Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 08

by A Long Shadow

  “Could you put your hand on patients in the aid stations and know which would live and which would die?”

  “I didn’t need to. I could look at the doctors’ faces and read the answer there. But yes, in time, you come to have a sixth sense about such things. I didn’t like it, and I fought against it. I even tried to distance myself, not allowing my emotions to be touched. It didn’t work.”

  Mrs. Channing finished her tea and set the cup aside. “Thank you, Inspector. That was very good. Do you wish me to go back to London, and leave you to it?”

  She had a way of interjecting a complete change of thought into an apparently innocuous remark.

  “I don’t know,” he answered her truthfully. “I wish I knew what it was you wanted.”

  She stood there, looking down at him. “If I hadn’t—alarmed you with my pretense of a séance, you wouldn’t have left Mrs. Browning’s party early. Someone else might have seen that shell casing, and thought nothing of it. Instead, you found it, and it has brought something frightening into being. I feel responsible, in a sense, you see.”

  “You’re saying that whoever came out first—myself or Commander Farnum—whoever set up the casing would have decided that man was his victim?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “What if it was the doctor? He hadn’t been in the war.”

  “Then it would have been someone else on another day.”

  It was a very interesting possibility.

  But she didn’t wait to discuss it. He got to his feet to help her into her coat, and with a smile she was gone.

  The quiet room seemed to close in on him. He got up and walked to the door, looking at the lock that had no key.

  He wasn’t certain whether it was worse to think of himself as the target of someone with a grudge against him, or to see himself as a target of opportunity. A man with a grudge was at least comprehensible, could even be tracked down and stopped. Someone who had chosen him at random was like smoke in the dark, invisible until his victim stumbled into it.

  26

  It was late, and the afternoon light was waning when Rutledge found a rake and a pitchfork in the shed behind Hensley’s house, just where he’d expected them to be. There was also a shaded lantern and a sturdy pair of boots.

  The wind was still very cold, but dropped with sunset. By seven o’clock the shops were closed and the streets all but deserted. He put the spade and shovel into the motorcar, tested the shaded lantern in the kitchen, found his torch, and as soon as his dinner was over, he drove out of Dudlington.

  He left the car very close to where he’d found Hensley’s bicycle, then climbed the wall on the far side of the road and made his way across the fields toward Frith’s Wood.

  Hamish, a good covenanting Scot, kept up a grumbling monologue in Rutledge’s head, reminding him that daring the devil in the dark of night in a haunted wood was little short of madness. “It isna’ wise to open doors that have no business opening.”

  “I’m here to close one,” he answered.

  Somewhere a fox barked, twice. He walked on, grateful that there was no moon to pick him out, a lone figure on the brow of the rolling pastures.

  When he reached the wood he stopped to take his bearings. He could see lighted windows here and there in the village, and even the weathercock on the top of the church spire reflected their glow.

  There was no one in the pastures, no one following him from the road, no one ahead of him in the wood. All the same, for a moment he wished he could tell Hamish to set a watch, as he had done so many times in the trenches.

  Three years, he thought. A long time for a body to lie among the trees, but there were a few bones that might survive even now, if he knew where to look for them.

  He began by working through the brambles and vines, using his hands where he could, bringing up the rake or the pitchfork for areas he couldn’t reach.

  The shielded lantern was used sparingly, for as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see more than he would have believed possible.

  He thought, this is how an archaeologist must feel, exploring one small square at a time, unveiling what lay below the surface—or didn’t lie there—with great care.

  Rotted trunks and fallen branches had turned into crumbled wood, and there was layer after layer of well-rotted leaves. The rake was deep into one corner when a skull came to light, small and with a pointed muzzle. A fox, he thought, crawling in here to die in peace. He buried it again and kept going. There was the scurry of mice in another place, and he overturned a nest of fur-lined leaves and four tiny white shivering bodies. Setting it back in place, he thought he heard something behind him, like the bones of dead fingers clacking together, but it was only the boughs and bare branches rubbing together in the wind.

  He worked for more than an hour, then stopped to catch his breath. It was a hopeless task, he told himself. One man on his own…The wood had been searched, after all.

  “By men who were afraid,” Hamish retorted. “They wouldna’ care to find the devil under a bush.”

  There was some truth in that.

  The church clock had struck two in the morning, and he was tired. But he had begun to learn the way the ground under his feet was constructed. And where the brambles grew thickest, he could pass on, because they had been settled here far longer than three years, their canes deep in the leaf mold, and their bases thick as his wrist with old growth.

  By three, he’d covered more of the wood than he’d expected, and he began to think, looking around him, that he might finish before the late dawn broke.

  But by four, he had still had no luck, and this particular part of the wood had seen some wind damage in the past, for there were more downed trunks than elsewhere. He moved each one, shone his shielded torch along the length, sending beetles and spiders fleeing from his light, before letting it go again. Some broke apart in his hands, and others, wet with dew and slick with green moss, left an unpleasant miasma in the air and a slippery coating on his gloves.

  He had worn heavy boots borrowed from Hensley and a pair of the man’s corduroys hanging in the closet and two layers of sweaters over his shirt. Now he was sweating heavily, and his muscles were beginning to ache. His ankle had been ready to quit an hour ago.

  “A wild-goose chase,” Hamish said dryly. “Better a feather bed.”

  Rutledge chuckled, just as his pitchfork bit into something with a very different feel.

  Leaving the tool where it was, he knelt to clear away the earth from its prongs, smoothing and pushing gently by turns until he had found what he was after. He brought the lamp closer.

  The pitchfork had buried itself between a jaw and a shoulder blade, in what had once been a human neck.

  Rutledge rocked back on his heels.

  Hamish said, “The Saxon massacre…”

  But Rutledge didn’t think it was. There was more definition in the bones than something from the Dark Ages.

  Whether it was Emma Mason or not, he couldn’t judge. But it was time to call in experts who could.

  Covering his find carefully, so that it was neither visible nor vulnerable, he stood up and shouldered his implements.

  Hamish said, “Will ye stop now?”

  It was a good question.

  He had another two hours until daylight, and it was possible that he would never have a better chance.

  His muscles complained, his hands were cold through his wet gloves, he was tired enough to sleep on the open ground, as he’d done more than once during the war.

  Still, he went back to work, as methodically as before, and after another hour and three-quarters of digging, he hadn’t made any other gruesome discoveries.

  He could see an opalescent light on the horizon as he trudged back across the fields, toward his motorcar.

  He and Hensley’s tools were filthy from the digging, and he tried to clean his boots a little before stepping behind the wheel. The seat was cold and damp with the dew as he drove back to Dudli
ngton and left the car in its accustomed place, and he could feel his fatigue as he stowed the tools where he’d found them.

  A hot bath helped to wake him up and took away some of the strain on his body.

  And as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, he drove south to Northampton, where he could find a telephone.

  His call to the Yard was patched through to Chief Inspector Bowles, who gave him a lecture on the speedy resolution of his cases.

  “We don’t have the time for arcane wanderings in the past, Rutledge. Whether there were Saxons on the rampage in the time of Alfred has no bearing on who shot Constable Hensley.”

  “I understand, sir—”

  “No, you don’t. I’ve been summoned by my own superiors, and all I’ve got to report to them is silence. What has this skull got to do with Hensley, pray?”

  Rutledge took a deep breath. “If the skull is that of a missing girl, it may begin to explain why he was attacked. To prove that it is the girl, I need someone from the Yard experienced in skeletons. Mainwairing, for one. Can you spare him for a day or two?”

  Mainwaring was one of the most experienced men at the Yard. He had been trained as a doctor, but he had found the dead far more interesting than the living, and he had made a study of bones. He could tell, very quickly, whether a skeleton was that of a man or a woman, what age they’d reached at the time of their death, and oftentimes, what had killed them.

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Then Bowles said, “You’re sure this could be the missing girl? I don’t want Mainwaring wasting his time on those damned Saxons.”

  “Three days, sir. One to take the train as far as Northampton, one in Dudlington, and another to return to London. I’ll be waiting for him at The Red Lion in Northampton.”

  Bowles was still reluctant. “Do you think Hensley killed the blasted girl? Is that what you want to prove?” His voice conveyed his disbelief.

  “If the girl is buried there, then his presence in the wood would have alarmed the killer. If I found her, there’s no reason Hensley couldn’t have done the same, given the right conditions.”

  “I see. Yes, well, that makes sense. You can’t be sure on your own, about the skull?”

  “We must think in terms of bringing the case to trial, sir. If I’m wrong about the body there in Frith’s Wood, then I must look elsewhere for a reason behind the attack before we make fools of ourselves in court.” He managed just the right cajoling tone to mask the threat in his words.

  “Frith’s Wood. That’s a pagan name if I ever heard it. Not surprised something nasty happened there. Very well. Mainwaring will be on the next available train.”

  The connection was cut as Bowles put up the phone with a heavy hand.

  Rutledge, standing in the small telephone closet at The Red Lion Hotel, swore softly to himself. If he was wrong about Emma Mason, Bowles would never let him forget it.

  Out on a limb was the last place the superintendent wished to find himself. Even on behalf of one of his own.

  Waiting for Mainwaring to come north, Rutledge went back to the hospital in the center of town.

  Matron forbade him to speak to Hensley. “He has a high fever, and Dr. Williams has moved him into a private room.”

  “Then let me speak to Dr. Williams.”

  “He’s left for the day. I suggest you come back tomorrow. There may be some improvement by then.”

  Rutledge, feeling the first stages of exhaustion, had taken a room at the hotel, and he slept for five hours, hardly aware of where he was. By ten o’clock that evening, Mainwaring had arrived.

  He was nearly as tall as Rutledge, broad shouldered and fair. He was also filled with curiosity. Rutledge, walking with him back to The Red Lion, was peppered with questions about the skeleton.

  “You’ll see it for yourself tomorrow,” he finally told his companion. “Is it true you’re leaving the Yard to work for the British Museum?”

  Mainwaring laughed. “I’m putting in for Chief Inspector. If it doesn’t come through, I’ll consider the Victoria and Albert. You’ve been in the Yard longer than I have. Why hasn’t your promotion come through?”

  “I’m not happy sitting at a desk, directing others,” Rutledge told him. “I’m content dealing with cases firsthand.”

  “Yes, well, we all say that, don’t we? Until we’re given advancement. Is the dining room still open, do you think? I’m starved.”

  They left early for Dudlington, and Mainwairing, who hadn’t been to the area, found the drive interesting. As The Oaks came in view at the top of the rise, he said, “I have a wager with George Reston that there’s only one pub in the village.”

  “You’d win. How is George?”

  “His shoulder is much better, but the leg’s taking its own sweet time. Motorcar accidents are the very devil, and getting worse.”

  “I hope you brought your boots. We’ve a long walk ahead of us.” Rutledge had reached Hensley’s house and turned in. “The door is always open. You won’t need a key. A bed is a different story.”

  They walked into the house, and Mainwaring looked around with surprise. “These are your accommodations? I’d have thought you’d been put up at The Oaks.”

  “This is Constable Hensley’s house. A woman next door prepares his meals for him. He offered to let me live here while he’s in hospital.”

  “An arrow is a nasty piece of work. If they don’t strike something vital straightaway, then you die of septicemia from the dirty point.”

  “Don’t say that. Hensley’s got a fever now.”

  They waited until well after dark, as Rutledge had done before, driving up the north road, then walking out through the fields.

  Mainwaring said, “Is all this secrecy necessary?”

  “Possibly. The girl’s grandmother lives in Dudlington. As soon as someone sees us carrying tools toward the wood, the gossip will fly, and I don’t want it to reach her before I do.”

  “No, I agree.”

  They walked in silence for a time, and as the wood loomed dark in its fold of land, Mainwaring whistled. “The Haunted Wood.”

  “That’s exactly what most of the people in this vicinity believe.”

  “Has it ever been cleared out?”

  “Who knows? It may have been larger in the past, and whittled away until this was all that was left. Or it may be the same size it’s always been.” He shifted the pitchfork on his shoulder. “But when the village was moved here and rebuilt in the shadow of it, the houses turned their backs to it.”

  “Superstition is a powerful emotion. My family live near Avebury. My grandfather swore he saw lights moving among the stones on moonless nights—” He broke off. “Speaking of lights.”

  They could see what appeared to be a shaded lantern bobbing among the trees.

  “Get down,” Rutledge murmured, and they dropped to their haunches, their silhouettes blending into the ground.

  For another quarter of an hour, they watched the light. Then it was doused, and whoever had walked there seemed to vanish.

  Rutledge dropped his pitchfork.

  “Stay here.” He started running at an angle to the trees, keeping his profile low, intending to cut off whoever had been in the wood.

  After several minutes he saw someone walking up the slope of the Dower Fields toward the village. Whoever it was, he was wearing a long coat that flapped around his ankles as he kept up a brisk pace. A hat, pulled low, changed the shape of the head. Rutledge thought perhaps whoever he was chasing was glad to be out of the wood and trying to reach the security of the village as quickly as possible.

  The figure had reached the far side of the church when Rutledge ran hard toward the back garden of the rectory and used the shadows of its walls to hurry toward the churchyard.

  He stumbled over a low tombstone, choked off a curse, and then ran on, trying to watch where he put his feet.

  As he came around the far corner of the church, he nearly collided with the figure.

&n
bsp; It let out a cry of alarm, recovered, and tried to turn back the way it had come, but Rutledge was on it, catching at the nearest shoulder with an iron grip.

  A lantern fell to the ground, rolling under his feet.

  The figure ducked, twisted, and almost broke his grip, but as it struggled the hat came off, and Rutledge pulled his quarry around for a good look at its face.

  Only it wasn’t a man. It was Mrs. Ellison.

  27

  Rutledge was shocked into speechlessness. Of all the people he had expected to find in Frith’s Wood, Mary Ellison was the last. He released her at once.

  She stood there, and he could feel her eyes glaring at him, but her voice was husky as she spoke.

  “You aren’t the only one to watch from windows,” she said. “What have you found in the wood? Who was the man you brought back to Dudlington with you? Inspector Cain? Is my granddaughter there in the wood? Tell me!”

  “I don’t know—” he began, still at a loss for words. What could he say to her?

  Hamish answered his thought. “Nothing. It’s too soon.”

  Rutledge said aloud, “We’ve been searching quietly, so as not to cause you pain. Or give people a reason to gossip.”

  She was still breathing hard. “I saw you putting the implements into the car. I saw you leave. Where else would you be taking a rake or a pitchfork at that hour of the night but the wood? I couldn’t sit there waiting.” Her voice shook. “I have a right to know what you’ve found, and why you brought that other man here!”

  “Mrs. Ellison, let me take you home.”

  She seemed to shrink into herself. “It can’t be my granddaughter. I won’t believe it. In that heathen, unblessed place? No, I refuse to believe it.”

  “What did you find, when you got to the wood?”

  “Nothing.” She was still breathing hard. “It was dark, and the lantern cast shadows everywhere. I couldn’t stay any longer, that place terrifies me. Nothing in the world could ever have taken me there but Emma.”