by Otto Penzler
“The brother fled to Australia from charges of theft. The death on Dartmoor was staged to save the family the disgrace.”
“The brother was a convict?” Rutledge asked, surprised. Even Sergeant Gibson had failed to uncover that information.
“Yes. He gave the police a false name. His father went to Dartmoor and staged his son’s death. To spare the then Lady Middleton. So Sir John told us in December.”
“Then the son couldn’t have returned to kill the father.”
“The fall in the bathroom? He was drunk. He stayed drunk much of the time.”
“Was Sir John quite certain this was his brother-in-law’s son?”
“Yes, he had the proper credentials. It’s quite in order.”
And the son had gone to Dartmouth and slept in the house that would be his. Had he then decided to hasten that day? Or had he been given permission to begin repairs on the house?
Mr. Briggs didn’t know. “I was told to make the necessary changes to Sir John’s will. I was not privy to any other arrangements between the two.”
The house would require hundreds—thousands—of pounds to make it habitable again, let alone to restore it. The young Barnes, with his wooden foot, had been there and seen what was needed.
Had he come back, when he realized that the bequest was an empty promise and that the house would fall down around his ears long before Sir John died a natural death?
“Where can I find this young Barnes?”
“I was given an address in London. I was told that he could be reached through it.”
Briggs fiddled with the papers in front of him, found the one he wanted, and told Rutledge what he needed to know. “I expect it is a residence rather than a hotel,” he added.
But Rutledge recognized the address. It was a small hospital where the mentally disturbed from the war were committed when there was no other course open to a doctor.
Rutledge thanked Briggs and turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward London.
The street where the hospital stood was not far from St. Paul’s Cathedral. Two adjoining houses had been combined to form a single dwelling, and the main door was guarded by an orderly with great mustaches. Rutledge showed his identification and was admitted. Reception was a narrow room with a long desk against one wall. Another orderly sat there with a book in front of him. He looked up as Rutledge entered.
“Sir?” he said, rising to stop Rutledge’s advance. “Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes. A man by the name of Barnes. He was in the war, has a wooden foot. I expect he’s a patient here.”
“Barnes?” The orderly frowned. “We don’t have a patient named Barnes. There’s a Dr. Barnes. Surgeon. He lost his foot in the Near East.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Is he Australian?”
“He is indeed.”
“I’d like to speak to him, if I may.”
The orderly consulted his book. “He’s just finished surgery, I believe. He should be in his office shortly.”
Rutledge was shown to a door where a middle-aged nursing sister escorted him the rest of the way, to an office behind a barred door.
“We must be careful with our patients,” she said. “Some of them are very confused about where they are and why they are here. It’s sad, really,” she went on. “They’re so young, most of them.”
“What sort of surgery does Dr. Barnes do?” he asked as she showed him into the drab little room.
“Today he was removing a bullet pressing on the brain of one of the men in our charge. Very delicate. But it had to be done, if he’s to have any hope of living a normal life. The question is, will he ever live a normal life, given his confusion?”
She sounded tired and dispirited. He thanked her and sat down in the chair in front of the desk, prepared to wait.
When Dr. Barnes finally entered the office, he wasn’t what Rutledge had anticipated. Young, fair, intense, he seemed to fill the room with his presence.
Rutledge rose.
“What brings Scotland Yard to Mercy Hospital?” he asked, going around the desk and taking the chair behind it.
“I’m afraid I’ve come to give you bad news. Your uncle is dead.”
The tired face changed. “Sir John? What happened? He was healthy enough when I saw him last.”
“Someone came into the house when Mrs. Gravely was in Mumford and killed him.”
The shock was real. “Dear God!”
“It appears you’ll be inheriting Trafalgar sooner than you expected.”
Dr. Barnes made an impatient gesture. “He was kind enough to leave it to me. I don’t think he wanted it, come to that. But he could have said no. Still, I have no time now to restore it. Or even think of restoring it.” He made a face. “Nor the money, for that matter. I’m needed here, anyway. For the time being. Well, to be honest, for some time to come.”
“You went to call on Sir John in December. And you were in the house in Dartmouth then—or soon after that. You broke in.”
The smile was genuine, amused. “Hardly breaking in. But I had no key. And it was to be mine. I decided it would do no harm. How on earth did you know? Did someone see me? Or the smoke from the fire in the kitchen?”
“Marks in the dust,” Rutledge said. “Of a foot that dragged, and a cane.”
“Ah. Have you found who killed Sir John? I hope you have. He was a good man.”
“We have no leads at present,” Rutledge said with regret. He hesitated, then added, “The last thing your uncle said, as far as anyone knows, was one word. Trafalgar. It seemed likely that he was referring to the house. Why should that have been on his mind as he lay dying?”
Dr. Barnes got to his feet and turned, looking out the high window. There was nothing to be seen from it, except for the wall of the house next door, some four feet away. “You think I must have killed the old man, don’t you?” He turned. “I can probably supply witnesses to swear I was here—nearly round the clock for the past month or more. But that isn’t what matters. I didn’t harm him. I told you, it would do me no good if I had killed him twice over. There isn’t time to do anything about the house or the land.”
“If he’d changed his mind and left it to you, one might wonder if he’d have been equally as easily persuaded to leave it to someone else.”
“But to whom?” Barnes asked. “Who did I have to fear?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said. “But that one word, Trafalgar, is damning.”
Barnes sat down again. “There must be some other meaning.”
“Yes. But what?”
Barnes shrugged. “My family wasn’t the only one with a connection to the battle. Surely.”
“Sir John had no connection to it. There was only the house in Dartmouth.”
“There was the war. He made enemies there, very likely. I heard tales of what he did at HQ. He tried to bring reason to the decisions being made.”
And Sir John had been writing his memoirs. It was possible.
Hamish said, “The blows. He couldna ha’ been thinking clearly.”
“Yet,” Rutledge replied silently, “yet he remembered the old dog.”
Thanking Barnes for his time, he rose, saying, “I must have my men question the staff here. There will be statements to sign.”
“Yes, to be sure. I have nothing to hide.” As Rutledge reached the door, Barnes said, “I’d like to come to the services. Will you see that someone lets me know when the arrangements are made?”
“Mr. Briggs will see that you’re kept informed.”
As he was leaving, the heavy door to the stairs swung open and a sister came out, carrying a tray of medicines. For an instant he heard the screams of someone in a ward above, and he knew what that meant. A living nightmare, the curse of shell shock.
The screams were cut off as the door swung shut. Shuddering, he went through the other door and was in Reception once more where he could breathe again.
Outside in the street, he walked for half an
hour before returning to where he’d left his motorcar. It had been necessary to exorcise the memories those screams had reawakened.
“Do you believe yon doctor?” Hamish asked as Rutledge turned the crank.
“He’ll have dozens of witnesses to prove that he was here at the hospital. So, yes, I believe he had nothing to do with killing Sir John.” He got into the motorcar. “But that isn’t to say that he didn’t hire someone to do the deed for him.” He considered the screams he’d heard. Was there a patient in the hospital whose fragile mental state might make him a perfect murderer? Who could be set in motion by a clever killer, chosen because he could be depended upon to do as he was told to do?
It was far-fetched. But at the moment Rutledge was running out of options.
Hamish said, “It comes back to yon dog, ye ken. Why was he put out in the cold?”
Would a damaged mind think to rid himself of the dog? Why had it been necessary? Simba was too old to attack and do any real damage. Although, Rutledge thought as he pulled into traffic, anyone with a dog bite in Mumford, or even as far away as Cambridge, would need treatment. And that would lead to discovery and questions by the police. Even Dr. Barnes would find it hard to explain how one of his patients could have been bitten.
Turning the motorcar around, he drove toward Cambridge. It was late when he arrived, but Mrs. Gravely was still awake, a light on in the kitchen, and he lifted the knocker, letting it fall gently rather than imperatively. She opened the door tentatively, then smiled when she recognized him.
“I’m that glad of company,” she said. “I don’t quite know what to do with myself. There’s no one to cook or clean for. The police tell me to leave everything be, and the doctor tells me poor Sir John’s body hasn’t been released, and until it is, I can’t begin the baking for the funeral. No one knows when there’ll be an inquest.” She gestured to the furnishings as he stepped into the house. “I haven’t been told what I’m supposed to do with all Sir John’s things. No surprise I haven’t been sleeping of nights.”
He wondered how she would react when the will was read and she learned that the cottage was hers. Would she be pleased—or would the memory of Sir John’s body lying in the study haunt her every time she walked into the room?
He let her make a cup of tea for him, and then said, “The man who came here in December, the one with the wooden foot, is actually the son of the first Lady Middleton’s brother.”
“My good Lord,” she said fervently. “I’d have never guessed.” She paused, measuring out the tea. “But why didn’t he say so? Why tell me he was an old comrade in arms?”
“Perhaps he thought Sir John might refuse to receive him if he used his own name.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I expect that was so. Still . . .” She left the word hanging and busied herself taking down cups and saucers, retrieving the sugar bowl from the cupboard, then walking into the pantry for the jug of milk.
“You’ve cleaned for Sir John these many years. Did he have anything in this house worth stealing? I don’t count money. Or gold cuff links. Something of great value. Something that would make killing him worthwhile?”
Because Dr. Barnes hadn’t the money to restore Trafalgar, whatever he might claim about time.
“I can’t think that there was. Some of his books? I don’t know about such things, but someone else might.”
“It didn’t appear that there were books missing.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. “I’m used to dusting them. They’re all there save one.”
Rutledge took the Barnes family history from his pocket. “My doing, that. I needed to show someone the photograph in the front.”
“I’ll see it’s in its rightful place,” she said, moving the book aside and setting down his cup of tea. “There’s a bit of chocolate sponge cake, if you’d like that,” she told Rutledge. “I made it for my dinner.”
He thanked her but refused. After a moment she sat down across from him. “There are the weapons between the photographs, in the study. But none of them was taken.”
Not even all of them would raise the sum needed to restore Trafalgar. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “If it were robbery, it would be for something worth thousands of pounds. Not a few hundred.”
She nodded. “I worry, sometimes,” she said, looking away as if embarrassed. “If I’d been here that day—or come back from the greengrocers a little sooner—could I have prevented what happened? I know you told me I might well have become a victim, too. But it weighs on my mind, you see. I needn’t have gone into Mumford that day. His dinner would have been all right without that onion.”
“I doubt it,” he told her bracingly. “Most killers would wait for their chance. If you hadn’t left that day, you would have left on another.”
Hamish said, “It’s a kind lie.”
He went through the study and the parlor again, looking for something missing—some explanation for why a man had to die—knowing very well that Mrs. Gravely would have noticed and brought it to his attention long ago.
It was all as he’d seen it the first time. The tidiness of the soldier, used to spartan conditions. The collector of books, most of them on warfare, Cambridge, even India. The husband, who loved his second wife and kept her portrait where he could see it, but who bore no grudge against his first wife, headstrong though she may have been. The fastidious man who was always freshly shaven and carefully dressed, judging by the body.
Rutledge went back to the bookshelves and ran his finger down the line of titles. Nothing out of the ordinary. Several volumes of biography: William the Conqueror, Henry II, Edwards I and III. Soldiers all, in the days when kings led their men into battle. The tactics of the American general Robert E. Lee. The strategies of Napoleon.
He stopped and pulled out one of the books at random. As he opened it, something fell out and drifted lightly to the floor.
Stooping to pick it up, he saw that it was an article cut from a newspaper, yellowed and thin.
It was about the destruction of the Great Mews of Whitehall Palace. The stables of Edward I and his predecessors. This had been done early in the eighteenth century, when the ramshackle mews was more of an eyesore than it was useful. Rutledge glanced at the spine of the book and saw it was a biography of Edward I. The cutting was well before Sir John’s time, and turning to the end covers, he saw that the name inscribed there in an ornate bookplate was that of Sir Robert Middleton. Father? Grandfather? Uncle?
He set the book aside and picked up the Bible. Searching the list of births and deaths, he realized that Sir Robert was a great-grandfather of Sir John’s. Not a contemporary of the destruction of the royal mews, but Sir Robert had been alive in the first part of the nineteenth century, when various architects, including the famous Nash, had taken on the task of creating a square that would fit into the overall view of a new and spacious London. The name given to the finished square came from the column bearing the statue of Admiral Nelson: Trafalgar Square. But as Hillier, the Dartmouth bookseller, had said, it had been among the last of the memorials to Lord Nelson.
Interesting, but it was, as Hamish was reminding him, decades in the past. Hardly pertinent to a murder in 1920.
Glancing at his watch, Rutledge saw that it was half past one o’clock in the morning. The house was quiet, and he thought perhaps Mrs. Gravely had gone up to her bed. Still, he sat down at a table in the parlor and read the faded cutting. It told him very little more. Picking up the book, he thumbed through the pages, looking for any reference to the royal mews. There was nothing of interest. He went back to the study, searched for other books on Edward I, and carried them into the parlor. Had it been only coincidence that the cutting was in that particular history?
It was close on five when Mrs. Gravely came in with sandwiches and a pot of tea. He ate absently, his mind on the hunt. When she came to take away his plate and cup, she said, looking over his shoulder, “He must have loved that book. I can’t count the times I’
d find it on his desk when I was dusting.”
Rutledge turned to see what she was pointing to. A slim volume bound in worn leather, printed a hundred years ago.
It was written by a man called Baker, and it purported to offer an account of the crusade the then Prince Edward Longshanks made to the Holy Land. He had already turned homeward in 1272 when he learned of the death of his father, Henry III, and that he was now king. He was two years in reaching England to be crowned. Legend claimed that with him he brought a small gold reliquary, encrusted with precious stones and containing a piece of the True Cross. It remained with him through the early years of his reign, although it was more common to give such relics to a church in thanksgiving for his safe return. As he’d been sickly as a child, it was thought he kept the relic for his own protection. But when it failed to save his dying queen, Eleanor of Castile, in a ferocious fit of temper he ordered it buried in the largest dung pit in the stables.
According to Baker, it had been lost to history from that time forward, until a workman had discovered it during the demolition of the stables in the eighteenth century. The man had shown it to his brother-in-law, a yeoman farmer in Kent, who paid him handsomely for it, and the object had remained in the farmer’s family, passing from father to elder son in each generation. It had become known, Baker went on, as the Middleton Host, although the family had denied any knowledge of it, and with time the Host and the family itself had been lost to history. The remodeling of the land once occupied by the stables had revived the tale, but Baker had been unable to prove whether it was true or not. He had contacted a number of families by the name of Middleton in Kent and elsewhere, but had failed to find any trace of the story.
Rutledge sat back, considering what he’d just read. Then he rose and went back to the study to look at the small wooden box by the bookshelves.
There was no way of knowing what it had contained. Even Mrs. Gravely, when questioned, had no idea what had been kept inside—if anything. She had dusted it but never opened it.
But suppose—just suppose—it had held the Middleton Host.
That would match with the message that the dying man had tried to pass on to his housekeeper.