Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

  “If I knew the answers, I would have given them into evidence today. The fact is, while I’ve learned a great deal about Wright, none of it has explained his murder. I still don’t know why he was on the road late that Saturday night.”

  “Then find someone at the Yard who can close this inquiry properly.”

  “He’ll have no better luck than I have. I can understand your concern, Standish. Your motorcar has been wrecked, your stable burned down, and there’s no acceptable reason for any of it. I don’t blame you for being angry. But sometimes these matters take time.”

  Standish swore. “I’m sorry. Forget that I said that. It’s just . . . wearing is the word. It’s wearing to have to look over my shoulder every time I leave the house. For all I know, that blow on the head was meant for me. I find myself looking at my tenants, wondering if one of them has a grudge I don’t know about. I’ve acted as my own estate manager since Wilbur died just before the end of the war. He’d been a good man, and I haven’t found anyone to replace him. Did someone feel passed over? Is it one of the staff my mother let go while I was in France? None of it makes sense. The Chief Constable sent a message yesterday, wanting to know what progress had been made. I had to tell him there was very little. It brought home again how helpless I am. And how the rest of the villagers must feel, with two deaths on their doorsteps and no notion still of who was behind them.”

  Rutledge held on to his temper with a tight leash. He could understand what the shock of losing his hand had done to Standish, after surviving the war without severe injury. But helpless the man was not. Blind was a better word. He himself had seen Standish take control the night of the fire, he had glimpsed what the Captain was capable of, how he must have commanded those under him in the trenches. But self-pity had driven him to blame everything on that road to Nice. It was little wonder he had been reluctant to give the police the names of his fellow racers—he might well have discovered that they had gotten on with their lives while he had not.

  He forced his voice to pleasantness as he answered. “Hardly helpless, I should think. The village looks to you for leadership, and your tenants look to you to guide them through the hardships they still face. The Chief Constable addresses you as the squire. We’ll find this killer in due course. But there’s this. Whatever connects Wright and Grant and your motorcar, your stable, we will uncover in the end. Be sure of it.” His voice changed, harder now. “Meanwhile, it’s your duty to look after your tenants and take care that they aren’t caught up in this business. Put them on their guard. And take care yourself. Looking over your shoulder can keep you safe until we do know the truth. It might come faster if you and others were more forthcoming with information. I remind you that that’s your duty as well.”

  Standish said nothing for a time. And then he reached for the handle to open the door. “Harsh words from a policeman. Shocking, in fact.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out into the rain and angrily splashed his way to the pub’s barn, where his horse had been taken.

  Rutledge waited until the Captain rode out and turned toward his house. And then he went back into the pub. Avoiding both the diners and those at the bar, he took the stairs to his room, his mood black.

  He opened his door, flung his hat toward the bed, and stopped short.

  Melinda Crawford sat in the chair by the window.

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  16

  “I gather you haven’t had a very pleasant day,” she said, regarding him as she held up her cheek for his kiss.

  Crossing the room, Rutledge bent to give it, and then turned to take off his damp coat. “I didn’t see your motorcar.”

  “No, I learned that there was an inquest going on, and so I left it by the churchyard, out of sight.” She indicated her umbrella, standing in the corner and still dripping. “I walked down, spoke to someone by the name of Josie, and told her I was your aunt, stopping to have lunch with you on my way to Eastbourne. She let me into your room and brought me tea.”

  “I’d offer you lunch, but the dining room is small, and the gentry went there after the inquest while the rest of the village is still in the bar.”

  “Never mind, I shan’t starve. There’s a hamper in the motorcar.”

  He smiled. Nothing ever seemed to shake Melinda Crawford’s composure.

  She returned the smile. “That’s better. Do sit down, Ian. It’s not your fault that you inherited your father’s height, but I’m getting a pain in my neck looking up at you.”

  The smile spread to a grin.

  “I take it,” she went on, “that the inquest was adjourned, person or persons unknown?”

  “Sadly, yes. The village squire has just informed me of my duty to bring the miscreant to justice. He’s been keeping secrets, and I hope you’re here to unlock them.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why I came. There was absolutely no way to reach you. Do these people know about the telephone and the telegraph? Marvelous inventions, really.”

  “Does this mean you have the information I asked for?”

  “Fortunately, my dear friend in Nice understands the telegraph, and he has sent me some rather interesting information.” She held out a telegram while he went to light another lamp against the dismal weather outside, then sat down again.

  Rutledge scanned the telegram, then read it more thoroughly.

  Melinda Crawford said, “As you can see, Captain Standish went off the road at one of those abysmal switchbacks that bring it down from the heights. There was a heavy mist that night, and the road was unfamiliar to him. He told the doctors there was another vehicle behind him on the road that tried to push him off the cliff and finally succeeded. But the doctors believed the other vehicle was also having difficulty in the fog and trying to keep close in the hope that the first motorcar might lead them both safely down to the coast.”

  It was all there, in short, almost cryptic sentences, but as clear as Melinda Crawford’s interpretation.

  “And so as far as the police were concerned, the other motorcar’s driver was frightened enough to try to stay close. But did that driver report the crash?”

  “No. As you can see, it was a farmer who heard the crash and went to see if the driver had survived. He did, but he lost a hand, had a concussion and two cracked ribs, a broken leg, and a mass of cuts and bruises. He was, in fact, lucky to survive at all. He was in hospital for over a fortnight.”

  “Do you think it was one of the other drivers who ran him off the road?”

  “No one did at the time. But that’s something you must find out now.”

  “Yes, well, it will depend on what Bess can discover.”

  Melinda delved into her purse and brought out another telegram. “Bess is as prompt as my friend in Nice. See for yourself.”

  He took the second telegram and began to read.

  Here were the five names on the list. Officers all, their ranks given. And Standish’s name was among them.

  “Holt, Standish, Brothers, Russell, and Taylor.”

  “Yes. And their addresses.”

  “Bess has been very thorough,” Rutledge said.

  “She usually is,” Melinda said. “As you well know.”

  “Thank her for me. And your mysterious suitor in Nice.”

  “I never said he was a suitor,” she retorted.

  Rutledge laughed. “My father told me once that much as he loved my mother, he thought you were the most fascinating woman he’d ever met.”

  “Did he indeed?” she said primly. “Well, your father was sometimes given to exaggeration.” She paused. “I bring you other news, Ian. I heard just before I left for Sussex. Quite by accident, actually. A neighbor had business in Sevenoaks. He was returning home as I was leaving. He stopped to speak to me, giving me news of a friend who lives there. And then he asked if I was acquainted with a Major Holt—I know so many Army offi
cers and men, and my neighbor has met some of them at dinner parties. He told me the Major was killed last night. His motorcar crashed into a tree.”

  “Good God. Is it the same Holt named here? No, he doesn’t live in Sevenoaks, does he? That’s in Kent.” He was looking at Bess Crawford’s telegram. “He lives in Surrey.”

  “There’s nothing to prevent him from traveling to Sevenoaks,” she said dryly.

  “No.” Rutledge frowned. “I shan’t be able to speak to him if he’s the dead man, and so I hope very much it isn’t our Holt.”

  “You’ll have to go to Sevenoaks. I’d volunteer, but I wouldn’t recognize this man. And you have the authority of the Yard to pry into another inspector’s inquiry.”

  “I wouldn’t recognize him either.”

  “But you know someone who can.”

  “Yes.”

  Melinda collected her things and glanced out the window with a sigh. “As a child, I often longed for rain like this when we lived in India. Now it only makes me long for my hearth.”

  Rutledge helped her with her coat. “Thank you. As always.”

  She reached up to touch his face. “My dear boy, I love nothing better than playing detective with you. It brightens my quiet, simple life.”

  “Indeed,” he said, smiling. “And when have you led a quiet, simple life, pray?”

  At the top of the stairs, she said, “You can drive me as far as the churchyard. I dislike wet feet.”

  “Of course.”

  Halfway down the stairs, she added over her shoulder, “Have you spent much time with Frances recently?”

  “I’ve been out of London for some weeks, except for that one flying visit you know about.” He hadn’t gone to the house; there hadn’t been time. His sister was occupied with her wedding plans, and he hadn’t wanted to disturb her. And then, suspicious, he added, “Why? Is Frances all right?”

  “Blooming, as you’d expect. Take some time from the Yard when you are back in London. She would like you to help her with the arrangements.”

  “I thought you were guiding her?”

  “I’m not her brother.”

  And then they were running up in his motorcar to find her own, and any reply was lost in handing her into her seat before turning the crank for the driver.

  There was no purpose in returning to his room, and so Rutledge went on to Captain Standish’s house. When he was admitted, he had to wait five minutes for the Captain to come walking briskly into the study.

  “Rutledge.” There were overtones of formality in Standish’s manner. It was apparent that he was still smarting from their last conversation.

  “I’m on my way to Sevenoaks. I’d like you to come with me. A Major Holt was killed last night in a motorcar crash there. I can’t identify him, but perhaps you will be able to.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Recovering, Standish began, “He doesn’t—” then stopped abruptly.

  “He doesn’t live there,” Rutledge finished for him. “But that’s not to say he wasn’t driving through Sevenoaks last evening. Are you coming, or not?”

  Standish hesitated.

  “I’m asking you to identify him for me. That’s all.”

  “I’ve seen enough dead men.”

  “This man’s death is not my inquiry. But I need to know if he’s the officer with whom you raced to Nice.”

  “It wasn’t a race.”

  “You’re splitting hairs. Are you to come or not?”

  “All right,” Standish said, goaded. “I’ll fetch my coat and an umbrella.”

  Five minutes later he strode out the door. Rutledge was already waiting in his motorcar. When they had reached the main road, Standish asked, “How did you learn of this man’s death? Surely the inspector in charge has already discovered his identity, if you’ve been told it was Holt.”

  “I have my sources. What’s more, if you’d given me his name earlier, he might still be alive. I could have warned him.”

  “You can’t believe that! Not every crash is linked to that bloody race.”

  “I’ll know more once I see Major Holt’s motorcar.”

  “But Wright had no connection with Nice. Nor did this man Grant, surely.”

  “Perhaps not. But you lost your hand in one crash, Wright lost his life in another, and now this man Holt has been killed in a third. What if we’ve been looking in the wrong direction?”

  “That’s nonsense. Coincidence. There are more motorcars on the roads now than there were in 1914. There will be more crashes. Bound to be.”

  “Yet you’ve said that someone tried to run you off the road in the hills above Nice. For all we know, whoever did that is still alive.”

  “I never saw the motorcar clearly, much less the man. I don’t know what possessed him. Perhaps he thought I was someone else. My motorcar was hardly unique. Or perhaps he was an incompetent driver and couldn’t control his own vehicle on that godforsaken road.”

  Hamish said, “He doesna’ wish to believe.”

  “Then tell me why it still haunts you.”

  Standish fell silent.

  The inquests had bought Rutledge a little time. And will-o’-the-wisp or not, the death in Sevenoaks had to be looked into.

  As they splashed through yet another patch of standing water on the road north, Standish broke his silence to comment, “Wretched day to be out and about.”

  Rutledge asked, “Was the Major married?”

  “Yes, he married just after the war. I recall him saying something about that in Paris. As I’ve told you, we had very little in common except the war and the pledge to meet after it was finished. There was no reason to stay in touch.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Standish took a deep breath as they passed hop fields and a pair of oasthouses. “To be quite honest, I don’t believe any of us wanted to become friends. I think each of us had a very personal reason to make that run to Nice. It was hardly camaraderie that brought us together in Paris. And then there was my crash. It put rather a damper on the conclusion of the race. I think the others felt guilty about that. It wasn’t supposed to end that way. We were to get drunk on celebratory champagne or brandy and then go home.”

  Rutledge didn’t reply. It had occurred to him that Standish appeared to be a solitary man by nature, while he himself had learned to become one. They halted for petrol and a late lunch halfway to their destination, but any expectation of outrunning the rain was growing dimmer by the mile. By the time they reached Sevenoaks, night had fallen and the weather was growing more foul by the minute.

  “I’m not quite certain I’m ready for this,” Standish confessed, staring out his window at the village.

  “I must stop at the police station and alert the local man that I’m here in regard to another inquiry, not stepping on his toes.”

  He found the police station, and leaving Standish in the motorcar—against the Captain’s wishes—he went inside and asked to speak to the inspector in charge of the Holt death.

  A few minutes later he was turned over to an Inspector by the name of Judd.

  “I’m told you’ve come in regard to the death of Major Holt. Mind telling me why Scotland Yard should be interested in a road accident?”

  “Was it?” Rutledge asked, keeping his manner pleasant. “I was told that the Major had died, but not the manner of his death.”

  “The doctor could smell whisky in the motorcar when he got there. I’d noticed it as well. Usually Constable Crabbe would have dealt with it, but as Major Holt was passing through, I felt it required a senior officer to break the news to Mrs. Holt. She took it quite hard.”

  “He overturned?”

  “No, lost control on a rain-slick road and slammed into a tree.”

  Rutledge shook his head. “Sad, that.”

  “It was. The Major was apparently well liked in Surrey. I spoke to the local man there. It seems he’d come to town to look in on a friend who was in hospital. Afterward he stopped by The Hart and had
two whiskies before starting for home.”

  “What was his mood when he stopped there?”

  “Taciturn. Well, I understand he was never what one might call loquacious, but he was quiet and somber.”

  “But not suicidal?”

  “Not at all. I never even considered suicide. He was young, married just after the war, and his affairs were in good order. Nothing there to hint at self-destruction. His wife agreed.”

  “Has she been brought in to identify the body?”

  “She was not prepared to come in today. The local man is bringing her tomorrow.”

  “I think I can spare her that. I’ve a man in the motorcar outside who knew Holt during the war. I’d like him to have a look at your body.”

  Judd studied him. “You never said. What’s your interest in our victim?”

  “I have two cases of attempts on the lives of former officers.” Nice wasn’t in his jurisdiction, but it bolstered his request to have more than one inquiry. “I’d like to know if this was a third.”

  “This is my patch. No one has asked for the Yard.”

  “I’ve no intention of taking it over. I just need to cross one more possibility from my list.”

  “Holt is at Dr. Lodge’s surgery.”

  “I don’t know Sevenoaks.”

  “It’s in the center of town. There’s a large bookstore next door.” He gave directions, then said, “It’s late to be calling on Lodge.”

  “I have work waiting for me in East Sussex.”

  “Oh, very well. If he’s awake, he’ll let you have a look. If not, you’ll wait for tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough. Where is the motorcar presently?”

  “It’s where it crashed, not far from Knole. There was nowhere else to take it, and we’ve had heavy rain all day.”

  Sitting by the side of the road? Where anyone could get to it? But he said nothing about that, thanked Inspector Judd, and went out to the motorcar.