A Lonely Death

by Charles Todd

  Hamish said, “What we did was to die. For naught.”

  Rutledge flinched.

  Mrs. Winslow misconstrued it. “Should I have asked him about the fighting? Was it important?”

  “No,” he answered her. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

  And then Constable Walker came in carrying the tea tray, and Mrs. Winslow turned to it as if it were a lifeline. Her husband, following him into the room, looked quickly from Rutledge’s face to his wife’s, as if he could read in the air between them something of what had been said.

  They took their leave shortly afterward, and Walker said harshly as the two men reached the motorcar, “I hope to God we find out who is committing these murders.”

  Dropping Walker off at the police station, Rutledge changed into dry clothes, then went to find the rector of St. Mary’s Church.

  The signboard at the gate into the churchyard gave the priest’s name as Ottley. As Rutledge was about to decide whether to try the rectory or the church first, he saw the man he was after just closing the rectory door and striding down the walk toward him.

  “You’re the man from London,” the rector said, squinting at his face as Rutledge met him on the flagstone walk. He pulled out his spectacles for a better look. “Yes. Do you want me? I was on my way to see Mrs. Winslow, to offer what comfort I could. The constable left word to look in on her.”

  “My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I’d like five minutes of your time first. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  The rector gestured vaguely in the direction of a bench set under an apple tree growing between the church and the rectory, its gnarled, spreading branches offering good shade as the watery sun strengthened. “Will that do? My housekeeper is mopping floors. I doubt she’d care to have me tracking back inside.”

  Rutledge led the way, and the vicar dusted the bench with a handkerchief before settling himself in one corner. Rutledge took the other.

  “Sad circumstances we’re in,” the rector said with a sigh. “I can’t quite bring my mind around it, you know. Four murders! It’s unspeakable. I never dreamed of such a thing here in Eastfield.”

  Rutledge could hear bees buzzing about over his head, where the tight knots of young green apples were nestled. “I’d like to ask you about Eastfield. You’ve been rector here for some time?”

  “Nearly thirty years, now,” he answered. “Twenty of them without the support of my dear wife. But one copes, somehow.”

  “Indeed. You knew these four men who have been killed. What can you tell me about them? I’m not asking for secrets of the confessional, but for observations you must have made as you watched them grow into manhood.”

  “They were boys. In and out of scrapes, but no harm done for the most part. A rowdy bunch, excepting of course for Anthony Pierce, who played with them only occasionally. Still, there were one or two more serious incidents, as you’d expect. And then they were strong enough to help out at home, and their childhoods changed. No longer collecting eggs before school or bringing in the cows afterward, they were set to heavier work, mucking out the cowshed or the barn, helping with the planting and the harvest, whatever was needed. Some were able to stay with their schooling, others weren’t so fortunate. Hartle, of course, was apprenticed to his father at Kenton’s. The Pierce brothers went away to public school. And the nonsense stopped.”

  It was a common picture of life on farms: girls working under their mothers’ eye, sons learning firsthand the trade of their fathers. Large families helped eke out the needs that slender purses couldn’t meet, though they meant more mouths to feed. As a rule on small holdings, food was more plentiful than money for wages, and the system worked.

  “Did anything happen in the Army—before they left—after they were in France—that might lead to this sort of killing?”

  The rector shook his head. “I never heard of it, if anything did. But they wouldn’t have told me, would they? They’d have confessed to a chaplain. And whatever it was would have stayed in France.”

  Hamish said, “You’ll never uncover the truth, then.”

  But he had to. He made one last effort, saying to the rector, “Is there a place to look? I don’t ask you to reveal any secrets. But it will save time—and lives—if I am given a direction to follow.”

  “It’s not a conspiracy of silence,” the rector told him. “At least not on my part. It’s just that we don’t recognize whatever it is as the problem. We may be looking in the wrong places. On the other hand, what places ought we to be searching? I don’t know.”

  Rutledge found himself suddenly remembering the case that Chief Inspector Cummins had failed to solve.

  Was this of the same ilk? He refused to believe it. Somewhere—somewhere—there was a grain of truth to pursue, and one way or another, he would find it.

  Hamish said, “Start with the most obvious.”

  It was good advice. But not very helpful.

  He thanked the rector and went back to find Constable Walker.

  Striding into the police station, he said, “Every victim so far fought in the war. Either in the village company or as in Pierce’s case, in another. I need that list of their names, every single one of them.”

  Walker frowned. He’d been up most of the night, Rutledge remembered, and had had little time to work on anything else.

  “I’ve started it, sir. Do you want the Navy as well?”

  Rutledge took a deep breath. “Everyone. If he wore a uniform, I want his name on that list.”

  Walker pulled a sheet of paper from the side drawer of his desk and picked up his pen.

  Mumbling to himself, he went through the village in his mind, house by house,

  At length he looked up. Rutledge had waited patiently, watching the list grow.

  “Seven,” Walker said. He turned the sheet around so that Rutledge could read the names he’d written and their branch of service.

  “Very good,” Rutledge said. “How many of these were in school together as boys?”

  “All but this one,” he said, pointing to Alistair Nelson. “He came here when his father was brought in to work at the brewery. He was sixteen, at a guess, and he went off to join the Navy as soon as war was declared.”

  “Then withdraw his name, if you will. That leaves us with six men. Find them for me, and bring them here to the station. And tell them to be prepared to be away from home for three nights. I may need longer than that, but we’ll begin with three.”

  “Here, some of these men have families—duties—they can’t just walk away.”

  “Tell them they have this afternoon to find someone to help them with their work. But I want them here an hour before nightfall.”

  “What are you planning on doing with them?” Walker asked. “They’ll want to know that as well.”

  “They don’t need to know. But I intend to lock them up here and hold them without visitors.”

  “Incarcerate them? But what have they done? That’s a bit harsh—”

  “Murder is harsher. I want them under your eye until I return. And I shall hold you responsible if they’re set free for any reason at all.”

  “And where will you be?” Walker asked, goaded.

  “I’m going to track down some of the men whose identity discs we have. If I can’t find answers here in Eastfield, I can at least make certain no one dies while I’m in another part of the country. I’ll leave written orders. You won’t be held accountable for my actions.”

  Walker studied him for a moment. “You believe the men whose names are on this list may be the next victims? Sir? One of them is my nephew!”

  “All the more reason to keep him safe,” Rutledge replied. “One man has already died on my watch. I won’t see another killed while I’m away. We can’t protect all six of them all of the time, Walker, we don’t have the manpower, and I don’t think Hastings will agree to lending us men. But if this killer keeps to his schedule, there will in fact be another murder before I return. The sol
ution is to put his victims beyond his reach. It will be inconvenient, I grant you. But the risk is not acceptable.”

  It was easier said than done. Walker sought out each of the six men, sent them grumbling to the police station, and even after Rutledge had explained why he was taking this step, there was strong opposition to his plan.

  “I can’t be away for three nights,” Hector Marshall exclaimed. “I’ve got cows to milk, vegetables to hoe, chickens to feed.”

  Another man added that his wife was pregnant and likely to deliver at any time.

  Two more told Rutledge they could look after themselves and didn’t need his help doing it.

  He answered only, “I’m sure Theo Hartle would have said the same. He was a bigger man than any of you. And still he was murdered.”

  Walker’s nephew, Billy Tuttle, said, “With all due respect, sir, what if it’s one of us? The killer, I mean. And we’re shut in together?” He looked at the others defiantly. “I’m not saying it is, not by any means, but it bears thinking about.”

  The last two to come in asked why they should be punished when they’d done nothing wrong, refusing outright to stay in a cell.

  Rutledge listened patiently to their protests and then said, “Very well. Let’s make it simple. We needn’t draw straws. Tell me, which of you will volunteer to become the fifth victim? Step forward. I’ll release you as a stalking horse, to see if you’re on the killer’s list. Or not. And if the murderer should be one of you, he will most certainly have to wait until he’s free before killing again. He’s not a fool, whatever else he may be. He won’t kill here.”

  They stared at him.

  “It won’t work,” Marshall told him point-blank. He was a small, compact man with a broken nose and an obvious dislike of authority. “You can’t be sure that madman is after one of us. Why not the greengrocer? Or the foreman at the brewery? The rector, or the clerk at the hotel?”

  “Are you volunteering?” Rutledge asked.

  “I’m not volunteering—” Marshall began.

  Rutledge cut him short. “I remind you, each victim was alone after dark. No one saw the killer arrive, no one saw him leave. Think of a better plan, and I’ll consider it.”

  Marshall objected again. “Look, we don’t know why those four died. I’m not saying it’s something they did. Or didn’t do. But my conscience is clear. Why should I run with my tail between my legs, like?”

  There was a silence.

  “Step forward. Who among you feels safe enough to take such a risk? You survived the war, the lot of you. Are you feeling lucky?”

  They talked amongst themselves and then turned back to him.

  “Three days,” Walker’s nephew said. “Not an hour more.”

  “Thank you. But I warn you, if you give Constable Walker here any reason for complaint, I’ll have the lot of you in charge for obstructing the police. Is that clear?”

  The man called Henderson said, “Where will you be?”

  “Tracking down connections between the living and the dead. Unless you can tell me what you believe this is all about? Unless you know something that I don’t—and Constable Walker doesn’t. What happened in France?”

  “Nothing,” Henderson replied. “Nothing that would lead to murder, then or now. We served with honor. All of us.” There was the ring of truth in his voice.

  But he hadn’t been in the company that left Eastfield together. Three years younger than the rest, according to Walker, he’d volunteered on his seventeenth birthday and had served with the new tank corps. Like Anthony Pierce, he was an outsider. Still, Pierce had been murdered anyway.

  No one else spoke up. Rutledge waited, looking each man in the eye, and they dropped their gaze first, even Marshall.

  Hamish said into the silence, “Ye ken, it might not be what they did, but what they failed to do. And they wouldna’ remember that.”

  Rutledge answered him in his mind. This killer could have moved on to Hastings or Rye or even London. But he hasn’t. Because his quarry is still here.

  Half an hour later, he left Eastfield behind.

  Walker’s parting words were, “I hope you find something that makes this incarceration worthwhile.” There was an undercurrent of doubt in his voice.

  Rutledge’s first stop was in Hastings to see if any progress had been made in tracing Hartle’s movements before he was killed.

  Inspector Norman said testily, “It’s early days. But he was seen in a shop that carries varnish at half past ten in the morning. They didn’t have what he needed, and he went to another place of business and found it closed. He came back half an hour later and bought four tins of the varnish. He was to pick them up at two o’clock. At that point, it appears he had lunch in a small pub that fishermen frequent. Apparently he knew the pub’s cook in France. He visits the man whenever he’s in Hastings. Yesterday the man wasn’t there. His wife’s mother was being taken to hospital in Eastbourne for suspected appendicitis. We checked, and she was admitted for surgery. Hartle waited for him at the pub, and the cook returned to Hastings at three-fifteen. The two men sat down together for a good twenty minutes, and Hartle asked if the family was able to pay for the mother-in-law’s care. Then a little before four o’clock, Hartle left to retrieve his tins, ostensibly on his way home to Eastfield, or so the cook says. He could think of no reason why Hartle would delay returning—he’d got what he’d come for. We know for certain our man left the pub close on to four. Half a dozen people can vouch for that. After that, we lose him.”

  “Then that must be when he encountered the killer.”

  “You can’t be sure of it. It’s possible my men will turn up something more by the end of the day.”

  “Where is the van he was driving when he arrived in Hastings?”

  “We haven’t found it yet. It doesn’t mean we won’t. I don’t fancy the idea that this man, whoever he is, is setting up shop in Hastings. I want him to go back to Eastfield. At least until you’ve made a little progress toward identifying him.”

  “This fellow soldier Hartle visits when he’s here in Hastings—is the man in the clear?”

  “Oh yes, he couldn’t overpower Hartle if he tried. Consumptive, if you ask me. Thin as a rail.”

  Rutledge drew a breath in frustration. “Keep looking. I’m on my way to London to investigate these discs. Call the Yard and ask for Sergeant Gibson, if you need to reach me.”

  But he wasn’t ready to leave Hastings just yet. He went in search of the pub, The Fisherman’s Catch, and saw that it was a small establishment that catered to men who ate hearty in the morning and were in bed well before nine in the evening, to sail with the sand fleet before the sun rose.

  Hamish said, “He wouldna’ stay o’er long, if he was to reach home at a reasonable hour.”

  “He must have done this time. Was someone following him? Or did the killer know he was being sent to Hastings yesterday? It’s uncanny how well someone understood the habits of the first three victims and where to find them alone at night. If he’s watching them, he lives in Eastfield. That’s one of the reasons I penned those men in the police station.”

  The cook, one Bill Mason, was in the middle of preparing a roast for the evening meal, and Rutledge agreed to interview him in the kitchen.

  It was small, crowded, noisy, and almost unbearably hot. Claustrophobic, Rutledge felt the beginnings of a cold sweat.

  “I’ve already talked to Inspector Norman’s men,” Mason said, busy basting the roast and then preparing potatoes and onions to add to the pan. Inspector Norman had called him thin, but he was cadaverous, his hands shaking, his cheeks sunken, a nervous tic by one eye.

  Rutledge recognized the symptoms. Shell shock, not consumption. He swallowed hard, to keep his own voice from cracking as he said, “They must have asked you about when Hartle came here, and when he left. I want to know if he was afraid of anyone?”

  The sunken gray eyes turned to gaze for a moment at Rutledge’s face.

  “Afr
aid?”

  “Yes. Of anything. Anyone. Did you serve with him in France?”

  “We met in hospital. We never fought together.” Mason turned back to his work, as someone from the bar shouted a request for a ham sandwich with pickle. A helper, who had been listening in to the conversation, reluctantly turned away to fill the order. Mason watched him for a moment, then said quietly, “I don’t know that Theo Hartle was afraid. Not exactly. But he saw someone here in Hastings. Yesterday morning, while he was looking to buy the varnish. He couldn’t put a name to the face, and that worried him. He caught just a glimpse, mind you, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. When I came back from Eastbourne, he was waiting for me here. He wanted me to help him search, and see if I recognized the man. I told him to leave well enough alone.”

  “Why did he think you might know this man?”

  “When he was in hospital, there were days when Theo was barely conscious. He thought I might be able to put a name to the face. He said it was important to know.” He finished peeling the potatoes and set them aside.

  Rutledge said, “He was hoping it was someone from the hospital? Or not?”

  “He was hoping it was. He said he’d feel better if it was.”

  “Did the man seem to recognize Hartle?”

  “I don’t know. Theo didn’t say anything about that. He just didn’t want it to be the father.”

  “Whose father?”

  The cook’s hands were shaking. He put aside the carrot he was trying to scrape and clutched the edge of the table with taut fingers, his head down. “Just go away. Now. I can’t—you’re pushing too hard. Please.”