by Charles Todd
“I gather neither Blake nor Milford is from Crowley.”
“Donald is from Ludlow. Sam grew up in Chester. He came to Shropshire to look at a bit of property his parents had left him. Ruth was in Shrewsbury to take care of some business for her father. This was in 1912. Both of them had to sit and wait for over an hour in the solicitor’s office until he’d finished speaking to another client. They talked, and after the solicitor had seen the other man out and was apologizing for the delay, Sam asked him to introduce them. Then he turned to Ruth and asked if she’d have tea with him afterward. It was a good match.”
Nan went away soon after, leaving him to finish his now-cold breakfast in peace, telling Rutledge that she must talk to her husband. “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered. I don’t quite know how to think about Sam being killed.”
He spent the rest of the morning walking through Crowley, speaking to the other residents, moving from house to house, keeping his questions simple.
Word hadn’t spread yet that Sam Milford was dead, much less murdered. The Blakes apparently hadn’t told anyone else, and Ruth Milford was still in a drugged sleep.
As he was about to begin with the nearest cottage, Hamish said, “It’s possible it was of a purpose, gie’ing her yon drugs.”
“We’ll know the answer to that soon enough. Either she wakes by noon, of her own accord, or you are right, the Blakes have a reason to keep her where I can’t question her.”
A family by the name of Baker lived in the first cottage he visited, an older man and his wife in the next, and a widow in the third. He could see how difficult life must be for these people, whom progress had left behind. Most didn’t have the money to move on, like the Blakes, while others clung to the only world they knew, waiting for a miracle.
They had known that Milford had gone to Shrewsbury—they had seen him leave with Blake in the dogcart—and they were shrewd enough to guess why such a trip was necessary. As for the length of time Milford had been gone, they had put it down to difficulties he’d encountered, for as Mr. Baker had bitterly informed Rutledge, “If the mines hadn’t begun to run out of lead, none of this would have happened. The bankers and the brewers, they’d be at the door to welcome you and ask how much you needed. Now it’s just the opposite, they don’t want to talk to you. But Sam was never one to give up, was he?”
They professed surprise that something had happened to him. It was clear that they liked the man, and everyone had asked how Ruthie was holding up under the news of his death.
Rutledge answered their questions but quickly realized that no one in Crowley held a grudge against Milford. If anything, his return from the war had offered hope. He had been in a way a natural leader, in a hamlet where no one knew how to take the lead.
“You never noticed how short he was, once you got used to it,” another man told Rutledge. “There was something about him, a strength. You knew you could trust him.”
And a woman had said, “He was shorter than Ruthie, you know. But he was more of a man than her cousin’s husband, wasn’t he? He was the best thing that could have happened to her, Sam was. I don’t know how she will go on without him.”
Which made it all the more a mystery why Sam Milford had been in Wales instead of pleading his case in Shrewsbury. As far as anyone knew, he had neither family nor connections over the border.
By the time he’d reached the last cottage but one, Rutledge had already realized that his next course of action was to trace Milford’s movements in Shrewsbury. And then a Mrs. Esterly, a widow, came to the door, peered up at him over her spectacles, and said, “I’ve watched you making your way here. And I’m curious to know why. Do come in, young man. The parlor is just there.”
It was as feminine as a lady’s boudoir. Lace-edged curtains, delicate china figurines on every flat surface, fringed shawls in pastel colors spread over every piece of furniture.
As soon as Rutledge had introduced himself, Mrs. Esterly gave him no opportunity to say more, leaping in with her own eager questions.
“Will is my nephew. I’ve heard about poor Sam. Such a tragedy. Tell me, will Ruth stay in Crowley, now, do you think? Keep The Pit and The Pony open?”
“I don’t think she’s in any frame of mind to think about the future,” he answered.
“Well, even if she tries, she’s bound to lose it. I don’t see how she can manage on her own. The poor dear. Life hasn’t been kind to her. And Nan will surely persuade her to give up the struggle. Ruth will miss The Pit and The Pony. And what will the rest of us do?”
He made some polite answer, but Mrs. Esterly went on asking questions, not always giving him an opportunity to respond. Lonely and alone, she was making the most of her audience, even offering him tea to keep him there a little longer when she feared he was about to leave.
Refusing the offer as courteously as he could, he was looking for an opening to thank her for helping in his inquiries when a name popped up in her rambling monologue that caught his attention.
“Of course, she hasn’t been the same since that business about Tildy,” Mrs. Esterly was saying, changing directions. “Such a tragedy. I’ve never understood the whole story. But I’ve heard from Mrs. Warren that Ruth blames herself. Although I can’t see how. It wasn’t her doing, was it?”
Mrs. Warren lived in the sixth house with her brother. She hadn’t mentioned Tildy.
But Ruth Milford had last night. Several times . . .
And Blake had told Rutledge to speak to Nan. But there had been no opportunity at breakfast.
“Who is Tildy?” he asked, interrupting the flow of words more sharply than he’d intended.
“Her little daughter, of course.” As if he should know without asking. “Matilda. She was named after Ruth’s mother. Such a pretty little thing. Sam adored her, you could see that in the way he carried on about her. The apple of his eye, he said more than once. But that was Sam Milford for you, such a good father.”
Rutledge searched his memory. There had been no signs of a child in the Milford house . . .
“And what became of Tildy?”
“Didn’t Ruth tell you? But then she’d have been too upset about Sam dying like that, off in the wilds of Wales, where there was no one of his own with him as he drew his last breath? I can understand that—I expect I’ll be alone when my time comes. I’ve tried to accept that, but it’s hard.”
Ruth had also asked if Sam had been alone at the end—
“Was Tildy with him?” Rutledge asked. Then what had become of her? Why hadn’t they found a child wandering about without a parent?
It was a disturbing prospect.
“No. Oh, goodness, no. Didn’t anyone tell you? She lost Tildy almost a year ago. Such a tragedy that was. And the way it happened. I’m sure I don’t know how Ruth kept her sanity after that.”
A dead child, then.
“She blamed herself?” That might well explain why she believed she was at fault in her husband’s death as well.
“Oh, yes. Sam was distraught over Tildy, but he was trying to keep Ruth from killing herself in her anguish.”
“Literally killing herself?” he asked, frowning.
“I wouldn’t have been surprised. No, not at all. But she couldn’t eat nor sleep, nor find any peace. Like a wild soul, she was. I never saw anything like it. Donald and Nan, upset as they were, had to manage the pub without her or Sam. He sat by her, night after night, comforting her as best he could. I heard he feared she’d lose her reason. Do you have children, Inspector? No? Then you won’t know how they suffered. But I saw it, and I can tell you, it was pitiful. But then Tildy was so young. Only two and a half. How can anyone not grieve over such a dear little girl?”
He extricated himself from Mrs. Esterly’s house with some difficulty, spoke to the family in the last house in the village, then walked back to the pub.
Hamish was saying, “A wasted morning. Ye havena’ learned anything that would shed light on the dead man’s reasons for tra
veling to Wales.”
“I’ve learned enough about his character to wonder why he was pushed off the Aqueduct. Was there a side to Sam Milford that no one in Crowley saw?”
But there was no answer to that.
The pub was open when he got there, as the tall thin man by the name of Will had recovered sufficiently to take charge while Ruth and the Blakes grieved.
He looked up as Rutledge walked in. “The man from London?” he asked, as if there were dozens of strangers wandering about.
“Rutledge,” he answered, nodding.
“The cooker’s up. A cup of tea and maybe a sandwich?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He took off his coat, tossed it over the back of a chair, then sat down at the bar. “You were under the weather last night?”
“I get these thundering headaches sometimes. Even opening my eyes to the light makes me worse. I just lie in a dark room until the pain has passed.” He shrugged. “I haven’t had one since late February. Ruthie understands.” Bringing a cloth out from under the bar, he wiped at an invisible spot. “I can’t believe Sam is gone.”
“I’m told he went to Shrewsbury. About pub supplies.”
“Aye, the brewery was threatening to cut us off. What’s a pub without drink? I ask you!” He put the cloth away.
Commiserating, Rutledge smiled. “Not a happy place. But then I’m told that your custom has fallen off?”
“You’ve seen Crowley. How much can so few people drink? All the young ones have gone off to war and not come back. I was wounded outside Ypres—there’s a bit of brass in my back still. It causes terrible spasms. Doctor says it might be the reason for my headaches. Pressure on the spine.” He shook his head. “I’m one of the lucky ones, they tell me. I survived. But it’s hard to forget the war when one wrong move sets me off.”
“Live here, do you?” He’d stopped at every house, but he hadn’t seen Will. Only his aunt.
“My dad owns a farm outside Crowley. What I make here helps out my family there. When the mine was operating, neither my dad nor the pub could keep up, the demand was so great. All those miners? A hungry and thirsty lot.” With a nod, he went into the kitchen to fill Rutledge’s order.
He limped heavily. And Rutledge thought there was more than a bit of brass from a shell in his back. Very likely there had been a machine gunner’s bullet in his knee as well.
Following Will as far as the kitchen doorway, Rutledge asked, “Was there any other reason why Sam might have gone to Shrewsbury?”
“Not that I know of. He never mentioned any to me. But then I don’t understand why he was in Wales when he died. Are you sure the dead man is Sam?”
“Certain enough to ask questions.”
“I thought—Nan said you’d come to break the news.”
“A policeman always has questions. We aren’t sure ourselves what took him to Wales.”
Will grunted. “Knowing Sam, he was likely to be helping someone.”
“All the way to Wales?”
“All the same, I’ll wager that’s what’s happened.”
“Have you seen Mrs. Milford this morning?”
“She was in a while ago. To return the cellar keys. That’s when she told me. I was that shocked.”
“Then I’ll speak to her myself. Is she still staying with the Blakes?”
“I expect so.”
But when Rutledge got there, he discovered that Ruth had gone home. It was only next door. He walked across and knocked.
She came to open the door herself, pale and unsteady still, but more in command. “I’d hoped you’d gone,” she said, stepping aside to allow him to enter.
The front room was comfortable, but showed the lack of resources to keep it up. The carpet was worn in places, and the furnishings were of a style popular in King Edward’s day.
“I’ll be leaving shortly. For Shrewsbury. I’m taking your husband’s photograph with me, but I’ll return it as soon as possible.”
“I wish you wouldn’t take it.” She didn’t ask him to sit. “Nan told me—you believe Sam didn’t fall by accident. You believe he was murdered.” He could see the hurt in her eyes as she took a deep breath. “You’ve got it all wrong, you know. That isn’t Sam in Wales. When you look at him again, you’ll see that. It’s the only reason I am willing to let his photograph out of my sight.”
He didn’t argue with her. Instead he promised, “I’ll see that nothing happens to it.”
“Why would anyone harm Sam? It makes no sense,” she went on, brushing a tendril of her dark red hair back into place. “I can’t get the thought of it out of my mind.”
Rutledge asked, “Do you know anyone in Llangollen, Mrs. Milford? Friends or family that your husband might have visited—perhaps to ask for help to keep the pub afloat?”
She flushed. “No. I don’t have any family in Wales.”
“Perhaps your husband has relatives there—or friends from the Bantams.”
“He wouldn’t leave Shrewsbury without telling me his plans. Don’t you see, you’ve upset our lives for nothing. Sam will be home today or tomorrow.”
But even as she said it, he could see that she only half believed any of it. It was a way of putting off the inevitable, putting off facing having to accept her husband’s death for a few more days.
“Mr. Banner—the tailor where you had clothes made up for your husband—saw you with another man. An officer, who waited for you outside the shop. And you told the tailor you were in the town to visit with friends.”
“He’s mistaken,” she said harshly. “How could he be sure of such a trivial thing as that? After all these years? He must have had dozens of people in and out of his shop since then.”
“Then why were you there?”
“I took a brief holiday. It was after my mother’s last illness. I was tired, upset, I needed to get away. Even for a few days. I went to school in Shrewsbury, I know people there, and I didn’t want to be reminded of my loss.”
“There are many towns closer than Llangollen. Why there?” he persisted.
“I told you, it was an escape,” she retorted, angry now. “Just an escape.”
He let it go, knowing she felt cornered and wasn’t likely to tell him more.
“I’ll need to speak to your family solicitor. Can you give me his direction?”
“He’s in Shrewsbury. Hastings and Hastings. Anyone can tell you how to find his chambers. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be left alone.”
Shrewsbury was not that far away, less than twenty miles to the north of Crowley, and he made good time despite the state of the roads. The town had been built in a loop of the River Severn, making it almost an island. Walls were added to its defenses, and a castle guarded the only way in by land, but the great Norman abbey had been built outside that protected perimeter. Rutledge passed it on his way across the English Bridge.
He spent the first hour and a half canvassing the breweries there. Although it was Saturday, there was always someone in the office willing to speak to him. But none of them had seen Sam Milford in several weeks.
“Nigh on a month now,” one brewer told Rutledge. “Unlike him not to stop in when he’s here.”
At his last call—at the Old Salop Brewery, in Chester Street—Andrew Clark, the manager, was just leaving when Rutledge found the office. He was told that Milford had stopped by early one morning almost a fortnight ago, but on other business, nothing to do with the pub. Clark added, “He’d hoped to speak to my sister. She’s a patron of the local orphanage, and she was away last week, collecting a child from a farm east of here. Father dead, mother unable to carry on. Sad business. But Dora is up to it. She adores children, but has none of her own. Husband died on the Somme. Matthew Radley, that was. Fine man. Fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
Clark shrugged. “It’s my hope that she’ll find someone and marry again. But she won’t even consider it.”
“In her own time, perhaps?”
“Yes, I expect so. But
you’d think—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Why was Milford interested in speaking to her?”
“He lost a child, you know. It’s been good for him, taking an interest in the little ones. And it’s been good for Dora too, I expect.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “But back to what brought you here, Mr. Rutledge. You might go to Crowley. Sam is sure to be home by now.”
Rutledge thanked him and left without telling him that Milford was dead. It served no purpose, Clark would learn of it soon enough, but he didn’t want the news running ahead of him before he’d finished his search.
He was halfway to the hotel where Milford usually stayed when he remembered.
Ruth Milford had said, It was about Tildy. It’s always about Tildy.
In spite of what Clark had told him—Dora, after all, was his sister—had Sam Milford had an affair with her? Drawn together by their love of children and their sense of loss? He for a child, she for her husband? Grief could create a strong bond that might change into love.
And that put a different perspective on Ruth Milford’s relationship with her husband. Still, he had died in Wales, a long way from Crowley.
Hamish said, “Aye—but there’s the officer who was wi’ her in Llangollen, and that’s no’ verra far from yon Aqueduct.”
“True enough.” He answered aloud, and then cursed himself. But would a man she hadn’t seen in several years kill for her? It was hard to believe, although in Rutledge’s experience at the Yard, stranger things had happened. Or had Ruth killed to be with him?
“Aye,” Hamish said, picking up on the thought, “so far, yon officer and yon tailor are the only connection between Llangollen and Crowley.”
How would the officer have recognized Milford? His size alone was not enough. Unless he knew when to expect Milford—and where he might be staying. But turn it around the other way. Milford had gone in search of the officer, and met his match, killed in self-defense . . .