by Charles Todd
A shrine? Or was this simply the way a grieving grandmother preferred to remember her grandchild?
He walked over to the wardrobe and was on the point of opening it when Mrs. Ellison said sharply, "Only her clothing is in there. Dresses and coats and shoes. A hat or two. You needn't pry into what she wore, surely."
He had seen what he had come to see.
On the way down the stairs, he asked, "I understand Emma had been interested in practicing with a bow, when she was younger."
They had reached the foot of the stairs by the time she answered, and she made a point not to invite him back into the parlor. "Emma went through a stage where she admired that young woman who was in the Robin Hood tales. I can't think what her name was."
"Maid Marian?"
She frowned. "My memory isn't what it once was. It hasn't been since—since she left me. At any rate, she read every book I could find for her about that forest—"
"Sherwood."
"Yes. Thank you. She begged me to take her there. But it isn't a great forest any longer, is it? I did ask the rector, and he said it would have been disappointing."
"Frith's Wood," Hamish said. "She would ha' seen it as filled wi' bandits and heroes."
It might have seemed an exciting, enchanting forest to a girl with an imagination that ran to old tales of adventure and damsels in distress.
"Can you tell me where her bow and arrows are now?"
"Good Lord, how should I know! It wasn't I who gave them to her, and I disapproved of them from the start."
"Then who did?"
"She never told me. I only discovered them by chance, and after that they were never left lying about."
"Do you remember the coloring of the feathers at the end of the shaft?"
Mrs. Ellison stared at him. "You must be mad! Of course not. I'm not always certain what day of the week it is, young man. Dr. Middleton tells me it will get worse, this forgetfulness. Worry, he says, that's what does it. But what do I need to remember, anyway? Losing my daughter and then my granddaughter? Hardly events one wishes to take into the shadows with one."
He thanked her then, and left.
But he had the strongest feeling that she was watching him from behind the parlor curtains as he crossed the street and opened the door of Hensley's house. She was right that he had no authority to poke about in an old mystery.
The problem was, it seemed to intrude of its own accord into the inquiry into Hensley's wounding. And he'd learned, long since, not to ignore distractions until he was sure that they had no bearing on the main issue.
His next step must be going to Letherington to speak to Inspector Cain about Hensley and about the Mason girl. His excuse was the recovery of the bicycle. If he needed one.
There was a man sitting in the constable's office, and Rutledge stopped in the doorway, wary and on his guard.
But the visitor came forward, his hand out, and said, "Inspector Cain. You must be the man they were sending from London. You got here sooner than I'd expected."
Hensley's superior officer.
Hamish said sourly, "He doesna' know the Chief Superintendent well."
Had Old Bowels's need for haste been intended to shut Cain out of the inquiry?
The Inspector was young, with fair hair and a ruddy complexion, and his carriage was military.
"In France, were you?" Rutledge added, after introducing himself.
"Yes, worst luck. Took a bullet in my hip. The doctors patched me up, but if you want to know tomorrow's weather, come and ask me."
Rutledge lit the lamp, and they sat down, Cain choosing Hensley's side of the table desk as if by right.
"Chief Inspector Kelmore sent word to me that you were here, but I had to wait for transportation from Letherington. Not much for bicycles yet, you know. And the carriage I generally use was busy elsewhere." He grinned. "My wife had errands to run. We're expecting our firstborn in three months. It's costing me more to set up the nursery than it will to send him to Eton."
"Congratulations," Rutledge said. "Yes, I visited Hensley in hospital. He's still in a great deal of pain, but the surgery appears to have been successful."
"Yes, well, he's a tough old bird. I never understood why he came here from London. I'd have preferred to be working in a city, myself, given half a chance."
"Much trouble in Letherington or Dudlington?"
"Not to speak of. This is cattle country, you know. Anyone who wakes up for milking at four in the morning isn't good for mischief by eight at night."
"I've hardly seen a man, much less a cow."
"They're in the barns in this weather. Most of them will bear calves in late winter. Lose a cow, and you lose the calf as well."
"Makes sense. Did you see Constable Hensley in Letherington on Friday last?"
"Everyone maintains he was on his way there, but if he was, he never reached us. None of my people at the station saw him, and he wasn't at his usual haunts. I've asked around. The fact of the matter is, I'd taken a bit of leave for personal business, because it was a quiet week. Or so we thought."
"Which would lead us to believe that there wasn't any pressing reason for him to speak with you. Nothing, for instance, so urgent that someone would go to any lengths to stop him."
"I can't imagine that's the case. Here, in Dudlington? It's probably the quietest of the three villages. And if there was an urgent problem, I'd have got wind of it by now."
"Since the attack occurred in broad daylight, we can't make a case for mistaken identity. Any idea who might have set out to kill Hensley?"
"God, no. I'm glad to see you feel it was attempted murder, by the way. In the first place, it doesn't make sense that someone would choose that benighted wood to play at archery. And in the second, Hensley's too big a man not to be heard as he came through the trees and into range. Finally, no one's stepped forward bow in hand with an apology. I've only been here two years—mustered out in late '17. Still, I can't think why anyone would wish him harm. I've had no complaints against him from the local people. That's generally the precursor to any trouble."
"What do you know about Emma Mason's disappearance?"
"I wasn't here, of course, when it happened. Pretty girl like that, though, might easily have her head turned by talk of better prospects than she could hope for here. Her mother ran off, I'm told. That's probably what put the notion into her head. No trace was ever found of her, and that's bothersome. But I would think that if she didn't want to be found, she would make sure she couldn't be. Grace Letteridge always believed she'd come back one day, weeping and repentant. If not pregnant."
"I haven't met Miss Letteridge."
"She's probably seen you, all the same. She lives at the corner of the main street and this lane. The thatched house, with the courtyard in front, and a garden."
"Did she know Emma well?"
"I don't know. The fact is, she doesn't talk about Emma at all. And the general impression is that Emma disappointed her. Well, of course, so much was expected of the child. Mary Ellison is a Harkness on her mother's side. And the Harkness family owned all the land here for miles around. It was the Harknesses who didn't care to see the muddy little village of Dudlington at their gates. And in 1817 they tore it down and rebuilt it here, out of sight— and presumably out of smell. That's why Dudlington is all of the same period, it started from scratch. The church is said to be a simplified design of Wren's. At least the spire is. And then in 1824, the Harkness manor house burned to the ground in a great conflagration, killing three people. Some said it was fired in revenge for moving everyone into the new village. But I expect, like many great houses of its day, it was likely to burn without any help. Gives me the willies to see my wife walking about with a candle. But there's no hope of electrical power in these scattered villages. There's no money for starters."
"How have you learned so much about the history of this place?" Rutledge asked, curious.
"I married into the history, old man. My wife's family ha
s lived in Letherington for at least five generations. My mother-in-law reminds me of that daily. Another reason I pine for Canterbury." He shrugged. "I met my wife there, in fact, and never dreamed she would expect to live in a house across the road from her mother, after we'd married."
"Any suggestions about Hensley's past or present that might lead me in the right direction?"
"To be truthful, I can't imagine who would have the gall to shoot Hensley. You might ask yourself if it was something to do with his cases in London. I've learned that he was involved with a number of inquiries there. One into a German waiter who was a spy. Or said to be a spy. I doubt that he was. But in 1914 people could find spies under their beds. And there was another case, I don't remember the ins and outs of it. But a man named Barstow, in the City, claimed he was burned out by his rivals. Everyone agreed it was a case of arson—what it took some time to determine was exactly who had set the fire. Barstow was looking to rebuild, and he had a taste for revenge. He'd burned his own place of business, and blamed it on his enemies. And they actually went to trial for it."
"I remember hearing about Barstow. Hensley was involved with that?"
"Possibly involved in it, more to the point. It was rumored that Hensley took bribes to look the other way. Bribes he was supposed to share with his superior. But he stoutly denied any such thing and was rewarded with Dudlington, a quiet backwater. Markham, the old constable, had just retired and gone to live with his daughter in Sussex."
And Hensley's superior at the time was then Chief Inspector Bowles.
Hamish was reminding Rutledge what Hensley had said in the hospital ward.
"Was it Old Bowels who sent you?"
And Bowles had been furiously angry about the attack on Hensley.
It wouldn't do to bring his name back to the attention of either the police or the newspapers, if there was any hint of scandal attached to his departure.
"What became of the file on Emma Mason?"
"Damned if I know. There's a good bit in my office, but not the whole of it. My predecessor in Letherington wasn't what you might call compelled to put every detail down on paper. I'd have thought Hensley kept some records of his own interviews."
Cain got stiffly to his feet. "I don't know much more about Dudlington's skeletons than you do. I relied on Hensley's experience when there were problems. I have a good constable in Fairfield and an even better sergeant in Letherington now, who see me through. Any help you can give me here will be appreciated. Come back in five years' time, and if I'm still here—God forfend!—I'll know my turf like the back of my hand."
"Where is your carriage?" Rutledge asked him at the door. "I didn't see it as I came in."
Cain grinned. "My constable's at The Oaks. He's very good at gossip. I depend on him to tell me what's being whispered in the dark corners of the bar."
And he was off, favoring his left leg as he walked through the rain toward Holly Street.
Rutledge saw him out of sight, and then climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
The cartridge casing was still there, where Rutledge had left it.
Rutledge made a point to search out the house belonging to Grace Letteridge.
It was one of the few buildings in the village that boasted a thatched roof. Thatching had always reminded Rutledge of a woman wearing a marvelous hat and feeling slightly self-conscious about it. In the case of this particular house, the comparison was apt. It was set farther back from the lane and stood out from its neighbors in the fineness of its stonework. Someone had built a low wall around the front, creating a courtyard of sorts where roses, cut back for the winter and mounded over, like tiny graves, marched across the brown grass.
He ducked his head under the low thatched roof that covered the porch, and knocked at the door.
It was opened by a woman in her late twenties, her hair a dull gold and her eyes a very pretty amber in a very plain face.
"Miss Letteridge?"
"And you're the man from London. How is Constable Hensley?" There was a derisive note in her voice as she asked.
"He's expected to live," Rutledge answered, and waited for her response.
Miss Letteridge led him into the small parlor before answering. "I'm sorry to hear it. I never liked him, and I shan't be two-faced about it."
"That's rather coldhearted."
"Sit down. I won't offer you tea, because I don't care for it myself and don't keep it in the house. I do have some sherry ..." Her words trailed off, indicating that she would prefer not to offer him that either.
"Why don't you like Constable Hensley?" he asked again. The room was well furnished, with a number of watercolors on the pale blue walls that caught his attention. They had been done with great skill.
It clearly irritated Miss Letteridge that he appeared not to be giving her his full attention.
"For the same reason I don't particularly care for any policeman," she answered tartly. "They look after their own, don't they? Hensley was sent here under a cloud, and we weren't told of it. He wouldn't get into trouble here, would he? After all, we're very peaceable in Dudlington, and he only had to walk the streets and mind his own business until he could collect his pension. That was the theory, anyway."
"How did you know he was under a cloud when he came here?" Rutledge asked, intrigued.
"Why else would a London police constable be sent to an out-of-the-way village where nothing ever happens? Where he wouldn't attract attention? I'm not a fool, Inspector, I know something about the world outside Northamptonshire. I worked in London during the first two years of the war. There weren't enough able-bodied men to do half of what was needed. Women were pressed into service at every turn, and a police constable worth his salt would have risen quickly through the ranks as men enlisted. Instead his superiors banished him."
"That may well be the case. But so far I haven't heard that it affected the performance of his duties."
"No, I doubt if it affected his duties. You're right. But once a murderer, always a murderer."
Rutledge stared at her. "Do you know for a fact that Constable Hensley murdered someone in London and got away with it?" Even Sergeant Gibson hadn't told him that. Nor had Cain.
"He condoned arson. And a man was caught in that fire, so badly burned that even his wife couldn't identify him. I went to London myself and read accounts in the newspapers. They weren't very helpful, so I talked to his widow. She's bitter because the police swept it all under the rug. He didn't die straightaway, you know. Harold Edgerton. He lingered for nearly a month, but in the end the doctors couldn't stop the infections that overwhelmed him. By that time, there were rumors that he'd started the fire himself. All he'd done was to go back to his desk that evening to retrieve some papers."
"Constable Hensley knew all this?"
"Why else were they in such haste to get him out of London?"
"And what you're trying to say, then, is that you believe he killed Emma Mason."
It was her turn to stare at him.
"You already know about her!"
"I only know that her name comes up when people talk about Constable Hensley."
"As God is my witness, he killed her and buried her in Frith's Wood. I can't prove it, mind you, but there's no other explanation for her disappearance."
"Did you shoot him down with that arrow, out of revenge? One of Emma Mason's arrows, perhaps, as a sort of poetic justice?"
"Was it one of Emma's? How fitting! I gave that archery set to her, you know. For her birthday. But I wouldn't have missed my aim, Inspector. If I'd held that bow, Constable Hensley would have died where he stood."
12
The vehemence in Grace Letteridge's voice was chilling, and Rutledge, listening to her, realized that she could indeed have killed.
The question was, why?
Hamish said, "She was plain—and the other lass was pretty."
Rutledge asked, "Where is her archery set now?"
"Truthfully? I have no idea what became of it. E
ven if I did, I'd be mad to tell you, wouldn't I?"
"What was Emma Mason to you, that you'd have killed for her?"
She looked at him pityingly. "What was Emma to me? A mirror of myself. Motherless. Her grandmother living in a world of pretense and denial. Only in my case, it was my father who couldn't cope with the realities of life. My mother died in childbirth, and my father felt that God had cheated him. And so he drank himself into an early grave—the only reason he lived until I was twenty was an iron constitution that refused to give up as easily as he had.
Mrs. Ellison, on the other hand, saw in Emma a second chance. The perfect child who would make up for the loss of her daughter, one who wouldn't fail her the way Beatrice had."
"You're very frank about your own life."
"I've had to be. I grew up very quickly. It wasn't pleasant, but I refused to let it break me the way it had my father." She met his glance with her chin lifted, defiant.
Hamish said, "It didna' break her, but the hurt went deep."
"I was going to say," Rutledge commented, "that you're very frank. But was Emma as frank? Or did you read into her circumstances more than was there?"
"I didn't read anything. I didn't need to. Beatrice was amazingly pretty, and people made much of her, the way they do. She was talented as well—a wonderful pianist and a very accomplished watercolorist. She painted these—" Grace Letteridge gestured to the watercolors on the wall. "You've noticed them, I saw your eyes on them. She gave them to me, before she left Dudlington the first time. She didn't want her mother to have them, because her mother was against Beatrice going to London to study art. She saw it as a waste. Women got married and had babies. That was their duty and their purpose. Accomplishments were fine, as long as they enhanced the bride price, so to speak. But a woman most certainly didn't pursue a career among artists. Prostitution was only one step away, in Mrs. Ellison's view."
"But Beatrice Ellison married."
"Yes, of course she did, but she made a poor choice. He wasn't very good to her, and in the end, he left her with a child, no money, and no prospects. She had to swallow her pride and bring Emma here to live with her grandmother. I can understand why she didn't want to stay in Dudlington herself, but she knew what her mother was like, and I consider it very selfish of her to abandon the child like that."