by Charles Todd
If he’d been surprised before, Rutledge was stunned now. “Hopkins? I was about to interview him when I was taken off the case. Hardly a German sympathizer—I was led to believe he was distraught because of what had happened during the war to his younger brother and his cousin.”
“Yes, well, according to Inspector Mickelson, he’s good with his hands and obviously was able to counterfeit those identity discs to throw the police off.”
“How did Inspector Mickelson come to suspect him?”
“Apparently Mickelson drew up a list with Walker’s help of all the people you’d spoken with, and went back to interview them. Someone at the hotel remembered the owner of the chair firm calling on you. Mr. Kenton was very reluctant to discuss the conversation he’d had with you—he’s related to Hopkins, I believe—but in the end Inspector Mickelson threatened him with a night in gaol to rethink his reluctance, and he gave a brief explanation of what had brought him to you in the first place.”
Rutledge didn’t argue the matter. He hadn’t been there—he hadn’t spoken to Carl Hopkins. Nevertheless, the man’s motive was plausible, and it made sense that someone known to the victims could walk up to them in the dark without arousing suspicion or fear.
He wished he could put a face to Hopkins, to weigh what he’d seen for himself against Mickelson’s certainty. After all, it had begun as his inquiry. He still felt a responsibility for its outcome.
“Thank you for telling me, sir. Inspector Mickelson is to be congratulated.”
Hubbard said, “Yes.”
After a moment Rutledge said, “I should like to have a day or two of leave. For personal business. Would you have any objection to that?”
“Not at all. You’re between cases. I see no harm in taking a little time.”
“Thank you, sir.” He started to rise, but Hubbard motioned him to sit where he was.
“We haven’t discussed the matter about which I’d summoned you.”
Rutledge sat down again, his hat on his knee, and waited.
“The woman who reported you for misconduct. A Mrs. Farrell-Smith, I believe?”
“Yes, sir,” Rutledge replied.
He’d had no warning. Not from Sergeant Gibson, not from curious stares or people turning away as he passed. Not even from his usually acute intuition. But of course he’d seen no one last night when he came into the Yard. Only a skeleton night staff was on duty, since there was no major London case on the docket that required every available man.
Hubbard’s voice was chilly as he said, “I understand from Sergeant Gibson that you were interested in learning more details concerning her background. Was that a personal issue, Rutledge?”
“Personal?” he repeated, staring at Hubbard. “Hardly. Her late husband had known one of the possible suspects in the murders. This was before the war. I was curious about the suspect’s background, and I’d hoped that she could tell me something about him. Even secondhand, it could have been useful. She refused, got angry with me, and I wondered why. When I first met Mrs. Farrell-Smith, she seemed to believe I’d come to see her about that suspect, but I hadn’t. What’s more, she had objected to the Yard being brought into the inquiry to start with. Any good policeman would begin to consider what if anything was behind her attitude. Three men were already dead, the fourth victim would be found shortly. Most people would be eager to help us find that killer.”
“Sergeant Gibson tells me he warned you that she was complaining of your conduct, but you still insisted that he find out what he could about Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s husband.”
“Her complaints were, in my opinion, a matter for the Yard to deal with. I needed information that I could use to pursue a killer.”
“Not to coerce her into dropping her complaint?”
Rutledge opened his mouth and shut it again. Finally he said, “That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Sergeant Gibson came to me—and rightly so—when he discovered that Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s husband had died under suspicious circumstances. She was cleared in the matter.”
“I was told he died in a fall.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern. The point I’m trying to make is that it smacks of impropriety for you to be investigating the woman who filed the complaint about your behavior. You also brought Sergeant Gibson’s conduct into question by asking him to do something that he felt was unwise.”
“It wasn’t my conduct,” Rutledge said tightly. “She wanted me off the case. And she was right. The new man sent to Eastfield has found the murderer in a very short time, and this German, Hopkins, has nothing to do with Mrs. Farrell-Smith. Or her late husband.”
“Are you impugning Inspector Mickelson’s ability to conduct this inquiry?” There was anger in Chief Inspector Hubbard’s blue eyes and his tone was decidedly cold now. “Perhaps if you’d kept your objectivity, none of this would have happened.”
Rutledge regarded him for a moment. And then he said quietly, “We are getting nowhere. What do you intend to do?”
Chief Inspector Hubbard realized that he’d made a mistake. He grimly got his temper in check, then said, “You should take that day or two of leave coming to you. While this is sorted out.”
Rutledge said nothing.
“Ian. You asked for it yourself. This is for your own good. I quite take your point that you weren’t aware of Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s complaint when you telephoned Sergeant Gibson and asked to know more about her background. It’s the perception of impropriety here.”
But Hamish was reminding him that Gibson had warned him about the complaint, and he hadn’t listened. He had not, in fact, expected the Yard to take it seriously.
Then who had? And why?
“If you take a short leave of your own accord, there will be nothing on your record. After all, this inquiry has come to a successful conclusion, there was simply an unfortunate coincidence in timing in regard to the situation with Mrs. Farrell-Smith, no harm intended nor done by your request. She has been satisfied that you were withdrawn from the case and is unlikely to pursue the matter further.”
Suddenly he knew.
It was as clear as if the words had been spoken aloud. But he thought Hubbard did not know, and that explained why he was dressing Rutledge down, not Chief Superintendent Bowles. Hubbard had been chosen because he could be trusted to handle the matter with circumspection and convince Rutledge to put the matter to rest, nothing on his record, just whispers that would never go away. And it would not be seen as Superintendent Bowles playing favorites. But it would clear the way for Inspector Mickelson to be promoted to fill Chief Inspector Cummins’s shoes.
He rose, and this time Chief Inspector Hubbard didn’t stop him. “I’ll notify Sergeant Mitchell that I’ve asked for leave and will be away from the Yard for the next two days on personal business.” Mitchell was the man in charge of Yard personnel records.
“Yes, do that, Ian,” Hubbard said cordially, relieved to find Rutledge so cooperative. “This will all blow over, mark my words.”
Rutledge left, strode down the hall to find Sergeant Mitchell, and said as soon as he saw him, “I’m taking a few days of personal leave. I’ve cleared it with Chief Inspector Hubbard.”
Mitchell’s face gave no indication that he had been expecting this. He simply took Rutledge at his word. The whispers hadn’t started. But it was too early for that. In time they would.
“Very good, sir, I’ll make a note of it. Will you be staying in London, sir? In the event you’re needed?”
But he wouldn’t be needed. That was certain. Still he answered civilly, “No, I’m visiting a friend. In Kent.”
That had popped into his head. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew it was the answer. Melinda Crawford lived in Kent. And she would ask no questions, she would accept his visit as one long overdue. There he could come to terms with what had happened, and by the time he returned to the Yard, the molten anger possessing him would have cooled.
“Have a safe
journey, sir,” Mitchell told him, as if Kent were in the wilds of Africa, and it would require days if not weeks of travel to get there. But Mitchell was a Londoner and felt lost outside the crowded metropolis.
It would have been amusing in any other circumstance. But not now. Rutledge thanked him and went down the stairs and out the door, grateful not to meet anyone.
When he reached his motorcar, he swore, sitting there with clenched fists on the steering wheel.
Chief Inspector Cummins had no doubt suggested Rutledge as a suitable choice for his replacement. Cummins was well respected, and his suggestion would carry some weight. And so the Chief Superintendent had jumped at the chance to use Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s complaint to put a stop to that possibility. A charge of improper conduct was a serious matter. It could follow a man for the rest of his career at the Yard. But Hubbard had given him a way out, a way to keep it out of the official record. He had thought he was protecting Rutledge’s future. What he had unwittingly done was to ensure that everyone would eventually know why Rutledge was being passed over for Cummins’s position. Rumor would begin soon enough, quietly fed from above, and most people would come to believe that Chief Superintendent Bowles had, in fact, looked after his own, shielding Rutledge from public disgrace.
It was an adroit move.
14
Rutledge drove to his flat, packed his valise, and shut the door just as the post arrived. He paused on his doorstep to sort through the handful of letters, and found one there from Chief Inspector Cummins.
He put that into his pocket and set the rest of the post inside on the table where he habitually kept it, then turned the key in the lock and walked out to his motorcar.
Hamish had been busy in the back of his mind for some time, and he tried to ignore the voice. But it followed him out of London and most of the way to Kent.
“Ye ken,” Hamish was pointing out, “yon inspector kept his eye on the main chance from the start. He was canny enough to study where you’d been before him, to appear he finished what you werena’ there to do. And so he got full marks for your work. All because ye let yon headstrong woman draw ye into a personal challenge.”
Mickelson had indeed done just that and would receive the coveted promotion. Aside from any personal feelings toward the man, Rutledge knew all too well that he was vindictive and shallow. Chief Inspector Cummins had been neither, and he was respected for leading by example, bringing out the best in the men under him. All the same, Chief Superintendent Bowles would cover any mistakes, if for no other reason than to make certain Mickelson’s failings didn’t reflect on his own judgment.
As for Mrs. Farrell-Smith, Rutledge hadn’t challenged her so much as he’d threatened her in some fashion. What was she so afraid of? Something she didn’t want him to know? Or something that she didn’t want to become public knowledge?
He couldn’t stop dwelling on events in London, and he knew that was because he was still very angry indeed. It was a lovely summer’s day in what many called the Garden of England, the road unwinding at what felt like a hideously slow pace, even though he was making good time. He had not telephoned Melinda Crawford. He had intended to surprise her. Now he realized that he should have been more courteous. Too late now. He’d have to rely on her joy at seeing him again. When his sister had gone there for a visit recently, along with his godfather, Rutledge had had his own reasons for not joining them.
The truth was, Melinda, like Meredith Channing, saw too much. Many years and a vast difference in experience separated the two women, but in their own way, they had much in common. Both had lost their husbands at a young age and had had to make peace with that loss.
Was that why he had come here? Because Melinda reminded him of Meredith?
Nonsense, he told himself sharply. Melinda had been friends with his own parents, and he’d known her most of his life. Hers was a story that had appealed to a boy’s sense of adventure. As a child she’d survived the Great Indian Mutiny and the bloody, vicious siege of Lucknow. She had married her cousin against all advice, and then after her husband’s death she had not led a retiring life. She had visited friends all over India, traveling on her own. Finally she had journeyed back to England by a circuitous route that had been of her own choosing, a shockingly forward thing for a well-brought-up woman to do, disappointing those who had expected her to be murdered in her bed for disregarding their dire warnings. Now she lived with her Indian staff in a house that had been in her family for many years, amidst a collection of treasures that she had readily shared with an inquisitive little boy.
At length he found himself at the foot of her drive, the summer borders rampant with color. Melinda loved color and often said that she had lived too long in the desert stretches of India, where the few trees offered only fragile shade and the land was barely fit for camels and goats.
When the door opened, the Indian woman standing there stared at him in disbelief, and then said, “You are a ghost. Come to bring us terrible tidings.” But the smile in her eyes belied her words.
He returned the smile. “I’ve come to beg a room for a day or two. Do you think Melinda will spare one for me?”
“She will be happy indeed. It’s been too long.” Leading him into the cool shadows of the hall, she added, “I think you haven’t forgotten your way? Or must I come and announce you?”
He said, “I know my way.”
“But still I will come with you, if only to see the Memsahib’s face when she finds you in the doorway.”
He tapped lightly on the first door in the passage across from the broad staircase and heard a voice call testily, “It’s about time. I saw you come up the drive. Let me look at you and then give me a kiss.”
Laughing, Rutledge did as he was told, crossing the room to kiss the wrinkled cheek of a woman who had kept her youthful beauty into old age, her iron gray hair still framing her face and dark eyes as it had done for as long as he could remember, and giving her a presence that few women possessed.
She held his hand for a long moment and then said, “What’s happened?”
“Nothing has happened. I missed you.”
“Your eyes are angry. Well, you’ll tell me when you’re ready. I’m just grateful you are here, and I’ll make the most of it. Go on, your room is ready for you—it always is—and then come back and tell me about London.”
Rutledge did as he was commanded, and brought down with him a book he’d been keeping to give her. She thanked him and set it aside. “I’ll read it when you’ve gone. I’ve missed your company. Tell me all the news and gossip.”
The next two days flew by. Rutledge soon realized that Melinda was making it her business to keep him entertained in an effort to counteract the seething anger that he’d brought to her door.
She knew something about men, and so she asked him no questions. Although she never spoke of it, he thought she’d guessed that he had turned from France with a wound that couldn’t be seen or touched or healed. What he didn’t know was how much she knew. Certainly not about Hamish, thank God, but possibly about his shell shock. For she had worried about him for the past year or more, and when he had survived and then found a way to live rather than die, she had quietly applauded his courage.
He found himself telling her about the murder that had taken place in 1905, and she had listened attentively, saying only, “On what was his last day at the Yard, why did this man Cummins tell you about such a long-ago crime?”
“I think, to get it off his chest. He isn’t the sort of man who accepts failure lightly.”
“No, I expect there was another reason. You’ve told him of your own discoveries? What has he had to say about them?”
“In fact, there was a letter from him in the post before I left London.” He patted his pockets, found it, and drew it out.
It was very brief. A matter of a few lines. He read them aloud.
My grandfather was Charles Henry Cummins. I visited his home as a child. In East Anglia. His garden was his p
ride and joy. What the hell is this all about?
“Well, well,” Melinda said after a moment. “I wonder why this man chose Hastings to sell his murder weapon?”
Rutledge said slowly, “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that same question.”
“It was deliberate, you must see that.” Melinda frowned. “If he went to so much trouble to make sure the knife was carefully documented, then he had a reason. Perhaps it was his name—the murderer’s. Or the name of the victim.”
He thought, fleetingly, of the Salisbury solicitor who was nowhere to be found. Was it that connection—or Cummins’s?
“That’s a fascinating idea. I’ll have to give it some thought. But why, three years later, would a man who had successfully eluded the police and had nothing to fear, leave clues that could lead to his arrest?”
“A guilty conscience?”
“Murderers seldom have guilty consciences,” he told her wryly.
“But if this was a sacrifice, perhaps he did?”
Rutledge smiled. “You should have become a policeman, Melinda. The Yard would have benefitted from your cleverness.”
“Oh, no, my dear, the Yard doesn’t want women underfoot. We could prove to be too much competition for men set in their ways.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “As my late husband could have told you, I have no ambitions.”
He left the next morning, reconciled to what lay ahead. Melinda Crawford had kept him too busy to dwell on the Yard—he had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was intentional—that she had seen the tension in him and even without understanding it, she had dealt with it by distracting him. He wished he could have said something to her about Meredith Channing, to hear her opinion there. But if he had, he’d have had to tell Melinda more about his time in France than he could bear to put into words.
Her house was in the most western edge of Kent, and he had just crossed into Surrey when a Kent police vehicle quickly overtook him and waved him to one side.
Rutledge pulled over, assuming that the Yard was searching for him. He waited for the constable sitting beside the driver to get out and come to speak to him.