A Lonely Death

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge wondered who had told him that? Walker? Or someone else? “I went to see two of the men whose names were on the identity discs we’ve found. One man swears he never had them—and that’s likely. He was a career soldier and sewed his name into his uniform. The other man I spoke with found his discs in the trunk where he kept his uniform and souvenirs. I saw them for myself. I didn’t pursue the question any further. There wasn’t time. But if two of the discs are false, then the others are likely to be.”

  “If these are false, then where did the killer get real names to put on them?”

  “From transport manifests, burial details, payroll accounts, censoring letters—or merely sitting in a pub and keeping his ears open.”

  “And so where does that leave us?” Inspector Norman demanded.

  “I’m not sure. The discs we’ve found in the mouths of victims appear to be real, but that means someone has learned how to counterfeit them well enough to pass for authentic discs. It would be easy enough, I should think. But why should anyone go to that much trouble? And if he did, why not simply make up the names on them? Or use the victim’s name? If I’m any judge, the two men I spoke with hadn’t heard of or met anyone from the Eastfield Company. Nor did they know Anthony Pierce. Instead the killer used real people. The point, then, seems to have been the confusion these discs have created.”

  “There’s only one reason I can think of to use the wrong names,” Inspector Norman said, opening the door to the motorcar. “If he’d used the names of the real soldiers involved, then we’d be able to trace them and learn precisely whatever it is that’s behind these murders.” He got in and waited until Constable Walker had turned the crank and stepped into the rear seat. “What if the Eastfield men fired on another company by mistake, and killed a number of them?”

  Constable Walker spoke up for the first time. “That’s not likely. My nephew is one of the Eastfield Company. And he’d never cover up something of that sort. And I knew each man in that company. If they’d done wrong, he’d be the first to try to take responsibility and make amends.”

  “That may well be. But there were other things going on at the Front. Like shooting an unpopular officer in the back during an attack.”

  “You weren’t there,” Constable Walker persisted.

  “Neither were you,” Inspector Norman retorted. They had reached the police station, and he got out as the motorcar pulled in by the main door. “Well. I don’t know if Mrs. Griffith clarified or clouded the issue. But for what it’s worth, I’ll see you get a copy of her statement, when it’s drawn up and signed.”

  And then he was gone, striding into the police station with the intensity of a man who knew he had long hours ahead of him, his mind already busy with the two women killed by the intruder.

  As they drove away, Constable Walker said, “He’s wrong,” as if that settled the matter.

  Rutledge let it go. Inspector Norman’s remarks had distracted everyone from the subject of Daniel Pierce. And Rutledge was not ready for a witch hunt that muddled the case prematurely.

  He said to Walker, “I have a stop to make before we leave Hastings. You can wait in the car, if you will.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walker replied, his mind still on Inspector Norman’s charges.

  Rutledge found the military shop again and leaving his motorcar just out of sight, walked in to collect more information about the man who had brought in the flint knife.

  The proprietor was going through the pockets of an officer’s greatcoat as Rutledge came through the door.

  “Hallo. Looking for more flint knives?”

  Surprised, Rutledge said, “Do you have any others?”

  Smiling, the proprietor hung up the greatcoat and shook his head. “No, more’s the pity. That’s to say if you were looking to buy another one.”

  “I’m after information this time. I’m curious about the man who brought them in. I’d like to know whatever you learned from him. Perhaps he kept one or two more such knives, better made than this one.”

  The man shrugged. “I doubt he has any more. He’d probably have sold them with the original one. Would you like me to contact him for you?”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather write to him myself.” He could feel the man’s reluctance, and added, “I don’t mind paying a finder’s fee, if he’s got other examples.” This was not his inquiry, and Rutledge had no authority to invoke the power of Scotland Yard to ask for the shopkeeper’s cooperation.

  The proprietor smiled. “You’re a man after my own heart, Mr. . . .”

  He let his voice trail away, hinting.

  “My name is Rutledge. I’m from London. I’m here in Hastings on a matter of business.”

  “Then, Mr. Rutledge, if you’ll give me five minutes, I’ll look in my books and see what I have that will help you track down the former owner of a fine flint knife. Meanwhile, is there anything else you’d care to see?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  It took fewer than five minutes for the man to find the proper entry, and he wrote the name on a sheet of paper in a bold, clear hand. Even upside down, Rutledge could read the name: Charles Henry. It was what he’d remembered from the first visit.

  Below were the rest of the details. 21 June 1908. Grandfather East Anglia, dug up in garden. Not definite when found.

  1908. Three years after the murder of the man found at Stonehenge, Rutledge thought. But—on the summer solstice. Coincidence?

  Rutledge thanked him, and after an exchange about the greatcoat that the proprietor had been preparing for sale, he left.

  Walker said as he came through the shop door, “Were you buying identity discs?”

  Rutledge realized that the constable was quite serious, and answered him in the same vein. “I’d asked if there were any for sale. I was told that he didn’t carry any because there was no call for them.”

  “Too bad. It would have made our work easier.” Walker sighed. “We’ve not made much progress, on the whole. It’s mostly finding out what isn’t there, like looking for trouble and finding none. And then trouble turns up on the doorstep.”

  It was true. But so far, there hadn’t been any other deaths. And that in itself was progress of a sort.

  When they drove into Eastfield half an hour later, Walker said, “Who, pray, is that?”

  A man was standing in front of the police station, a grim expression on his face.

  Rutledge took one look, and swore.

  “You know him?” the constable asked, surprised.

  “Yes. And I have a feeling I know why he’s here.”

  Instead of leaving his motorcar in the hotel yard, he drove the short distance to the police station and drew up there.

  Rutledge got out but stood by the motorcar’s door.

  “Inspector Mickelson,” he said in greeting.

  Mickelson made no effort to return the greeting. “I’ve come to relieve you,” he said coldly. “Officially. There have been complaints about your conduct. Chief Superintendent Bowles assured the Chief Constable that these would be taken seriously, and you’d be withdrawn before the day is out. That was this morning. And as you can see, I am here.” He turned to Constable Walker. “And you are?”

  Walker gave his name, and looked from one man to the other. “I don’t quite understand why Inspector Rutledge has been replaced. Misconduct, sir? Of what sort?”

  “That’s a matter between the Chief Constable and Scotland Yard.” Turning to Rutledge, he added, “Your orders are to return to London immediately.”

  Rutledge said, “I’ve several matters that need my attention first.”

  “Not anymore. You have been relieved.” Mickelson turned again to Walker and said, “I’d like to see the statements you’ve taken from witnesses and the medical reports on the dead men. I’d also like to meet Mr. Pierce as soon as possible, and also Inspector Norman.” He opened the door of the police station, and Constable Walker hesitated.

  “You needn’t look to Mr. Rutl
edge for instructions, man. I’ve told you, I’m here now.” And he strode into the station without waiting for Walker or saying anything more to Rutledge.

  Walker, behind his back, began, “Sir—”

  But Rutledge said only, “I’m leaving for London. Keep an eye on things until I’m able to return.”

  He got back into the motorcar, and Walker had no choice but to step inside the station after Inspector Mickelson.

  Furious, Rutledge drove first to the school and asked to see Mrs. Farrell-Smith. The girl who opened the door said nervously, “She’s not in, sir.”

  “She should not ask you to lie for her,” he replied quietly, and took the stairs two at a time.

  Mrs. Farrell-Smith looked up as Rutledge opened her office door without knocking. Then her gaze went to the girl at his back. “I thought I told you—” she began, but Rutledge cut her short.

  “She told your lie for you. I didn’t believe her.” He turned to the girl, still standing in the doorway, her cheeks pink with uncertainty. “Thank you,” he said gently. “Please close the door as you go.”

  She hesitated, and then did as he asked.

  Mrs. Farrell-Smith said, “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “But I have something to say to you. You’ve made a serious mistake, and it could easily get someone else killed. Will you rescind your complaint?”

  “Why should I? I never wanted the Yard to handle this business in the first place. Inspector Norman is quite capable of clearing up these murders promptly and efficiently.”

  “No doubt he could. He’s a good man. But you haven’t got Inspector Norman. Instead you still have the Yard, Mrs. Farrell-Smith, and I think you’ll find Inspector Mickelson is cut from a very different cloth.”

  She stared at him. “But I expressly told them—”

  He didn’t wait for her to finish. “I’m sure you did. But Mr. Pierce insisted earlier on bringing in the Yard, and I expect the Chief Constable understands that it is Mr. Pierce’s son who is among the murder victims, not yours. If you want to call off the Yard, then I suggest you find someone with more authority than a brewery owner to do your work for you.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and went out the door.

  This time, she didn’t call after him.

  He packed his belongings quickly, left the hotel, and drove to London in a cloud of anger and bitter frustration. Hamish, reacting to the tension in his mind, reminded him that he had admitted that he had not come to any conclusions himself about the identity of the killer loose in Eastfield.

  “And that,” Hamish added as the motorcar finally reached the city, “is the only way ye’ll find yoursel’ reinstated.”

  But Rutledge didn’t respond. He found a place to leave his motorcar, and once inside the Yard, took the stairs two at a time, in search of Sergeant Gibson.

  He found the sergeant in the canteen, having what passed for his dinner, a plateful of sandwiches and a cup of tea. Gibson looked up, saw Rutledge, and said, “Not here.”

  Carrying the plate of sandwiches with him and balancing the cup of tea, Gibson followed Rutledge to his office, and as Rutledge took the chair behind his desk, Gibson carefully set down first the cup and then the plate on the corner of a box of files.

  “Sir, Superintendent Bowles never liked the fact that he wasn’t here to choose who was to go to Eastfield. And you gave him the excuse he needed to change inspectors.”

  “I didn’t give him any such thing,” Rutledge retorted. “Mrs. Farrell-Smith has her own agenda. I don’t know what she expects to gain from it, but at a guess, I don’t think it’s the murders that are worrying her. It’s an earlier run-in with the Yard.”

  Gibson stared at him. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. It was the only explanation I could come up with on the long drive back to London.”

  “There was an inquiry into her husband’s death. He died of a fall while walking in Derbyshire. The police felt that the circumstances didn’t quite match the version of his fall that Mrs. Farrell-Smith had given them. She was present, you see, but had sat down on a rock to catch her breath, and her husband went on alone for some distance because he wanted to take a photograph from the overlook. He fell just after she caught him up. She said. She admitted to having witnessed it.”

  “What was the outcome?”

  “The inquest brought in death by misadventure, but Mrs. Farrell-Smith was still under a cloud as far as the police were concerned. They couldn’t find a motive for her to kill the man, and without that, they couldn’t manage to charge her. It would have been easy enough, according to the sergeant I spoke with, for her to tip him over the edge if he was busy with his camera. The footing is uncertain at best at that spot.”

  Rutledge was reminded of the drop from East Hill in Hastings, the headland where Theo Hartle was killed.

  “Was that because the Derbyshire police couldn’t come up with a reason that satisfied the Crown, or was it because they didn’t care for her on general principles?”

  “I couldn’t say. But there was no medical evidence that her husband had been struck or tripped. No bruises and the like. She claimed he’d experienced a bit of vertigo, that she put out a hand to him, and he turned the wrong way.” He paused. “She had scratches on her hands from where he clawed at her as he went over. But no one could tell whether they occurred as she tried to save him or whether it was as he tried to save himself and she let go.”

  “Either way, she would have to move house, and live where she wasn’t known.” Rutledge nodded. “Very selfish of her to want the Yard out of the picture, but it’s understandable. I need to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles.”

  “He’s not here, he’s on his way to testify in a trial in Lincoln. Remember that one? He had to examine the firm’s books himself.”

  “Damn. It could be days before that’s finished.” He debated following the Chief Superintendent north, and then thought better of it. “All right, I’ll go back to Sussex and have a word with the Chief Constable.”

  “I’d be cautious on that score, sir. The Chief Constable wasn’t best pleased by Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s complaint. Apparently he’d wanted the inquiry to be left in the hands of the local police, but Mr. Pierce had been very persuasive. He said as much to me, and then when I’d brought the Chief Superintendent to the telephone, he was still angry. I couldn’t help but overhear the Chief Superintendent blaming you for the lack of progress in the inquiry, and he apologized for your conduct and your incompetence. Something was said about the fourth murder, because I heard Old Bowels reply that if you’d spent less time annoying people and more in finding the killer, someone would have been in custody by now.”

  Rutledge said only, “I’ll be careful.”

  It was late evening before he left the Yard. He had used the time to put in two telephone calls of his own. He had managed to speak to the corporal in Cheshire whose name had been on one of the other identity discs—the inspector there had been more than willing to find and bring the man to the telephone. The corporal had never possessed identity discs, and he knew nothing about the men of the Eastfield Company The inspector had come back on the line and vouched for the man. That avenue had led nowhere, just as Rutledge had expected.

  The second telephone call elicited the fact that the name on the fourth set had died of his wounds in England after a valiant fight against the odds.

  Hamish said as Rutledge put up the telephone after the last conversation, “Ye ken, it was a trick. And a verra’ good one. But is the war a trick as well?”

  “Early days,” Rutledge answered absently, thinking that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to draw the police into a lie. If that was true, then what secret had the discs been used to conceal? Was it a member of the company itself who was behind these murders?

  When he left the Yard, the shadows were long and the heat of the sun already dissipating. He started the motorcar and drove with only half of his mind on what he was d
oing, still considering the case that was no longer his to think about.

  Hamish was silent, and it was several minutes before Rutledge realized that he knew the motorcar just in front of his. It belonged to Meredith Channing.

  13

  At the next intersection, as Mrs. Channing was preparing to turn left, Rutledge pulled up beside her vehicle.

  “It’s good to see you,” he called.

  In truth. The last time he’d spoken to her, he’d asked her not to go away on the extended trip she was planning to take. She had hinted at a year or more abroad, in order to put her own life back together. She had even admitted that there was someone she cared for, and that that had been a factor in her decision. All he could think of, in the face of her sudden, unforeseen decision, was to say what he felt.

  And then he’d walked away, refusing to look at what had motivated his words. Afterward, he had avoided her—her house, mutual friends, and any place in London where he had encountered her in the past.

  Now, he searched her eyes for something to guide his next words, prepared to drive on.

  And then on the spur of the moment, he added, “It’s late, but would you care for a coffee?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Yes, I would, actually.”

  He tried to think of a restaurant that was open. “The Marlborough Hotel?” he suggested. Neutral ground.

  “I’ll follow you.” She pulled back into the line of traffic just behind him. He reached the hotel first, and she quickly found a space for her motorcar as she caught up with him. They entered the hotel Reception together, and she saw a small table in the lounge, set in an alcove with a long window. Several other couples were having tea or coffee in the room, and the atmosphere was quiet, pleasant.

  “There?”

  He nodded. They sat down, and he ordered two coffees.

  Into the silence that followed, Rutledge said, “You’re out late.”

  “I went to a lovely dinner party.” She smiled, reminiscing.

  They had met at a dinner party. He had been afraid that she saw into his mind, her eyes seeming to read his thoughts. It was his own fear, he realized later. But she had a way of understanding people that was unexpected in one so young. And he had been drawn to her against his will.