A long shadow ir-8

by Charles Todd

  "There was a man retiring. Markham. I was given his place. What does it matter? I was just as glad to be away from London for a bit."

  "For a bit?"

  Hensley moved restlessly, then grimaced. "They lanced my back this morning. I could have told them their incisions weren't healing properly. They thought I was a com- plainer and ignored me."

  "Why were you happy to leave London and move to the North?"

  "I was tired of hunting German spies. Half of it was someone's warped imagination. The butcher is surly, he has an accent, he's given some woman a bad bit of beef. Or the waiter doesn't look English. The man bringing in the luggage at a hotel seems furtive, won't meet the eyes of patrons when he's spoken to. You'd think, listening, that half the population of Germany was sneaking about England, looking to stir up trouble."

  The speech sounded-rehearsed. As if Hensley had told the story so many times he half believed it himself.

  "It had nothing to do with Edgerton, then." It wasn't a question.

  Hensley turned to look at Rutledge. "Don't put words in my mouth, damn you."

  "But you know very well who Edgerton was. And how he died. Did you also know someone named Sandridge?"

  Hensley said, "Look, I'm not well, I shouldn't be badgered like this." His voice was sour. And he had long since stopped using "sir" when he addressed his superior.

  Although Hamish was accusing him of badgering as well, Rutledge persevered. "Tell me about Sandridge."

  "A woman wrote to the police in Dudlington, in search of someone by that name. I thought she might be looking for a soldier in the war, someone who'd made promises he didn't keep. Or he'd been killed, and she hadn't been notified, not being a relative, so to speak. I told her to try another village by the name of Dudlington, in Rutland." "Your reply wasn't in the file." "It ought to have been. I put it there myself." Rutledge wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. "And that's merely a coincidence. The fact that the fire setter in the Barstow arson was also a Sandridge?" "I never put that together with London. Why should I? It's not that rare a name, surely. Sir." "There were rumors that you'd taken money to look the other way, when the fire occurred. And rumors now that you were responsible for Emma Mason's death. Where there's smoke…" "I didn't do nothing of the sort. Here, I won't stand for this, I'm a sick man. Sister!" A tall, thin woman with reddish hair came at his urgent call. "What is it, Constable?" she asked, beginning to smooth the rumpled bed linens. "I'm not well, Sister, I need to rest. I think my fever is worse." She touched his forehead, then turned to Rutledge. "I think you should leave, sir, if you would. We mustn't distress him just now." Rutledge stood to go. But looking down at Hensley's face, the eyes turned away, his skin taut and red, he said, "When you come back to Dudlington, will you be safe?" The eyes swung back to Rutledge, something in them that reminded him of a cornered animal. Rutledge felt a surge of guilt. "I won't be coming back," Hensley said tensely. "I've been thinking. I could take an early pension and go abroad. They do say Spain is all right. One of the night sisters lived there for a time, with an elderly couple. I think I might like it."

  "They speak Spanish there, you know. Not English." And then Rutledge was walking down the ward, toward the door.

  When he looked back, Hensley was slumped in his bed, exhausted. The drive back to Dudlington ended in a sudden downpour, wind whipping the rain through the motorcar. One sleeve was wet nearly to the shoulder by the time Rutledge turned down to Holly Street and put his car beside the house. And Hamish, still irritated with him for his callousness in the hospital ward, made certain that Rutledge was aware of it.

  Still, he wondered if Hensley had told the truth regarding a copy of his response to the letter about Sandridge being in the file. Had he even written it? Or let sleeping dogs lie.

  Rutledge got out stiffly, his ankle cold and more painful than he was ready to admit.

  The house was chilly and dark, unwelcoming. And he always felt a sense of unease when he came in.

  But there was no reason to think anyone had been there, although he went into each room to give it a cursory glance.

  Changing out of his wet clothes, he laid a fire on the hearth in the sitting room and sat down, leaning his head against the back of his chair.

  Hamish said, "I wouldna' let down my guard sae far."

  Rutledge said, his eyes closed, "I'm not asleep."

  "The lassie. With the garden. She came to apologize. You gave her short shrift."

  "So I did. I was nearly as angry with her as I was with the bastard in the lorry."

  "It was just as well yon woman from London wasna' with you when the lorry came up the lane."

  "I don't know that he'd have tried to run me down, with witnesses there."

  "On the ither hand, he could ha' waited until she was no' in the way, before taking the lorry."

  Rutledge rubbed his eyes with both hands, then massaged his temples. "I would like very much to know why she told me there was a shadow at my back, in Frith's Wood. What she'd really seen there." Yet he'd felt eyes watching him, every time he'd been in that wood. "Why would she lie? She has nothing to do with this business in Dudlington."

  "You havena' asked her about Emma Mason."

  He heard someone at the door, and then Mrs. Melford called to him.

  He got up to walk to the parlor, his stiffened ankle giving him some difficulty. He found Mrs. Melford standing there with a basket in one hand and a streaming umbrella in the other.

  "You missed your luncheon," she said. "I thought you might like the sandwiches for your tea."

  "Yes, thank you."

  He took the tray from her and said, "Come in, if you will. You've lived here for many years. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  "About what?" she asked, still holding the umbrella.

  "About Beatrice Ellison, and her daughter, Emma Mason."

  She reluctantly furled her umbrella and stood it by the door, which she then shut behind her.

  "I don't know anything other than gossip. You must know that. I haven't been friendly with Mrs. Ellison since Beatrice left. I thought the least her mother could do was to let the girl study painting for a bit and see if she was enthusiastic about the discipline of learning it properly. That must be quite different from painting for one's own pleasure."

  "How did Beatrice get on in London?"

  "Splendidly, as far as we knew. One had only to ask Mrs. Ellison, to hear a glowing report."

  "Who was her daughter's teacher. Do you know?"

  "If I heard the name, I don't recall it. You don't question Mrs. Ellison, you see. She'll tell you what she feels is any of your business, and nothing more than that. But I gathered that she was happy for the world to know that Beatrice had prospered. Even if she'd been against the whole idea."

  "And then Beatrice came home with her child."

  "Yes, that was the first and only time she'd come back. There were a few people who were terribly catty about it, saying that Beatrice had grown too famous to bother with Dudlington anymore. And of course there were others who were saying she hadn't come back because she had nothing to show for her years in London but the little girl."

  "And then Emma left. What was the gossip then?"

  "Of course it was that she'd gone to London to find her mother. We were sure Mrs. Ellison would rush after her and bring her back. That is, if it were true that Beatrice was a failure. And then the whispers began that Constable Hensley had had something to do with Emma's disappearance."

  "What sort of whispers?"

  "That since he knew London, he'd helped Emma escape her grandmother's clutches. That somehow he was involved. I can't tell you when the suspicion arose that he'd had more to do with her disappearance than was proper. That he'd asked a price for helping, and when Emma got frightened, he did away with her, to keep her from telling her grandmother. Mrs. Ellison is related to the Harkness family. Everyone is wary of that, even the constable. I don't precisely know what she could do-but I imagine if she we
re to ask for an investigation, someone would listen."

  "Do you think Mrs. Ellison knows about such whispers?" "And who do you think would be bold enough to tell her!" It was a good point. "Thank you, Mrs. Melford. You've been very helpful." He was beginning to take her measure, the briskness that concealed her fear of being hurt again, the kindness that had remembered his tea. And he rather liked her. He thought she deserved more happiness than had come her way. She nodded and turned to go, then asked, "Who was the woman with you yesterday? A relation?" The gossip mill… She hadn't brought the sandwiches out of kindness after all. Or at least not completely. "We have mutual friends," he said lightly. "She was so clever about how to prepare for the doctor," Mrs. Melford answered, and picked up her umbrella. "It surprised me." When she'd gone, Rutledge went back to the fire and ate his meal to the accompaniment of Hamish's voice, still in a foul mood. The rain faded in another hour, and Rutledge limped down to Grace Letteridge's house, stopping for a moment to look at the scene of the collision between wall and lorry. It had indeed been a near thing, he thought. And Hamish, who had been silent for a time, said, "No' death, perhaps, but verra' severe injury. You'd lie like yon constable in a ward, with the sisters ignoring you." Rutledge went on up the walk. Grace Letteridge answered his knock and couldn't stop her eyes from dropping down to his ankle. "You're walking, I see." She opened the door wider and reminded him to wipe his feet on the mat. "I am. Someone has been seeing to your roses. The wall will take more work, I'm afraid." "Yes, well, I had hoped this rain would settle the canes into the ground again. I won't know until the spring if they've survived."

  "I'll pay for the damage," he said. "It was your garden that saved me from more serious injuries."

  "Too bad for my garden," she answered, and led him into the parlor. "Was that why you came, to offer to pay? Or was there something else on your mind?"

  He had intended to ask her outright if she recognized the name Sandridge, and then decided, as Hamish growled in the back of his mind, that he wasn't sure where Grace Letteridge's loyalties lay. Instead he had brought a rough map he'd made of the village and asked her to pencil in the names in the box representing each house.

  "Why bring it to me? Mrs. Melford or anyone else could have done it for you."

  "That's probably true. On the other hand, I'd rather not have the fact that I'm doing this bandied about the neighborhood."

  She took the sheet of paper and unfolded it, frowning over it. "You draw surprisingly well."

  "Is there some requirement for policemen to be poor at sketching a map?"

  Ignoring him, she began to put in the names of each householder. He waited patiently, letting her work without interruption.

  After ten minutes, she sat back, the tip of the pencil between her teeth as she regarded her handiwork. Nodding to herself, she passed the sheet back to Rutledge.

  He scanned it, searching for one name. But it wasn't there.

  He did see that where Hensley's house ought to be was the name of the greengrocer, Freebold.

  "Doesn't Hensley own the house he lives in?" he asked, pointing to it.

  "Perhaps he does. Constable Markham paid to rent it. I don't know what arrangement there is with Constable Hensley. I really don't care to know."

  So Hensley could pull up his roots with ease, and make Spain or another country his home. He could also disappear with ease, and no one would be worried about property left behind. Certainly the furnishings in the house, while adequate, were far from valued pieces. An interesting point, Hamish agreed. "But look you, where is the money he took as a bribe? He canna' put it into a bank, and he canna' leave it lying about, where anyone stepping in the door can find it." Put his hands on that money, Rutledge thought, and he might have some leverage with Hensley to pry out the truth. "Aye, but it's no' a part of your duty." Just how much did Bowles know? Or care? Grace Letteridge was saying, "Inspector?" He came back from his thoughts. "I'm sorry-" "I can't believe it was an accident. What happened last night. But why should someone want to kill Constable Hensley, and then when you come here, want to kill you as well?" It was an echo of what he'd heard Mrs. Melford say. He answered, "I don't believe the attacks are related." "What else could they be? In a village this size?" But he couldn't tell her about the cartridge casings.

  24

  Meredith Channing was waiting for him when he came home. She had set her umbrella by the door, and it was dripping a puddle of water across the floorboards when he stepped over the threshold. "Ah. You've been away most of the day. I wondered how you were managing." "Well enough." She nodded. "So I can see. Sit down. You look very tired. It can't be easy, concealing the pain for hours. Even from yourself." "You must have been a terrifyingly good nurse, if you could read your patient's mind." "Some of them couldn't speak, you know. After a while one got used to making a fairly good guess about their needs." "Why did you come here?" He'd asked it before and couldn't stop himself from asking it again. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. What I felt with that shell casing on the table in my house was not particularly pleasant. And so I sent it back to you. But the darkness was still there, as if it had left a-shadow behind. I could see it there, feel it even in the night. If it disturbed me so intensely, I was concerned about how it must have troubled you." "Did you know anyone by the name of Edgerton, in London?" "Edgerton. Wasn't there a cricket player by that name, before the war?" "A tennis player, I think," Rutledge said, watching her face, but she showed no reaction to his fabrication. "Well, then. What about him?" "He died of burns after a fire." "How horrible!" She stared at him. "Was he a friend?" "I never met him." "Then why do you think I may've?" She frowned. "Are you feeling feverish?" Hensley was feverish, and that was a cause for anxiety. "I'm trying to learn how a man named Edgerton tied into this business with the constable." "Your tennis player?" He smiled at her. "Indeed. Never mind. I expect he died while you were in France. There's no reason you should remember him." "No. We were quite cut off from everything but the fighting. We seldom had time to think about anything else. Sorry." "There's another name I'm curious about. Sandridge." Either she was a very good liar or this name also failed to mean anything to her. Shaking her head, she said, "No. Not familiar at all." So much for that, he thought. He couldn't fathom her. As well as he read most people, she was an enigma. Behind the charming facade, behind the gracious manner and the warm, mesmerizing voice, what was she? "I thought perhaps we might call on the rector," she was saying. "If you are up to walking so far. He must be lonely."

  He went with her, though his preference, if asked, was to stay by the fire and let the ache in his ankle fade a little.

  They reached the rectory in time to see a woman coming down the walk, and Rutledge recognized her as the postmistress, Mrs. Arundel.

  She nodded to him, tipping back her umbrella to say, "I'm glad to see you suffered no lasting harm. From the look of Grace Letteridge's garden wall, you ought to be on crutches."

  They knocked on the front door, and Hillary Timmons answered it, looking harried. "Good day, sir. They've all come to bring himself something-a pot of jam, a treat from the bake shop, a little broth. I'm fair run off my feet, trying to keep up."

  "We've brought nothing," Mrs. Channing said soothingly. "Why don't I sit with him for an hour or so, and allow you to rest."

  Hillary Timmons teetered on the thin edge of duty, and then capitulated.

  "Just an hour, if you wouldn't mind," she said.

  "Then have yourself a nap, and I'll stay with Mr. Towson. I'm even capable of making him tea."

  "He's had tea twice already. First with Mrs. Freebold, and then with Mrs. Arundel." She sighed. "I've never seen such a man for a little bite of something sweet, as he puts it."

  "Yes, well, then, we shan't be having tea. Go on, I'll show myself up to his room." And with that, Mrs. Channing started up the stairs.

  Rutledge was on the point of following her when she said, "No. You'll be bored to tears, Inspector. But you might see if you can find a Dickens
novel in Mr. Towson's study. I'll read to him, if he cares for a little distraction."

  Rutledge discovered Bleak House sandwiched between a book of sermons and one of O. A. Manning's volumes of poetry. He took the novel up to the rector's bedroom, where Towson and Mrs. Channing were deep in a conversation that stopped as he came down the passage.

  "I'm well enough, Inspector," he answered Rutledge's greeting. "But I'm told you've had an accident of your own. A stolen lorry! Who'd have thought it here in Dudlington? I'm happy to see Dr. Middleton didn't clap you in your bed and leave you to die of boredom."

  "With only a bruise here and there?" Rutledge responded lightly.

  "What I can't understand for the life of me is why someone should steal the lorry in the first place, and then abandon it not a quarter of a mile away. Mrs. Freebold was telling me that there was a dark-haired man with thin lips and narrowed eyes driving it."

  "He wore a hat," Rutledge said. "Pulled down low. I couldn't see more than that."

  "Ah. Well, that explains why Mrs. Arundel heard he was a large man with an evil expression." He smiled.

  "I doubt if anyone got a good look at him. He left the lorry where no one was likely to see him walk away. Either from windows at The Oaks or from the houses on Holly Street."

  Mrs. Channing looked at Rutledge with a questioning glance. But the rector was in full cry, now.

  "Are you trying to tell me he was someone here in Dudlington?"

  "I don't know," Rutledge answered. "What do your callers have to say on that subject?"

  "That he must have held a grudge against the firm doing the work at the Lawrence house. He must have had the fright of his life when he learned later that the man he nearly ran down in the lane was a policeman from Scotland Yard. Serves him right too." Rutledge found Mrs. Arundel in her little cage at the rear of the baker's shop. She smiled at him and said, "Is there a letter you wish to mail to London, Inspector? I'll see that it goes first thing in the morning." He showed her the map of Dudlington that Grace Let- teridge had helped him fill out. "Is this a fairly accurate list of residents?" he asked. She examined it carefully. "Yes. Yes, it is. You're very thorough, Inspector." "And there's no one else living in Dudlington besides the names given here?" "Of course you haven't listed the children, or any of the servants. And Mrs. Wainwright is a widow, Mr. Neville has never married-" "Thank you." He took back his list and folded it again. He could feel Mrs. Simpson's eyes boring into the back of his head as she strained to hear the conversation. He found Mrs. Melford at home, busy with a stew for his dinner, and he showed her the list as well. "That's correct, Inspector," she told him, handing it back. "I wonder you need the names of everyone in Dudlington. Surely we aren't all under suspicion." "Not at all," he assured her. "But it helps me form a better picture of the village." She said, "Then if that's all, I must get back to my dinner. Your dinner." And he left it at that. Hamish said, "It didna' work, yon map." "In a way it did." Rutledge sat at Hensley's desk and ticked off the houses he already knew. "Ellison, there. Let- teridge. Lawrence. Simpson. Freebold. Hensley here. The rectory. Baylor. And of course Keating at The Oaks. There's no Sandridge here. I hadn't expected it to be that easy."