A Lonely Death ir-13

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A Lonely Death ir-13 Page 27

by Charles Todd


  He left the dog with Bell and could hear it barking frantically as he drove away.

  After three hours at the port, being passed from office to office, he learned that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had indeed embarked for France on the channel crossing the preceding day. At first he was surprised that Summers had used their real names, and then it was clear why: there had to be a record of Mrs. Summers leaving England for France, for her solicitors to see later that all was aboveboard, the couple happy and still enjoying their wedding journey.

  The harbormaster said, "It was a rough passage, right in the teeth of the storm." Grinning, he added, "There'd be decks to swab after that one made landfall."

  "While you're at it, ask the French if there was a small dog with them. Long haired, black and gray, with some white," Rutledge added.

  The harbormaster got in touch with the French authorities, and was told that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had landed safely, although both were the worse for wear from seasickness.

  The message ended, "Madame was very ill. Monsieur had given her something to help the nausea, and it was not working. We recommended an hotel in Honfleur, and he told us he felt he could drive there. No dog accompanied them."

  Rutledge left the office, still worried. The fact that Mrs. Summers had landed in France surprised him-a seasick woman leaning over the rail needed only a small push to send her into the sea as the boat tossed and twisted in the storm.

  Something was wrong with the picture painted by the French authorities.

  "They didna' see her," Hamish pointed out. "They saw a verra' distressed woman."

  And that was true, Rutledge thought as he drove back to The Nancy Bell. She could have been drugged. Or she could have been anyone wearing Mrs. Summers's clothing.

  But there was nothing he could do without authority from the Yard to have the couple taken into French custody. They had left the port by now, and were no longer under its jurisdiction. And they had broken no laws. There was not sufficient evidence to hold Summers at all.

  Misdirection. Summers was a master at it.

  Rutledge went back again to the Dover police and used their telephone to call the Yard. Explaining the situation to Sergeant Gibson, he added, "I want a watch on all ports for someone coming in under the name Summers or Pierce, or any other on this list." And from the sheet of paper he'd made out, he read the names of anyone who was associated with this case. "He may return as a single person or as a couple-it will depend on how safe he thinks he may be with an ill wife."

  "That's a tall order," Gibson pointed out. "Something will be said about the number of men required for that."

  "Clear it with the Chief Superintendent. This man hasn't finished. He'll kill again."

  "I'll do my best," Gibson said, doubt heavy in his voice. He cleared his throat and asked, "Have you heard what Inspector Mickelson had to say? He regained his senses."

  "There hasn't been an opportunity to ask anyone," Rutledge responded. "If he got into a motorcar with his killer, he ought to be able to provide a description."

  "You'd best ask Inspector Norman," Gibson answered cryptically, and Rutledge had to be satisfied with that.

  The problem of the dog was more easily dealt with. Sergeant Bell agreed to keep it until it could be used to identify Summers or reunited with its proper owner. That done, Rutledge turned back toward Hastings.

  He had had no sleep to speak of, and he was feeling it. But he drove through Kent back to the Sussex coast. By the time he had reached Eastfield, he knew it was too late to find Inspector Norman in his office. He went to his room at The Fishermen's Arms and slept for seven hours. I nspector Norman met Rutledge at his office door and said, "Let's walk."

  With foreboding, Rutledge turned to follow him. They left the station and had nearly reached The Stade when Norman said, "I was there when Inspector Mickelson was questioned. He could remember most of what happened before he was struck on the head. He said you had sent a message that he should look at the net shops before dawn, that you had a feeling that he'd find the garrote there. And so he went with the man you'd sent to find him, and when he reached the sheds, something hit him."

  "That marches with what Mrs. Farrell-Smith claimed. She saw two men talking near the church, and they drove away together."

  "Exactly."

  "His first mistake," Rutledge said crisply. "I can show I was far away from Sussex at the time. I could have arranged to have him lured to Hastings, but I wasn't there to deliver the blow. It was a trick. And it worked."

  "Inspector Mickelson had Carl in custody but hadn't been able to lay hands on the murder weapon. Yes, it worked a treat."

  "Was he able to give you a description of the man in the motorcar?"

  "A hazy one at best. The reflection from the headlamps cast shadows. Besides, Mickelson was busy trying to decide how you'd worked it out about the garrote when he hadn't."

  The question had to be asked. "Does Mickelson believe I lured him into a trap?"

  "My impression was, he is still of two minds about that. His accident, after all, brought you back into the case."

  "Yes, it did." Rutledge gave it some thought as they walked along the road above the net shops.

  Norman hesitated. "The man in the motorcar told Mickelson his name was Daniel Pierce and that you'd asked him to handle this because his own brother was among the dead. Mickelson had no reason to doubt what he was told. The elder Pierce is an upstanding member of the community, after all."

  "And Mickelson wasn't intended to live long enough to tell us that. Have you spoken to Tyrell Pierce about this?"

  "Not yet. I wanted to hear what you had to say before going to him. You still maintain that this man you're chasing is not Pierce's son. I went to The White Swans. Whoever had stayed there registered as Pierce. And the description could fit him, with a little stretch of the imagination. He was never the man his brother was, to look at. It was as if Anthony's features had been passed on to his brother, only a little blurred, a little less distinctive."

  And Summers had known that. He'd also known that Daniel Pierce hadn't returned to Sussex for two years. It was a safe enough gamble.

  Rutledge related what had transpired in Dover, and Inspector Norman whistled.

  "Any chance of bringing him back from France?"

  "On what evidence?" Rutledge asked. "Whatever I can prove, it isn't strong enough to convince the French police."

  "Damn." Norman glanced up at the headland where Theo Hartle had been found and said, "You make a good case for Summers. The question remains, what do we do about the inquests into these deaths? Now that we know Inspector Mickelson will survive, do we wait until he's well enough to present his case, or do we look to you?"

  "Adjourn them again if you have to. But keep your eye on Eastfield. That's where our killer will turn up, as soon as he returns to England. Mark my words." They turned back toward the police station.

  Rutledge stood there on the street for a moment, after Inspector Norman had gone inside, debating what to do. Waiting in Eastfield would accomplish nothing. The best course open to him was to return to the Yard and make certain that the watch on the ports was kept in place as long as need be. W hen he arrived in London, Rutledge found another letter from Chief Inspector Cummins waiting for him.

  Opening it, he lit the lamp and sat down in the chair by the window, although the day had faded into dusk. Rutledge,

  You're a marvel. I've considered everything you'd uncovered, and I decided (having the free time to do so) to drive to East Anglia and visit my grandfather's house. It was sold shortly after his death, but I remember it quite clearly. The present owners have kept it up amazingly well, even to the gardens that were his pride, and I sat for some minutes in my motorcar, remembering a very happy childhood. The man who lives there now happened to see me as he came back from marketing and he asked if I were looking for someone. I explained about my grandfather, and to my surprise, this stranger invited me inside. I must have an honest face!


  He allowed me to walk about and reminisce, then to my even greater surprise told me he had something he thought belonged to me. He was gone several minutes while I strolled in the back garden, and then he reappeared with an envelope. He handed it to me, and I was stunned to see my name on the outside. I asked where in hell he'd got this, and he said that in 1908, a young man came to the door. His mother was living at the time, and said he was quite polite, asking if my grandfather still lived here. She told him that he had died. The man explained that he was looking for me, the grandson of the previous owner, and he asked if he might leave a letter here for me, in the event I came back to the house one day. She told the young man that she'd be glad to take the letter, but considered it was unlikely that I would ever return. But he claimed he might miss me in London, and it would be a kindness to know that one day I'd find the letter and know that he cared. And so, being the trusting soul that she was, she took the letter and kept it. Before she died, she mentioned it to her son-this was nearly ten years later, and the letter was still in her possession-and asked what to do about it. The son wondered if I'd been abroad, and felt that someday if I retired from whatever post it was that had taken me away, I might come here looking for it. And so he took on that charge in his mother's stead, and she died a few months later. He and his wife then moved into the house, and the letter waited. I could hardly believe anyone would have been that considerate of a stranger's request, but apparently the mother had been quite taken with him.

  At any rate, I left soon afterward, letter in hand, and the man's last comment to me was, he hoped that I would be in England to stay now. I didn't open the letter until I reached London. It was a confession, Ian, a confession to that murder at Stonehenge. But the man wasn't fool enough to give me his name. He wrote that the man who was killed had deserved to die, but in fact, his death had been an accident. Now, Ian, I'd seen the body and that wound. It couldn't have been more accurate, that knife slipping in. How, pray, could it have happened by chance?

  But the writer went on to say that the man had done terrible things, and his death had protected others from further cruelty. I found that self-serving. He did explain that the body had never been identified properly because the victim had been on the point of leaving the country, and everyone just assumed he had, without fanfare. He was not liked well enough for people to wonder why he had moved up his departure, and the feeling was he had not expected a send-off, a farewell dinner, that sort of thing. And so he had decided not to put himself in a position where people might assume he wanted a show of regret at his leaving. There was no one in England he cared for, and there had been some quiet speculation that his continued employment might soon be in doubt. Those who could have spoken out about his private life and assured his dismissal were too frightened to do so. "I was one of them" he wrote at the end of his confession. "I killed rather than endure silently as so many did. I took the knife he used as a desk ornament-someone had fashioned a handle for it, to please him, he said-and struck out blindly. I was astonished to see him fall, and thought it a trick. I left him there and went directly to a trusted friend. For my sake, he and one other person helped me dispose of my victim. I write this to ease my own conscience and to leave a legacy for you, since the crime has not been solved. But the clues I have left were obscure, and I wonder if-even to ease my conscience-I really am ready to face the horror of what I did."

  Well, then, Ian, my friend, I wonder what you will make of this!

  Rutledge put down the letter. What indeed to make of it? He agreed with Cummins that the author of the letter had purposely made the clues difficult to follow. Still, if Cummins had happened on that flint knife in the course of another case, would he have followed the same steps toward finding an answer? Was that the point, that the killer had felt he had done his duty, secure in the knowledge that his role would never come to light?

  What's more, were there clues in that letter that might lead to the name of the victim, if not the murderer?

  Without the original, he wasn't able to make an educated guess about that. But surely Cummins would examine all the possibilities?

  Hamish said, "Ye canna see ye're ain way. You canna' worry oe'r much about the ins and outs of anither man's inquiry."

  But Rutledge said, "It's a puzzle. Like this one of Summers's doing. God knows how long he has planned his revenge, but so far he's carried it out without so much a qualm. The men he killed, the woman he took to France, the dog he'd abandoned."

  "If ye had never gone to yon hotel room at The White Swans, you wouldna' ha' known about yon dog."

  It was true. And the Dover police had been particularly interested in how he had known about the dog and how he had come to learn what it was called.

  He'd replied simply that he had been several times to the hotel where the Pierces were staying. True, as far as it went.

  Rutledge took a deep breath. "He's coming back. I can feel it," he said aloud into the silence of the room. "And sooner than we expect. And I don't know how to stop him."

  Hamish said, "With any luck ata', he'll drown on his way back across yon Channel. I was never sea sick mysel', but ithers were, and dying was a cheering thought."

  "But that's the problem. He could come back through a dozen different ports."

  And hovering in the back of his mind was the inescapable knowledge that if he hadn't believed the false lead to Brighton, he could have reached Dover in time.

  Rutledge let it go. There was nothing he could do this night, and sometimes an answer came more readily if he ignored the problem.

  He went out to find his dinner, choosing a restaurant where he wasn't likely to encounter anyone from the Yard. The food there was edible, the clientele older and quiet, and he didn't linger over his meal.

  When he came home again, there was someone huddled in the doorway of the flat, only a thicker shadow among shadows.

  His first thought was Summers. Or-his wife?

  Bracing himself, he called, "Who is it? Who is there?"

  The shapeless figure turned, taking on the outline of a woman, and then a voice he knew said, "Ian? Please, I need your help."

  It was Meredith Channing, and he went forward quickly, taking her arm with one hand, opening the door of his flat with the other. Thank God, he thought, he'd left a lamp burning. He put her into a chair, closed the door, and went to find a handkerchief, for he could see that she was crying. He gave it to her, and as she pressed it against her eyes, he said, "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "I didn't know where to turn," she answered him after a moment, her eyes still hidden behind his handkerchief. And then as if she had found the courage to say what she had come to say, she set the rumpled white square of cloth aside. He could read the anguish in her face. "My friends-I could ask any of them, and they would help me. But then they would know, you see-once the words are spoken, I can never take them back. And when they look at me, I'll know that they remember, and I couldn't bear that."

  He took the chair across from hers. "I've never judged you," he said quietly. And waited.

  "Shall I tell you a story, Ian?" she said when she was calmer. It seemed like hours later but perhaps no more than ten minutes had passed. She had stopped crying now, resigned. "Much of it may be familiar. It's about a young man marching off to war. He was deeply in love, he said, he wanted to marry because even if the war only lasted until Christmas, he had a feeling he wouldn't come home again. I asked him how he could say such a thing, and he smiled and said, 'I just know.' I begged him not to go. I even promised I would marry him, if he'd refuse to join the Army. But he had to, you see, all his friends had already enlisted, they were excited and buying uniforms and talking about glory, and he was a man, he couldn't bear to be left behind. And I married him, because I thought if I do, he'll have a reason to keep himself safe, a reason to defy that silly superstition, and he'll come back. I didn't love him, Ian. I liked him. Immensely. And so I was willing to do this for his sake, even if it meant spending the rest of my
life with him. I thought, it will be worth it. We can be happy. I was young-I thought, if he's killed, I'll never forgive myself."

  She leaned her dark head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "He went missing shortly after the first gas attack at Ypres. I was suddenly neither wife nor widow. And I blamed myself for not caring, for not loving him in the way he loved me. I kept telling myself that he knew, that somehow he'd realized why I had married him, and he'd lost his talisman, so to speak. I couldn't bear the guilt, and so I thought, I'll find him and save him. And so I trained as a nurse, and I worked very hard, I did my best, from mopping ward floors to keeping my nerve in the operating theater, and soon I was shipped to France. But I went for selfish reasons, I see that now. I never found Mark among the unidentified wounded. I could find no one who had seen him die. It was as if he were in a limbo of some sort, and no one had the key."

  It was hard to listen to her confession. Rutledge had wondered, time and again, but never asked. He realized now that he hadn't really wanted to know. Her marriage was in the past, let it rest there. But he said nothing.

  "I paid for my folly. For not having the courage to tell Mark the truth. For thinking that I could save him. For thinking that I could find him." Her gaze came back to him. "One day in France, I saw someone who had been brought in for superficial wounds. He was dazed, and I was told he'd been buried alive when a shell fell short and exploded in his sector. He was the only survivor. All of his men were killed. But he kept asking for them, he didn't want to be treated until he was sure they were seen to. An orderly took him away to rest for a little while, and I asked someone the officer's name. I looked in on him later, and he was sleeping. I could see the shadows under his eyes, I could see that he'd been in the line through some of the worst fighting. And I knew I could love this man. I wanted to hold him and keep him safe. All I could do was ask that he be given a little longer to recover, but every man was needed. I was told to wake him up and send him back. I couldn't. I asked someone else to do it." She took a deep breath. "I never saw him again after that, though I'd hear some snippets of news from time to time and knew he was safe. I never asked. But I listened for his name. It wasn't until this past New Year's Eve that I found him again. I thought, we could be friends, it would be all right." She added wryly, "I was still lying to myself, you see."

 

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