago, now. We’d had words and he stormed out of the house. It wasn’t until later that I found he’d taken the money from my box. And Constable Neville told me that Doctor now had his purse. He went to the surgery to ask about it, after I told him I was desperate to know what had become of my money. And he came back to say there was only a few pennies and a shilling or two. What did he do with it, that’s what I want to know.”

  Rutledge had the feeling that the money mattered more than her husband. But then, with the breadwinner dead, it would help her through what was to come.

  “We’re taking up a collection for the undertaker,” Mrs. Mitchell said, coming through from the small kitchen. “If you care to donate, there’s a jar on the table.”

  He made a contribution, then asked, “Do you have any children, Mrs. Grant?”

  “A son. He’s working on the docks in Greenwich. Lois’s husband has gone to Eastbourne to send him a telegram.” It was Mrs. Mitchell who answered.

  “Do you have any idea where your husband went when he left the house on that Friday?”

  Mrs. Grant shook her head. “I thought he was with another woman. It was what we quarreled about, he and I. He had an eye for women, I’ve always known it. I thought he’d gone to her.”

  “Can you give me a name? I’d like to ask her what she knows about his movements after he left you.”

  “How should I know her name?” she wailed, burying her face. “I’ve never known the names of the hussies he’s taken up with. But I’ve smelled their scent on him. There was one favored gardenia. She lasted two years.”

  He thought she was lying to him, playing to the gallery of her neighbors, who were avidly listening to every word. As if to prove him right, they murmured sounds of comfort and commiseration.

  After giving her a moment to recover, Rutledge tried another approach. “What did your husband do for a living?”

  “He was a rag-and-bone man, wasn’t he? Mostly in Eastbourne, but sometimes in Pevensey, and even as far away as Hastings. You’d be amazed what summer visitors and day-trippers throw into dustbins. He worked as a young lad on building of the Beachy Head light, and hurt his leg rather badly. After that there wasn’t much else he was fit for. But he had a way with women, didn’t he?” She turned to her neighbors again, and they nodded knowingly.

  Mrs. Grant went on in an aggrieved voice: “He told them grand stories about how his leg came to be broken. Riding elephants in Ceylon, searching for lost tribes up the Amazon. He’d read about such things in the books he found, and you’d think he’d been there. Well, how was anyone to know otherwise, him and that fancy belt of his? There was one woman come looking for him, and that’s how I know. She told me to my face I wasn’t a suitable wife for such a fine man.”

  That proved his suspicion that she knew more about her husband’s infidelities than she cared to let on.

  There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Mitchell hastened to open it.

  Constable Neville stepped into the front room. “Begging pardon, sir. I saw your motorcar outside the door and thought you might need me.”

  Rutledge turned. “Mrs. Grant was just telling me about Mr. Grant.”

  Neville’s expression was wooden. “I daresay you found it helpful.”

  “I have.” He thanked Mrs. Grant and left her to the ministrations of her neighbors, walking out into the watery sunshine with the constable. Glancing up at a hazy patch of blue sky, Rutledge said as he got into the motorcar, “Was Grant ever in trouble with the police?”

  “His wife complained of him,” Neville said, resting a hand on the frame of the open window, “but no one else did. I daresay he sometimes came by the goods he sold in questionable ways, but there was never a householder who went to the police, nor a woman either.”

  “There was a woman I spoke with on market day who saw Wright arguing with someone out by the lighthouse. I’ve been trying to find her again. Apparently she owns a shop called Past Perfect in Eastbourne. Do you know who she is?”

  “You’ll have to ask Constable Brewster,” Neville replied reluctantly. “I don’t know any of the regulars. I make it a point not to go to the market. That’s his patch, and he’s not always happy to see me there.”

  “Then I’ll speak to him.”

  Rutledge drove on, slowing as he crested the Down and turned toward East Dedham to allow several sheep to trot across the road in front of him. Their wool glistened with moisture from morning showers. He found Constable Brewster asleep at his desk, snoring softly.

  He went back outside and knocked before reentering the police station.

  Brewster, his feet swinging off the desk and his chair coming upright with a thump, cleared his throat and said, “Inspector Rutledge. How can I help you, sir?”

  Rutledge described the woman he was seeking, adding, “She owns a shop in Eastbourne, I’m told. I need to find her.”

  Brewster frowned. “Did she cheat you over your purchase?”

  “Not at all. But she came to see you earlier in the week about helping her with a space last Saturday. I’d like to ask if she saw anything that would help us with our inquiry.”

  “Ah. I’ve never been to her shop. But I do know her name. Patricia Sedley.”

  “Thank you.” Rutledge turned to go.

  “She didn’t mention anything unusual when I spoke to her that day.”

  Rutledge said, “Possibly it didn’t seem unusual at the time. But in hindsight it could be crucial.”

  He drove to Eastbourne and stopped in at the police station there to ask where to find Mrs. Sedley.

  The sergeant at the desk wanted to know why Rutledge was looking for her, and he gave the same answer he’d given Constable Brewster. In the end he got what he wanted and found the Sedley house on a backstreet not far from the Promenade.

  Mrs. Sedley was at home and quite surprised to see him. “The tray?” she asked. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

  “I’ve come about the two men you saw quarreling on the day you went to speak to Constable Brewster.” He gave his name and showed her his identification.

  “Ah.” Reluctant to allow him in, she kept him standing at the door as she added, “I told you what I saw. They were quarreling.”

  “Would you know either of the two men if you saw them again?”

&
nbsp; “Since one of them is the Rector of St. Simon’s, I think not,” she said tartly.

  Rutledge smiled. “How did you know it was Mr. Wright?”

  “He’d come to the stalls on market day,” she told him, as if it were obvious enough that he should have known the answer before asking the question. “He’d walk through and speak to everyone, and he always knew what to ask. My husband had his gallbladder out, and he inquired about that, and how soon he’d be out of hospital. He’d ask Mrs. Templeton about her grandchildren, and how her daughter was faring, with Daniel killed in the war. He was a caring man. It wasn’t hard to recognize him out there on the Down. I didn’t see his face, of course, not at that distance, but I couldn’t have been mistaken.”

  “And who was the other man?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d seen him before, but then you can’t be sure, always.”

  “What was the other man wearing?”

  “Workmen’s clothing, I think. And a cap.”

  “Did you notice anything about him that would help us find him again?”

  “I doubt it. But what’s this about, why are you asking these questions?”

  “We’re looking for anyone who spoke to the Rector the last few days before his accident. A matter of routine, to establish state of mind.”

  “Do you think he crashed that motorcar on purpose?” she asked, shocked.

  “It’s usual police procedure in such a case,” he replied, keeping his voice bland. “To be certain that all the facts have been brought out.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” Mrs. Sedley told him roundly. “I can’t think of anyone less likely to kill himself.”

  And yet by her own admission she had said she didn’t know the Rector well, just as a visitor to her stall at the Saturday market. Was it only because he was a man of the cloth that suicide seemed unthinkable?

  When he didn’t respond straightaway, Mrs. Sedley seemed to feel this man from London didn’t believe her, and that she needed to convince him of the truth.

  “There’s a young woman he’s been seeing here in Eastbourne. He’s taken her to dinner any number of times. I’ve seen them together and pretended not to notice. Well, it would be rude to claim acquaintance, wouldn’t it, when he’s only spoken to me on market day, out of kindness? But she’s quite pretty, and I shouldn’t have been surprised if there was a wedding in the offing. That’s to say, if he’d lived.” She clapped her hand over her mouth as she said the words. “Oh, the poor dear, I hadn’t thought until now. I wonder how she’s taken his death?”