by Charles Todd
The assistant left, and Banner turned expectantly toward Rutledge.
He held out his identification and explained what had brought him to the shop.
Banner frowned. “I’ve many clients who ask for custom-made shirts.”
Rutledge described the dead man and the shirt that he’d been wearing. “And it had a label in the collar with your name on it. At a guess, the shirt was made in the last year or so. There was very little wear.”
“Yes, that’s very likely my work. But I’m afraid it doesn’t help me find a name for you. We’ve served a fair number of Bantams, you see. That description could fit half of them.”
He opened his notebook and showed Banner the sketch he’d made. “A needle. Have you always used that? Or is it recent?”
His eyebrows rising, Banner said, “I use no mark. Just my name.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I did put that symbol in the label of a shirt. Once. It was during the war, the man’s wife wished to have new shirts and a suit of clothes made up for her husband as a surprise when he came home from France. She told me he’d broadened out in the Army, and she had his new measurements. She wanted him to know everything was bespoke.” He smiled deprecatingly at the memory. “She was rather pretty, reminded me of my late wife. I saw no harm in giving her a mark.”
“Then you must know who she is,” Rutledge persisted.
“Indeed.” He opened another drawer, sorted through some papers there, and brought out a folded sheet. “I was hoping to do more business with her.” He opened it, glanced at it, then passed the sheet to Rutledge.
“And did you?” he asked as he read the name written there in elegant copperplate script. Mrs. Ruth Milford. The Mill. Crowley. Shropshire. The date of purchase was there as well. Looking up at Banner, he said, “That’s rather a long way to come for a tailor. How did she discover you?”
“Sadly, no.” Banner shrugged. “I never saw her again. I believe she told me she was in Llangollen visiting a friend. I expect that’s how she found me.”
“Do you know her name, this friend?”
“I never met him.”
“Him?”
“I saw him once, he was waiting outside to carry her purchases. He was an officer. That’s all I recall.”
“He wasn’t her husband?”
“Not if the measurements she provided me were those of her husband. He was quite short. This man was a good ten inches or so taller.”
4
Walking back to his motorcar, Rutledge considered what Banner had told him. Who was the other man? A relative? If he was willing to wait outside the tailor’s shop, he could be a friend. Or a lover. And what had brought Ruth Milford to Llangollen, if she lived in Shropshire? The village where the dead man had been found was only a handful of miles away from Llangollen, just a little farther down the River Dee . . . Was he her husband? Finally wearing a shirt she had ordered for him years earlier?
What was the connection with Wales? It had to be more than coincidence.
He consulted his watch. If he left straightaway for Shropshire, he could be out of the worst of the Welsh hills by dusk, then find somewhere to stay the night.
Taking a map from the pocket in the driver’s door, he spread it out across the bonnet and looked at the roads.
The village where Mrs. Milford lived was, in a way, familiar ground, for the Long Mynd and the Stiperstones were fairly close by. He’d never been there, but he knew where they were and what they were. The Long Mynd was a great gash between two ridges, popular with hikers, and the Stiperstones were a strange jagged rock formation jutting from the ground and said to be haunted by the Devil.
Satisfied that he knew his way, he folded the map again and put it back in the pocket.
It took him ten minutes to find a shop where he could order sandwiches and fill his Thermos with tea, then he set out.
The flat countryside had vanished, and the roads seemed to have been designed to thwart any driver intent on making good time. They twisted and turned with the land, were interrupted by crossroads without fingerposts, and twice he made the wrong choice and had to turn back. He was still north of Oswestry when at last he found an inn for the night.
Late the next morning he was held up short of Shrewsbury by a puncture in a tire. A hole in the roadway, masked by rainwater, was deeper than it appeared. The miracle, he told himself after swearing at the delay, was that it hadn’t happened in the desolate hills in Wales. But by the time he’d found a garage and the mechanic had found a replacement for his tire, he’d lost most of the day.
And so it was well after dusk when he reached the outskirts of Crowley. It was, he realized, hardly more than a hamlet. Lamps were already lit in the windows of several farmhouses along the road, and then it turned slightly, and he found himself among a dozen or more small houses. They were more the size of cottages, in fact, only a handful boasting an upper story. There were no names on any of them, and instead of being clustered around a village church or green, these were strung out on the road. In fact, there was no church, nor a green. And although he drove through twice, carefully searching, there wasn’t a cottage called The Mill. What’s more, in this failing light, he couldn’t see a pond or a stream that would support a waterwheel.
Some thirty yards from the last cottage and set on a slight rise was a pub. He could just make out the unlit sign—The Pit and The Pony. And that was all that Crowley could boast.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, she lied to yon tailor.”
“Still, that shirt was given to the dead man at some point in time. Which tells me it reached her when Banner posted it to her. The question is, where does she live if not Crowley?”
There was a tiny general store, closed for the night, but he stopped to peer through its windows. He couldn’t see a post office inside, the surest source of information about anyone in a village.
Reversing for a second time, he drove up to the pub. Although he could see that there was a lamp burning in a window, he was nearly sure that it too was closed.
There was a yard to one side of the pub, empty save for a single bicycle, which was propped against the wall.
He left his motorcar beside it, and removing his hat, he walked over to the side door, reaching for the knob, expecting to find it locked. To his surprise, the door opened under his hand. He stepped inside.
At once he could see why the name was appropriate. There were photographs everywhere of miners, their gear, and the mine heads. Many of these appeared to have been taken over a period of years, because some of the photographs were beginning to fade a little.
Like the yard, the pub was empty, except for a young woman sweeping a small drift of dust into a pan. She straightened up, looking quickly toward the new arrival as if she had been expecting someone. He could have sworn there was hope in her pretty face, but it faded almost at once, leaving it drawn. He wondered if she had been ill.
“We’re closed this evening,” she told him. “My barman is unwell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping for a room for the night, and perhaps my dinner,” Rutledge said pleasantly. “But I’m actually looking for the house of a Mrs. Milford. Ruth Milford. Do you happen to know where I could find her? I believe she lives in a place called The Mill.”
Her expression was wary now. “And who is looking for her?”
“My name is Rutledge. I’m from London.”
“London?” Wariness became fear. “You just missed her, love. She left for Shrewsbury this morning.”
He didn’t need Hamish, stirring in the back of his mind, to tell him that very likely Mrs. Milford had never left the village, that she was standing before him now.
He set his hat down on the nearest table. “As it happens, I’ve come to ask for information about her husband. Perhaps you know him, and can help me?”
Frowning, she put the broom aside very carefully. “What sort of information are you after? I don’t know him very well.”
There were only two lamps li
t, one by the front window that he’d noticed coming up the rise, and the other on the bar. She looked him up and down, then stepped to one side, so that her face was partly in the shadow of a post that was part of the framework of the bar, setting it off from the tables.
“His full name, for a start.”
“Samuel Arthur Francis Milford.”
“Can you describe him for me? I’ve never met him.”
“Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
“A tall man?”
“Short.”
“In the Bantams, was he?”
She put up a hand to stop him. “Why would you come all the way from London to ask such questions?” She spoke the word with ridicule, as if she hadn’t believed him. “Who are you, and why are you really here?”
“Actually,” he said gently, “I’m with Scotland Yard. In London. And it’s my duty to ask these questions because there has been an accident—” He broke off as she paled and reached out for the post, as if for support.
“What do you mean, an accident? To Sam? Is he all right? Tell me. What has happened?”
“Mrs. Milford? Perhaps you should sit down.”
“Tell me,” she repeated roughly, no longer denying her name. But she turned and sat down in the nearest chair, as though needing time to brace herself.
“I was called to a village near Llangollen, in Wales. On the River Dee.” He came forward and took the chair across from her. “There had been a death, Mrs. Milford, and it is possible that the man whose body was found could be your husband.”
She shook her head, hope reviving. “You must have the wrong man. He can’t be my husband. Sam has never been to Llangollen,” she told him flatly. “Now I must ask you to leave. As I said, we’re closed.”
He took out his notebook. “During the war, did you order a shirt from a tailor in Llangollen, and ask him to sew a label into the collar, with this design?” He showed her the drawing he’d made. “The tailor told me he’d only used such a label once.”
But she couldn’t answer him. As she looked at the design, a flood of emotions chased each other across her face. Shock—denial—realization—and finally acceptance.
And she broke down then, drawing her apron up to her face to hide her tears.
There wasn’t a friend or family member here to help her through the worst of the shock. To give her a little privacy, Rutledge rose and went through the open door behind the bar into the small kitchen.
The cooker was banked but hot enough still to make tea, and he quickly found what he needed. Even as he worked, he could hear her weeping, anguished sobs. He had always hated having to break such news to the families of victims. There was never anything to say that could offer comfort. And that was a helpless feeling.
She had recognized the design on the shirt, and must have remembered too that she had been with another man at the time. Who was he? A relative? A friend? A lover? And was he still in Llangollen, close by where Sam was found?
Hamish said, “Was she telling the truth? That she didna’ know he was in Wales?”
I think she was. He’d almost answered Hamish aloud, and cursed himself for the lapse.
Giving the pot time to steep, Rutledge went back to the grieving woman and simply sat there across from her, offering whatever solace his presence might give her, alone as she was. But it didn’t appear to help. He returned to the kitchen, found a serving tray, and brought two cups of tea back to the table, hers very sweet to help with the shock, and set them down. Pushing hers forward, he resumed his seat.
“Mrs. Milford—” he began.
She shook her head, dropping the apron and not caring now if he saw her ravaged face. “Is it true? That this man might be Sam? Couldn’t you be wrong? I can’t think why he would be in Wales, of all places. He’s never been there.” She was pleading with him, never taking her gaze from his face.
“I’m afraid it must be true. He was just a little over five feet tall, wearing the shirt I described to you, and there was a tattoo on his left forearm. It appeared to be the insignia of the Bantams.”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t go on,” she said in a strained voice. “I can’t endure any more.”
Rutledge took that to mean she recognized the description.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news,” he went on gently. “But I must ask, there’s no one else. Do you have any idea what your husband’s business was in Wales? Why he went there?”
Ruth Milford stared at him. “I’ve lost everything now,” she said finally. “There’s nothing left, I can’t go on. It’s my fault—it’s all my fault. And I can’t bear it.”
He wondered if she had even heard his questions. “Drink a little tea. It will help,” he told her, pushing her cup closer to her. “Is there someone in the village I can bring to you? A woman relative? A friend?”
She obediently reached for the cup. Her hands were shaking, and she had to use both to steady the cup and lift it to her mouth. Ignoring the question, she asked tentatively, “Was he—was he alone when he died?”
He took that to mean whether anyone had been there with him, but before he could answer the door opened and a man came through, calling, “Ruthie? I just heard about Will—” He broke off, frowning, as he saw the two people at the table, drinking tea. But he couldn’t at first see Ruth’s face, for she had leaned back into the shadows again. “Sorry. I didn’t know the pub was open. I’d heard it was closed, that’s why I came over. Is Will feeling any better then?”
She cleared her throat. “I haven’t spoken to him since the morning,” she replied huskily, and then added, her voice breaking, “Donald. It’s Sam.”
Rutledge had risen as Donald moved quickly across the room, dropping into the chair Rutledge had just vacated. He reached for Ruth’s hand as she set the cup down, and held it tightly.
“What’s happened? Tell me, I’ll take you to him.”
“He’s dead,” she replied, her voice empty of feeling. “Sam is dead.”
Donald looked from her to Rutledge. “Is that true? I don’t understand. Who are you?”
“My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I was called to Wales to investigate when a body was discovered in the River Dee.”
“Sam’s body?” he repeated blankly. “In Wales? When? Are you sure?”
“He was found on Saturday last. We have good reason to believe it must be Milford. Do you recall a tattoo on his left arm, the insignia of the Bantam Battalions?”
“Yes, of course I do. Surely there’s more than a tattoo to go on? There must be thousands of Bantams in Shropshire—even in Wales, for that matter. The first battalion raised was in Cheshire.”
“There is other evidence,” Rutledge said, not wanting to mention the shirt and the tailor in Llangollen to him. “That’s what led me to Mrs. Milford. Can you tell me what took Mr. Milford to Wales?”
“I didn’t know he’d gone there.” He glanced at Mrs. Milford, then turned back to Rutledge. “I thought he was in Shrewsbury.”
Mrs. Milford began to weep again. “He was. It was about Tildy. It’s always about Tildy.”
Rutledge asked, “Do you know, does she have a photograph of Milford? It would help to have it.” It would not help identify the body, but it might be useful in tracking Milford’s movements.
“Ruthie?”
“At the house. In my bedroom.”
“Is there anyone—a woman—who might come and sit with her?” Rutledge asked in a low voice.
“My wife, Nan. She and Ruthie are cousins. I’ll fetch her, and that photograph.” Rising, he hesitated. “It’s a shock—I can’t bring myself to believe—what happened?”
Rutledge moved away from where Ruth was still sitting, and Donald followed him. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m here. If Milford was meeting someone in Wales, perhaps that person could help us find out more.”
“Yes, I see. But what happened?” he persisted.
“He was found in the Dee, near a small village,” Rutledge t
old him. “He’d had a fall.”
“A fall? From where?”
“It appears he fell from a height.”
Donald frowned. “I know there are mountains in Wales—I can’t think why Sam was climbing one.”
“Have you been there?” Rutledge asked with interest.
“No.” He gestured toward the bar. “I help out in here whenever Sam is away. Seeing to supplies, paying creditors. We’ve had a few travelers from Wales.”
“Anyone in particular? Anyone who might have known Milford, or who had some reason to contact him here?”
Donald shrugged. “I doubt it. That’s to say they’re only stopping for the night, and are gone the next day. I never heard of Sam speaking privately with any of them.” He glanced toward Ruth Milford again. “I’d better go.”
Rutledge turned to see that she had put her head down on the table, cradled by her arms. Even from here he could tell that she was shivering.
“Go on.”
He crossed to the table, took off his heavy coat, and wrapped it around Mrs. Milford’s shoulders. She didn’t lift her head but seemed to huddle into the warmth from his body as well as the thick wool. He moved her teacup, hardly touched.
Waiting for Donald, and leaving Mrs. Milford to her grieving, he had a moment to look around the pub. It was L-shaped, the longer leg of the L filled with tables and the bar. The shorter leg was more spacious, with a second hearth, the dartboard, and fewer tables. The bar had been prosperous once, but it was beginning to show a shabbiness that couldn’t, he thought, be completely the fault of the war. Where were the miners or their descendants, from the framed photographs everywhere? There were mine lamps and other paraphernalia mounted high on the walls. Someone had kept these dusted, he noticed.
But there was no one to ask.
The door opened again, and a woman rushed in. She had the same auburn hair and brown eyes as her cousin, and they were much alike. Rutledge would have thought they were sisters, if he hadn’t known otherwise.
She hurried to Ruth, kneeling beside her chair, her arms around her. “Oh, my dear. Donald told me. Is it true?”