“There’s verra’ little warmth at the top of yon house in winter,” Hamish countered derisively. “And only two people, ye ken, with no’ much time to stand about watching ithers. It’s no’ likely they’ll ha’ seen anything. Unless they were verra’ lucky.”
“Then it’s time to find out how good their luck is.”
19
When Rutledge used the brass knocker on the door, there was no answer. He walked around the side of the house to the kitchen garden.
The door there was ajar, and he stepped in, calling, “Baylor? Are you there?”
He could hear voices somewhere inside, and he walked down the passage to the kitchen. It was empty too. Although it was tidy, the room was masculine in tone—shades rather than curtains at the windows, and an oil cloth covering the table. The only feminine concession was a frilled but worn cushion on one of the chairs, as if this was where a woman had once sat.
The door on the far side led to the rest of the house, and he walked quietly down a second passage. He’d just reached a room with an open door when Baylor came out and nearly collided with him.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed, startled to find someone in his house.
“I’ve knocked on the front door and called from the kitchen—perhaps it’s time to think of answering. You must have heard me.”
“Damn you, you’ve no right to come in like this.” Baylor was furious, his face red.
“I came to ask if I could look out your upper windows toward Frith’s Wood. Surely there’s no harm in that. It’s probably the best observation post in Dudlington.”
“What are you saying, that someone here used it to watch the wood? You must be mad. We had nothing to do with Hensley’s attack that day. Except to save his life.”
“Don’t deliberately misunderstand me, Baylor. I simply want to stand at the window to judge how much of the wood is visible from there.”
Hamish said quietly, “There’s someone in yon room. And you must pass it to reach the stairs—”
Rutledge could feel the presence in the room, silent and apprehensive.
“Look, I’ll just go up the back stairs to the attic, if you’ll lead the way. I needn’t disturb the rest of the household.”
Torn, Baylor considered the alternatives. “Oh, very well. This way.”
He brushed past Rutledge with the intention of irritating him and walked back toward the kitchen. Through another door were the back stairs, narrow, curving, and with short treads. Baylor went up them with accustomed ease, but Rutledge had to duck through the door and keep a hand on the wall as he climbed.
They came out on the floor above, and then walked a short distance to a second flight of steps going up to the next floor.
It wasn’t an attic as Rutledge had thought, but another passage with small rooms intended for children or servants. The doors were shut, giving a claustrophobic air to the corridor, making it appear to be narrower than the one below. The carpet running down the center was worn with use but sound.
It would, Hamish was pointing out, muffle footsteps.
Baylor opened the door into a bright corner room, with square windows and an iron bedstead against one wall, a washstand nearest the door, and a tall chest of drawers to Rutledge’s left. The room seemed unused, empty of personal touches or the ordinary signs of someone’s presence. There was a desk between the north windows, and he went to it to lean his hands on the wooden top so that he could look out.
He could see the wood quite well, but not into it as clearly as he had from the church spire.
“It would be helpful if I could send someone into the wood and then stand here to observe his progress,” Rutledge said. “A test of sorts. Would you be agreeable to walking there for ten minutes or so?”
“I don’t set foot in the wood if I can help it. Find yourself another ferret.”
Without haste, Rutledge turned to the west window, where he could look toward the church, and found himself facing the narrow east opening where he’d stood on the ladder not twenty minutes before. A pale light came through from the opposite side of the spire, illuminating the interior, and he thought, Someone could have seen me, it’s not impossible.
“Do you have a woman who cleans for you?” he asked aloud, turning to Baylor. “Or perhaps your brother comes up here from time to time, to look out at the fields. It’s really quite a fine vantage point.”
“Nobody uses this floor. We haven’t since we were children, and my parents were still alive.”
“Can you be sure of that?”
“I told you. We don’t use this floor.”
But Rutledge was nearly sure someone had, at least for a short time, not more than half an hour ago. There was the partial print of a hand in the dust collecting on the windowsill beside him.
As they came down the stairs and into the kitchen, the kettle was just on the boil.
Baylor said, “I won’t offer you a cup of tea.”
It was a clear message to leave.
“Thank you for your willingness to help.” Rutledge went out the door and heard it shut behind him, almost on his heels.
He retraced his steps as far as the rectory, and an exhausted Hillary Timmons opened the door at his knock. She stood aside, almost wary of him, and he remembered his outburst of anger in the kitchen of The Oaks.
“How is the rector?” he asked after greeting her.
“Tiresome.” She smiled a little to take the sting out of the word. “He doesn’t feel like doing much of anything, and that drags at his patience.”
“Perhaps a visitor will help.”
“Oh, if you would, please. I need to see to his dinner, and there’s been no time.”
He went up the stairs to the first floor and down the passage to the rector’s bedroom. Towson greeted him with undisguised relief. “Thank God you’re here,” he said. “I need so many things, and young Hillary is hopeless.”
“What would you like?” Rutledge inquired, setting his hat to one side and tossing his coat over a chair.
“Tsk! There’s a coat-tree in the hall, didn’t she point it out?”
“It doesn’t matter. What can I find for you?”
“There are three books by the desk in my study. Paper, pens, and something to write on. Ink. My blotter—” He went on urgently, as if afraid Rutledge would desert him before he’d finished his requests.
“I’m surprised Hillary couldn’t have helped you earlier,” Rutledge said. “It doesn’t seem all that complicated.”
“She doesn’t like touching anything in my study. She never even ventures in there to dust it. You’d think she was afraid of it, as if God lived there, to help me with my sermons.”
Rutledge laughed. “Very well, I’ll do my best.”
He went to the study, a small room overlooking the church, and began to search for the items Towson had listed.
The books were easy enough to find on the shelf by the rector’s desk, and the writing materials lay next to the blotter. Rutledge was just looking around the room to find some means of carrying the lot back up the stairs, when he noticed a framed photograph on the small table by the only upholstered chair in the room. A lamp stood on the table as well, next to a book filled with strips of paper to mark various chapters. He crossed the room to look at the photograph, and then was distracted by the book.
It was leather bound, an album of sorts, with cuttings pasted to the pages. He could see the curled edges sticking out.
Rutledge reached to open it, and Hamish said, “I wouldna’ pry—”
He ignored the voice.
The cuttings had come from various newspapers, with the name of the paper and the date written in ink on each of them.
Most of them were obituaries. In the front was Mrs. Towson’s, short but flowery, identifying her as the beloved wife of our dear rector. Others were of local men killed in the war, each one pasted carefully in the center of a sheet of black paper, as if honoring them. He ran his eye down one or two, thinking as
he did that each of these young men hadn’t had time to live very far beyond boyhood. The war had given them their only reality; their rank and dates and the battle in which they’d fallen stood out starkly as their only achievement.
Son of… Young men who hadn’t married, hadn’t had families of their own, had left no mark in the world, and no posterity.
How many of them had he seen go into battle and fall? How many had he tried to remember as individuals, repeating their names to himself as he stood in the trenches during the dark nights of winter and the short ones of summer. MacKay, Sutherland, Gordon, Campbell, Scott, MacIver, MacInnes, MacTaggert, Chisholm, Kerr, Fraser—
He found himself reminded of Elizabeth Fraser, seeing her against the snow light, her hair so fair, like a crown, her body long and slim. The memory was slipping away from him now, and it hurt him to think that he was beginning to forget.
He made himself return to the album, scanning the names and ages and battles.
And then one name in particular caught his eye.
Robert Baylor, age twenty, son of the late Robert and Ellen Baylor of Dudlington Farm, survived by his brothers Theodore and Joel, and his fiancée, Grace Letteridge.
He closed the album carefully so as not to lose any of the markers.
Hamish said, “It wasna’ well done, looking without permission.”
“But now I know,” he answered. One more of the dead on the Somme. A young man who was engaged to marry one woman—but who had been seen by Constable Markham rolling in the grass near the church with Emma Mason.
Rutledge brought the books and writing materials to the rector, and set them on the bed where he could reach them. “I couldn’t find anything to write on.”
“That small flat handkerchief box over there will work nicely,” Towson told him, pointing to it. “I shan’t do it any harm.”
Rutledge brought it to him and set that within reach also.
“How can you write?”
“I’m accustomed to using either hand. When the rheumatism is worse, I switch. My mother was told when I was a child that I was contrary, using my left hand more than my right. My schoolmaster forced me to use my right, and it took me nearly thirty years to forgive him.” He added ruefully, “Now I’m grateful.”
“Who will deliver your sermon on Sunday?”
“I shall, of course. Propped in the pulpit like a log. There’s nothing wrong with my voice, and as soon as the tenderness in my leg and back has passed, I’m allowed to be up and about.”
Rutledge grinned at him. “You must be careful on the pulpit steps.”
“I always am, with my robes trailing about my ankles.”
“I was just across the way, speaking to Ted Baylor. His windows look out on Frith’s Wood, perhaps a better view than yours.”
“Baylor told me once that the servants when he was a child hated that view and would refuse to sleep in that room, for fear of seeing something unspeakable in the night.”
“What became of the servants?”
“Off to the war, of course, or to the cities, to work in the factories. There were only the three boys, after their parents died, and I expect they fared well enough. The house stood empty for two years, you know. Half of Dudlington helped care for the livestock. It muddled social standings when you were ankle-deep in muck, cleaning out the barns.”
“And all three of them survived the war? That’s astonishing.”
But Hamish was chiding him for misleading the rector.
“Ted did, although he was wounded twice. Robert was killed. Joel came back with strange notions about what had been done to the common soldier. He’s not quite right in his head, I’m told. Ted takes care of him, but there’s no one to take care of Ted. Life’s not always fair.”
“What do you mean, not quite right in his head?”
“I can’t say with any certainty. Can you pass me that glass of water? Thank you. Joel never comes to church services, and he never sets foot out of the house, as far as I know. I doubt anyone has seen him at all. We leave him in peace, hoping one day he may heal.”
Rutledge stood to go as he heard Hillary Timmons coming up the stairs.
She thanked him for spelling her and added, “I’ve found you a nice bit of ham for your dinner, Rector.”
“You feed me better than I feed myself, my dear.”
She blushed. “Mr. Keating says I’m a terrible cook. But I’ve noticed the inn guests never complain.”
“What did Mr. Keating do, before he bought The Oaks?” Rutledge asked her.
“I don’t know,” she told him simply. “He never talks about himself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had no other life before The Oaks. But he must’ve. There’s a wicked scar—”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, suddenly frightened.
“I won’t tell him,” Rutledge assured her. “It’s all right.”
But she hurried from the room, looking as if she was on the verge of tears.
“What was that in aid of?” Towson asked, worried for her.
“She’s been warned not to talk about Keating. It’s worth her job.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pressed her,” Towson told him roundly. “She needs the work, to help her family. That’s why I pay her to clean for me. As do several others. She’s vulnerable.”
“There’s no harm done,” Rutledge answered him. “I shan’t say anything about it, and neither will you.”
But when he left, he noticed that the rector didn’t ask him to come to visit again.
On the way back to Hensley’s house, he thought about what he’d learned that day. It was still a jumble of impressions and facts, and he wasn’t sure where they were leading. But he had come to rely on intuition over the years and never discounted the smallest bit of information. It sometimes loomed large in the end, once he’d pried open the secrets locked in a silent village.
Hamish said, “Ye’re wasting time climbing the kirk tower. It willna’ tell you who hated yon constable.”
“Grace Letteridge for one. Possibly Keating. There may be others keeping their heads down. Even Ted Baylor, who had the best view of Frith’s Wood and may have seen his chance. Though what he has against Hensley I don’t know yet. Unless it has to do with his dead brother and Emma Mason.”
Rutledge listened to his footsteps echoing against the stone walls of Whitby Lane, keeping pace with his thoughts.
Were the small windows of Dudlington meant to keep the cold out or to conceal what was inside?
He realized, glancing up, that there was a motorcar just by the door of Hensley’s house, and he stopped, trying to place it.
But it wasn’t one he could recall seeing at The Oaks.
He walked through the door, but there was no one in the parlor. He went through to the sitting room beyond it, and stopped stock-still on the threshold, unable to believe his eyes.
In the chair on the far side of the room, half-hidden in the shadows, was Meredith Channing.
20
Mrs. Channing spoke first.
“Yes, well, I thought I ought to come.”
It was as if she had answered the thought in his head.
Hamish, unsettled and pressing, hissed, “Send her away.”
“There have been no more casings,” he said baldly. “I think it’s finished.”
“No. Not finished. Waiting.” She began to remove her gloves.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“It doesn’t matter how. You’re being lulled into dropping your guard. Forgetting to look before you find yourself in a position where you can’t fight back. Where you’re a perfect target and helpless.”
Rutledge saw himself in the spire, pinned there in the wooden octagon of boards, unable to protect himself. His skin crawled.
“You understand, I see.” She dropped her gloves into her handbag.
“Why should it matter to you one way or another?”
She smiled. “How like a man! You’re a friend of Mary
anne’s—I’ve met your sister. And a few of your other friends. How could I turn away?”
“It was a long distance to drive, just to deliver a warning. You might have written instead.”
“Oh, do stop being suspicious and sit down!” She had lost patience with him. “I’m here. What I want to know is, what can I do?”
He stood there for a moment longer, then realized how foolish he looked, like a defiant child. Crossing the room, he sat down in the chair on the other side of the oval table at her elbow.
Glancing around, she said, “These are spartan quarters! Waiting for you, I looked in the kitchen, hoping for a little tea to warm me. There’s none in the tea tin, and none on the shelves.”
“It’s Constable Hensley’s house,” he said. “I’m using it while he’s in hospital.”
“I’ve a very nice room at The Oaks. I’m surprised you aren’t staying there.”
He smiled grimly. “Then you haven’t met the owner. He’ll have nothing to do with a policeman under his roof.”
“Have you asked yourself why?”
“He’s something of a curmudgeon, I’m told.”
“I found him very polite. Although he may not go on being polite, if he discovers I’m here to see you.”
“How did you find me?”
“I sent you the small package, if you remember.”
He felt like a student being put in his place by his teacher. “Yes, of course. Sorry. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“I can see that.” She rose to go, and he stood as well. “I’ll find out if the inn can run to a cup of tea.” For a moment she regarded him intently. “If there’s anything I can do, please ask. I’ll only stay on for a day or two. But I was worried, you see. And you did come to me first.”
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