by Charles Todd
But Wade was there at breakfast, coming into the tiny dining room ten minutes after Rutledge had gone down. He was frowning, and his first words were, “This isn’t Merwyn.”
“No. This was the first inn I could find. We’ll turn back this morning.”
Satisfied, with a nod Wade sat down to his breakfast. “It never occurred to me that you’d need to stay the night. I was thinking only of my own bed for the first time in longer than I care to remember.”
When they drove into Merwyn an hour later, Wade looked around him at the shops and cottages, the small church on a slight rise. A gray, bleak village. He said, “It hasn’t changed.”
“Where did your wife live?”
“On the outskirts—there!” He pointed to a cottage at the edge of the road. The paint was peeling, and it looked as if it hadn’t been lived in for some years. Along the sides, winter-brown grass was nearly as high as the windows. Wade was eyeing it with alarm. “It doesn’t look like anyone is there. Dear God, what am I to do?”
Rutledge pulled to the verge, and Wade got out almost before the motorcar came to a halt, running to the door and knocking anxiously.
It was a while before someone came to the door. By that time he was all but hopping from foot to foot. The woman who answered, her face thin and her hair faded from fair to a straw color, stared at Wade, then shook her head.
“They told me you must be dead,” she said finally, reaching out to touch him, as if to assure herself he was real.
“Mary?” he asked, almost in disbelief.
“They said—I believed them. You didn’t write.”
“We agreed,” he said. “You remember, don’t you? Where’s your mother? Why didn’t you go to her?”
“She didn’t want me.” The woman burst into tears. “Your sister being married to a spy, you in prison for theft? She came to my door and told me she wanted nothing more to do with us. I didn’t know what to do. I wrote to her three times, begging her help, and each time the letter came back.”
“You told me the wrong village—I didn’t know where to look for you.”
“I didn’t know it was wrong, Eddie. It’s all she gave me.” She was trying to cling to him, but he kept her at arm’s length. “I heard from Cousin Maude when Mum died. She told me Mum was ashamed of us, and didn’t want anyone to know about us. Maude’s two sons died in France, and so she also didn’t want me to come. She told me Mum was proud of them.”
Rutledge, listening to the conversation, looked away. In the excitement that had followed the news that Britain was at war, a madness had seized everyone—among them those who’d accused Hans, the Sister who had accused Wade. He could understand why Mary’s mother had disowned her daughter and the family she’d married into. Sadie herself would have needed a good deal of courage to stand up to the gossip and whispers. Much less to Cousin Maude, with her hero sons.
Wade was saying, “It doesn’t matter. I’m here, Mary. I’ve come home. It’ull be all right now.”
“No, it won’t. They’ve long memories here too. They’ll never forget what you were.”
He was looking over her shoulder. “Where are the children?”
“Ellie’s gone into service in Bristol, where nobody knows the truth. She told everyone you’d been killed in Ypres. A hero. I sometimes think she wishes it was true. She sent me money for a while, but I haven’t heard from her for well over a year. And Timmy—” She looked up at him. “Timmy died of the influenza. I’ve had nobody else.”
“I’m here,” he said again, finally holding her close. Over her head, his gaze met Rutledge’s. Putting her away from him, he said, “I must thank Mr. Rutledge. I won’t be long.”
He came back to the motorcar. “I’ll stay, if you’ll let me. She needs me. Can you square it with Hemsley? I won’t go back to gaol. Not for anyone.”
Rutledge looked at the woman standing in the doorway, no joy in her face at her husband’s return. He found himself thinking that what lay ahead for this man was worse than any prison he might be remanded to. But he said, “Yes. All right. Get out of this wind, man, you aren’t dressed for it.”
“I’ll be all right.” He hesitated. “I owe you. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“Make a go of it. If you can.”
Wade nodded. He seemed to hesitate, as if debating something within himself. Finally he said, “There’s one thing. You might find it useful. The man in the next cell. A fortnight ago, he told me something. Just before he came back to Dorset, he was in Anglesey. North Wales. Do you know it?”
Rutledge did, although he’d never been there. It was just above Carnavon.
“There’s the ferry at Holyhead. To Ireland. Danny told me he was waiting for a friend who owed him money, and he made sure to be at the docks ahead of time, fearing that his friend might take it into his head to slip away and disappear. And who did he see coming off the same ferry but the man wanted for the killing after Black Ascot.”
Rutledge found that hard to believe. Ten years had passed. Barrington had never been found, although there was still a warrant out for his arrest. He himself hadn’t been in the police in 1910, but the newspapers had been full of the motorcar crash and the subsequent hunt for the man thought to be responsible for the death of the woman passenger. He’d seen the man’s photograph, and as a rule, he was rather good at recalling faces. But he wasn’t certain he himself would recognize Barrington a decade later.
“How did he—this Danny—know it was Barrington?”
“He’d aged, of course he had.” Wade glanced uneasily over his shoulder, as if half afraid his wife had gone in and shut the door against him. But she was still there, arms wrapped around herself against the wind, trying to hear what the two men at the motorcar were saying. “Danny knew him, you see. He’d grown up in the village. Barrington’s village.”
The police had searched Ireland, and everywhere else they could think of. Even Kenya and India, South Africa and Canada. It had been a long and a thorough search, and some people were of the opinion that Barrington hadn’t been found because he’d killed himself after he learned that the wrong person had died in the wreckage. That had been a popular opinion, that the crash had killed the woman he’d loved, rather than the man she’d married. The Yard had wondered if the right person had died, Barrington’s revenge falling on her for choosing a man he’d hated.
“Did Barrington recognize Danny?”
“Danny says not. But then he’d left the village when he was ten, and most likely Barrington couldn’t have put a name to him even then. He was off to Eton when he was seven. You know how it is—the lord of the manor matters, he’s your bread and butter, and you’d better doff your cap when he or his family passes by. But to them you’re just a name on the estate rolls, unless you work in the house.”
Even so, it couldn’t be counted as a reliable sighting. For one thing, Danny might have been boasting. Prisoners often did to raise themselves up in the eyes of others in the cells.
“If he was only ten when he left, how could he be so certain? A child’s memory at that.”
“Danny wasn’t a liar or a braggart. And he said he never believed Barrington had done what he was charged with. He wanted to write his mother and tell her that Barrington was still alive, but he was afraid his letters were read before they made it to the post, and he didn’t want to stir up the hunt again. He hated the police, Danny did. No offense, but he’d not been treated well by them. As he saw it, more power to Barrington to have outwitted them.” He was shivering, but stood his ground.
“Then why are you telling me?”
“You were decent to me. It’s all I have to repay with.” He added bitterly, “Even a coward can have a conscience.”
Rutledge winced. That was too close to the bone. “Did Danny tell anyone else?” When Wade shook his head, Rutledge asked, “Then why did he tell you?”
“I don’t know. I expect he believed I wouldn’t talk. Or if I did, who would believe me? They’d say I
was currying favor. A man like me? What did I know about the Barringtons of the world?”
“But you’re betraying Danny’s trust now.”
“I don’t see it that way. He didn’t ask me to swear I’d not tell.”
“How long ago was this sighting?”
“Three weeks? Four at most. Danny came back to Taunton and was picked up straightaway. He said his trial was a farce, like mine. That the witness lied. He said he’d done many things, but not what he was accused of. Like me.”
Barrington—if indeed it were he getting off the ferry—might be anywhere by now. Four weeks was a hell of a good head start.
“Look. It’s all I have to give you. Make of it what you will.”
“Your wife is cold, and so are you. Thank you, Wade. Consider any debt paid in full.”
But Wade stayed where he was. “Danny didn’t lie,” he insisted. “If he says he saw Barrington, then he did see him. I don’t owe him or Barrington. But I owe you. And I’m not repaying you in false coin.”
There was nothing else he could say, and so Rutledge nodded. “I believe you.”
Wade searched his face. “I think you do,” he answered finally. “Good day to you, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Good-bye, Wade.”
He watched the man join his wife and go inside, shutting the door firmly after them. Pulling away, he drove on out of Merwyn.
He kept his promise to Constable Biggins, reporting to him that Wade had been reunited with his wife. “His mother-in-law didn’t want to be found. She gave her daughter a false address, and she passed that on to Wade.”
“It’s no excuse for what he did,” Biggins insisted. “He ought to be held to account.”
“How is the Vicar’s daughter?” Rutledge asked, changing the subject.
“She’s well enough. It was an ordeal all the same.”
“Where was her father? He wasn’t outside the church with you. He wasn’t there to comfort her when I brought her down.”
“Praying in his house,” Biggins said, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. “He said.”
“It seems to have been a successful prayer,” Rutledge replied dryly. “It will do Wade no good to be sent back to prison. And he told the girl he wouldn’t hurt her if she helped him. I overheard him reminding her of that. He did let her go.”
Constable Biggins refused to relent. “What will her father say? He’s the one has a right to have a say.”
But Rutledge wasn’t sure the Vicar was the right man to ask. He was more likely to demand his pound of flesh, now that it was safe to do so. Instead, Rutledge sought out Waters, the girl’s uncle, and asked, “Do you want your niece to have to give evidence in court? She’s been through enough. The man’s gone, he won’t be back, and she’s safe. Making her relive what happened is nonsense. Cruel.”
Waters agreed. “Pursue this,” he warned Biggins, “and I’ll take it up with the Chief Constable myself. She’s my only sister’s child, and I’d have been derelict in my duty toward her if I hadn’t asked Inspector Rutledge to intervene. Let that be an end to it.”
Afterward the solicitor walked Rutledge back to his motorcar. “Thank you again,” he said as they shook hands. “I couldn’t have done what you did—I was so frightened for her that I’d have botched it. Don’t worry about Biggins, I’ll keep him in line.”
Rutledge made good time back to London. And for most of the drive, he mulled over Danny’s sighting of Alan Barrington, and whether or not to mention it to Chief Superintendent Jameson. The last thing Rutledge wanted to do was bring Wade to the attention of Scotland Yard.
On the other hand . . .
If the sighting proved true, and the Yard wasn’t informed, then he would be derelict in his duty.
Hamish, stirring in the back of his mind, said, “He’ll be more fashed if you send him chasing wild geese.”
3
In the end, Rutledge told Chief Superintendent Jameson about the sighting but without giving up Wade’s name.
“For what it’s worth,” he finished, “I’m reporting to you. Whether it should be pursued is another matter. To my knowledge there has been no new evidence to support this information.”
“Was your source reliable?” Jameson asked, toying with his fountain pen and not looking at Rutledge.
“I believe the man who claims to have seen Barrington trusted the evidence of his own eyes. But this is thirdhand, sir. And a good deal of time has passed since Barrington—if that’s who came off the ferry—landed in Anglesey. He could be anywhere in England by now. Or he could have taken ship to Europe from Southampton or Dover. I daresay no one was actively looking for him. He could have passed unnoticed. It’s been ten years. Appearances change.”
“And that’s the problem,” Jameson answered. “You say you overheard this in Hereford?” He lifted his gaze to Rutledge’s face.
“On my way back to London from Hereford,” Rutledge corrected him. “I was just leaving a small village where I’d spent the night.” He’d skirted as close to the truth as he could.
“Can you find this man again?”
“I doubt it. He didn’t appear to be local.”
“Yes, there’s that,” Jameson said, frowning. “Still. It would be a feather in the Yard’s cap if we found Barrington and brought him in. The newspapers were scathing about his getting away. I was in York at the time, but it was a reflection on all of us, even though we’d sent extra men to cover the Yorkshire coastal towns. Just in case he came that way. If he got out through Anglesey, someone’s head will surely roll there.”
Rutledge hadn’t expected this cautious, rule-ridden man to seize the opportunity to open the search again.
He said, out of concern, “Sir. If this reaches the press—if they learn that we’re actively looking, and it turns out to be mistaken identity after all—they will be more than scathing this time.”
“Precisely my own thought. And so we will keep this between the two of us. I want you to ask Sergeant Gibson for the file on Barrington. Give him any excuse you like—tell him I intend to close the file, since there has been no new information for the past ten years. Whatever you like. Anything but the truth. Then go through it, see if anything in it strikes you as a possible place to begin. If Barrington is back in Britain, there’s a reason for it. Has to be, he’s got away scot-free, and he’s not going to risk coming back because he’s missed treacle tarts for his tea.”
Appalled, Rutledge stared at him. “Sir—”
He’d reported Wade’s information because it was his duty. He hadn’t expected it to be dropped in his lap.
“Is that the soundest approach, sir?”
“There’s no use sending someone to Holyhead. You know that as well as I do. It’s been almost a month. And it would only serve to start tongues wagging.” The frown on Jameson’s face darkened. “I’m giving you carte blanche, Rutledge. For a fortnight. If you don’t have anything for me by that time, we’ll talk again. But I’m telling you now, I expect you to find this man. The resources of the Yard are at your disposal. If Barrington is in England, I want him in custody. There’s an end to it.”
It was an impossible task. Rutledge knew it, and he wondered if Jameson saw it as a chance to rid himself of an unruly Inspector.
Still, he knew better than to argue with the man. When the Chief Superintendent had made up his mind, he was as tenacious as a bulldog. Right or wrong.
“Sir.” Rutledge rose, dismissed.
He went to his own office and sat there for a quarter of an hour. Debating whether it would be worth his while to find this man Danny and interview him. Not that he expected Danny to talk to him, but to watch his face, to judge whether he’d told the truth or had just been bragging.
Hamish said, “Ye need to learn more before you question anybody.”
And that was true. The inquiry hadn’t been his, and all he knew about it was the general gossip he’d heard at the Yard when he was a new Inspector and what he’d read in the newsp
apers at the time. Hardly the best source of facts.
In the end, he went in search of Sergeant Gibson, and told him what he needed.
“The files on Alan Barrington? They’re in the cellar, sir. We kept them up here for six years, and then we were told to take them down. The general opinion was that he’d killed himself. It was the only explanation for not finding a single lead to his disappearance in all that time.”
“Orders from the Chief Superintendent,” Rutledge told him. “I tried to talk him out of it. I failed. I expect he’s looking for a knighthood.”
“Man’s mad,” Gibson said under his breath, shaking his head. “A waste of time.”
“Nevertheless,” Rutledge answered. “The last thing I need at the moment is to find myself in more trouble for crossing him. And I’d keep quiet about it, if I were you. He might lose interest if nothing comes of looking through the file.”
“Not him. Very well. I’ll have someone bring them up, sir.” There was doubt in his voice. “But it could take the better part of the day just to find them.”
“I’ll be waiting in my office.”
He was about to turn away, when Gibson considered him. “Is the Chief Superintendent trying to punish you for something? Sir? One can’t help but wonder.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“Better you than me,” Gibson said with a sigh.
Rutledge said casually, “You were here. At the Yard. Was the man guilty? According to the newspapers of the day, there was no possible doubt of that.”
“The King’s death was old news, the country still in mourning. The motorcar crash was a nine days’ wonder, coming right after Black Ascot. Then new evidence pointed at Barrington and the hunt for him sold newspapers for weeks on end. Every sighting, true or false, was covered. However slight. Rewards were offered for information. I always suspected the papers kept hounding the Yard just to keep the story alive. We were run off our feet, and in the end we came up empty. It was a bitter pill, I tell you, sir.”