A Long Shadow

by Charles Todd

  "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 Maryanne'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."

  With that she walked out of the room, and he let her go. Hamish said, "She's an outsider. She's no' afraid of the wood."

  It was a change of mood that surprised Rutledge. But he answered slowly, considering the matter, "Yes, it's true."

  He crossed the street to Mrs. Ellison's house and knocked loudly. She answered the door and for a moment was clearly considering shutting it in his face. But he said, "It's about your daughter."

  She allowed him to come in, then, to stand like a tradesman in the entry.

  "What do you want with my daughter?"

  "Inspector Cain discovered a letter in his predecessor's files. It was from a Mrs. Greer, of London, asking to be paid for six months' lodging at her house. Your daughter had left without settling her account."

  She replied curtly, "To my shame. But I will say on her behalf that she'd lost her husband, she had had to give up her child, and she went to France to heal. I haven't told anyone, it's too embarrassing. I hope you'll respect my request to keep the matter between us."

  "What's become of Beatrice Ellison Mason, Mrs. Ellison. You must know."

  She looked away from him. "She's dead. I never told Emma that. She preferred to think her mother was in London, painting. She went to Paris, you see, married a Belgian there, and she was in Liege when the Germans bombarded the city. She must have been one of the casualties, because I haven't had any news of her since July of 1914."

  "She wrote to you?" he asked with surprise.

  She turned away from him, scorn on her face now. "No. I had other means of learning her whereabouts. Someone I went to school with was living in Paris, and she sent me news when she could. That's how I knew of my daughter's second marriage. I would think that other children had come then, and Beatrice must have felt awkward telling her new husband about Emma."

  "Why should he care, if he loved her?"

  "Beatrice often made rather free with the truth. And Mason isn't the most romantic name for an artist. She called herself Harkness, I understand. It has a finer ring to it, I expect."

  "Is she telling the truth?" Hamish asked.

  Rutledge thought she was. There was conviction in her voice, and he could see that she was tense with feeling, her hands clenched together until the knuckles showed white.

  "Why did you let your granddaughter write to a London address that didn't exist? That must have been a cruel disappointment when the letters were returned unopened."

  "You aren't a mother, Inspector," she snapped at him. "How can you be the judge of what's best for a young, easily impressed child who thought Maid Marian was a heroine and who wanted to spread her own wings?"

  "The truth from the beginning might have been easier. There's still the chance that she went to London in search of her mother. And London is no place for a young girl alone. Anything could have happened to her there. Doesn't that frighten you?"

  "She would never have done such a foolish thing. You didn't know her."

  "Then perhaps she went there looking for a young man who had marched off to war."

  If he had struck her, she wouldn't have looked any more shocked and angry. "How dare you!"

  "You were young once—"

  "My granddaughter was a God-fearing young lady. I saw to that. Get out of my house!"

  He left then, aware that he had upset her and that any other questions would have been useless.

  Mrs. Ellison had barricaded herself in a comfortable, private world of her own, secure from hurt. Struggling to ignore the loss of her only child and her only grandchild. Refusing to unders
tand that she might have driven both of them away with her strong sense of propriety and family duty. Artists came to a no-good end, and it could be argued that Beatrice had chosen her own fate. But that young girl's bedroom was still waiting for young Emma, regardless of the fact that she might have grown into an entirely different person if she was still alive. Harder, perhaps, disillusioned, certainly, and possibly no longer innocent.

  After the door had closed, he wished he'd asked her for the name of her school friend in Paris.

  As he walked through Dudlington, trying to clear up the mounting pile of evidence that went nowhere, contradicting itself at every turn, Rutledge saw Grace Letteridge coming out of the butcher's shop.

  She hesitated when she looked up and found he was striding toward her, then straightened her shoulders and stood there waiting for him.

  As if I were the guillotine, he thought, and Hamish added, "She doesna' want to talk about the past."

  When he came up to her, she said, "I'd like to hear that Constable Hensley has died of infection."

  He made himself smile. "It wouldn't help, would it? He's not the source of your anger."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's cold, and the street isn't the proper place to talk about private matters. Will you come to the police station, or shall I accompany you to your house? Either way, there's no tea to be found in either of them."

  She laughed ruefully. "I do have tea. Come on, then, and I'll make us both a cup."

  They walked back to her house in silence. She'd refused to let him carry her purchases, and he didn't press.

  She took his hat and coat and pointed him toward the parlor. He stood there, studying the watercolors done by Beatrice Mason. They were good, he couldn't fault them technically. But he wondered if she would have made the essential leap to London tastes, a quality that would have made her first-rate. As Catherine Tarrant and others had done in oils. It would depend, he decided, on her dedication and how quickly her skill matured.

  "She had a husband and a child," Hamish reminded him. "They would ha' dragged her down."

  What if her dreams had faded, and she realized that a little talent could be more heartbreaking than none? It might explain her decision to marry her first husband and then her second. Security, while she played at being an artist. Security while she went to parties or showed her portfolios, and talked about her work. Hardly the glory she might have hoped for, but talented wives were given a very different reception from young women struggling alone in rooming houses with no entree into society.

  He turned as Grace Letteridge came back with a tray of tea things. "You'll have to make do without cakes or sandwiches. But at least it's warm."

  Rutledge took the cup she handed him, adding sugar and milk from the tray.

  "You like her work, I think?" Grace said, glancing up at the paintings.

  "She has a wonderful sense of light," he told her.

  "Yes, that's what struck me. Harder to achieve in watercolors, I should think, than in oils."

  She took a chair on the far side of the room and said, "All right, what is it? You're bursting to ask questions, aren't you?"

  "I've been trying to piece together some of the things I've learned as I asked questions about Hensley and Emma Mason—and lately, asking questions about her mother as well. Is Beatrice Ellison Mason living comfortably in Liege, do you think? Or did she die in the German attack in 1914?"

  "Liege? I'd never heard that Beatrice had moved to Liege. Why are you asking me? You know we never kept in touch, or I'd have known where to search for Emma. What does Mary Ellison have to say about that?"

  "She believes her daughter went to Paris, married there, and shortly afterward, moved to Belgium."

  "Well, then, what's the matter with that?"

  "I think Mrs. Ellison has been covering up the truth, that Beatrice was dead." It was what he himself had begun to accept. "Did Emma ever suspect that?"

  "Of course not. She believed her mother was living in London. It's what the whole world—well, what the Dudlington world believed, anyway." She set her teacup down and considered the policeman in her parlor. "Are you suggesting that Beatrice killed herself? That she couldn't face living without her husband, and after seeing to Emma's future, she did something awful?"

  Mary Ellison would never admit that her daughter was a suicide—it was not something that happened in respectable families, and her pride would prefer that people believed any plausible tale rather than stumble on the truth.

  "My friend in Paris writes. . . "

  "It needna' be suicide," Hamish said. "There's prostitution."

  Social suicide, by anyone's standards.

  "Perhaps that's why Mrs. Ellison paid the debt at the rooming house, when Mrs. Greer wrote to demand her money. It could have been quiet blackmail."

  "What debt?" Grace Letteridge asked him. "And who was blackmailing whom?"

  He'd answered Hamish aloud. Cursing himself, he said, "No one. I was just speculating on something that Inspector Cain discovered in the records Inspector Abbot had left. An address for Beatrice Mason in 1904. But it was useless by the time Mrs. Ellison learned of it two years later." He quickly shifted the subject. "Do you remember Abbot?"

  "Of course. We saw him about as often as we see Inspector Cain. He would pay brief visits to Dudlington from time to time, looking in on the shopkeepers and the rector and the doctor. Keeping his ear to the ground, he'd called it."

  "What sort of policeman was he?"

  "He was disastrous when it came to something serious like Emma's disappearance. He couldn't fathom why she'd left a loving and comfortable home to run off to London. He was close to retirement, old-fashioned in his thinking about women, and unwilling to believe that a Harkness could do anything approaching the scandalous. He left most of the questioning to Constable Hensley. Mrs. Ellison was distraught, and it didn't help when Inspector Abbot badgered her, practically tearing poor Emma's room apart in an effort to learn how she'd hoped to make her way to London. The fact is, no one came forward and admitted to helping Emma leave, and in the end the inquest returned a verdict of foul play by person or persons unknown. That upset Mrs. Ellison even more, and I lost my temper with Constable Hensley, calling him incompetent and stupid. And that's when I began to suspect him. I couldn't believe a London-trained policeman was so inept. He had to be covering up something, and the only thing that made sense was his part in Emma's murder."

  "Murder is hardly more socially acceptable than suicide."

  "Yes, well, even the fact that Mary Ellison is related to the Harkness family isn't much comfort to her now." The words were bitter, spoken with anger.

  "I'm told that someone saw Emma somewhere behind the church one day, rolling in the grass, as he put it, with a young man."

  She stared at him. "So that's—" And then she broke off.

  "That's what?" Rutledge asked when she failed to go on.

  Grace Letteridge shook her head vehemently, but her mouth had tightened.

  "Who was the young man?" he persisted.

  But she was already collecting the tea things and carrying them out to the kitchen, effectively closing the subject.

  He followed her through the house.

  "I even know the name," he told her as she set the tray on the kitchen table, her back to him. "It was Robert Baylor—"

  She whirled so quickly he wasn't prepared, couldn't even defend himself. Her right hand slapped him so hard across the face that he saw pinpoints of light dancing in front of his eyes.

  "Don't ever say his name to me, do you hear? Don't you ever dare!"

  And before he could prevent it, she was out of the room and going up the stairs where he couldn't follow her.

  Rutledge stood there in the kitchen, his face stinging and his own anger mounting.

  "You shouldna' ha' pressed her sae hard. No' if the young man was hers."

  "If it was Robert Baylor who seduced Emma Mason, why does she feel so strongly that it was Hensley wh
o killed the girl?"

  But then there was no proof that Emma had been seduced. She could just as easily have fought Baylor off. Especially if the attack had been a trial balloon, as it were. A test to see whether this very pretty girl was willing or not. Hensley, on the other hand, hearing about what appeared to be a successful seduction, might well have tried his own luck, and when Emma threatened to tell her grandmother, rid himself of the girl and the problem.

  Then why had Hensley even brought up what Constable Markham thought he'd seen?

  Because, Rutledge realized, Robert Baylor was safely dead in France and couldn't deny it. And Hensley had quietly managed to shift suspicion to Grace Letteridge.

  Hensley was clever. He'd escaped one black mark against his name in London. He couldn't have risked a second one here, particularly not laying hands on a young girl whose grandmother was connected to the Harkness family.

  Was that a strong enough motive for the first murder? Emma's?

  Bowles had given the constable a second chance, allowing him to redeem himself in the backwaters of Northamptonshire. But even Bowles would quickly wash his hands of Hensley if there was a raging scandal of that nature. Chief Superintendent Bowles valued his title and his position more than he valued a subordinate.

  Rutledge had the feeling that the disconnected bits and pieces were beginning to make more sense.

  But what about the second attempt at murder? Hensley's own?

  Rutledge had made an enemy of Grace Letteridge, bringing up Robert Baylor's name. And if she'd shot Hensley in revenge for what she believed he'd done to Emma, Rutledge realized he'd better be watching his own back.

  Then where exactly did the relationship between Robert Baylor and Grace Letteridge fit into this picture?

  21

  In late afternoon, Rutledge walked to The Oaks and received a chilly reception from Keating.

  "When am I to have my barmaid back again?"

  "It won't be long. Towson is showing improvement."

  "What brings you to my door? I've nothing more to say to you."

  "I've come to speak to one of your guests. Mrs. Channing. Is there a parlor where we can speak privately?"