“Had you by any chance just spoken with Mrs. Ellison?”
He blinked. “Mary Ellison? I don’t believe—Mary Ellison?” He leaned back in his chair, his face changing from uncertainty to a growing surprise. “Yes, by God, that’s who it was! I do remember! She came down the passage calling to me, and I answered from the head of the attic stairs. She scolded me for taking such a risk and asked if I went up there often.” Towson suddenly looked sheepish. “I’m afraid I was annoyed. Hillary Timmons and Dr. Middleton have lectured me on going up there, in fact just last week. I’m afraid I told Mrs. Ellison rather blithely that I went up several times a day to enjoy the view from the windows.”
Hamish said, “It wasna’ the answer she’d expected to hear.”
“Why had she come? Surely not just to scold you?” Rutledge persisted.
“That was what astonished me, you know. She didn’t generally call on me. But she said she was here to donate fifty pounds to the church fund. It was an unexpected gift, but one we need rather badly. When I started down the steps to thank her, she told me to go on and finish what I was doing—which was searching out a pair of gloves, though I hadn’t said anything about that.”
“She didn’t speak of an emergency?”
“Not at all. It was afterward that someone shouted for me to come at once. I’m sure she’d been gone for, oh, a good five or six minutes. I’d been thinking how best to use the money, enjoying the prospect.”
But she hadn’t gone very far, Rutledge found himself thinking. She must have looked in the kitchen and the laundry to see if Hillary Timmons was in the house. “Have you seen her since?”
“Now that was the odd thing. She came just this morning to ask me about a pot of chutney she’d left on the table in the hall a day or so ago, not wanting to disturb me while I was convalescing. Sadly she never mentioned the donation to the church fund. I wish I’d remembered it and brought it to her attention.”
“Chutney?” Rutledge asked, feeling his heart lurch.
“Hillary found it there on the hall table and set it in the pantry. She didn’t know where it’d come from, but she thought I did. So when Mrs. Ellison asked me about her gift, I blurted out that it was delicious, and I thanked her profusely. I was too embarrassed to admit I had no idea what she was talking about.”
“Towson—”
“She went on to say she wondered if it hadn’t gone off. She even suggested bringing me another pot. White lies do have a way of coming back to haunt you. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. How was I to tell her I’d never seen it, couldn’t return it if my life depended on it? All I could do was assure her it was of excellent quality.”
“And so you found it and tasted it as soon as she’d gone.” It was the sort of thing he was sure the rector would do, to make good his white lie.
“Good heavens, no! I asked Hillary if she’d seen it, and she told me where she’d put it. I don’t care for chutney, you see, and so I told the girl she could take it home to her family.”
“Rector. Will you take me to Hillary Timmons’s house? I want that pot of chutney.”
“I’ll ask her for it tomorrow, if you like. I wasn’t aware that you were so fond of it.”
“You must take me there now!” He was on his feet, standing in the doorway, urging the bewildered clergyman to follow him.
“But I don’t understand, why shouldn’t Hillary enjoy it? They’re not very well off, you know. I don’t particularly like taking it back, as if I’d found someone else to have it. You’ve only to speak to Mary Ellison. I’m sure she’d be happy to give you your own.”
And he was just as certain that she would not. “All right, first we’ll look to see if Hillary already has taken it. If she has, we’ll go directly to her house.” He was firm, but when Towson didn’t move, he started down the passage to the kitchen. Reluctantly the rector limped after him.
“You must tell me—what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Where’s the pantry?” Rutledge asked, opening the door to the kitchen. It was warm and cheerful, and he remembered standing in Mrs. Ellison’s kitchen, feeling like an interloper in her private world.
Towson went to the pantry, running his finger along pots of jam and honey and preserved plums. A man with a taste for sweets…
“Ah, this must be it. Perhaps she forgot to take it. Or doesn’t care for it after all.” Relieved, he picked up a small jar with a square of white linen over it, tied around the mouth with a silver ribbon. “Hillary did mention the silver ribbon. She thought it quite elegant.”
“I’ll buy her the finest chutney in London and have it sent to her. But I must take this with me now.”
“Very well.” But Towson was still doubtful, his eyes on the pot. “I’d be happier if this didn’t come to Mary Ellison’s ears. I’m still hopeful of that fifty pounds.”
The rector saw Rutledge to the door, looking out at the light drizzle that had begun to fall.
He said, “I’m grateful that you helped me piece together part of what had happened the day I fell. It was like a hole in my mind, the sort of thing that people must feel after a seizure or an apoplexy. It’s rather frightening, you know.”
“I’m sure it must be.” In truth, there had been a time when Rutledge hadn’t been able to remember the war ending. He hadn’t expected to see it, in fact for the last two years of the fighting in his mind he had been prepared to die. Only he hadn’t. The appalling realization that he had lived in spite of what he’d done in the trenches blotted out everything else. The guilt of surviving, when so many around him had died, was insupportable.
His men that day had been equally shocked at first, the silence overwhelming as the guns that had fired so frantically all morning stopped their battering. And then neither jubilation nor relief followed, just a numbness that gradually filled with the knowledge that now they could go home. Rutledge had given them their orders, as he himself had been ordered to do, saw to their safety—and after that there was nothing, a blank space of time. The next thing he was aware of, he was in a clinic in England, with no understanding of how he’d got there or why. He’d feared those missing weeks. Feared what he might have done. And not even the doctors could give them back to him. It had taken him more than a year to do that, and a night in Kent when it had all come rushing back.
Towson was saying, “I’m sure the rest will come. In time. If I don’t press too hard.”
“I shouldn’t worry too much about it,” Rutledge agreed.
“Middleton tells me I might actually have had a seizure…” There was anxiety in his voice now, put there by a callous murderer who had used this man’s goodness to bring him down.
“No. You’ll realize that when you remember.”
Towson smiled. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a kind listener? You might have gone to the church, rather than the police, you know.”
Not with the blackness in my own soul, Rutledge answered him silently. And then with a wave, he pulled his hat down against the rain.
Rutledge carried the chutney in the palm of his hand, close to his coat as he walked back to the constable’s house.
He couldn’t take the chutney to Inspector Cain. He didn’t trust the man to have it analyzed properly. Particularly if Cain learned it had been made by Mrs. Ellison. A wild-goose chase, he would complain. Another attempt by an outsider to point a finger at a woman of impeccable reputation in an effort to solve a murder he’d not even been sent to Dudlington to investigate. Inspector Kelmore on the other hand had no ties to Dudlington. And his people were capable and trustworthy.
That was the best solution.
He went into the house, something gnawing at the edges of his mind.
Hamish was silent, no help at all.
After standing there for a moment, Rutledge turned back to the door and went out to the motorcar.
The drive to Northampton seemed to take longer than usual. Rutledge glanced from time to time at the pot of chutney in the seat n
ext to him.
Was it only his imagination, or was it somehow sinister, malevolent?
Time and a good laboratory would tell him the answer to that.
Inspector Kelmore was out of his office when Rutledge got there, but Sergeant Thompson took the little pot with its silver ribbon and held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, as if expecting it to blow up in his face. “I’ll take it down straightaway, sir.” He sniffed the air. “Do I smell smoke, sir?”
“There was a fire in Dudlington. I helped to put it out.”
“And what shall I tell Dr. Pell to be looking for?”
“I don’t know. Arsenic? At a guess.” He told the sergeant where the chutney had come from, who had given it to the rector, and why he’d brought it to Northampton, leaving out only his concerns about Inspector Cain.
“Someone gave this to the rector?” Thompson shook his head. “What’s the world coming to, sir!”
“I’ll be at the hospital, if you need me.”
“Very good, sir. I hope you find the constable resting comfortably. The last bulletin we had was that his fever has risen. I don’t think they believe he’ll make it. Worst luck.”
Rutledge found Matron in her office and sat down across from her desk, his mind shifting directions as he said, “How is Constable Hensley?”
“No better. A little worse perhaps. He’s not always conscious, now.”
Rutledge swore to himself. “It’s important that he recover.”
“We’re doing all we can, I assure you, Inspector. But there is a limit to what medicine can do.”
“He survived that arrow in his back—he survived the surgery to remove it. I should think he could survive a fever.” But even as he said it, he knew that it was not true. A raging infection was generally fatal. “May I see him?”
“Yes, of course. Sister will show you to the room.” She rang the little bell on her desk, and a young nurse stepped through the door.
Rutledge thanked Matron and followed the young woman down the passage. Hensley was in the same private room as before, and Rutledge wondered if Chief Superintendent Bowles had ordered it. People sometimes rambled in fevers, and words spoken could never be taken back.
The constable was lying under a sheet, half on his side, half on his back. He looked very ill indeed, his flushed cheeks sunken, his body somehow reduced in power and size.
Rutledge went up to the bed and touched the arm lying on top of the sheet.
It was searing to the touch, as if a fire burned beneath the skin, invisible to the naked eye.
Hensley stirred, opening his eyes to stare blankly around the room, then shutting them again.
Rutledge said quietly, “Constable. Inspector Rutledge here. Can you hear me?”
There was no reaction.
He called his name again, and this time Hensley opened bloodshot eyes, trying to focus them.
“Who is it?” His voice was husky, as if his throat was dry.
The young sister came forward and held a straw to his lips, telling him firmly to drink from the glass.
Rutledge could see him drink thirstily, and then pull back, as if the water didn’t sit well on his stomach.
“Thank you, Sister,” he said, dismissing her.
When she’d gone out of the room, it took Rutledge several minutes to bring the constable back to a level where his voice reached the man.
He tried to lift his head, and then turned a little. “Inspector Rutledge. Sir.”
“Constable Hensley. Do you believe it could have been Mary Ellison who shot you?”
There was a slight motion of his head. Negative.
“It’s possible she killed her husband, her daughter, and her granddaughter.”
The pain-ridden eyes considered him. “I won’t be there to see her hang, then. I’d have liked that.”
“I still haven’t found this man Sandridge. But I came across your money. You weren’t paid enough to take the blame for what happened to Edgerton. I think it’s time you told the truth. You don’t want to die with it on your conscience.”
Hamish, in his mind, said, “You mustna’ badger the man!”
But Rutledge responded, “Time is short.”
Hensley was feebly shaking his head. “Old Bowels looks after his own.”
“But if you die, and Sandridge is still out there, he might be persuaded to talk. Is that what you want? Bowles will blacken your name, to save himself.”
“It wasn’t a great deal of money. I didn’t know then that Edgerton would die. I’d have asked for more.”
“Did you give a share of it to Bowles? Is that why he closed his eyes to what you’d done and let Sandridge go free?”
“He set me to watch over Sandridge. And I did. He’s a dead man, any way you look at it.”
“He’ll hang, you’re right, if he’s taken into custody. Do you want to hang with him?”
“I won’t live to hang.” He turned a little, those fever-bright eyes on Rutledge’s face. “You don’t give a damn about me. It’s Bowles you want.”
“Why did you agree to look the other way?”
“Barstow told me either I helped or he’d see I was blamed. I was afraid of him.”
“I don’t believe you. Not of a man like Barstow.”
“You didn’t know him. He wanted his revenge, and he was going to get it. And who’d take my word over his, anyway? There was a German waiter we’d brought in, Old Bowels and I. He wasn’t a spy. But the newspapers got hold of the story, and German fever was high. We held on to him for a bit, a warning to others, so to speak. I don’t know how Barstow found out. A lucky guess, maybe, or he had someone inside the Yard. He said if Sandridge was taken, he’d let it be known we’d made a mistake on the waiter.”
He lay there, his arrogance gone.
“Did you share the money with Bowles?”
But Hensley had nothing more to say.
“Who is Sandridge? Is he in Dudlington? Or Letherington? Is it Keating?”
“You lied to me about Mrs. Ellison, didn’t you?” he asked finally. “Why would she kill her own flesh and blood?”
“If I knew that, I’d be ready to leave Dudlington,” Rutledge told him.
“No, you wouldn’t. You want it all. Who killed Emma, where Sandridge is, and whether or not Bowles was involved.”
“Emma deserves to be found. She deserves to have her killer tried and convicted. She was only seventeen, for God’s sake!”
“I lie here, and sometimes I can’t tell what’s true and what I dream. I can see Emma’s face sometimes, and she’s pointing a finger at me. I don’t know why. I did her no harm.”
“Not for want of trying,” Rutledge said.
“She was that pretty! You never saw her.”
“You were twice her age, and instead of protecting her, you hounded her like all the rest.”
“She’s in the wood,” Hensley said. “I’d stake my life on that.” He gave a gasping cough that was intended to be a laugh. “I did stake my life on it, I suppose. But you’ll find her in that wood, mark my words.”
He began to cough and choke, and Rutledge wheeled to the door to find the young sister just outside.
Dr. Williams came then and gave Hensley something to make him quiet again. Rutledge stood by the bed, listening to the ragged breathing, and waited, but Hensley had gone where Rutledge couldn’t follow.
33
It was some time before Sergeant Thompson brought Rutledge a report on the contents of the chutney.
“It’s preliminary,” he said. “I’m to tell you that, sir. But Dr. Pell says you should know. He thinks it’s arsenic. You did say you were in a hurry for the answer.”
“How much arsenic?”
“Enough to kill a man. Or a woman. A good spoonful of the chutney might do it.”
His mind brought him an image of the rector spreading a lavish spoonful of jam on his bread, and he thought, If Towson hadn’t disliked chutney, he’d be dead by now. Or the Timmons girl
and her family.
“I’d like a search warrant to go into the house of the woman who made up this pot. I’ve a strong suspicion that there are two bodies in her cellar. The sooner we retrieve them, the better.”
Thompson said, “What if you’re wrong, sir?”
Hamish interjected, “Aye, what if?”
“I don’t think I am. Will you ask Inspector Kelmore for the warrant, or shall I?”
“I’ll see to it, sir.” Thompson walked out of the small room Rutledge had been given while waiting for the test results.
It was late when the warrant was issued and Rutledge could leave.
It was nearly midnight when he reached Dudlington, and he was hungry, wishing now he’d stopped for his dinner on the road. In the dining room under a napkin, he found a plate of roast ham sandwiches. Mrs. Melford had been kind to leave them, he thought, and he went through to the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea.
He had poured it, sweetened it, and was looking for the tin of milk when he realized what Hamish had been telling him for the last ten minutes.
“Ye canna’ be sure Mrs. Melford made them—or who filled the sugar bowl. You canna’ be sure.”
Rutledge set down the cup of tea and pushed away the sandwiches.
He had been in Northampton for most of the day. The house was open, and anyone could have left the plate of sandwiches or added something to his sugar bowl.
He sat there for a moment longer, and then went to bed hungry.
Rutledge woke to a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.
For an instant he thought it was Hamish, and a half-stifled cry was wrenched from him as he froze, trying to shrink inside himself and away from the prodding fingers. And even as he realized it wasn’t Hamish, but a human agency, he was unprepared for the voice in his ear.
“Inspector Rutledge—Ian!”
It was Mrs. Channing’s voice, low and strained.
He was fully awake by that time and answered her quietly, “What’s happened?”
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