Deadly Pleasures

by Martin Edwards

  Hamish was busy in the back of his mind, a voice Rutledge had carried with him from the battlefield, a daily reminder of the Great War, even though he knew very well that Corporal Hamish MacLeod was dead and buried in France. Shell shock, Dr Fleming had said. A wound with no treatment, no exorcism. He strove to live with what had happened in France, reminding himself that if the blind and the burned and the maimed could find a way to cope, so must he. But his service revolver was oiled and loaded in a trunk in his flat, if a time came when he couldn’t bear it any longer.

  Sleep eluded him, Hamish’s Scottish voice a reflection of his own thoughts as he struggled with the image of being buried alive. In 1916, a shell landing by his trench had entombed his company in heavy black earth smelling of dead bodies. He had been the only survivor.

  Hamish was saying, ‘It must ha’ been a man, ye ken. To remove one corpse and put a drugged man in his place.’

  ‘Or a woman and whoever helped her.’

  ‘Aye, the laudanum.’

  ‘A hot drink before bedtime? Perhaps intended to kill him, perhaps hoping it wouldn’t until he was in the ground.’

  ‘Where did yon false corpse go, then? Without his shoes or a halfpenny in his pocket?’

  A good question. Rutledge quietly let himself out of the inn and walked down the moonlit street to the churchyard. It fronted the High Street, while the church itself was set back behind a stand of yews. He circled the apse to reach the far side, and realized that beyond the churchyard wall was a pasture. Two horses, one silver in the moonlight and one dark, grazed quietly in the summer night.

  Before the stunned mourners had regained their wits, the victim could have come out the west door and run for the cover of the high summer grass. No one would have looked for him there – and it explained why no one in the village had seen him fleeing. He could have lain there until he’d caught his breath and considered what to do.

  On this same side of the church a mound of earth marked where Mr Fletcher was to await the Last Trump. Rutledge walked over to it and stared down into the black pit that was the grave.

  Only it wasn’t a completely black pit. Something lay at the bottom, and it was pale.

  He ran back to the inn, retrieved his torch from the motorcar, and came back to shine it into the grave. Now he could see that the thing in the pit was a man.

  He rather thought that Sandy Fletcher had finally turned up.

  But when he’d summoned the constable and the constable had awakened Mr Lassiter and his sons, the corpse that they brought up out of the grave was a stranger. And still relatively warm. He was missing his shoes.

  ‘Anyone recognize him?’ Rutledge asked. ‘Is he the man who was in the coffin at the funeral?’ But they shook their heads.

  ‘Doesn’t look like what I remember seeing,’ the constable said. ‘His hair is a ginger colour.’

  Mr Lassiter said, ‘I think you’re right. I’d have said the dead – the resurrected man – was dark.’

  One of the sons leaned forward. ‘We’re missing one corpse, one live body, and now we have a third man in an empty grave. This’ll be the ruin of us.’

  ‘How did he die?’ the other son asked. ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘He was stabbed from the look of it,’ Rutledge said. ‘Only once, but it was enough.’ He’d been squatting by the corpse, looking for identification, and he got to his feet. ‘All right, let’s get this body to the doctor.’

  ‘But who is he?’ the constable asked.

  ‘I’d be willing to wager that this man is the one who put our live body into the coffin in Mr Fletcher’s place. And he was killed for his trouble. Turn about.’

  There had been nothing in the corpse’s pockets except for a key, a handkerchief and a few pounds.

  It wasn’t until the next morning in Dr Blake’s surgery that he saw the victim in the full light of day. Middle height, ginger hair, a heavy scar across his back, another down his left arm, and a third on his thigh.

  ‘Cavalry?’ Rutledge asked. ‘He must have served in the war.’

  ‘It’s the knife between his ribs that killed him. Know him?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  Blake shook his head. ‘I attend the villagers and most of the outlying farms. He’s not one of ours.’ He pulled up the sheet again. ‘There’ll have to be an inquest.’

  Rutledge went next to the firm of Lassiter and Sons, on Oak Street, not far from the inn. Mr Lassiter was busy polishing the brass fixtures of his hearse. He looked up as Rutledge came through and said, ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing. Does your firm serve only Merrow?’

  Lassiter smiled wryly. ‘Since the war we’ve taken on Lakehurst as well. The undertaker there never came back, and his father’s dead of a broken heart.’

  ‘Then someone from Lakehurst would know where to find Lassiter and Sons. Do you sleep on the premises?’

  ‘We have a house down Primrose Lane. But surely someone would have seen any intruder coming here with a drugged body over his shoulder!’

  Rutledge looked beyond the shed. ‘There’s an orchard on the far side of your garden. Is it part of the farm that backs up to the churchyard?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Mr Denholm’s place. Closest thing we have to a squire, Mr Denholm is.’

  ‘Then the intruder could have come that way, unseen by anyone.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s likely. Mr Denholm discourages trespassers.’

  ‘This would have been sometime after midnight, when Denholm was asleep.’

  ‘Still …’ He brushed at a speck on the shining black body of the hearse.

  ‘Do people generally lock their doors in Merrow – or Lakehurst?’ Rutledge held a key out for Lassiter to examine. ‘This was in the dead man’s pocket.’

  He peered at it. ‘That looks very like the key to my back room. I keep it locked, you see. It’s where we take the bodies. I don’t want the village lads daring each other to step in and have a look. But if it’s mine, what’s become of the fob and chain?’ He walked across to the door, tried the key in the lock, and it turned. ‘Now how did the dead man come by that? And where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘A good question. Was the chain in the grave under the body?’

  ‘No. My son had a good look around.’

  He hurried to the small room that was his office. ‘Look here – that’s my extra key.’ He held it up for Rutledge to see. ‘Lassiter’ was burned into the wooden fob. ‘Where did yours come from?’

  ‘Have you had any workmen in over the past several weeks?’

  Lassiter frowned. ‘Well, yes, Saturday the drains backed up. Simmons from Lakehurst came over on Monday …’ He broke off. ‘I let him have the extra key. We were burying Miss Hamilton that morning. You don’t think … I’ve known Simmons for twenty years.’

  But of course copies could be made. Rutledge thanked him, drove the five miles to Lakehurst and went in search of the plumber. Mr Simmons was out, according to his assistant, a gangly twenty-year-old.

  Rutledge put the key down on the counter. ‘Where could I get a copy made of this?’

  The man stared at it. ‘The ironmongers, I should think.’

  ‘Is that where you had a copy made for one of your mates? It’s the key to the rear door of the undertaker’s firm.’

  Flushing, the assistant said, ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘But you know who … er … borrowed it. Don’t you?’

  He bit his lip. ‘Mr Simmons put it right here Monday evening, when he’d come back from the Lassiters’. I saw it, then I went into the back room, and when I came out again, it was gone. I searched for it, but it was time to close. Then on Tuesday morning, I opened that drawer yonder, and there it was. I thought Mr Simmons had found it and put it away. He took it back to the undertaker’s, finished his work, and left it there, the way he’d been told to do.’

  ‘Who was in the shop that morning?’

  Frowning, the assistant said, ‘A few people. Mrs Perkins was here, as
I remember. Mr Denholm’s son about the drains in the dairy. And Harry Watkins, from the pub.’

  ‘Describe Denholm’s son. And Watkins.’

  ‘Denholm is thin, dark hair. Watkins is heavy set with ginger hair. What does it matter?’

  ‘Watkins was in the cavalry in the war?’

  ‘No. That would be Mrs Perkins’s son, Freddy. The lads are always begging him to show his scars. Come to think of it, he’s got ginger hair. Like his grandfather.’

  ‘Is there any hard feeling between Freddy Perkins and Denholm’s son?’

  ‘I doubt they’ve spoken three words to each other.’

  ‘Any chance that Freddy Perkins came in to see his mother? While you were out of the room?’

  ‘It’s possible. But he’s a day clerk at the hotel.’

  Rutledge asked for directions to Mrs Perkins’ house, and he found her in.

  She couldn’t understand at first why someone from Scotland Yard had come to her door. He simplified his morning by asking if he could speak to her son, who might have witnessed some trouble the day before in Merrow.

  ‘I heard a frightful story about goings on in the church that morning. At a funeral! Is that why you’re here? But Freddy couldn’t have been in Merrow. He works at The Green Man Hotel.’

  ‘How does he spend his evenings?’

  ‘At home. Where else would he be?’ Her tone was testy. ‘He only walks out with Miss Carlson at the weekend. She stays with her grandmother during the week.’

  ‘Where does her grandmother live?’

  ‘At The Hall, in Larchwood. It’s a village the far side of Merrow. Miss Carlson comes home at the weekend to visit her mother. That’s when her cousin Gerald looks after Mrs Carlson. Sometimes it falls to Freddy to take her there or bring her back.’

  ‘Describe this cousin for me.’

  ‘I’ve never met Mr Mowbray. He lives in Oxford and comes to the hall on the Friday, then travels back on Sunday.’

  ‘Where is your son now?’

  ‘At the hotel, of course.’

  ‘Did he join you for dinner last night?’

  ‘No, he was meeting someone, he said. He’d be late coming in. He was late the night before, come to think of it. But I saw him Tuesday morning at the plumber’s.’

  ‘And was he here at breakfast today?’

  ‘He takes his breakfast at the hotel. It’s more convenient, he says, and it isn’t necessary to wake me.’ She rose and went to the table by the window. ‘Here’s a photograph of my son with Miss Carlson.’ The hand holding the frame was gnarled with rheumatism.

  Rutledge looked down. Here indeed was the dead man. But this was not the time to break the news to his mother. He studied the two smiling young faces for a moment, then passed the photograph back to Mrs Perkins. ‘Do you take anything?’ he asked her. ‘For your hands?’

  ‘A little laudanum, when the weather is damp, and I can’t sleep for the hurting.’

  When Rutledge went to The Green Man, he found that Freddy had asked to leave early the evening before and hadn’t returned.

  He drove then to Larchwood and saw the hall on the outskirts of the village. It was tall, brick, and set well back from the road behind formal gates. The house name was affixed to one of the brick pillars.

  At the handsome portico, he lifted the knocker. A young woman opened the door to him. ‘Miss Carlson? Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’d like a few minutes of your time, if you please. I’m looking for a Frederick Perkins. I thought perhaps you’d seen him recently.’

  ‘Freddy? Is anything wrong?’ she asked anxiously. ‘He brought me back to Larchwood Sunday afternoon. I don’t expect to see him again until Friday evening, in Lakehurst.’

  ‘I’ve just come from The Green Man. He wasn’t at work this morning. I was told that he sometimes visits you here at the hall.’

  She cast a glance over her shoulder as an elderly woman’s voice called to her. ‘It’s something to do with Mr Perkins, Grandmamma.’ To Rutledge she said, ‘He never comes during the week. Is his mother ill? Is that why he wasn’t at the hotel?’

  ‘And your cousin Gerald? Does he come to the hall during the week?’

  Colour rose up in her cheeks, making her eyes appear brighter. ‘He stayed over on Monday. He … he wanted to ask me to marry him.’

  ‘Then he was still here on Sunday, when Mr Perkins brought you to the hall?’

  ‘Yes. Freddy didn’t stay. I think he must have realized why Gerald had waited for me.’

  ‘Cousin Gerald went back to Oxford on Monday evening?’

  ‘I expect so. I told him I’d think about my answer. He … he’s a barrister in Oxford. Only a junior in chambers at present, but very highly regarded.’

  ‘And your grandmother believes you’d be wise to accept him?’

  The blush deepened. ‘I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours,’ she said, lifting her chin.

  ‘Can you tell me where I can reach your cousin?’

  Reluctantly Miss Carlson gave him the address, and Rutledge drove directly to Oxford. He’d gone to university there, and he liked the city. The noise and bustle of the streets, the timelessness of the colleges.

  It was his duty to call on his opposite number first, but he needed only to speak to the chambers where Gerald Mowbray practised as a barrister. If he was there, then Rutledge could cross him off the list.

  But he was not. No one had seen him since the previous Friday when he left to travel to the hall. Nor had the man sent round to his house Monday evening found anyone at home.

  Rutledge thanked the clerk and left.

  There was a connection between these two men. Was it Miss Carlson? Hamish pointed out that more than one man had killed for jealousy. ‘And ye ken, Perkins was verra’ clever – he didna’ want the body to be found in Merrow. The police would be searching Oxford when yon barrister was reported missing.’

  It was after dinner when Rutledge knocked at the door of the hall once more.

  Miss Carlson was not happy to see him on the doorstep again.

  ‘Mrs Perkins told me you were walking out with her son.’ Rutledge went directly to the point. ‘Yet you’re considering your cousin’s proposal. Was Freddy Perkins jealous, do you think?’

  ‘Freddy? We’ve known each other all our lives. We enjoy each other’s company. It’s Gerald I’m to marry. Besides, they’d never met before Sunday last.’

  ‘Did they appear to like each other?’

  ‘It was the oddest thing. Of course Freddy and Gerald knew about each other. How could they not? But when Freddy saw Gerald standing here in the drawing room, he stopped short and simply stared. Gerald looked as if he’d seen a ghost. And then they shook hands and talked for a few minutes. I thought perhaps I’d imagined it. Still, I asked Gerald later if anything was wrong, and he said there wasn’t. He’d just been surprised that Freddy had ginger hair. He said I hadn’t mentioned it before.’

  It was a lame excuse for Gerald’s reaction. But Miss Carlson appeared to accept it.

  Hamish spoke in Rutledge’s head. ‘The war.’

  ‘Did either man serve in France? Is it possible they knew each other there?’

  ‘They were in France, yes, but I told you, they hadn’t met until Sunday evening.’

  Rutledge believed they had.

  He had to travel back to Oxford to find a telephone, and there he put in a call to the War Office.

  It was three hours later when his friend had the information Rutledge needed.

  ‘You’re wrong. Perkins was a sapper, not cavalry. When his own officer was killed at Ypres, he served briefly under Mowbray. A matter of hours, to be precise.’ He went on, adding the details.

  ‘Are you quite sure about this?’

  ‘Have I ever failed you?’ The voice on the other end of the line retorted.

  It was Thursday morning that Alexander Fletcher turned up. Someone reported crows behaving oddly in a far corner of the Denholm orchard. When the constable went to
investigate, he found that in the night foxes or dogs had uncovered a shallow grave, and the crows had been attracted to Mr Fletcher’s remains.

  If Fletcher was accounted for, and Perkins as well, where was Mowbray?

  He was, in fact, in his chambers in Oxford’s Beaumont Street. Or so Rutledge discovered when he got there. Mr Mowbray, he was told, had been recovering from an intestinal complaint.

  Rutledge didn’t wait to be announced. He walked into the small room where his quarry was untying the pink ribbon around a set of instructions to counsel, and said, ‘Gerald Mowbray? My name is Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’ve come to ask what you can tell me about the death of Frederick Perkins.’

  Mowbray smiled. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’ He set the ribbon to one side and shoved the papers into a drawer.

  ‘You recognized him when he stepped into Mrs Carlson’s drawing room on Sunday evening. A sapper. Like yourself. According to the War Office, you sent a young lieutenant into the tunnel when the fuse you laid failed to fire the charges. But it hadn’t failed, had it? You’d measured it wrong, and Lieutenant Perkins was buried when the tunnel collapsed.’ Mowbray opened his mouth, about to deny the accusation, but Rutledge lifted a hand. ‘No. It’s in the official record, I’m afraid. So is the fact that Lieutenant Perkins was in hospital for weeks afterward, recovering from wounds incurred while investigating a faulty charge.’

  ‘Miss Carlson told me that Perkins was in the cavalry.’

  ‘He preferred to let everyone think he was because of the scars across his body, where falling timbers had pinned him. I don’t think he wanted to remember how he got them. Besides, you lived in Canterbury before the war. He never expected to find you in Oxford, much less proposing to Miss Carlson.’

  ‘Do you know how many men there are by the name of Perkins … I—’

  ‘Why did you meet again on Monday evening, before you went back to Oxford?’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘You must have done. Did you look him up at The Green Man after you left Miss Carlson? To be sure? Only, Perkins managed to drug you and leave you to be buried alive – as he nearly was. Or at the very least, badly frightened to find yourself in a coffin. You were furious, and so you killed Perkins, and threw him into the grave intended for you. Mr Fletcher’s grave. A key to the Lassiters’ back room where the corpses were kept was in Perkins’ pocket when he died. I think we’ll find the ironmonger made it for him. A bit of luck, that key. It offered him a brilliant way of disposing of you.’