A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  “Yes, there was property in Shropshire that belonged to him, and I handled his will and the sale of his house after his death.”

  “What provisions did he make for his daughter from the first marriage?”

  “He left money to have her privately cared for. He blamed his first wife for Susan’s state of mind. She killed herself—the first Mrs. Milford—and the child found her hanging in the kitchen, when she came home from school for her midday meal. It scarred her, according to her father, and there was no turning back the clock. But he refused to have her admitted to an asylum, because he didn’t feel it would help her. Instead he looked after her until he died.” He rearranged a letter opener lying beside the blotter. The handle was in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. Noticing Rutledge’s interest, he held it up. It was heavy brass and very beautifully made. “A gift from my son after a brief leave in Paris. He knew I’d followed the building of the tower with some interest. I’d wanted to be an engineer, but my father had insisted I join the family’s firm. But that’s neither here nor there. Apparently the first Mrs. Milford was unstable as well. Perhaps the daughter had inherited that. And the sight of her mother hanging brought on what might not have made an appearance, in a happier home.”

  “What reason was given for her suicide?”

  “I was told she never really recovered her health after childbirth.”

  Preparing to take his leave, Rutledge said, “I’ll speak to—” He referred to the sheet. “To Inspector Fenton. Meanwhile, I can be reached through the Yard, if you remember anything else that might help. You don’t have any way of contacting Susan Milford?”

  “Sadly none. And the police never found her. Mr. Milford—her brother, not her father—always feared she’d follow in her mother’s footsteps and take her own life. That her disappearance was indicative of that.”

  Hastings saw him out. Rutledge returned to the motorcar and sat in it for several minutes before getting out again to turn the crank.

  Hamish said, “It was no’ what ye expected, coming here.”

  “Not at all.” He closed his eyes and went on silently. They should have told me about Matilda. I wonder why they were satisfied to let me believe she was dead. Even though they’re still searching for her. Dear God, this explains Milford’s friendship with Dora. The brewery manager’s sister. She’s been working with orphaned children. Did Milford hope that whoever had taken Tildy might dispose of her as an orphan, rather than kill her? A body would lead to the police, a reopening of the case, a hunt for her murderer, while one more orphan in need of care wouldn’t raise any questions or suspicion at all. But did that mean he believed his wife had got rid of her own daughter? Was that why he didn’t take her into his confidence about Dora—or Wales? What did he know that we don’t?

  Hamish replied thoughtfully, “Aye, but see it anither way. If yon widow had an eye for Milford, it would ha’ been easy for her to dispose of the lass and put blame on the mother.”

  I’m not certain Milford knew Mrs. Radley before Tildy’s disappearance. But it was worth looking into.

  Rutledge found Inspector Fenton’s house easily enough, following the directions given him by the solicitor. It was a semidetached, in a street of similar dwellings. Well kept, with stone vases on the steps and a small garden, still dormant, in the circle of the drive.

  He left his motorcar on the street, and as he went up the short walk, he saw that several of the first-floor windows were inset with stained glass in various patterns in the style of the Pre-Raphaelites.

  When he knocked, there was no response.

  He knocked again, and then a man opened the door the merest crack. He was of middle height, portly, and hadn’t shaved in days. His clothes were stained, appearing to have been slept in.

  “And you want?” he asked, his voice a little slurred. But Rutledge could smell the whisky on his breath and in his sweat.

  “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’m in charge of an inquiry into a death in Wales.” He’d kept his voice neutral. “It may have some connection with the disappearance of Tildy Milford.”

  Fenton’s eyes suddenly focused on Rutledge’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “We don’t know why her father was in Wales. It’s possible that he was searching for her, and his search led him there. His death is being treated as suspicious.”

  Fenton shook his head, as if to clear it. “Sam Milford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come back tomorrow, when I can think straight.” And he shut the door before Rutledge could stop him.

  He knocked again, but no one came. Finally he went back to his motorcar, and found the police station where Fenton had been assigned.

  He asked for Inspector Carson, showing his identification to the new man on the desk.

  The Constable said, “Sir. Is this a courtesy call or Yard business?”

  “Yard business.” Something in his voice told the young Constable that the London policeman was not to be put off.

  He led the way down a short passage to a door on the right.

  “Sir? Inspector Rutledge to see you. From the Yard.”

  Carson had been sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, reviewing a file. He looked up, saw Rutledge in the doorway, and stood, reaching for his coat.

  Rutledge put his age down to his early thirties, and the scar that ran from his neck into his hair looked very much like a shrapnel wound. “Come in. Trying to catch up on station files. Sit down, do.”

  Rutledge took one of the chairs in front of the cluttered desk as Carson resumed his own seat, set aside the open file, and asked, “How can we assist Scotland Yard?”

  Rutledge repeated what he’d told Inspector Fenton. “I wonder if you can help me with the background?”

  Carson shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t arrive on the scene until that August. I was demobbed in the spring, and spent several weeks in hospital. Still have my left leg, but its mate wouldn’t recognize it in broad daylight. Still, it’s healing. More scars than flesh, sad to say, although I can walk now. So far I haven’t been required to chase down a felon.”

  Rutledge laughed with him. “What matters is that you survived the war.”

  “Damned near didn’t. Ran afoul of a Hun machine-gun nest as they retreated north. Lost seven men before I could get a grenade in amongst them. Then I lost consciousness and woke up in a base hospital near the coast. Apparently they got me there by train. It was all that saved my leg. But you aren’t here to discuss my medical history. Inspector Fenton dealt with that inquiry. Everyone in the station was unsettled by the disappearance. She was such a lovely little girl, by all accounts, bright red hair and green eyes. Cheerful, smiling, the sort of child anyone stopped to admire. The entire village turned out to search, and we brought in men from every corner of the county, everyone who could be spared.”

  “Why do you think she was taken?”

  “Well, that’s a good question, isn’t it? Fenton considered the mother, who had the best opportunity to dispose of her. He also wondered if someone passing through, dining or staying at the inn, might have seen her. The problem was, the mother had no motive. She seemed to dote on the child. And so did Milford. He wasn’t the father, you know. But he took the child to his heart, according to Fenton, and treated her as his own flesh and blood.”

  “What do you mean, Milford wasn’t Tildy’s father?”

  “She was a little over a year old when he came home from France. Ruth Milford claimed she met Milford in London and the child was conceived then. But Fenton couldn’t find any record of her husband having been given leave early in 1917. According to the file, Fenton suspected she’d had an affair. Of course, it could have been something else, something worse.”

  “Rape?”

  “Fenton sent requests out all over Shropshire, Cheshire—as far away as Gloucestershire, and there is no record of an incident involving Ruth.”

  “Did Fenton search under her maiden name?”

  Carson sho
ok his head. “No luck there either. One theory was, she was jealous of her husband’s love for a child that wasn’t his and got rid of her. Or alternatively, Milford himself only pretended to care for Matilda, planning to be rid of her as soon as he could. Neither motive could be proved.”

  Rutledge said, “The family told me nothing about this. Nor did their neighbors.”

  “The neighbors don’t know. It’s a well-kept family secret. But they loved the little girl. And they went through hell, Rutledge. The entire village. The loss, the finger-pointing, the mystery that left everyone guessing. I expect it wasn’t something they wished to relive.”

  “This changes the inquiry. It’s no longer just about Milford’s death. Was he in Llangollen to find out what happened there to his wife? Or was he looking for his child? Or both?”

  “Mrs. Milford had no connection with the town, as far as we know.”

  But she had. And kept it to herself.

  Then how had Milford found out? The shirt? But Banner would surely have told him if Milford had been there earlier, asking questions . . .

  Carson was saying, “It nearly killed Fenton. This business. He’d lost a son to cancer at Matilda’s age. He wanted to find her alive. And when he failed, he started to drink heavily. Fortunately, he was old enough to retire. We let him take his pension and leave.” He sighed. “A great many people spent a great deal of time searching, and we turned up nothing. I reviewed the reports when I took over, and I couldn’t fault a single thing that Fenton did to find her.”

  “Do you think she’s alive?”

  “God, I don’t know. How was she taken, with no one seeing it happen? Who wanted her and for what? Lost children can suffer any number of fates. You know that, and so do I. Someone could have taken her to use or to sell. Or perhaps to replace a child lost. I’m told some women are so disturbed by a child dying that they will do anything to stop the pain. Speak to Fenton. He’s lived with this inquiry longer than I have.”

  Rutledge thanked him and left.

  He’d seen Fenton. The man was still drinking. And Rutledge had his doubts about the reliability of Fenton’s memory, if this had been going on for nearly a year.

  Still, it would be worthwhile to call on him tomorrow, to see what he remembered about the inquiry. There was always something that was never put into the reports. He himself had been guilty of that, keeping secrets that didn’t need to be exposed, protecting the innocent who had already suffered enough, leaving no word of doubt that might linger and be used to cause trouble later for the dead. He had stayed with the evidence, cold hard proof where there was no question of guilt. There were any number of reasons to use discretion.

  At ten the next morning, Rutledge knocked at the door of the Fenton house, without much hope of finding the man sober enough to speak to him, regardless of what he’d said about the morrow.

  There was a long wait, going far toward supporting his reservations.

  But then the door opened, and Fenton looked out at him.

  “I’m not as sober as I’d hoped to be,” he said. “But you’ll have to make do with that.”

  He’d bathed and shaved, his clothing was neat and tidy. But his face reflected the effort he’d made. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and his left hand shook as it gripped the edge of the door.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Rutledge replied.

  Moving back, Fenton allowed him to step into the foyer, then took him to a room in the rear of the house that had once been his study. It reeked of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol and food.

  “This is where I live,” Fenton was saying. “My wife refuses to allow me in any other part of the house. I’m not against that decision. I’m neither good company nor a good husband. She’s out at the moment. Some church meeting or other.” There was something behind the words, a flatness and despair. As though he had lost his faith.

  He moved a pile of newspapers from a chair and gestured to Rutledge to sit down. “I’d offer you tea. But I’m not allowed in the kitchen.”

  Rutledge glanced at the newspapers spilled onto the floor. They were nearly a year old.

  “What’s your interest in the Milford case? I don’t remember if you told me yesterday. My memory isn’t at its best.”

  Rutledge said, “Sam Milford appears to have been murdered in Wales. I was dispatched by Scotland Yard to look into the death, and it’s very likely that his fall from the Telford Aqueduct was not an accident. There were no witnesses, and the body had no identification. I am told that his family believed he was in Shrewsbury this past week, on business related to financial problems at The Pit and The Pony pub.”

  “Sam is dead?” Fenton stared blankly at Rutledge. “Good God.” He’d moved to the only other chair in the middle of the chaos, this time setting a tray of food on the floor—a half-eaten breakfast. “I couldn’t swallow it,” he added apologetically. “And the maid hasn’t come yet to collect it.” Frowning in concentration, he said, “You said no identification. How did you trace Sam?”

  “He was wearing a shirt that his wife had bought for him to have when the war was finally over. It had a label that I was able to trace to a tailor. He was a careful shop owner, and kept records of clients who might wish to do more business with him. That’s how I found Ruth Milford in Crowley.”

  “That was good work,” Fenton said approvingly.

  “While I was informing Mrs. Milford of her husband’s likely murder, I was told by everyone that the Milfords had lost a daughter. I took that to mean that she had died in childhood. It wasn’t until I was speaking to Mr. Hastings, the family’s solicitor, that I learned the truth—that Tildy had gone missing. And no one knows what became of her. I spoke to Inspector Carson, your successor, and he told me about the efforts you’d made to find the child. That too was good work.”

  Fenton looked away. “Hardly. We never found her.” There was something in his voice that indicated the pain of his failure.

  “You had a personal connection to the case?” He already knew the answer. But it was important to him to understand what had driven Fenton to try so hard, and then destroy his own life by drinking himself to death.

  Fenton sighed. “I thought I’d put it behind me. Years ago. I had to, I had a wife and another child to support. I lost my son to cancer. We had the best doctors, we did everything that was humanly possible to save him. We prayed for him until we were hoarse. And we never left his bedside until it was over. It was the worst week of my life. I am not sure why the disappearance of little Tildy brought that back to me so vividly, but it did.” He got up and went to his desk, shuffling through papers in one of the drawers.

  “I had a copy made. Mrs. Blake had shown me the film negative. This is Tildy Milford.” He brought the photograph to Rutledge and stood there while he looked at it.

  She was sitting on a table, a white cloth with embroidered flowers—lilacs? He couldn’t be sure—covering it. She was wearing a pastel dress. He could tell because it wasn’t as white as the cloth. It too had a pattern of flowers, these around the throat and hem.

  He’d expected an extraordinarily pretty child. But Tildy had a sweet face, a smile that was charming, and eyes that were alight with happiness. Her hair was curly, not quite blond, not quite dark. He’d been told it was a bright red. There was a ribbon in it, apparently the same shade as the dress.

  “It was her birthday. She’d had cake and gifts, and she’d enjoyed all the attention. This according to Nancy Blake. I’ve never seen Tildy, you understand. Just this photograph. But I have one of my son, a very similar pose, just after his second birthday. There was something—that same expression in the eyes, that joy, that sweetness—it took my breath away. When I came home, I took out the photograph of Jonathan, to make certain I hadn’t imagined that expression. I hadn’t. And all the pain I’d fought my way through came rushing back. Twenty-seven years after he’d died. I swore I’d find Tildy. That I’d bring her home safely. And in spite of everything I could thin
k to do, I failed.”

  A silence followed. Rutledge said nothing. I’m sorry seemed trite.

  Fenton struggled to cope with his own emotional confession, then said in a very different voice, “You must understand. I let none of these feelings in any way affect my judgments or decisions. I kept a clear head. But driving me day and night was that memory.”

  It was the policeman speaking now, not the grieving father.

  “You questioned Ruth Milford relentlessly. Why?”

  “She was shocked and terrified by what had happened. But there was something—I felt she hadn’t been completely honest about something. I never could put my finger on what it was. I even considered the possibility that the child had died, and because she knew how much Sam loved the little girl, she had tried to conceal it. Disposing of the body so that the finality of death was never acknowledged, although by the end of the inquiry and the inquest, some of us believed Tildy must have been dead.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t need to tell you what can happen to children. None of it good. And there were no sightings, nothing at all. Red-haired children with green eyes aren’t that common. That might be why she was taken. She was unusual. And she caught the eye of someone.”

  “Did you check everyone who had come to the pub?”

  “We couldn’t possibly have traced all of them. But yes, everyone who had stayed the night there and could have seen her. Her parents were proud of her, they didn’t keep her at home with a nanny while they were working at The Pit and The Pony, they let her play in a little pen they set up by the hearth. And that might have been her undoing. But no one we managed to trace had any reason to harm her. All of them had alibis and no motive we could establish.”

  “Still, they might have told someone. Without realizing what they might have set in motion by doing so.”

  “And how do you trace those people? It’s impossible.”

  “What about the villagers?”

  “That went nowhere. Half of them didn’t have real alibis. One was ironing in her kitchen, another working at his father’s farm in full view of his mother. Another was having a quiet nap after his lunch. Again, we couldn’t find a motive. Nothing that would make a neighbor harm the child. We considered covetousness, revenge for some slight, even viciousness and unnatural desire.”