A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  “That’s what he said, Nan,” Ruth replied wanly, nodding in Rutledge’s direction. “It must be so.” The tears began again. “What am I to do?”

  Nancy turned on Rutledge. “How could you break it to her like this? Last Saturday?” she demanded. “This news could have waited an hour longer! Why didn’t you come to me first? Nancy Blake, Ruth’s cousin. Everyone knows us. Anyone could have directed you to us.”

  He said, “I came to the inn looking for the Milford house. She began asking questions, refusing to tell me anything until I answered them.” He realized that sounded as if he thought she might be protecting Mrs. Milford. “As you might have done.”

  Nan shot a quick glance toward the door, as if looking for her husband. Rutledge couldn’t quite read it.

  Ruth touched her cousin’s shoulder. “Don’t blame the Inspector, Nan. It’s my fault. He told me he’d come from London—I thought he was a solicitor—I was afraid to tell him anything, with Sam away. I hoped to put him off.” She put her hands over her eyes again, and her voice was only a thread. “Everything is my fault. It has been from the start. Tildy—” She couldn’t go on.

  “Nonsense,” Nan replied briskly, turning back to her and taking her hands again. “It was never your fault. Never. What happened to Tildy was not something any of us could prevent. And Sam grieved for her as much as you did. As all of us did.”

  “And now Sam’s dead. We’ll never know why . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Rutledge watched the two women. This wasn’t the first time that Ruth Milford had blamed herself for what happened. Had they quarreled? he wondered. And her husband had left her? There was the other man, outside the tailor shop in Llangollen. Had Milford somehow discovered his existence, and gone to Wales to confront him?

  Just then the side door opened again, and Donald came in, holding a silver frame. He looked across at the two women, then handed the frame to Rutledge. “Here.” And without waiting to see what the man from London made of it, he moved on toward his wife and her cousin as Nan coaxed her to drink a little more of the tea.

  Rutledge turned the frame over. Samuel Milford had a good face. The chin was square, and the prominent nose was well shaped. An attractive man, broad-shouldered, straight-backed, staring into the camera with confidence, smiling a little. The uniform he was wearing was indeed that of the Bantams. His rank was Corporal.

  Rutledge remembered the battered features lying on Dr. Evans’s table. Hardly recognizable now.

  Hamish said, catching him off guard, “He’s no’ the sort ye’d expect to find himself murdered.”

  Rutledge was thinking much the same thing. He looked at the photograph again, wishing he’d had it with him when he’d spoken to the man in the shop or the narrowboat men, rather than a vague description. It had been too easy for them to deny having seen the victim.

  Hamish disagreed. “If his death had to do with the narrowboats, no’ even a photograph would ha’ helped identify yon body. They keep themselves to themselves.”

  And it was very likely true. He’d felt the resistance toward outsiders while he was there.

  Donald came back across the room. “I need to know—what’s to be done about bringing him home? She’ll want him buried here, not in Wales. I dread to think what it will cost, but I’ll find the money. God knows, I’ve done what I can to keep the pub going.”

  “I’ll put you in touch with a Dr. Evans. He will help you make the necessary arrangements. There will be certain—formalities, of course.” He wasn’t ready to discuss an inquest with Blake, and so he gestured to the mining theme. “Was there a mine near here? Is that why there’re so many photographs about?”

  “There was. A lead mine. Well, two of them. The smaller one has been closed for years. They’d shut down the larger operation too, then opened it up during the war. There’s talk it could be closed permanently in the next year or so. Bad for business here, of course. The uncertainty.” He glanced toward the frames on the wall. “Ruthie’s father put those up. I expect he could put a name to every face. During the war there were German prisoners working The Bog. They weren’t allowed up here, and business fell off sharp with the lads away fighting. Come to that, we’ve not had all that much custom since. Not the way it once was when Ruthie’s father was alive.”

  Rutledge made certain the women were occupied, and then said, “I need to examine Milford’s wardrobe. Although Mrs. Milford confirmed that the clothes the dead man was wearing were indeed the ones she’d given him, I want to be very sure that her memory is accurate. This might be the best time to go to the house.”

  Blake hesitated. “I must ask Ruthie. It’s her house, after all.”

  “We don’t need to distress her more than we have already. My motorcar is outside, as you’ve seen.”

  Blake reluctantly agreed, and the two men went out the side door.

  The house was one of the handful of two-story dwellings. Even so, it was small. They went in through the kitchen door, Blake saying as they stepped inside, “We’ve never had call to lock our doors. This way.”

  They went up the narrow main staircase. There were four very small rooms above, and Blake said as they passed the first door, “That was Ruthie’s mother’s room. She and Sam slept in this one.” He opened the door and stepped aside.

  There was room for only a bed, two chairs, a tall chest, a smaller one with a mirror above it, and a nightstand. There was no armoire, just a curtain in one corner that set off the space where clothes hung on pegs. Rutledge looked through them, then said, “I see no shirts here.”

  “In the chest, then?”

  Rutledge crossed the room to pull out drawers one at a time. In the third he found Sam Milford’s shirts. He lifted them out, took them to the bed, and carefully went through them.

  None of them had the Banner mark in their collars.

  Satisfied, and feeling claustrophobic in the small space, Rutledge nodded to Blake. “Thank you. But it was necessary to be sure.”

  “I don’t see why those shirts were so important,” Blake said as they went back down the stairs and out to the motorcar. “They look just like all the rest he’s ever worn. Sam liked nice shirts, and it wasn’t vanity.” He searched for the right word. “He took pride in his appearance. And Ruth knew how to starch them.” There was almost a touch of envy. “Nan never could quite get it right.”

  But Banner’s mark wasn’t visible when Milford was wearing the Llangollen shirt. Blake had probably never seen it.

  “It’s a matter of thoroughness. I’m sure Mrs. Milford would be relieved to discover we’d made a mistake.” But he knew now that he hadn’t been wrong.

  They returned to the pub in silence. The wind had picked up, and overhead the stars were brilliant in the cold night sky. Rutledge had watched them spin across the horizon countless nights in the trenches, waiting for the next attack or still on edge from the last one. He looked back at the road as they went up the rise.

  “Why was the Milford house called The Mill?” he asked.

  “The Mill? There’s no mill in Crowley. Who told you that?”

  Rutledge let it go. Mrs. Milford might not have wished to give Banner the address of the pub or even a cottage. Perhaps The Mill sounded more like the home of a woman placing a large order.

  They had just walked through the side door when they met Ruth and Nan coming toward them.

  “I’m taking her home,” Nan said. “My house,” she amended. “She needs to be in bed with a hot water bottle and a little whisky to help her sleep.”

  “Yes, that’s for the best,” Rutledge agreed. “I will need to talk to her in the morning, when she’s a little stronger.”

  Donald regarded him. “Here. Were you thinking of staying the night in the inn?”

  “I believe there are rooms,” Rutledge replied as Hamish said quietly, “’Ware.” For there was something menacing now about Nan’s husband.

  “Best to move on,” he said. “You’ve done what you came for. You ca
n give me that doctor’s name and where he’s to be found. Nan and I’ll see to Ruthie. There’ve been rats in the bedrooms. They’re closed for the rat catcher to come. That’s what sickened Will. The rats. There’s a good inn two villages on. The train comes in there.”

  “Donald—” Ruth began, but he ignored her.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Rutledge replied. “But this isn’t finished. I’ll take my chances with the rats.” There had been colonies of them in the trenches.

  Ruth Milford said, wearily, “Donald doesn’t want it to be Sam. Any more than I do. But it must be—he was wearing my shirt. The one I had made up for him when he came home.”

  “You can’t be sure—” Blake said sharply.

  “I can. I ordered it from a tailor. As a surprise. And no, it was my own money, it didn’t come from the pub.” To Rutledge she added, “Nan and Donald want to sell up and move away from here. Sam and I wanted to stay, I was hoping to buy them out, but they can’t leave me now, not to run the pub on my own. Not if Sam is dead.” Something changed suddenly in her face, and she went on with rising alarm, “Was—was Sam alone when he died? Was anyone with him?” It was the second time she’d asked. Was it the lover in Llangollen she was worrying about?

  “We don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, his coat slipping from her shoulders. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Surely—”

  “Ruthie—” Nan cut across her words.

  “So far, we haven’t found anyone who witnessed his fall. And until we do, we can’t be sure whether he was alone at the time or not.”

  Her face drained of what little color it had had. “I’ll want to know. You must tell me, as soon as you know.”

  “I promise,” he told her and retrieved his coat.

  And Nan led her to the door.

  Rutledge watched her go. “Is it far? I can drive them,” he said to Blake.

  “No.”

  “Then show me my room.”

  Blake opened his mouth to argue again, thought better of it, and turned toward the far side of the bar, where a door opened onto a staircase.

  They went up together, and Rutledge took the larger of the two rooms he was shown. Blake was about to leave him, but he asked, “I didn’t want to press Mrs. Milford. But she said something earlier that I didn’t understand. That it was about someone. Tildy?”

  Blake shook his head. “Best you ask Nan tomorrow.” And he was off down the stairs before Rutledge could reply.

  There were no rats in the night. But Hamish was waiting in the dark when Rutledge had retrieved his valise from the motorcar, undressed, and turned out the single lamp on the table by his bed.

  He was dressed and sitting in the bar working on his notes when Nan Blake came in with a tray with his breakfast on it.

  “Good morning,” he greeted her, rising. “That’s very thoughtful of you. How is your cousin this morning?”

  “She’s still sleeping. There were some powders left over when her mother was ill. I gave her one. It was the only way she could rest.” She began to lay out his food on the next table, away from his notebook and pen.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I need to ask a few questions that might upset her. For one,” he went on before she could object, “I was told that everyone thought Milford was in Shrewsbury. How did he go there and when?”

  “There are trains to Shrewsbury, two villages over. Donald took him in the dogcart.”

  “Was he wearing a heavy outer coat? A hat?”

  She glared at him. “Of course he was.”

  “And he was carrying a valise?”

  “Brown calf.”

  But none of these things had been found—neither hat, coat, nor valise.

  “When did he leave?”

  “Monday last.”

  That was almost two weeks ago, now. Time enough to reach the Telford Aqueduct.

  “And you are quite certain he went to Shrewsbury?”

  “Of course he did,” Nan snapped. “Sam wasn’t a liar. If he told us he was going to Shrewsbury, then he did.”

  “He had business there?”

  She answered him defensively. “There have been—issues—with our vendors. Well, credit issues, if you must know. He was hoping to persuade them that in the spring, custom here will pick up. There are attractions here—the Long Mynd, the Stiperstones, the ruins of the lead mine, and its village. There have been stories that the mine is haunted. And there’s the Devil’s Chair on the Stiperstones. People already come to Long Mynd. It’s not that far away.”

  “Was he meeting anyone in particular in Shrewsbury?”

  “No. Only with the bank and the brewery people. The shops we buy from. To be fair, Donald does it too, he’s been such a brick, and he’s even gone away to find work to help us when money was short. But there’s something about Sam that reassures people.” Her voice caught. “Reassured them. He could persuade them that the pub could go on for a long time.” And then, rounding on him, she made it plain why she had brought his breakfast. And it clearly wasn’t out of kindness.

  Standing before him, arms akimbo, she went on in a flat tone of voice. “You might tell Ruthie that Sam Milford fell down a Welsh mountain, where he had no reason to be in the first place. But I don’t believe a word of that. I want the truth, or Scotland Yard or not, I’m sending Donald for the Constable.”

  And so he told her. About the Telford Aqueduct, about the boy finding the body, about the condition of the dead man. He told her about the shirt and about the tattoo and what he could read in the ravaged face. But not about the officer with Ruth.

  “Once I saw the photograph, I could accept the very real possibility that the man in Dr. Evans’s surgery is Samuel Milford. I didn’t lie to your cousin. I told her the truth. Just not all of it. She was barely able to take in his death. I expected to give her the rest of the account today.”

  Nan sat ungracefully into the nearest chair, pale enough that he thought for a moment that she was going to faint or be quite sick.

  “Dear God,” she said finally, bringing herself to look at him for the first time since he’d given her the details. All he’d withheld was Banner’s account of the tall officer who had waited outside the tailor shop while Ruth Milford ordered a suit of clothes for her husband. That, he thought, was something he would ask Ruth Milford about when they were alone.

  He said nothing, letting her absorb the shock. Then she whispered, almost to herself, “He’s been dead a week? How did we not know? Not feel something was wrong?” She took a deep, unsteady breath, trying to rally, turning on him again. “If you tell my cousin how badly Sam was injured—how he must have died—you’ll answer to me. There will be no open coffin by the time we can bury him. She can think of him in there as she knew him when he left here on Monday last. He’ll want to be buried in his uniform. It’s in a chest under his bed. I’ll find it and press it properly. You can take it back with you to this Dr. Evans, and see that the undertakers have it.”

  “I will agree to that, if you’ll tell me why Mrs. Milford felt that she was to blame for her husband’s death. Had they quarreled? Did she feel that she had driven him to leave by something she’d done?”

  “To blame? No, of course not, she did nothing of the sort.” She was indignant now, and yet as she continued, he had the feeling that she was choosing her words carefully. “She’s had a very—unhappy life. Not in her marriage, mind you. Sam made her very happy. But she feels that her own troubles have spilled over on her family. That Sam must have died because she did love him so much. That we’ve all been through all manner of hardships because she wants to keep the pub in the family. Donald wants better opportunities—you can’t blame him, he didn’t grow up in Crowley. He doesn’t have the same feeling about it. But now Sam is gone—” She shrugged, unable to finish the sentence. “We’ll grow old and die here, like her mum and dad. But that’s because the lead mine is closing. It isn’t because of Ruthie.”

  “Do you know an
yone who might wish Sam Milford harm? Who might wish to see him dead?”

  Her gaze focused on his face, a frown forming between her brown eyes. “What are you asking me?”

  “We found his body, but we didn’t find his hat or his winter coat or his valise. The question is, where are they? Why did he go to Wales, if he had told you he was only going as far as Shrewsbury? What happened in Shrewsbury? Why did he leave there?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m here in Crowley not only to be sure of his identification, but to begin the search for answers surrounding his death. It’s very likely, given the circumstances, that Milford was murdered.”

  5

  Nan Blake had been shocked by the suggestion that Sam Milford had been a victim of murder. She told him roundly that Sam wasn’t a troublemaker, he wasn’t the sort of man to stir up people or cause problems. “Donald is the opposite, he doesn’t think, he brings trouble down on himself. That’s why Sam went to Shrewsbury instead.”

  “Did you expect him to be gone this long?”

  “Sometimes—it’s hard when you must beg for help. For faith in the pub when there’s so little hope left. The longer he was away, the more we worried that this time he wouldn’t find the money we need. We thought—we thought no one was willing to listen, and he was still trying. It would be like Sam, not to give up. Not to come back with nothing.” She found her handkerchief and blew her nose. “He couldn’t have been murdered. He came through the war, for God’s sake, with only a few cracked ribs to show for it. He didn’t know anyone in Wales. I don’t understand why he was even there.”

  “Where would he stay, when he went to Shrewsbury?”

  She named a small, inexpensive hotel near the Abbey. “It’s all he could afford. We could afford,” she amended.

  “How long did he expect to be in Shrewsbury?”

  “As long as necessary, he said. I’ve told you, sometimes it takes time, persuading people to listen when they only want what’s owed them. I went once, just before Sam and Donald were demobbed. And I got nowhere, because no one was willing to give money to a woman. ‘This isn’t London, you know,’” she ended, mimicking a banker or the owner of a firm. “We were so grateful when Donald came home, and then Sam followed him six weeks later. It was a miracle, having both of them come safely home. Now this.”