by Charles Todd
"There were no discs in Mickelson's mouth."
And that was interesting.
"I'm not surprised," Rutledge told him, considering the comment. "It means he wasn't one of the chosen."
"Or you didn't have any of them to put there."
"True." He didn't argue. After a moment he went on, "I have witnesses, you know, that I never left Kent until this morning. Very reliable ones, in fact. Someone should have asked about that before having me stopped and brought here. It smacks of leaping to conclusions."
"Unless your witnesses were sleeping in the same room with you, it doesn't preclude leaving in the middle of the night. You could have slipped out and back in again, with no one the wiser," Inspector Norman countered.
Rutledge said only, "We'll see. Can Mickelson be questioned yet?"
"I don't think he's regained his senses. You'd better pray he doesn't die." Norman rose, preparing to take Rutledge to his cell when there was a flurry of voices from the sergeant's desk in the front of the police station.
They paused where they were, Norman undoubtedly believing that Chief Inspector Hubbard had arrived.
But it was not Hubbard.
The flustered sergeant on the desk came to the door, saying, "I tried to stop her, sir. But she insists she has information on Inspector Mickelson's murderer."
And they looked beyond him to see Mrs. Farrell-Smith coming through the doorway behind him. She took in Rutledge standing there in the passage with Inspector Norman and said, "That's the man I saw in Eastfield the night Inspector Mickelson was attacked. I saw him drive up, speak to that poor man, and then drive away with him. They were in front of the church, and my bedroom window looks out toward the gate to the rectory." For emphasis, she pointed directly at Rutledge, as if she were already in the witness box.
Rutledge's mouth tightened. And then he said, "Are you so certain that Daniel Pierce is the man we're after, that you are willing to lie to shield him?"
She retorted, "I know nothing about Daniel Pierce."
Rutledge turned to Inspector Norman. "This is Mrs. Farrell-Smith, headmistress at the Misses Tate Latin School. If she really wanted to protect someone, she could have looked back into the school's records to see if anything happened in the past that could have some bearing on these murders. All the victims were together there for at least two or three years. If it isn't the war, and it isn't the present that caused someone to start killing, it could very likely lie in the distant past. I'd prefer to be escorted to my cell now."
She opened her mouth, and then shut it again.
Inspector Norman nodded to the sergeant, and Rutledge went with him, already regretting his impatient request.
He said to the sergeant, trying to delay entering his cell, "Am I the only prisoner here?"
"No, sir. There's another man at the end of the row. We were preparing for the inquest to be held this very week, but it must wait now for the Inspector to recover."
This must be where Carl Hopkins was also being kept, as he'd thought, and he said under his breath, "Poor devil."
He went into his cell and watched the door swing shut with a clang and the large key turn in the ancient lock. It sounded like a death knell.
This time he couldn't ignore his surroundings. He had no idea how long it would be before Hubbard arrived, and he was faced with the possibility that he would remain in this place for several days, at least until it was certain whether the charge was going to be attempted murder or murder. He wasn't sure he could manage it.
The cell contained a narrow cot, a bucket, and a basin on a shelf with a pitcher standing in it. Near the flat, ugly pillow, a tin cup lay on the blanket that covered the cot. What little light there was came through the barred square in the door. The walls were painted a dreary dun color that had faded into a shade like cream gone off. Although the cell was clean enough, and the water in the pitcher fresh, there was a lingering odor of urine that rose from the floor, and the smell of fear that seemed to cling to the walls. He hadn't noticed it before. He'd been too intent on matters being set straight in a hurry. Now-now, his fate lay in the hands of Inspector Mickelson.
Hamish said derisively, "Ye've been inside a cell before this."
But always knowing that he wasn't the occupant, that when he was ready to leave, the door would open and there would be a reprieve from the panic. Now Rutledge was battling his claustrophobia, fighting the urge to promise anything if they would leave that door unlocked. He thought about the night to come and shuddered, then began to pace. In the dark, the walls would begin to close in.
Hamish cautioned, "There's no help for it, ye ken. Sit doon and close your eyes. Ye willna' see the door, then."
I'm going to make a fool of myself, he thought, when I start screaming. And then they'll know. But after a time, he sat down and shut his eyes, as Hamish had counseled, imagining the room to be as long as the drawing room in Melinda Crawford's house, counting first one and then another of the furnishings and treasured objects that filled the space. It helped, but only a little against the rising tide of dread.
A constable brought him a meal later, as well as fresh water, and he realized it must be noon, or possibly one o'clock. The food was hot, plentiful-fried fish, roasted potatoes, fresh bread and peas. He wondered if Inspector Norman was hedging his bets by treating his thorny prisoner with some care in the event the Yard had to eat its words.
The afternoon dragged by, and Rutledge set himself the puzzle of why there was murder being done in Eastfield.
If Inspector Mickelson had taken the wrong man into custody, the murderer had only to bide his time, and then kill again. It would have made Mickelson look a fool. Why then had he targeted Mickelson?
What had the man done that had angered the killer? From the time that Scotland Yard had arrived in the village, whoever was behind these murders knew he was risking being unmasked. He must also have known that dispatching one inspector would only bring another in his place, someone even more determined to search him out.
What had made it necessary to rid himself of Mickelson before the inquest? Rutledge had told Norman that it was what Mickelson knew-or was about to do. But was that true?
Or had Kenton, trying to persuade Mickelson he was wrong about Hopkins, lost his temper and acted rashly? Something as simple as that?
He went to the door and raised his voice, but only loud enough to reach to the last cell down the passage. He had heard the door being unlocked and a lunch tray passed to the prisoner there. But the man had been quiet. If he had spoken at all, it was so softly that the words hadn't carried.
"Carl Hopkins?"
There was no answer.
Rutledge tried again. "Mr. Hopkins. I'm a policeman. I was in Eastfield before Inspector Mickelson."
"I remember." There was a pause. "Why are you in a cell?"
"Inspector Mickelson was attacked. For lack of a better idea, they think I'm involved. I didn't like the man. The feeling was mutual. Meanwhile, I'm waiting for my movements to be cleared up." He hoped that was true.
"It's a trick of some sort. Well, it won't do you much good. I didn't kill anyone. I have nothing to confess."
"It's no trick."
But Hopkins wouldn't say anything else and Rutledge let it go.
I didn't kill anyone…
Rutledge sat down on the cot, staring at the walls, hearing in the back of his mind the distant French guns, and then the artillery from the English lines. Before very long, he knew he'd begin shouting commands to his men, and then he would be lost.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He had even lost track of where he was, the tramp of men's boots as they formed a line in the trench, waiting their turn to go up the ladder and follow their officers into battle, had seemed so real he could smell the stench of the water in the bottom of their trench and hear the whispered prayers of men who knew they could die in the next five minutes. He was preparing to blow his whistle for the charge when the present intruded.
&nb
sp; The sound of voices drifted down the passage and then grew louder. After a moment the constable appeared to unlock Rutledge's door. The relief that swept over him as the door swung wide was almost physical, and for a moment he had to struggle with the images fading into the back of his mind.
"You're wanted in Inspector Norman's office," the man said and stepped aside.
Rutledge got up from the cot and walked out the door. He knew that Hubbard must have arrived, and when he stepped into Inspector Norman's office, the first person he saw was the Chief Inspector.
"A mistake has been made," the Chief Inspector was saying to him. "I'm sorry."
Rutledge stood by the doorway, waiting.
Inspector Norman said to Rutledge, "Come in." He pointed to the other chair.
Rutledge joined them. But still he said nothing.
Chief Inspector Hubbard turned to Inspector Norman. "Chief Superintendent Bowles was misinformed. Inspector Rutledge was visiting friends in Kent when the murder occurred. We've spoken to Mrs. Crawford. She was quite clear. Inspector Rutledge couldn't have left her house, driven to Eastfield, and returned without the staff or she herself being aware of his absence. What's more, his leave had been requested before the subject of Mrs. Farrell-Smith's complaint had been brought up with him."
It was an outright lie, blandly told.
"She's made a second statement this morning. She claims she saw Rutledge speaking to Mickelson and then taking him up in his motorcar the night before the attack was discovered. How do you answer that?"
Hubbard was clearly unprepared for this information. He recovered quickly. "She reported this to Constable Walker?"
Norman hesitated. "Not straightaway. No."
"Had you sent your men to look for Rutledge in Eastfield, after you spoke to the Yard?"
"I saw no harm in sending Constable Petty to keep an eye on things. Until someone arrived from London." He shot a glance in Rutledge's direction, then returned his attention to Hubbard.
"And Mrs. Farrell-Smith didn't speak to Constable Petty about what she'd seen?"
"He's still in Eastfield," Norman said, grudgingly. "I don't know. She didn't mention having spoken to him."
Chief Inspector Hubbard said, "I must wonder why she felt it necessary to leave the school and come directly here to you, when there were other avenues in Eastfield open to her. Mrs. Farrell-Smith, it appears, prefers not to deal with underlings."
Norman said, "You haven't read her statement. But you're convinced her evidence is flawed."
Hubbard took a deep breath. "Inspector, I shall be speaking with Mrs. Farrell-Smith myself in due course. But understand this. If Mrs. Crawford swears that Rutledge did not leave her house, as a witness she is more reliable than Mrs. Farrell-Smith."
"And who is Mrs. Crawford, when she's at home? I know nothing about her."
"Mrs. Crawford's veracity is vouched for by Neville FitzThornton at the Home Office. On the other hand, it's possible that Mrs. Farrell-Smith has lied to the police before this."
Rutledge smiled to himself. The police and the Yard answered to the Home Office. He wondered how Melinda had come to know FitzThornton. But the fact that she did cheered him. The thought of returning to the confinement of that cell left him feeling cold.
Inspector Norman said, "My advice is to leave matters the way they are until someone is able to question Mickelson. Then the veracity of witnesses won't come into it."
"And very good advice it is. But I'm told that the Inspector is on the point of undergoing surgery to relieve the pressure of the swelling on his brain. He may not be able to speak to us at all."
In the end, Hubbard got his way, by rank if not by persuasion. Rutledge's belongings were accounted for and returned to him. As he signed the receipt, Inspector Norman asked, "What am I to do with Carl Hopkins?"
It was a question designed to irritate Hubbard. It failed.
Hubbard said blandly, "He stays where he is until the inquest. And at the moment, that must wait on Mickelson's recovery."
"I'd like five minutes with Hopkins," Rutledge interjected, speaking for the first time as he accepted his watch and his keys from the constable.
Hubbard hesitated. "I don't think that would be wise."
"It isn't a matter of wisdom. Come with me, if you prefer. But if I'm to take over this inquiry again, I need to know where Hopkins stands."
"Take over-it was understood that I should carry out Inspector Mickelson's brief."
Rutledge turned to him. "You know why I was removed from this case. You know why I found myself in these straits today. You owe me a chance to redeem my character."
"This is not the time nor the place to decide this. Propriety-"
"Propriety be damned." He turned and walked to the door, continuing down the passage toward the cells at the rear of the police station, listening for the order to stop. And none came.
He found Carl Hopkins lying on his cot, one arm over his eyes. Rutledge wished he had had the forethought to ask the constable for the cell keys. But it was too late to go back. He looked at Hopkins's cell. It was a mirror of his, and he could feel that frantic sense of being closed in sweeping over him again.
He had been buried alive on the Somme, when their salient had been blown up by a shell falling short of the German lines. The miracle was he had lived through it, but lying in the suffocating darkness, pinned there by the weight of the body under which he lay and the heavier earth above them both, he had known no one could reach him in time. He could hardly breathe, as the minutes turned into what seemed like hours, and then just as the small pocket of air that had sustained him was used up and his mind was beginning to struggle to keep track of where he was in that cold black void, help had finally come. Hands dug frantically, the weight lifted, and as he was pulled out, loose earth cascading from his hair and uniform like water, he had seen the face of the man who had saved him. It was Hamish MacLeod's dead body, and the pocket of air that had been a gift of life had been created by Hamish's clothing. The shock had left him unable to speak, and his rescuers had put that down to near suffocation.
It was not until he'd reached the aid station and was given a few hours of rest that he'd heard Hamish MacLeod's voice in his ear, taunting, reminding him that his men were dead, and he had no excuse for being alive.
Getting a grip on the memory now, Rutledge called Hopkins's name, and the man dropped his arm, swung his legs to the floor, and looked toward the barred window of his cell. He hadn't been asleep. That was obvious. "What do you want? Is this another trick?"
He was a tall man, slim and very fair, Nordic fair rather than English, with dark blue eyes. But he had broad shoulders and was at second glance a great deal stronger than he first appeared. Deceptively so, Rutledge thought.
"We're keeping you here for a few more days," Rutledge told him. "For your own safety. But I need to know. What was your relationship with the four Eastfield men who have died? Did you go to school with them?"
"I was apprenticed at the furniture works when I was young. We were in school together for perhaps three years. And then my mother taught me in the evening, when I came home with Mr. Kenton at the end of the workday."
"What do you remember most about them?"
Hopkins didn't need to think about his answer. "They were all of an age. Except for the Pierce brothers. And good at sports. Less so in the classroom. I was far better in mathematics, I remember. And better at spelling as well."
"Were they troublemakers?"
"No more so than most boys."
He changed the subject. "I'm told you hated the English for what happened to your family during the war."
Hopkins got up from the cot and crossed to where Rutledge was standing at the door. "It made me ill for a time. I hadn't been able to serve, you see. I wasn't there to help them. I'd try to sleep at night and I'd wonder what their last thoughts were, if they'd called to me and were hurt that I didn't come. I didn't even know when they died until weeks afterward. I'd been liv
ing my life, talking with friends or working-even sleeping-as they were struggling for their last breath. When I'd see a British soldier, I'd want to ask, were you there? Did you try to save them? Did you even care? Some would boast of the Germans they had killed. Callous bastards. I wanted to hit them, make them suffer too." He shrugged. "It was stupid of me, but there was so much pain I couldn't think straight. I even considered suicide. But when I spoke to Rector about what comes after, he didn't know. All the words he preached, and he didn't know what was on the other side. What use was it to kill myself, if I couldn't be with them again? The happiest days of my life were spent with those two. My English brother and my German cousin. And when people called my cousin a butcher, a Hun, and hoped he'd gone to hell, I hated them with all my heart."
He stood there, not crying, not cursing, his shoulders slumped.
Rutledge said after a moment, "Did you hate them enough to kill them?"
"I thought about it. If I'd known where to find a gun, I might have tried. But I didn't. I could only curse them all." He looked away. "That takes courage, acting on what you believe. I didn't have it."
Hamish said, "He wouldna' creep up behind a man and garrote him."
But Rutledge silently answered him, Not in the cold light of day. But after a sleepless night?
His intent on coming back here to the cells had been to hear Hopkins defend himself face-to-face. He'd almost believed the man earlier. Now, he was not so sure.
Hamish argued, "Ye were in yon cell yoursel' and no' thinking clearly."
Rutledge considered the prisoner. He looked older than his years, a defeated, sallow figure with nothing to buoy him up and carry him through the loss that was eating him alive. It was possible that Carl had taken his own sense of worth from that brother and the cousin, and was unable to find his way alone. Would killing alleviate some of the pain? Or would it only add to the distressing burden of guilt that Hopkins already shouldered?
"Who do you think attacked Inspector Mickelson?" Rutledge asked.
"The man from Scotland Yard? He badgered Mrs. Winslow, and made old Mr. Roper half ill. Mrs. Jeffers came into Eastfield and told Constable Walker that the Inspector had made her cry, wanting to know about the war. Then he discovered from someone at the hotel that Mr. Kenton had come to speak to you there, and soon enough he badgered me too. I live alone, I didn't have any proof I hadn't killed those men. He was a policeman, and that's what policemen do, when they've got the upper hand. They badger." He looked Rutledge in the eye for the first time. "I didn't like him well enough to mourn when I was told he'd nearly been killed, and I hadn't cared for what I saw of him when he was alive. Maybe I wasn't the only one."