Shutting the door again, Rutledge went down the passage to the kitchen and startled Hillary Timmons into dropping a spoon she was drying.
“Oh, you did give me a start, sir!” she exclaimed, her hands going to her breast, as if afraid he was about to attack her.
He realized his anger and frustration must be visible in his face. Striving to control both, he said, “I’m sorry, Miss Timmons. I was looking for Mr. Keating.”
“I can’t think where he might be,” she answered, still tense. “But we’re closed, sir. He may’ve stepped out for a bit.”
“There was a motorcar just leaving. Do you know who the person was, driving?”
“I don’t know, sir! I wasn’t serving in the bar today. We’d only a handful of people there, and Mr. Keating said he’d see to them himself.”
“Damn!”
She jumped again, and he apologized.
“Tell Keating I’m looking for him. I’ll expect him to come to Hensley’s house, as soon as he returns.”
“He—he doesn’t take lightly to orders, sir.”
“Well, then, you can tell him that if he doesn’t come to me, I’ll come after him and drag him there myself.”
And with that Rutledge turned on his heel, left the door to the kitchen swinging wildly, and walked out of the inn.
By the time he’d reached the house where he was staying, some of his anger had cooled.
But he felt that he was on the track of answers now.
16
Certain that Keating wouldn’t be on his heels, Rutledge went into the bakery to find the postmistress.
A warm wave of yeast and cinnamon and rising bread greeted him as he stepped inside the door. The trays of baked goods displayed in a counter were already well picked over, as if the baker’s shop had done a brisk business in scones and poppy seed cakes and dinner rolls.
There was a woman behind the counter who was so much like Martha Simpson that he assumed she was the girl’s mother. Her face was pink with the warmth of the shop, and her apron was dusty with flour. He nodded to her and walked on to the tiny cage in one corner that served as the post office. Mrs. Arundel, a rangy woman of about thirty, was sitting on her stool, counting coins into a tin. She looked up as Rutledge came up to the cage, and smiled at him.
“Inspector Rutledge,” she acknowledged. “What can I do for you?” She had tucked the coins out of sight and was reaching for a large book of stamps, as if prepared to send a letter for him. “You found your little box from London, did you? I asked Ben Lassiter to drop it by Constable Hensley’s house on his way home.”
“Yes, thank you. I wonder,” he began, lowering his voice as Mrs. Simpson listened unashamedly to the conversation, “if you can recall sending letters to London for Emma Mason or her grandmother. I’m trying to locate Emma’s mother.”
“Indeed.” She peered at him. “I do remember the letters going out with the post. But they were returned, for want of a proper address.”
“How often did you see these letters?”
“Oh, not often—I expect one or two a year at most. It was sad, you know. Emma would come in with them, such hope in her face. And I took it personally when the letters came back, as if I were responsible for misdirecting them.” She shook her head. “Very sad.”
“How long have you been postmistress here?”
“Since August 1914, when my husband went to Northampton to enlist. He didn’t come home, though he’d promised he would if I let him go.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a waste,” she said, “such a waste. We lost ten young men from Dudlington. And they’re our dead. We’ve got seven more trying to cope with severe wounds. Another shot himself rather than live with both legs gone.” She cleared her throat, as if the memories were too fresh. “Yes, well, letters to and from Beatrice Mason. I remember her, you know. Such a pretty girl, and so talented. I wished her well when she went off to London, and I always believed that Mrs. Ellison was too hard on her. Giving her an ultimatum, so to speak. Go and I shan’t take you back. That’s what Beatrice told my older sister. It’s a choice, she said. I must make a choice. I can’t imagine a mother being so harsh to her only child! But it’s brought bitter fruit in its wake, hasn’t it?”
“Why was Mrs. Ellison so adamant about Beatrice leaving? Was it money?”
“No, Mrs. Ellison is a stickler for the proprieties, I think, and the idea of her daughter hobnobbing with bohemian artists and naked models was more than she could bear. Nice girls didn’t concern themselves with all that.”
Mrs. Simpson spoke, breaking into the conversation. “Beatrice was like her father. He would have taken her to London himself, if he’d been alive. To show her what sort of life she could expect there and prove to her that it wasn’t the lovely adventure she’d dreamed it would be. Her mother just put her foot down, and for Beatrice, that was nothing short of the red flag in front of the bull.”
Rutledge turned so that he could see both women. “What was Mason like, the man Beatrice married? Did Mrs. Ellison approve of him?”
“I doubt she ever met him,” Mrs. Simpson commented. “He was dead by the time Emma was three or four. That’s when Beatrice brought her home to be cared for by her grandmother. I don’t think he had any desire to come to Dudlington, to tell you the truth. Beatrice had probably told him what a witch her mother was.”
“What did he do for a living? Do you know?”
“Another artist, very likely,” Mrs. Arundel said. “I never heard, other than that he was poor as a church mouse and left poor Beatrice nothing with which to feed herself or the baby.”
“Mrs. Ellison told you that?”
“Lord, no!” Mrs. Simpson laughed. “We got it from the woman that did for her sometimes, Betsy Timmons. I wouldn’t put it past her to listen at keyholes—”
The shop door opened, and a woman came in with two small children. Mrs. Simpson turned away to greet her.
Mrs. Arundel said, in a voice that wouldn’t carry, “I was told that Mr. Mason came from a very good family that had cut him off, much as Mrs. Ellison had cut Beatrice off. While he was alive, selling his work, they lived rather well. But after he died, there was no one to bring in such grand sums of money.”
“Who told you that?”
“I believe it was Grace Letteridge. Who got it from Emma, most likely.”
Hamish said, sourly, “Aye, the granny’s fairy tale. To save her daughter’s good name.”
It would, Rutledge thought, be just like Mrs. Ellison to put as good a face on her family’s trials as she could.
The door opened again, and a man stepped in, breathless and anxious, his eyes sweeping the shop and lighting on Rutledge.
“I’m looking for Inspector Rutledge.”
“I’m Rutledge. What’s happened?”
“Dr. Middleton sent me to find you. The rector’s had a terrible fall. He—Dr. Middleton—says it would be best if you come at once.”
With a nod to the postmistress, Rutledge was out the door on the messenger’s heels.
“What’s happened to Mr. Towson?”
“He was in the attic, searching for something. He shouldn’t have gone up there by himself. The stairs are small. He missed his step and fell hard on his hip. Dr. Middleton thinks it’s broken.”
“Who are you?” Rutledge asked as they hurried down Whitby Lane and turned into Church Street. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“My name is Ben Staley. Farmer. It was my wagon that carried Constable Hensley to Northampton.”
At the rectory there were four or five men milling about in the parlor, their muddy boots tracking up the wood floors. Rutledge recognized Ted Baylor among them and asked, “Where’s Middleton?”
Baylor jerked his head toward the stairs, and Rutledge went up them fast.
The passage that led to the bedchambers was dark, the doors shut.
Hamish was saying, “Which one?”
But farther along the passage to his
left, Rutledge could see light pouring from an open door, and he turned in that direction.
It was, as he thought, the door to the narrow, uncarpeted stairs leading up to the attics. Lying sprawled across the landing between the two flights was the rector, his face twisted in pain. Dr. Middleton was busy examining him with some care, trying to determine the extent of his injuries without doing further damage.
Hamish said, “It’s a wonder he’s no’ dead.”
Middleton looked up as Rutledge arrived, and said in a low voice, “I sent for you because there’s something of a mystery about his fall. Here, take this.”
He passed a bottle of laudanum to Rutledge and added, “I don’t want to give him anything until I know whether the hip is broken, bruised, or dislocated.”
His hands went on gently exploring the rector’s body.
Rutledge took the bottle. “Shall I fetch a glass and a little water?”
“No, stay here and fend off the men below. I don’t want them upsetting him.”
The rector seemed half-conscious, his eyes sometimes rolling back in his head.
“Who found him?”
“It was Hillary Timmons. She comes to clean for him in the afternoon, while the pub is closed. She heard something, thought it was an animal in pain, and went to look. When she found the rector, she was terrified out of her wits and went screaming next door to Ted Baylor. Fortunately he was in his barn, and he came at once for me. It was Hillary who told everyone else. I sent her home with Bob Johnson, with a powder to calm her.”
He had spoken to Hillary Timmons at The Oaks. “I saw her not half an hour ago. How long has Towson been lying here?”
“No way of telling, except that the bruises are already showing up on his arms and his cheek, there. He might have been here for an hour or more.”
The doctor rocked back on his heels, sighing. “Well, I don’t think that hip’s broken, thank God. Just badly bruised. With his rheumatism, using crutches would be difficult. But look at his arm. See the knot just there? It could mean a fracture. Time will tell.”
“How are we going to move him from here, without hurting him appallingly?”
“That’s where the laudanum comes in. Baylor was all for a stiff whiskey, but that’s the worst possible solution to shock. We’ll ease him a little and then find something to use to shift him to a bed.”
“You said there was something wrong with the way he’d fallen?”
“Not so much that. He was awake for a few minutes, when I got here. He said he’d been in the attic searching for something, he couldn’t recall what, and someone came to the stairs and called him to come quickly, there’d been an accident. Old fool turned, hurried down the steps, and missed his footing.”
“Who was it?”
“That’s the problem, Rutledge. There was no one here when Hillary came to clean. You’d have thought, with all the noise of the fall, whoever had been standing in the passage there, calling up for him to come at once, would have looked to see if Towson was alive or dead.”
When Towson was quieter and in less discomfort, the men in the hall below took a leaf from the long dining room table—fit for a clergyman’s large family—and brought it to the attic stairs. Middleton sent Rutledge through the bedchambers to collect blankets to pad it. Then between them, they lifted the rector onto the improvised stretcher and carried him to his own bed.
He lay there, white as his shirt, groaning in pain. Middleton sent the men about their business, with instructions to put the table back together before they left, and drew a chair up to the bedside.
After a moment he said to Rutledge, “That arm’s fractured. Now I can feel the bones scraping together. But it isn’t compound, and I can brace it. That knot on his head”—he parted the white hair to point out a large lump—“may mean he’s concussed, worst luck. I’ll have to ask someone to sit with him. And I’m still worried about that hip. It will keep him in bed for a bit. Why it didn’t break is a mystery. Unless that arm took the brunt of his fall.”
“Very likely,” Rutledge agreed.
Hamish was busy asking who would want to kill the rector and supplying his own answers to the question. Rutledge ignored him until a word caught his attention.
“The attic windows. Ye ken, they look out toward yon wood.”
“Can you spare me a moment?” Rutledge asked. “I’d like to have a look at those stairs again.”
“First help me get him out of those trousers, while we can. It will take the two of us.”
They removed the rector’s black shoes and stockings, and then gently persuaded his trousers to peel away without lifting his body more than was necessary.
Middleton got him under the blankets, wrapped him well against shock, and then began to unbutton Towson’s shirt.
Rutledge was surprised at how light the man was. Towson had seemed very vibrant and active, despite his rheumatism.
“Aye, and the fall should ha’ kilt him,” Hamish reminded Rutledge again.
Free at length to go back to the stairs, Rutledge examined them. The edges of the risers were worn, and the steps were steep, narrow, and not well lighted. It would be easy for a man to come down too quickly and fall.
He went on to the top of the steps and saw that the attic was fairly empty, some luggage, a trunk, and a few oddments of furniture hardly filling the vast space. Two rooms had been built in here for servants, one to the east and one to the west. They had windows, as did the central room. Rutledge pushed aside the iron bedsteads under the casements and stood there, looking out.
To the west he could see the long sweep of pasture, the line of the stream, and in the far, far distance, the tower of another church, barely visible.
“The next village,” Hamish pointed out.
The east window looked out on the barns at the Baylor farm. He could see them clearly, and the kitchen door, the windows on this side of the house, and the chimney.
But from the central room the windows, a pair of them, looked out toward Frith’s Wood. Only the treetops were visible, and the bend of the main road as it turned toward Letherington. And he could see the fields beyond the wood, rolling down to it.
If there was movement in the wood—a man in a dark coat, for instance—he thought perhaps he could follow it to some extent. It would have to be tested, to be sure, but it was certainly a possibility.
Hamish made the connection nearly as quickly as he had.
“If yon wood is sae clearly visible from here, I expect it can be seen from the house next door. Did you see that yon upper floor is a bit higher still?”
Rutledge went back to the east servant’s room and looked again. Hamish had been right. The Baylor house, while not precisely turned toward the wood, must have windows that looked out on it, just as the rectory did.
It was an interesting point. But whether it would prove useful was another matter.
The question now was who had come to the stairs and called to the rector?
Rutledge sat with Towson for another hour, spelling Dr. Middleton, who had gone to his surgery for splints.
The rector did wake up for a brief period, amazed to find himself in his bed and hurting all through his body, as he put it.
Rutledge said, “Don’t you recall falling down the attic stairs?”
Towson frowned. “Was I in the attic? I seldom go there.”
“Today you were. And someone called to you, telling you that you were needed directly.”
Towson lifted his good hand to his forehead, as if to find the memory there somewhere, within reach.
But whatever he had told Middleton in the first few moments after the doctor had arrived, he had no recollection of it now.
17
After Dr. Middleton had found someone to sit with Towson—Grace Letteridge, as it happened—Rutledge was free to return to Hensley’s house, and he walked into the parlor office feeling depressed.
Hamish said, “You ken, it’s likely he’ll remember when he’s slept.”
But Dr. Middleton had not been very sanguine.
“Well, who knows? It was a shock, that fall, and he lay there afterward, unable to call for help. It would have been trying for a younger man.”
“Still, he told you when you got there what had happened.”
“Yes, well, I was salvation arriving on a white steed. Hillary is a sweet girl, but she’s not reliable in an emergency. I was, and he must have held on, hoping for someone sensible enough to talk to. Then he could let it go.”
Middleton had offered Rutledge a sherry, dug out of Towson’s private store in the study, before he left the rectory. “God knows I need it, and you might as well have the benefit of it too.”
Rutledge didn’t argue. And it was good sherry, at that.
“Why should someone call to him, tell him to make haste—and then walk away when he fell? It makes no sense,” Middleton asked, sitting down in the best chair and stretching his feet out before him. “Unless of course he’d had some sort of seizure and only imagined he’d been called. That’s possible too, you know.”
But Rutledge, striding up Church Street, couldn’t afford to ignore the alternatives. No policeman would.
Rutledge, taking the chair behind Hensley’s desk, found himself thinking aloud out of long habit. “Two incidents of this magnitude in one village in a matter of a single week. The question is, Are they connected? Or only a coincidence?”
Hamish said, “Mysel’, I’d ask why sae close together.”
And that was a point to be considered. Why had this quiet little village suddenly erupted into violence?
Unless Hensley had found something in that bloody wood. But if he had, he’d held his tongue even in hospital. Why? Had it been self-incriminating? That was possible.
But even if the rector had fallen through his own carelessness, Hensley hadn’t shot that arrow into his own back. Which still brought in a third party into the picture.
If Keating had come to the house in his absence, Rutledge found no sign of it. He debated going back to the inn, but it would be a wild-goose chase. Keating was no Josh Morgan, of The Three Horses, glad to stand and gossip with his custom. Short of searching the building, there would be no way of flushing him out if he didn’t want to be found.
Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 08 Page 13