by Todd,Charles
Rutledge demurred, but Standish said, “You can’t stand there questioning me while I try to eat. Sit down.”
He’d missed his lunch. He took off his coat and set it with his hat and gloves in the entry, then came back and served himself a parsnip-and-apple soup from the tureen on the sideboard.
Standish had been right, there was more than enough for two, and even though only one man had been expected to dine, there were extra plates and silverware and wineglasses for half a dozen. Old habits, Rutledge thought, died hard. A house accustomed to entertaining would never be caught short.
As he sat down to Standish’s right, the Captain poured wine in his glass. “How old is Taylor? Any idea?”
“Thirty? Thirty-two?”
“Now finish your soup, and we’ll talk before the next course.”
The soup was excellent and he gave it his full attention. Then he turned to Standish and said, “I’ve found Brothers and Russell.”
“Have you indeed?” Standish asked as he was about to refill his own glass.
“Brothers was quite helpful. And rather worried, when he heard about Major Holt. He told me what had happened to him in France. It was very similar to your own experience. Except that he was fortunate enough to find a village where he could pull off. And the other motorcar went on. Still, Brothers was wary the rest of the way to Nice, certain the driver would be lying in wait farther along.”
Standish set his glass down. “Are you quite serious?”
“I am. He told me he wished he’d never set foot in Paris.”
The Captain shook his head. “I feel much the same way. And Russell?”
“He went out onto the Weald and shot himself. He left a suicide note. I expect it’s true, what his mother told me about his death.”
“Good God,” Standish said blankly. “I’ve had my lows, but I’ve never—but then, Lieutenant Russell was young in 1916. That’s to say, he was most likely two-and-twenty, but young. If you follow me.”
“If he was an only child, reared by his mother, he might well have seen very little of the harshness of life.”
“Precisely my point. I don’t remember, but I’d wager he hadn’t gone to public school.”
“Apparently it was the grammar school in Rye.”
“Yes, well. There you have it.”
“There was an unhappy love affair near the end of the war. His mother didn’t approve of the woman, apparently, and then the woman broke off the relationship when he’d recovered and was sent back to his regiment. The odd thing was, he was afraid for her.”
“Wartime romances seldom prospered.”
“Could she have been the wife of the sergeant who set up a canteen for officers in the barn?”
“God knows. Lieutenant Russell was in his sector. Whether he was on terms with the sergeant, I can’t tell you. I saw photographs of my own sergeant’s new baby. He was showing them to everyone he could lay hands to. He also carried a postcard of Gladys Cooper in his wallet.”
Half the men in the British Army had carried her likeness. A strikingly beautiful actress, she represented all that men were fighting for, home and hearth and someone waiting for their return. Those who had no sweethearts found that her face filled their dreams very nicely. Those who did saw in Gladys Cooper an idealized version of English womanhood, out of reach but not out of imaginings.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Brothers swears he saw that same sergeant in Paris while you were there. And he’d heard that the man had killed his wife’s lover—an officer—by shooting him in the back during a retreat. His wife told him too late that she had lied to him, given him a wrong name. Rumor had it he then killed her. He deserted soon after that. But he might have seen Russell in Paris, and gone after you on the road. Only he may not have known—or cared—which motorcar Russell was driving.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“I’m sure of nothing. But the pieces of the puzzle are coming together.” He got up to serve himself the next course. “There’s another piece that’s intriguing. Mrs. Russell tells me you came to her house to offer condolences on the death of her son.”
“I came there? Nonsense, Rutledge. I haven’t been in touch with any of these men. I’ve told you that.”
Rutledge took out the negatives he had brought back from Rye.
“Have a look at these. I know, they are small and not the clearest, but I want you to put a name to each face.”
“Where the devil did you get these?”
“Look at them first.”
“Ah. I remember now,” Standish said, squinting as he held them up to the lamp. “Russell had a camera. They were forbidden, you know, but he wanted a souvenir of the moment. We weren’t too happy about it. He promised to send us each a copy of it. And never did.”
“Did he take photographs in Paris, or Nice?”
“He may have done. I know I wasn’t in them.”
“Can you see the men’s faces clearly enough to recognize them? It was easier in the actual photographs, but even they weren’t very clear. I barely recognized you.”
“Let me see. That’s Everett. He died of gangrene.” He’d begun from the right, naming each man. “Holt isn’t in this one, of course. He must have taken the photograph for Russell.”
“Is he in this one?”
Standish set down the first negative and took the second from Rutledge. “It’s difficult to tell with any certainty. The lighting was terrible. But it was a barn after all, and we only had candles. Ah. I think that’s Holt. God rest his soul.”
“Mrs. Russell pointed to that man, identifying him as Captain Standish.”
“Who? Oh, that’s the sergeant you were on about. You can see me standing there, second from the right this time.”
“The man who came to her door was the sergeant. He was using your name.”
“What in God’s name for?”
“I expect to confirm that Mrs. Russell’s son was well and truly dead.”
“But why kill Holt? And what does this man have to do with the Rector?”
“I still think he mistook the Rector for you.”
“But that’s mad. I had nothing to do with his wife. I wouldn’t recognize her if she walked through my door.”
“My guess is that he’s back in England, in spite of the charge of desertion against him. And he knows that he nearly ran two out of five men off the road, and actually sent a third man over the cliff, looking for Russell. And Russell got through, got back to England safely, without a scratch. The sergeant’s tidying up loose ends. I expect there’s a reason he wants to come back to England now. Inheritance? A woman? Or perhaps he’s tired of hiding out in France. If any of you had recognized him there in Paris, you could have reported him to the Army. And one of you might have seen his face behind the wheel of his motorcar.”
“That means he’s planning to live somewhere in this part of England. Where he might encounter us at any time.” Standish pushed his plate aside. “I find I’ve lost my appetite.” He sat there for some time, staring out the windows. The darkness outside mirrored the scene in the dining room, and all he could see was his own reflection staring back.
“What sort of man is the sergeant?”
“I can’t tell you anything important. I know he was good at making things work. Witness that officers’ mess, as he called it. It was remarkable, what he’d found to furnish it. He must have raked through the ruins of dozens of houses or shops to find what he needed. We all turned a blind eye, of course. The wine was good.”
“Was he already looking for the man who had interfered with his marriage?”
“The devil you say!” He turned back to Rutledge. “Do you think he was?”
“He’d have had a larger clientele if he’d opened the mess to the ranks. But I suppose officers paid better. I don’t know.”
Standish went to the sideboard, filling a glass with the port that was waiting there.
“He was polite. ‘Sir’ this, ‘
sir’ that. Jovial in a respectful way.” He came back to the table. “What you’d expect from the ranks. What all of us expected from them.”
“Did he ever ask personal questions?”
Standish rubbed his chin. “He did. It never seemed like prying, mind you. Just—I remember we were drinking to the fact that all of us came from the southeast of England. Surrey, Kent, Sussex. We’d never met, you understand, but we had something in common. The sergeant was amazed, he was asking how far apart we were. We gave him a rough idea of the miles from Rye to Maidstone to East Dedham—I hadn’t realized what he was after. He asked if we’d ever been to Tunbridge Wells. The old garrison town. Holt, Brothers, Russell, and I had. Taylor was from Chichester. He hadn’t been there; his family was from Hampshire originally, in the other direction.”
“Tunbridge Wells. Where he lived? Which he might now be coming back to?”
“I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I think he mentioned that his grandmother was from the town. Damn it, I see now he was a clever bastard! We had no idea.”
“And you don’t recall his name?” Rutledge picked up the negatives and put them back in his pocket.
“No. I don’t know that I ever knew it. He was simply ‘sergeant’ to us. Sergeant, another bottle of wine. Sergeant, the candle’s nearly gutted. Good night, Sergeant. All the staff in a mess hall are men from the ranks. Career officers before the war probably knew them by name. We never had the opportunity to learn them.”
It was true. And half the regiments had incomers, as the original complement was killed or wounded. There was seldom the same camaraderie that he’d heard Melinda Crawford talk about, when the regiment was posted to the Empire and men and officers got to know each other from years of serving together.
Rutledge had hardly eaten his own meal. He rose, helped himself to the port, and said, “I’d be careful if I were you. If we’re right, you and Brothers are still very much in danger. Taylor as well.”
“I realize that now.”
“I must call on Taylor as soon as may be.” Rutledge drank off his port and set the glass on the table. “Thank you for dinner. I’m afraid your cook will think we didn’t care for it.”
“It’s time I got a dog. If only to finish off the food I leave on my plate.”
Rutledge smiled. “It would be wise for other reasons as well.”
Standish followed him to the entry, and Rutledge shrugged into his coat. Picking up his hat and gloves, he said, “Would you know the sergeant again, if you saw him? Brothers recognized him in Paris. Or thought he had.”
“If you’d asked me before tonight, I’d have said no. But I’ve just looked at that negative. I think I might now.”
Rutledge said, “His face is farther away than the others. And in shadow. Easier for you than for me. He reminds me a little of Trotter.”
“At the garage? No, I don’t think so. I remember this man as taller.”
Rutledge shook his head. “There are no strangers here in East Dedham. Except for the Bishop’s man.”
Standish laughed. “Barnes? From what I hear from my staff, he’s only passable in the pulpit and he’s appalling as a person. They want the Rector back. Wright and I had very little in common, but he was a good man.” The laughter stopped short. “Did he die in my place? I refuse to believe it. I don’t want that on my soul.”
“It isn’t. It’s on the soul of whoever ran him off the road.”
He opened the door and went out into the night. As he bent to turn the crank, Standish closed it behind him.
The wind had dropped, and overhead he could see a sweep of stars. Out on the road, he was thinking about Standish and the others that night in the barn, and what had happened in Nice three years later, when his headlamps picked up a figure on a bicycle some distance ahead of him. It was wobbling about on the road as if the rider was drunk, and he sped up for a closer look.
It was Jem, on a man’s bicycle much too large for her.
She heard the motorcar coming up behind her and risked a glance over her shoulder. She lost control as she did, and the bicycle swayed wildly under her. It crossed to one side of the road, veered to another, and crashed into the undergrowth, throwing its rider.
Rutledge sent the big touring car surging ahead until he was even with the scene. His heart in his mouth, he was out of his door before the vehicle stopped rocking from the sudden braking.
The bicycle’s front wheel was spinning madly, and he heard a whimper from shadows cast by the brambles and briars.
“Jem? It’s Rutledge. Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” she answered in a quavering voice.
He stepped closer, reached down, and lifted the bicycle clear of the barely seen figure underneath it. Turning, he set it on the road out of his way. Then, ignoring the fingers of last summer’s dried wildflowers and trailing vines and long branching twigs, he knelt beside the girl.
“Where does it hurt?”
“You shouldn’t have come up behind me like that!” she said, her fright turning to anger.
“I didn’t know who you were. Now, where does it hurt?”
“My arm. And my shoulder. Oh—don’t touch it.”
He couldn’t tell whether she had broken a bone or just bruised something. “You can’t lie here all night, waiting for the sun to rise. Give me your good hand and I’ll lift you out.”
“I can’t move,” she said plaintively, and all he could think of was that Dr. Hanby might still be in Eastbourne.
“Is it your spine? Your back?” he asked, trying to conceal his worry.
“No. It hurts my shoulder to try, and my hand is scratched. I want my mother.” The last words were on a sob.
“She’s not here,” he said, making an effort to sound as normal as possible. “So you must make do with me. Besides, if I go to her door and tell her how badly hurt you are, I’ll frighten her out of her wits.”
“She thinks I’m in bed,” Jem said in a small voice.
“Then let’s see if we can get you back there before she knows you’re gone.”
By this time, the initial shock was beginning to wear off. She fumbled for his hand, saying, “I don’t want to worry her.”
Rutledge moved carefully, slowly, lifting her first to a sitting position, and then, after a minute’s rest, to her feet.
She stepped away when he reached out to run his hand over her shoulder, but he could see from the way she carried it that it hurt. “Can you lift your arm?” he asked, very worried now and wondering if he could leave her alone here while he went to find her mother.
She managed to do it after two tries, wincing at the effort but trying to be brave.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” he said as he made her move it several times more. “Is the pain worse now, or better?”
“Better.”
He led her to the motorcar and she sat down gingerly in the passenger’s seat.
“There’s a good lad,” he said bracingly. “Just like your brothers, strong and brave.”
She smiled then, waveringly but a smile.
He went to the boot, looking for something to clean her scraped hand. In the light from the big headlamps, he could see the right one was bleeding a little. In the end, he gave her his handkerchief, and she looked up at him several times to see if he minded how she was soiling it.
He watched her use her left arm as she was working on her hand, grimacing as both hurt, but unaware that she was actually showing him that nothing was broken or torn. There was a scratch on her arm and one under her chin. It could have been far worse. He began to relax.
Waiting until she had finished working on the hand and shyly handed him his handkerchief, Rutledge asked, “That’s a large bicycle for a lad. Your brother’s?”
She tried to slide out of her seat, but he was blocking her escape.
“Your brother’s?” he asked again. “Jem, why are you riding it at night?”
“I found it,” she said defiantly. “All ri
ght?”
“Found it—where?”
“It was in the orchard. Hidden by all the high grass. Nobody claimed it for days—I didn’t touch it. I didn’t take it away. Sometimes I rode it at night, but I didn’t steal it.”
The police had conducted a long and thorough search for this bicycle. Mrs. Saunders would have to identify it to be certain, but he could understand what Wright had done. No one from the house was likely to go into the orchard this time of year. Especially not at night, through the high grass. He could leave it there, retrieve it as soon as he brought the Captain’s motorcar back.
But Jem, running wild when she could, had come across it and hidden it for her own use. It was probably the nicest bicycle she would ever have, well cared for by the Rector, who depended on it and would have taken it back to the rectory if he’d lived.
“It belongs to the Rector. Mr. Wright.”
But he had probably never come to the Standish house riding it. Until that one night. How would she know?
A mystery solved.
“I must take it with me, Jem. You know that.”
“You told me when I found the shilling that I could keep it, that I had no way of knowing who had lost it. Well, that’s just as true of the bicycle.” Her mouth was set in a stubborn line.
“But I know who lost it,” he told her gently. “And even though he’s dead, I must take it back to his house. It isn’t yours to keep. Besides, it’s far too big for you. Witness tonight’s crash.”
He thought she might cry then, but she drew her sleeve across her eyes and stared up at him ferociously.
“Don’t pity me. I didn’t know.”
He stepped back, going to the bicycle. “Will you help me lash it to the boot?”
He couldn’t fit it in the rear seat.
For a moment he didn’t think she would. Then she to came where he was holding the bicycle, ran her hands longingly over the handlebars, and said, “Where’s the rope?”