by Todd,Charles
Brewster was about to say something, but Rutledge ordered him to take Barnes to the cell in the rear. Then he turned to Mercer.
“You saw the Rector a fortnight ago, you say. What day was it?
“Saturday. It was a Saturday. He had to be back here in time for the morning church service. But he took me to Eastbourne for the train and waited there with me. He wouldn’t take the money. He said I should use it wisely.”
“How did he come to you?”
“In a motorcar. He said it wasn’t his, but he’d explain later. I didn’t want him to find himself in trouble, but he said not to worry.”
Rutledge hesitated, knowing what the truth would do to this man. He glanced at Brewster, then said, “I’m sorry. He’s dead. Mr. Wright. It was—sudden. He didn’t suffer.”
Mercer sat down, his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want it to be true.”
“He was a good man.” Rutledge put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight? There’s a room in the pub. I’ll see to it. Then where will you go?”
“To Portsmouth.”
To the hospital.
There was nothing Rutledge could do.
“Constable Brewster? See that Mr. Mercer here finds a room at The Sailor’s Friend. I’ll be along shortly.”
Brewster was reluctant to leave, but in the end, he ushered Mercer out of the police station and started toward the pub. Rutledge watched the two men go, then went back to the cell where Barnes was waiting. His chin was already bruising. Rutledge had no regrets.
He said, standing in front of the cell’s heavy door, “There’s no one here but you and me, Barnes. I’d like to know why.”
Barnes smiled coldly. “I’m sure you would.”
“You killed Holt, you maimed Standish, and you got to Russell too late. Why? What had they done to you?”
Barnes shook his head. “You think yourself clever. Perhaps you’ll find out. But not from me.”
Rutledge turned away. He had one more duty to attend to: returning Jem to her mother as soon as possible.
He watched their reunion, the tomboy suddenly a little girl who had been through more than any child should have to bear, clinging to her mother and crying against her shoulder.
After a time, he explained to Mrs. Meadows that her daughter would have to give evidence at the trial to come, adding, “She’s very brave. And she will do it well.”
“But how did Jemima come to know you?”
He had been afraid of that question. Mrs. Meadows had warned her daughter not to speak to strangers. Now, on the spot, he had the choice of giving Jem away or telling only a part of the story. Careful not to catch Jem’s eye, he said, “She found something the police have been searching for. The Rector’s bicycle. I should think there will be a reward for that.” He himself would see to it that there was.
“Is this true, Jemima?”
“I did, Mama.” She was careful not to explain exactly how this had been accomplished.
“Then thank you, Inspector, for returning my daughter to me. She has not been an easy child to rear, but I wouldn’t change her one bit.”
He extricated himself as quickly as he could, explaining that there were other duties waiting for his attention. But the truth was, he was still angry at Barnes, and it was suffocating him.
Standish, relieved by the news, sat down in front of his hearth, head back against the carved roses on the chair. “God, I’m glad it’s over.”
“Not quite. There’s still the motive to uncover. Barnes won’t talk. But I know someone who can find out. He has his means.”
“The man’s a monster. Someone will have to write to the Bishop, explaining about Barnes. I expect that will be my duty. I’d seen him a time or two, you know. At a distance in East Dedham. And I failed to recognize him at all. He’s changed. He could pass as a gentleman now.”
“We’ll have the inquest and bind him over for trial. But there’s still much we don’t know about the man.”
Before leaving, Rutledge said, “You do realize that Jem heard the shots and came running to the house, to help in any way she could. Putting herself at risk. That’s loyalty of a sort few men can command.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. There was Grant to deal with, and his missing wife. Nor did he know what had become of Delilah and her mother. And he could expect no help from Barnes.
East Dedham was quiet as the sun rose over the headland, a cold morning. Men who had spent much of the night searching for Jem Meadows, and the women who had fed them, were still asleep.
Rutledge, who had seen the first fingers of dawn fill the eastern sky before he sought his own bed, found it hard to shut down the facts circling themselves in his head. In the end he went down to breakfast as soon as the dining room opened. Josie, yawning hugely, came to take his order.
She was full of excitement over the rescue of Jemima Meadows. It helped to dampen the fatigue she must have felt after a very long night.
“I was just dropping off to sleep when the bells began to ring. I was that excited, I ran downstairs and threw open the door to be sure I’d heard them.”
She was also full of the news that Barnes had abducted the girl. “A man from the church—I can’t believe it’s true. And I’m told nobody knows why.”
He didn’t satisfy her curiosity. Instead he asked how well she knew Mrs. Grant.
“I don’t know her at all,” Josie answered him. “She lives in the Gap. They don’t come here, and we don’t go there.”
Not much help there, he thought, and finished his breakfast when she disappeared into the kitchen.
He hadn’t searched the bedroom Barnes was using at the rectory. But a man like Barnes would leave no incriminating information there. Not with Mrs. Saunders’s propensity for cleaning and scrubbing. He wouldn’t take a chance that she might pry farther than a mop and broom and duster reached.
Rutledge remembered something that Chief Inspector Cummings had said to him early on in his career. Before the war changed him, changed everything.
Go back to the beginning. Not to sound idiotic—but that’s where it began.
This business had begun in France, just before the Somme offensive.
A farm where the shelling had destroyed everything but the barn. A makeshift officers’ mess. An undertaking by seven men to meet in Paris when the war was over. Two of them died before the Armistice. Five made it to France.
No, six men made it to France, one of them a deserter.
Rutledge stood up so quickly he jarred the table, sloshing tea into the saucer.
Brothers had seen the sergeant—Barnes—in Paris.
Was that the beginning, and the night before the Somme only a prelude?
He took the stairs three at a time, caught up his coat and hat, was pulling his driving gloves out of his pocket as he went out the pub door.
It was a fine morning to drive to Maidstone. But Rutledge hardly noticed it.
It was teatime when he walked into Brothers’s house.
Brothers rose from the table, his cup in his hand. “What’s happened?” he asked sharply. “Has there been another death?”
“I’ve come for information. You told me you believed you’d seen the sergeant in Paris. Did he see you?”
“I don’t know.” He considered the question. “Yes, there’s a good chance he did. We didn’t speak, of course. He was with someone.”
“Where were you?”
“The five of us—Holt, Standish, Russell, Taylor, and I—were going out to dine at a restaurant Taylor knew of. I was the last one out the door. The sergeant was inside the hotel, just crossing the lobby when I glanced back.”
“What was he doing?”
“Crossing the lobby, I’ve told you.”
“All right. Describe him.”
“I wasn’t actually certain it was the sergeant. I hadn’t seen him since ’16.” Brothers set his cup down, motioning Rutledge to a chair as he resumed his own s
eat. “What’s this all about?”
“Humor me. I’ll explain afterward. Why weren’t you certain it was the same man?”
“He looked different. The way he was dressed. Odd for a deserter: expensive dark clothes, his hair longer, well cut, and a mustache. The kind officers often sported. I’ve always been rather good with faces. It’s why I find it so easy to remember the dead.” He looked away, pain in his face.
Rutledge gave him a moment to recover. “Was he wearing a clerical collar?”
That brought a smile from Brothers. “Hardly. No, he looked more like an officer, except that he wasn’t in uniform.”
“Who was he with?”
“There was a very attractive woman on his arm. I’d forgot about her, actually. I was paying more attention to the man. A few years older, possibly, and dressed like old money, if you know what I mean. Fashionable but understated.”
“Were they guests at the hotel?”
“I think they came to dine there. I don’t know why I was so sure of that, but there was a handsome motorcar outside, a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. They must have come in just before we came down, or we’d have met them at the door.”
“What else can you tell me about the woman?”
Brothers tried to remember, closing his eyes. “That’s all. I was looking at the sergeant. I saw her more as an extension of him, if you follow.” He opened his eyes. “They were on good terms. Comfortable with each other, as if they’d known each other for some time.”
“English or French?”
“I have no idea. Wait, the motorcar was English. Why is this important?”
Rutledge told him.
“Ah. It makes sense. My God, Rutledge, surely she didn’t know about his past.”
“No. Nor do we know how to find her. I wonder if she’s still important to him. Is she in England? Or still in France?”
There was no answer to that question, and Rutledge left with a feeling that he had nearly run out of possibilities to explore.
He drove back to East Dedham. It was dark when he arrived, and he left his motorcar at the pub, walking up to the rectory. Someone had patched up the broken windows. There was no light that he could see, but he went round to the kitchen. A lamp was burning there, and when he drew closer to the window, he could see Mrs. Saunders sitting at the large table, doing her mending.
It was another hour before she went off to her sister’s house, and he was free to go in. As before, the kitchen door was off the latch, and he made his way inside.
He found the room that Barnes was using without much trouble. It was neat, no clothing, no shoes or cuff links or stockings cluttering up the chairs and the table. He cast his light about, careful not to let it reach the windows, and decided to begin in the wardrobe.
Nothing but clothing on the hangers or in the drawers. Shoes, well polished, were in tidy rows beneath the trousers and coats and shirts.
He took the valise down from the top of the wardrobe and went through it. It had been emptied before it had been put up there.
The desk near the window was as helpful as the wardrobe. Nothing of a personal nature at all.
Rutledge moved on to the table by the bed. The drawer held reading glasses, a case for them in embroidered velvet, a pen, a small diary, and two handkerchiefs.
He opened the diary and found some notations. A date in December, the words Dover and The Saucy Belle. A ship, expected in Dover next week. Other notations were dates that had passed. Luncheons or dinners, a party or two. Among them he found the date that Barnes must have returned to England. Calais, The Mermaid, a little more than a month earlier.
Replacing the diary, he knocked the glasses case off the table and stooped to retrieve it.
It was an ornate case, beautifully crafted and sheathed in velvet. It wasn’t until he turned it over that he saw the small metal plaque on the back of it.
To Michael, with all my love, Kathleen
Rutledge looked inside the case. There was the name of a jeweler in Canterbury, not far from the cathedral.
He’d had very little sleep, but it didn’t matter. He stopped at the pub, ordered sandwiches and tea to take with him, and set out for Canterbury.
By the time the shop opened, Rutledge was waiting at the door. He had stopped only long enough to purchase shaving gear and a fresh shirt, take a room at the nearest inn to make himself presentable, then order a hurried breakfast.
An older man, perhaps fifty, with graying hair, greeted him and asked how he could serve him.
Rutledge smiled. “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.” He handed the man his identification. “I need to find the person who purchased this case. Can you assist me with that?”
The man looked around, as if fearful that someone had overheard the request from the Yard, although the shop was empty. “I remember it well,” he said, taking the case and looking it over. “It was a special order from Paris. Lady Kathleen Marshall bought it for a friend. I only know his name as ‘Michael,’ I’m afraid.”
“Where can I find Lady Kathleen Marshall?”
“She lives in a lovely manor house not far from town. I don’t believe she’s there at the moment. Her husband was Sir Wilfred Marshall. He was killed at Passchendaele, and she went to France last year to see his grave. She met someone there who had served with him, and she went back this summer to visit him.” He fiddled with a small sign on the counter in front of him. “I hear through other family members that she will marry this man, Michael, at Christmas.”
“Are you certain about this?”
“Yes. My source is very reliable. Sir Wilfred’s mother, in fact. Rings have been ordered.”
The shop door opened, and the man looked up. Two women entered, and he said, “Will that be all, sir?”
“Is the family happy about this?”
The jeweler said quietly, lowering his voice, “I’m told they asked her to wait, and she did. This summer she told the family that she had made her decision.”
“They have been quite open with you.”
“We have served the family since my grandfather’s time,” he said, and with a nod he turned away to speak to the newcomers.
Rutledge went to the local police station to find out how to reach the Marshall house.
It stood on a ridge from which he could see the distant cathedral, and the tall brick walls around the house were entered by a pair of ornate wrought-iron gates, the family’s crest in the center of each. A brick path led between boxwoods to the white door, set in the same rose-colored brick. The house was tall, three-storied, Georgian, with white facings at the windows.
There was money here, he thought, a great deal of it, and whatever Kathleen Marshall’s widow’s portion was, it was more than Barnes would see in a lifetime.
He walked to the door, lifted the brass knocker in the shape of an ornate M, and waited. A maid answered, and he asked for the Dowager Lady Marshall. He had to produce his identification, and then waited again before the maid conducted him to a bright sitting room where a fire burned cheerfully on the hearth.
“Inspector? I can’t imagine why the Yard is calling on me today.”
He turned to see a well-dressed woman in her late fifties, graying gracefully, step into the room. Her features were classical, a high brow, straight nose, marked by very intelligent gray eyes.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’ve come to ask a few questions relating to an inquiry. And I’m looking for the owner of this glasses case.”
“Why, Kathleen had that made for Michael. Is he all right? There hasn’t been an accident, has there?”
“The truth is, I wonder if you have a photograph of him?”
“I think I do. But will you tell me why you require it?”
“He has been arrested for murder.”
She stared at him. “Murder? I’m so sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
“Could I see his photograph, please? If there’s any mistake on my part, I’ll gladly apologize and leave.
”
She went to a table between the windows, long skirts hiding its legs and an array of photographs in silver frames covering the top. She reached for one, decided on another, and brought it to him. “This is Kathleen with Michael. It’s rather good of both of them.”
The woman was pretty, perhaps closer to thirty than five-and-twenty. Her hair was done in a fashionable style, and the walking dress she wore was well cut. She was standing in front of Notre Dame, smiling, and the man beside her, dressed like a gentleman, holding a malacca cane, had removed his hat for the photograph.
Rutledge was staring at the features of the man who had claimed he was the representative of St. Simon’s Bishop, the same man who had taken Jem Meadows to a deserted cave and left her to die.
Lady Marshall was watching his face closely. She said, “You do recognize him, I see.”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Surely there is a mistake?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What has he done?”
And so Rutledge told her.
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21
Lady Marshall listened to Rutledge, questioned him, and finally rose, saying, “There’s one solution to this problem. Will you drive me to this East Dedham, and let me see for myself this man you are calling a murderer?”
“It will be my pleasure,” he replied, concealing the fact that this very request was what had brought him here to this house.
He waited in the sitting room for her to change and pack a small valise. The maid who had admitted him brought him tea and little cakes.
Half an hour later, Lady Marshall came down, apologized for keeping him, and went with him to the motorcar.
She didn’t speak for some time, and then she began to talk about the man she knew as Michael Reston.