by Charles Todd
Their coffee came. Rutledge waited until the young man serving them was out of earshot. Then he said as she passed the sugar bowl to him, “Why did you stay?”
He’d intended to keep his voice level, but it had taken an effort to achieve that. Hamish had set up a deafening roar in his head from the moment he’d recognized her motorcar.
She was playing with the silver spoon in her fingers, paying excessive attention to it, twisting it so that it caught the light and then went dark. Bright again in the lamplight. Dark again. He watched it too, thinking that it was very like their relationship, fragmented by too many shadows.
“Ian,” she said finally, not looking at him. It was a warning not to open that door.
He drank a little of his coffee. It was bitter in his mouth. “I’ve been in Sussex,” he went on. “Do you know Hastings? The water there is worth seeing.” He swore to himself. It was hardly an exciting conversational opening, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.
“Is it? No, I’ve never been there.” After a moment, as if she too was struggling to find common ground, she added, “I’ve always liked the sea. But I’ve never been fond of sea bathing. I’m content to sit and watch the tides.”
He searched for something else to say. “How is your shoulder?” It had been dislocated a few weeks earlier when a train traveling north to Scotland had derailed on a curve, killing or injuring more than a score of passengers. He had been among the first on the harrowing scene.
“Quite well, actually. I thought at first—but the doctors were very good. And I stayed with friends in order to be near their surgery. I quite fell in love with Dr. Anderson. He must be sixty-five, at the very least. He has a way with patients. I wished many times that he’d been with us out in France. I trusted him, and did the exercises he prescribed to please him. But I missed London. I always come back here.” Her voice changed on the last words.
Rutledge took a deep breath, toying with his cup, shutting out Hamish’s warning. “Do you know what shell shock is?” he asked.
She met his gaze. “I’ve seen it,” she answered. Warily, he thought.
He couldn’t go on after all. He couldn’t tell her. He finished lamely, “My sister knows a doctor who treats it in much the same way. By gaining the trust of his patients.”
“A rare gift,” she agreed, setting her cup aside. “Tell me more about Sussex.”
There wasn’t much to tell without bringing up the murders that had taken him there. But he scoured his memory. “There’s a shop that sells all things military. From lead soldiers to a noon gun. Including a flint knife.”
She was interested. “You mean worked from flint? How unusual. Is it very old?”
“Very. Or so I was assured. I bought it and sent it to a friend who was—intrigued by it. He has just retired from the Yard.”
What had promised to be a pleasant hour had devolved into stilted conversation. Her coffee was half finished now. She took a deep breath. “Ian. You know I served as a nurse in France?”
He froze, certain he could guess where this subject was heading. That he would find out, finally, what she had seen when he was brought in to the aid station after nearly being buried alive. He had been shell-shocked, barely aware of where he was or what he was saying. He hadn’t been aware of her, hadn’t even known she was there until he’d met her last year at a New Year’s Eve dinner they’d both attended. “Yes.” It was all he could manage.
He was wrong. There was something else on her mind.
“I went into nursing for a very selfish reason. My husband was reported missing early on, in the fighting near Mons. I thought, if I could get to France myself—if I could be there—I could find him. Or hear something useful. Anything was better than sitting at home, with no news. But I was in France for nearly three years, and no one could tell me if he was alive and a prisoner—or dead.”
She had never mentioned her husband before this.
“I’m sorry,” Rutledge said, and meant it.
Meredith Channing looked at him, smiled briefly. “Thank you.” And then her gaze moved on to the window, watching the passing traffic on the street.
“I call myself a widow,” she went on. “It’s more—convenient—in society. But am I?”
Rutledge asked, “Do you want to be a widow?”
She pushed her cup away. “It’s late. I really must go. Thank you so much, Ian.”
He stayed where he was. “Do you want to be a widow? Meredith?”
She turned to face him. “I go to concerts held every year on the anniversary of his birthday. I honor his memory in every way I can. I’m close to his family and visit them often.” Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away. “But it’s you I dream about, Ian. And I can’t go on living with that guilt.”
Before he could respond or stop her, she had risen and was walking swiftly toward the hotel doors, head down so that no one could see her face. He started to follow, and realized at once that it was the wrong thing to do. A public hotel was not the place for a scene.
The waiter came to the table to ask if there was anything else that Rutledge wanted.
Watching Meredith pass by the window on her way to her motorcar, Rutledge answered without looking up.
“A whisky,” he said. “If you have it.”
Hamish said, “It doesna’ matter if she’s a widow or no’. You couldna’ tell her the truth.”
And those words were to follow him home, echoing in his head.
He realized that it didn’t matter how he’d come to feel about Meredith Channing. Or how she felt about her own circumstances. In the end, there was nothing for either one of them.
The next morning, he stared at the paperwork on his desk awaiting his attention and decided he couldn’t face it. Instead he drew out of his pocket the information he had collected about the flint knife and considered it.
Charles Henry. That was the name of the man who had claimed his grandfather had found the knife in his back garden in East Anglia, miles away. If it was true, what had decided Charles Henry to sell it to a shop in Hastings? Why not offer it to a museum, or if it was money he was after, there must be a dozen other places that would be interested in the knife. In London, for one. Why a small shop on a back street in Hastings? Unless Charles Henry lived nearby.
Cummins had been right, it was hard to put the case out of his mind, and the more Rutledge seemed to learn, the more the puzzle pulled at him. And how to go about finding this man? After so much time had passed, he could have died, gone to war, or immigrated to Australia.
The odd thing was, Charles Henry sounded as if someone had given his Christian names, not his surname. Charles Henry Blake, Charles Henry Browning, Charles Henry Tennyson. Or perhaps it was, simply, Charles Henry.
And what—if anything at all—did Charles Henry’s grandfather have to do with Harvey Wheeler, the man who was found dead at Stonehenge?
Probably nothing at all.
Rutledge drew pen and paper toward him and wrote a note to Chief Inspector Cummins, giving him the details that the proprietor of the military shop had provided.
He added,
This will provide enough information to lead you to no possible conclusions, but should keep your mind busy for a few days, guessing at answers.
He signed it, put it in an envelope, stamped it, and set it aside for mail collection.
But he was unsatisfied, and went down into the bowels of the Yard to find the file that was stored there.
There was nothing more of interest in the folder—during their conversation, Cummins had given him a thorough summary of all the details. All the same, Rutledge sat there, studying the face of Harvey Wheeler in the photograph attached to the file.
What sort of person had he been in life? The dead eyes told Rutledge very little beyond their color, and there was nothing in the face to indicate greed or kindness, passion or cruelty, honesty or slyness. All expression had been smoothed away.
And yet there were
details, if one looked closely. The eyes were wide set, the jawline firm, the nose straight, the ears well shaped. A pleasing face, structurally.
Hamish said, “Ye canna’ be sure, but dress him well, and he’d pass for a gentleman.”
And that would be useful, if the man had set out to swindle women of their life savings. The appearance of trustworthiness, at least, if nothing else.
The police in Kirkwall and in Edinburgh had identified the likeness as Wheeler’s. But what if they were wrong? They hadn’t seen the man for several years, after all.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, two constabularies canna’ be wrong.”
Yes, and that was the assumption that everyone had made: they couldn’t be wrong.
What if Wheeler, after his second brush with the police in Edinburgh, had turned himself around and lived an exemplary life thereafter? It was not likely, given his predilection for finding himself in trouble. But stranger things had happened. Men sometimes married a woman for whom they were willing and even eager to change. Or had a child, for whom a man would rethink his past and decide that being a proper father was worth the effort it entailed to transform himself into a hardworking, honest citizen. Even an encounter with the church could make a difference sometimes.
Or quite simply, Harvey Wheeler might have fallen under the wheels of a lorry or taken ill of pneumonia and died in a charity ward, an unknown consigned to a pauper’s grave.
“Aye, but he died on yon Sacrifice Stone.”
But what if he hadn’t?
Still, Chief Inspector Cummins was a seasoned and clever policeman. If he had found no trace of Wheeler, then possibly there was none to be found.
“Verra’ like yon inquiry in Hastings.”
Rutledge tried to ignore the comment.
If the dead man wasn’t Wheeler, it would mean starting the inquiry at the very beginning—so many years after the fact. With witness memories uncertain, with evidence tainted or lost, with no assurance that any resulting conviction would be any more correct than the initial one, person or persons unknown.
Cummins had been obsessed because the answers were out of his reach. It was the blot on his copybook, a personal failure that he couldn’t quite accept.
But by the same token, Rutledge reminded himself, a man had died violently, and the person or persons unknown who had killed him had escaped the workings of the law.
He closed the folder and put it aside to be returned to the files where old cases were kept.
Setting his teeth, he reached for the first of the reports awaiting his attention, refusing to think about what was happening in Sussex.
But Hamish’s remark about the murders in Hastings still rankled. And there was nothing he could do about it.
A trial in which Rutledge was to give evidence was unexpectedly returned to the court docket after a long postponement, and he was summoned to Winchester the next morning. Sergeant Gibson brought him word shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon. He left at once to pack and drove through the golden light of late evening to the hotel room reserved for him. There was time after breakfast before he was scheduled to begin his testimony, and he walked in the cathedral precincts for half an hour.
The constable who was sent to fetch him was an older man, gray and stout.
As they walked back to the courts, Rutledge said, “Do you recall the man who was found murdered at Stonehenge in 1905? The case was never solved.”
Constable Gregg frowned. “My good lord, sir, I haven’t thought of it these dozen years or more. How did you come to know about it?”
“I knew the inspector who headed the inquiry. He retired recently.”
“He was a good man. If anyone could have found an answer it was him.”
“The Salisbury police were first on the scene, were they not?” It was a question designed to draw out his companion.
“It was a Winchester man. Constable Dutton. He was on his way back from giving evidence in a trial. On his bicycle, mind you, and he had a flat. By the time he’d walked to the next village and managed to get the tire mended, it was after dawn. The people celebrating the summer solstice had sent someone to walk to the nearest village—they happened to be one and the same. This man’s name was Taylor. Clerk in a bank. He’d been sick at least twice, and nearly fell flat on his face when he saw Dutton coming toward him. All he could manage to say was, ‘A body. At Stonehenge.’ So Dutton pedaled off, and there it was, hanging on that stone at the end of the avenue. And a group of would-be Druids were sitting on the grass, looking like they wished they were back at home in their beds. Dutton didn’t know whether to stay at the stones and send someone out on his bicycle, or go himself. In the end, he sent the schoolmaster for help. That’s when it was turned over to Salisbury. All the witnesses were interviewed two and three times, but they never saw anything of any use.”
Gregg shook his head, marveling. “There’s usually something, you know. You find the slimmest bit of evidence, a piece of paper, a pencil stub, a footprint. And it opens the inquiry right up. I kept up with the case, you see.”
“And someone looked into the background of each of the latter-day Druids?”
“Oh, indeed, sir. They were all what they appeared to be.”
They had reached the courts and were climbing the stairs to the room where Rutledge’s case was being tried.
As he stood there waiting to be called, Rutledge said, “Was there a Charles Henry among the Druids?”
“Charles Henry? Not precisely among the Druids,” Constable Gregg replied. “I believe that was the name of the solicitor the schoolmaster sent for. Yes, Charles Henry. He was—”
He turned as the door opened and the summons came. Rutledge was still looking toward Gregg, but he was moving away, nodding, as if to wish him well. He had no choice but to walk on, seeing the sea of faces turned his way in the crowded courtroom, the judge in crimson and the KC in black, their wigs properly appended to their heads, and the prisoner in the dock, his expression taut with concern. Rutledge moved to the witness box, fighting to clear his mind of Cummins’s obsession, which was fast becoming his own, and to dredge up the facts in this case. As he was taking the oath, he felt the calm of duty settle over him, and as he stated his name and rank as he’d done so many times in this box, he was ready for the first question.
Half an hour later, cross-examined and finally dismissed, Rutledge left the courtroom and went in search of Constable Gregg.
But he was told the man had been sent for and was on his way to take down a witness’s statement in another case.
The trial dragged on into the second day, as the Crown rested its case and the defense presented its view of events. At long last the jury was sequestered and Rutledge was free to go.
He could spare the time, the days were long, and so he drove on to Salisbury, in search of Charles Henry, solicitor, but it was as he’d expected. If the solicitor had been there in 1905, he was not there now. Rutledge asked at chambers he passed as he went up and down several streets, and even stopped in the main police station. The answer was the same. No one recalled the name or the man himself. It had been fifteen years, and Henry had played only a minor role in the case.
Hamish said, “Did he sell yon knife in Hastings?”
“How did he come to have it?” Rutledge countered. “No, there’s something else at work here, I think.”
He should have been on his way to London an hour or more ago, but it had been important to track down Charles Henry, if he could. He walked back to where he’d left his motorcar, feeling unsatisfied. But it hadn’t been his case, it had been someone else’s.
Still, Charles Henry rankled.
He arrived in London later than anticipated, held up by an overturned lorry blocking the trunk road, and stopped by the Yard to leave his notes on the case in which he’d given evidence. There was a message on the blotter, waiting for him.
Chief Inspector Hubbard wished to see him. The note had been amended at the bottom, indicating he
’d come looking for Rutledge a second time.
My office, please, eight o’clock in the morning.
Rutledge knew Hubbard, had spoken to him from time to time, but had never worked with him on an inquiry. He had a reputation for strict adherence to rules, a strong sense of fairness, and a razor-sharp mind.
It would be a refreshing change from Chief Superintendent Bowles.
The next morning he arrived at the Yard fifteen minutes before time, and as it happened, met Chief Inspector Hubbard on the stairs. He was a man in his late forties, what he called the sunny side of fifty, still very fit, his manner brisk.
“You’re prompt,” Hubbard said. “Come with me, we’ll get started. How was the case in Winchester?”
“The jury was still out when I left. But at a guess, the Crown expects them to see matters its way. The evidence was clear, solid.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I daresay the results will be in today.” They had reached Hubbard’s office, and Rutledge was offered a chair. Hubbard set his hat on the top of the taller file cabinet, and sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and said, “I hear that inquiry in Sussex is a sticky one.”
“Whoever the killer is, he’s clever. Nothing is what you expect it to be. But I’d started ruling out possibilities when I was sent for. Constable Walker is a sound man, he’ll bring my replacement up to speed very quickly.”
Hubbard nodded, then picked up a folder he’d put to one side on his desk. He opened it, read the contents, as if to familiarize himself with them, and then set it down.
“I’ve been informed that Inspector Mickelson is preparing to make an arrest in these murders. Possibly as we speak.”
His comment, casually spoken, caught Rutledge completely off guard. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said sincerely. “It was touch and go, whether we’d find the killer before he struck again. Can you tell me who it is?”
“Yes, one Carl Hopkins. A German sympathizer, I believe.”