A Lonely Death ir-13

by Charles Todd

  He thanked her with a smile that brought an answering smile, and then he was walking east along the Hastings Road.

  But it was hopeless, there were more people on the walk now, and one man could easily have disappeared among them or popped into one of the small shops that catered to holidaymakers. He would need half a dozen policemen to help him search them all.

  Standing to one side so as not to obstruct pedestrians coming toward him, he waited, on the off chance that the man, thinking himself safe, might reappear.

  But his quarry was far too canny. And even though Rutledge returned to The White Swans and sat for a time in the quiet lounge, facing Reception, he never returned. Rutledge even spoke to the desk clerk, but he had been busy putting a jewelry box into one of the hotel guest safes, and never noticed the man waiting at Reception for him.

  Rutledge drove back to Hastings Old Town and stopped where he had before, near the net shops. Even this space was more crowded than it had been, but he closed his eyes and tried to recall his brief glimpse of the man's face before he had turned away.

  What had he seen? What could he be sure of?

  How many times had he asked witnesses to describe someone?

  The man was of a little above medium height, broad shouldered, hair a medium shade of brown, eyes indeterminate, but Rutledge thought they must be light rather than dark. Gray, possibly, or a pale blue.

  Hamish said into the silence in the motorcar, "Gray eyes. Ye ken, he was wearing a gray suit."

  It was true.

  "What else?"

  "He moved well."

  That was true. That swift turn, almost on the thought, so that Rutledge could no longer see his face. And he was able to leave the hotel and cross the terrace without creating a stir, even when he was hurrying.

  And he had fit in, at The White Swans. Clothing and appearance in keeping with the clientele. Nothing to make him stand out or seem memorable in a crowd. Even the woman with the child, when questioned, had paid him little heed, because he attracted no attention.

  Rutledge gave it another few minutes, but there was nothing else.

  He got out and started the motorcar and then for a moment debated where to turn. Not to Inspector Norman. Constable Walker, then.

  He set out for Eastfield, his mind busy.

  He would like to believe that the man was Daniel Pierce. But how could Pierce recognize him on sight? Rutledge was aware that he too had fit into the hotel scene, comfortable in his surroundings and in no way attracting attention to himself. No one had walked past the telephone room while he was making his call. He was certain of that, for he could see clearly through the glass doors. The man couldn't have overheard part of his conversation, then. Their first contact came as he was stepping out of the telephone closet and starting down the passage. The man must have looked up, seen him, and in that same instant known who he was.

  Hamish said, "Unless he followed you into the hotel. And wanted a better look."

  "That's unlikely."

  But was it? Where had the contact begun? In Eastfield, for instance? Had someone stalked Rutledge just as he'd stalked his victims, to take the measure of his opponent? There were enough dark corners and darker alleys, someone standing silently in the shadows could have escaped Rutledge's notice. But could he escape Hamish's?

  There was no way of knowing. Before, when he had walked half blind out of the Hastings police station, he might well have attracted the notice of someone during that hour of helpless wandering. Still, he wanted to believe that it was unlikely. He didn't care for the feeling of vulnerability that being followed at such a time gave him.

  Reaching Eastfield, he left the motorcar at The Fishermen's Arms and went on foot to the police station. Constable Walker was just leaving to eat his midday meal.

  He saw Rutledge's face as he came through the door, and said immediately, "Something's happened."

  Rutledge answered, "I'm not sure. Describe Daniel Pierce for me."

  Walker said, "Pierce? Let me see. Not as tall as you. Dark hair, light blue eyes. Slim. At least he was the last time I saw him. He'd just come home from France. He may have filled out since then. Why?" He frowned. "Don't tell me you've found him!"

  Was it Pierce?

  Hamish said, "The sun could ha' lightened his hair."

  That was true. But was it Pierce?

  Or had he caught a glimpse of the murderer, who would have every reason by now to know what the man from London looked like.

  Better to let it go. Rutledge said, "I was probably mistaken."

  "Or wishful thinking," Walker replied with a grin. Then it vanished as he added, "Despite what his father says, I don't know of any reason for Daniel to be living in Hastings, within a stone's throw, you might say, and not keeping in touch with his family. If you want my opinion, for what it's worth, Daniel Pierce is living in London, where he's his own man. It's what I'd do, in his shoes." R utledge was sorely tempted to ask Tyrell Pierce if he kept a photograph of his sons at the brewery, but better judgment prevailed. It was not yet the time to let the man at The White Swans-if he was indeed Daniel Pierce-know that he'd been identified.

  On the other hand, there was a question he wished to put to Theo Hartle's sister.

  He went to the Winslow house and knocked at the door. He was almost certain someone was inside, and he waited. Eventually, Winslow himself opened the door, his face sour.

  "I'm not up to visitors today," he said plaintively. "You must come back another time."

  "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. It was your wife I wished to see."

  That brought a grunt from the man in the chair. "She's not here."

  Rutledge thanked him and left.

  As he walked back to the Hastings Road, which formed the main street of Eastfield, he asked himself where Mrs. Winslow could be found at this hour of the day. The greengrocer's, the butcher's, the bakery?

  He stepped into each shop, but didn't see her. Not doing her marketing, then. He paused outside the police station and thought about it.

  Her brother was dead. The rectory. He turned and walked toward the churchyard.

  Hamish said, "Aye, she wouldna' wish to have her husband with her."

  And Rutledge saw that she was indeed standing in the churchyard, pointing to a space next to two stones. Hartle's wife and child?

  The rector and Mrs. Winslow looked up as he approached across the freshly mown grass of the churchyard.

  "Not more bad news?" the rector asked anxiously.

  "No. I've come for a word with Mrs. Winslow, when she's finished her business here."

  She pointed to the markers at her feet. He saw he'd been right: here lay her brother's wife and child. "I was just asking Rector if there was room here beside Mary. He says there is. I don't know quite what sort of service to have." She frowned. "My husband feels it ought to be brief, without much ceremony. But Theo didn't kill himself, did he? It doesn't seem right."

  "A proper one," Rutledge answered her without reservations. "The fact that his life ended abruptly makes no difference. The service should be the same as he'd have been given as an old man, with all honor due him."

  She smiled, tears filling her eyes. "Yes. Thank you. That would be fitting." She turned to the rector. "There we are, then. I'll think of what hymns he'd have liked, and any favorite scriptures." She bit her lip.

  Rutledge knew what was on her mind.

  "Your brother's body," he said gently, "will be released very soon."

  She nodded, unable to trust her voice. The rector took her arm and walked with her a little way until they were out of the churchyard and standing in the drive up to the rectory.

  Rutledge gave them a chance to finish their private discussion, but as the rector turned and nodded to him, he caught them up.

  "Now," Mrs. Winslow asked brightly, as if to affirm that she was in control of her feelings again, "you wanted to speak to me?"

  He thanked the rector, and then said to her, "There's a tearoom next to th
e bakery, I believe. Would you like a cup?"

  She hesitated. "Yes, I would," she admitted frankly, "but there's my husband. I ought to see if he's all right."

  "He will manage very well," Rutledge told her, and gestured toward the road. She went with him, the two of them walking in silence until they were halfway to the tea shop.

  "I wonder," Rutledge began, "how well Theo Hartle knew Daniel Pierce?"

  "Daniel? The Pierces didn't have much in common with the rest of us, once they'd been sent away to school. They were home on holidays, of course, but you didn't walk up to the Pierce house and ask if Daniel or Anthony were in, did you? Their lives had changed more than ours. But on the whole, I think Theo liked Anthony better. Myself, I liked Daniel. He was always nice to me. Nicer sometimes than Theo." She looked away, her mind elsewhere. Finally she added, "Theo was my brother, and I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he could sometimes be very selfish at that age. I'd like to think it was the influence of those he ran with, back then. What one couldn't think of, the others could. I was glad when Theo outgrew them. I think that's why my parents agreed to let him be apprenticed so soon at Kenton Chairs, and they were right, it was best for him in many ways."

  "If your brother saw Daniel Pierce on the street-let's say in Hastings, or somewhere like that-would they stop to chat?"

  "Well, it would depend, wouldn't it, on the occasion. If Daniel was alone, and Theo as well, they might speak. If Daniel was with a lady or friends, they'd nod in passing, I'd think. But Theo would let Daniel take the first step. It would be proper, you see."

  It would be proper, Rutledge thought, for the workingman to defer to the brewery owner's son, in the matter of recognition in a public arena. Old habits died hard, even after the upheaval of the war.

  "There was nothing between the two men that might make your brother uncomfortable, encountering him again after all this time?"

  She considered that as Rutledge opened the door of the tea shop for them. Silence fell in the busy room, and every eye turned their way.

  Mrs. Winslow hesitated, as if she'd been caught fraternizing with the enemy, her face turning pink.

  Rutledge took her gently by the arm and said in a voice intended to carry but apparently for her ears alone, "I think a cup of tea will make you feel much better." He summoned the woman waiting on tables, and asked for tea and a selection of pastries. Then he guided Mrs. Winslow to a seat by the window. She turned to him with anxious eyes, and he said only, "The rector will never forgive me if I don't keep my promise. You shouldn't have had to make such a visit alone."

  "My husband-" she began.

  "Yes, it would have been difficult for him. But a friend, perhaps?"

  He could see from her expression that she had few friends. He could understand why.

  Their tea came, and the pastries. She let him pour her cup, and pass her the pastries, and as the occupants of the shop realized that there was to be no arrest or harsh interrogation to report to their friends, they lost interest. Mrs. Winslow nibbled a pastry, and then shyly reached for another. He realized it was a treat for her, that such outings had stopped long ago.

  It was not until they had left the shop and he was walking toward her home that she answered the question he'd asked earlier.

  "Daniel and Theo had a falling-out. Oh, it was years ago, Theo couldn't have been more than nine or ten. Daniel was seven at the most. I don't know what they fought about, but it couldn't have been very serious, at that age, could it? Still, Theo gave Daniel a bloody nose, and afterward he came home terrified that the police would be sent for and take him up, that Tyrell Pierce would see that he was sent to Borstal. But nothing came of it, and Anthony told Theo later that Daniel claimed he'd fallen off Will Jeffers's stallion, trying to ride him bareback." She smiled at the memory. "I expect he was ashamed of being bested by Theo, but he was only seven, after all."

  "When was the last time your brother saw Daniel?"

  "It was before the war. I'm sure of it. That fortnight when Daniel came back from France, Theo was still in hospital."

  "Did you see Daniel then?"

  "Only once, and not to speak to." She hesitated. "He'd just left the Misses Tate School, and it appeared that someone had hit him in the face, because there was a big red mark on his cheekbone. And he was angry. I did wonder how he came by it."

  They were at the corner of her street now, and she put out a hand. "If you won't mind, I'd rather go the rest of the way alone. My husband keeps watch-"

  He stopped, and she thanked him profusely for the tea and the pastries, then hurried on toward her door, as if acutely aware of how long she'd been away from home.

  Hamish said, "A bluidy nose doesna' lead to murder."

  "No," Rutledge answered him silently. "If that was all there was to it. Theo Hartle may not have told his little sister the whole story."

  Still, it lent credence to the possibility that someone was erasing the worst memories of Daniel Pierce's childhood. But what was more interesting was how Daniel had got that mark on his face.

  He went back to the hotel for lunch, and found a letter waiting for him.

  It was from Chief Inspector Cummins. Rutledge took it to his room and opened it. Ian.

  Thank you for the surprising contents of your parcel. It had not occurred to any of us to look for a flint knife. We were told that the wound was oddly shaped, and so we developed a list of foreign knives-African, Southeast Asian, Middle Eastern-and the theory was that in his travels, Wheeler had lived in a port where such souvenirs were available to buy or steal. Portsmouth, Southampton, Dover, London, and so on. We had one promising lead, an Oxford don, retired to Dartmouth, whose home was broken into while he was abroad and several objects from his Near Eastern collection were stolen. Alas, when he returned and inventoried what was missing, a selection of Yemeni knives, they didn't match the dimensions of the wound. Your flint knife is a far more likely candidate. What more can you discover about its origins? Meanwhile, I shall ask a friend who is interested in such topics if he can detect traces of human blood on your find. His home laboratory must surely be useful for something other than mystifying his wife, family, and friends.

  I must say, this is encouraging. But I absolutely refuse to let my hopes be raised again, lest they be dashed as so many others have been.

  I must have intrigued you with my account of this unsolved mystery. I should have warned you that it was bound to cause sleepless nights and overwork one's imagination.

  And it was signed simply Cummins.

  Smiling, Rutledge returned the letter to its envelope and put it in his valise.

  Now if he could only have equal success in solving his own mystery. M r. Kenton, who owned the furniture works where Theo Hartle had been employed, came into the dining room of the hotel as Rutledge was finishing his luncheon.

  He was a tall, stooped man with graying hair and spectacles. He stood in the doorway, looking around, and as the woman who served meals approached him, he asked her a question.

  Rutledge looked up from his plate of cheeses just as she was pointing to him.

  The man came over, introduced himself, and asked if he could join Rutledge for a few minutes, or if Rutledge would prefer to meet him in the hotel lobby after his meal.

  "Yes, of course, sit down," Rutledge answered, and signaled the woman to ask for a fresh pot of tea.

  Kenton thanked him and said, "This business with Theo has been heavy on my mind. I come here reluctantly, you understand, because what I'm about to tell you is something I refuse to believe. Still, I'm no policeman, and if there is any possibility that I am right, then I have a duty to those who have died to talk to you."

  He broke off as the fresh pot of tea and a dish of biscuits was set before them. When the woman had gone away again, Rutledge said, "I appreciate your sense of duty. I shall look into the matter. I can't promise anything, but I will respect your confidence as far as I'm able."

  Kenton appeared to be relieved. That was clearly
what he had come to ask.

  "Theo was a good man," Kenton went on. "I don't know how we're to replace him. Steady, dependable. Amazingly gifted when it comes to working with wood. Well liked by the others in the firm. Such a loss. I've been asked to say a few words at his funeral."

  He paused, stirring his tea, as if it were the most important task of the day.

  Rutledge said, watching his face, "I don't think that's what you've come here to tell me."

  Kenton met his gaze. "No. No, it isn't. I don't know where to begin, I suppose."

  "What had Hartle done that could be of interest to the police?"

  He turned to the window, ignoring the question. "My mother had a companion for many years. She had an arthritic condition and was a regular visitor to the spas of Europe, looking for a cure for the pain if not the disease. When she fell ill at Wurzburg, a young woman named Hilda Lentz nursed her back to health. When my mother recovered, she asked Hilda to come back to England with her. The idea of travel must have appealed to her, because she agreed. But instead of returning to Germany, she married the son of one of our friends, a man named Peter Hopkins, and they had three children. She continued to work with my mother until her death. And Hilda died of appendicitis a year or so later. She'd lost a child, a daughter, in childbirth, but her sons were treated more or less as members of our family. Carl Hopkins in fact came to work for me, because he has a way with machinery that's invaluable."

  "What does he have to do with Theo Hartle?"

  "Nothing. Everything. I don't know." He shook his head vigorously. "Carl was torn about the war, you see. His eyesight was damaged by a case of the measles, and there was no doubt that he couldn't serve, when the war came. But his younger brother George joined the Army with the Eastfield Company. And Carl's favorite German cousin-Hilda's sister's boy-hurried to join the German army. Carl considers himself English, but he was worried about his brother and his cousin. Neither of them survived. It wasn't long after we heard about George that someone sent Carl an anonymous letter saying that George had been shot in the back while crossing No Man's Land. The Army refused to confirm or deny the story, but the letter claimed that George had been shot because he had a German mother, spoke fluent German, and wasn't to be trusted."