A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  “Did he ever mention his sister to you?”

  “I never knew he had a sister. But then we were talking about the recent past most of the time. Mine or his. I expect it never came up.”

  “Then it’s very unlikely that you would know if he had enemies, someone he disliked, or perhaps someone who disliked him?”

  “In the war, I think, there was something that happened. He said once that he’d done things that haunted him, but he’d got one decision right, even if he’d paid a dear price for it.”

  “Did he tell you what that decision was?” God knew, he himself had done things that haunted him. He couldn’t stand in judgment of Sam Milford.

  “He wouldn’t tell me. He hadn’t even told his wife.” She looked away. “Soon after that, he asked me about Oswestry.”

  “What was his interest in Oswestry?” It was an English market town almost on the Welsh border. The town where Ruth Milford had gone to a funeral, and Fenton had wondered if that was where she’d been assaulted. It was also on the road to Llangollen . . . “Was it connected to what he might have done in the war?”

  “I-I’m not really sure. He was looking to find someone he could trust there. Someone he could speak to. And, of course, my first thought was that he was asking if there was someone like me in the town, someone who looked after orphans. He laughed and said it had to do with the pub. But that couldn’t be true, could it? They’d never deliver as far away as Crowley. Still, I did give him the name of a dairy farmer just outside of the town, a man related to a friend. And the next few times he came to Shrewsbury, he’d spend only a day or two here on pub affairs, then go to Oswestry.”

  Sam Milford was searching for Tildy’s father . . .

  Did he believe he’d had something to do with the child’s disappearance?

  Rutledge found a garage and topped up his petrol, then set out for Oswestry, some twenty miles or so northwest of Shrewsbury. But the dairy farm was just north of the town, and he had a little trouble finding it.

  The owner, one Ted Brewster, was washing down the milking shed. A herd of black-and-white cows waited at the yard gate, ready to come in. A few were lowing, but most of them were quietly standing there.

  Rutledge had seen him as he drove down the farm lane and passed between the main barn and the milking shed. The farmer had looked up, begun to stow away the hose pipe he’d been using, and was standing by the entrance to the shed as Rutledge drew up and stepped out of the motorcar.

  Underfoot the yard was muddy and unspeakable. He had had the foresight to put his Wellingtons in the well of the passenger’s seat and quickly changed his boots before walking over to meet Brewster.

  He gave his name, used Dora’s as his reference, and added, “I believe you know a man I’m looking for. Sam Milford.”

  The farmer’s Shropshire accent was so thick Rutledge had trouble at first understanding him.

  “I know him. Why are you looking for him?

  “I was just in Shrewsbury, and I was told I’d missed him, he’d gone on to Oswestry. I knew him in the war.”

  “You don’t look much like a Bantam,” Brewster said, surveying Rutledge’s height.

  He laughed. “I was in another regiment, but our paths crossed. A good man, Sam. I was coming north, he’d always told me that he would welcome a visit. I stopped in Crowley, as well. If I don’t find him soon, I’m afraid I’ll miss him altogether. I thought perhaps he stayed with you whenever he was in town?”

  “Farm’s too far out. Sent him to my sister. She has a spare room to let.”

  “Is he staying there?” Rutledge tried to put excitement and enthusiasm into his voice. “We can dine together tonight, and I can get on my way tomorrow.”

  “He’s not there. Spent one night with Betty, so she says, and then was off.”

  “Damn,” Rutledge said. “To Chester, I hope? That’s where I’m heading.”

  “Didn’t tell me. You’ll have to ask Betts.”

  Holding on to his patience, Rutledge said, “And where will I find her?”

  “Betty Turnbull.” He gave Rutledge her direction, but had to repeat it for him.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  “Didn’t help. Wasn’t here.”

  Rutledge splashed through the mud back to the motorcar while Brewster walked down to open the gate. The milk cows came through in orderly fashion, as if they knew their usual place in the shed. Reversing carefully, he turned back toward the town.

  He found Betty in a rowhouse, midway down the long street, and opened the gate into the little walled garden. Tapping at the door, he waited, and finally a woman answered. Her hair was darker, but otherwise she looked very much like her brother. “Mrs. Turnbull?”

  “Who’s wanting to know?”

  “I was at your brother’s farm just now,” he told her, and at once she glanced down at his feet and saw the muddy Wellingtons he was wearing. As if doubting his word. “Ted tells me that Sam Milford often stayed with you when he was in Oswestry.”

  “He does. Rents the room at the back. But he’s not here now. Left two weeks ago. You’ll find him back at home, like as not.”

  “I missed him there as well. Do you know where he might have gone? Chester? Wales?”

  “Doubt he’s going there. He’s been looking for someone in Oswestry. No name, no description to speak of. Red hair, he said. And a cleft chin. Needle in the hay, if you ask me.”

  Rutledge tried to recall the photograph of Tildy. Did she have a cleft chin? It wasn’t pronounced in the photograph, but she was very small, and those who knew her well might see it, even if the camera failed to capture it.

  Hamish said, “Or ye ken, Mrs. Milford made it up to satisfy her husband, when he asked what she remembered about the man who attacked her.”

  Ignoring the voice, Rutledge asked, “Did he tell you why he wished to find this person?” Had Milford been searching for Tildy—or her father? Or both?

  “He was collecting a debt. He said.”

  An interesting way of putting it, Rutledge thought, given the circumstances.

  “If he was looking for someone here, why did he leave Oswestry?”

  Hamish commented, jolting him, “Yon narrowboats wi’ their curtains at a’ the windows. A hundred orphans could be hidden inside, and no one the wiser.”

  She lifted a shoulder, a slight shrug, distancing herself from Milford’s decisions. “You must ask him when you find him. I needed the money, and so when he was staying here, I’d help him search. Two pairs of eyes were better than one, he said. Besides, I lived here, and nobody took any notice of me walking about day or night. I could have seen someone he’d missed.”

  “And did you?”

  She shook her head. “That bright a color isn’t usual. Most have darker red hair.”

  Auburn, like Ruth and her cousin. But then a child’s hair could darken. A schoolmate of his had been quite fair when he was seven, and then his hair began to darken until it was brown by the time he was twenty.

  “Were you looking for a man—or a child?”

  “It didn’t matter, he said. A long-lost cousin he was trying to find. Something to do with the family, he said. I didn’t care to pry. He paid me well. I was willing to help him.”

  “I wonder—Milford had borrowed a book from me—a small collection of poetry, Wings of Fire. It was signed by the author, and has sentimental value to me. I was going to ask him for it. As I’m here—do you know if it’s in his room?”

  “I don’t go in there. He’s paid for that room to the end of the month.” Her mouth tightened.

  She didn’t know him. He could see that she was not about to jeopardize what Milford was paying her by allowing a stranger to poke about. Whatever excuse he might offer. And he thought that as long as she believed Milford was alive, she wouldn’t touch his belongings herself.

  At the same time, he was not ready to tell her that Milford was dead. Not until he had learned as much as he could about the man’s movemen
ts in Oswestry and what had led him north to Llangollen.

  Tomorrow would do.

  He thanked her, and left.

  Rutledge had never been sent to Oswestry by the Yard, and the town had few visible treasures to offer visitors, beyond a rich history. But if he remembered correctly, this was the home of Wilfred Owen. Only a year or so younger than Rutledge, Owen had been killed toward the end of the war. But Rutledge had read some of Owen’s verse, as well as O.A. Manning’s, and had admired both.

  He spent what was left of the light walking through the town, finding an excuse to loiter here or there, searching for anyone with bright red hair. Looking into shop windows, standing on the motte and appearing to stare at what little was left of the ancient castle, strolling along Bailey Head market, even watching three women walking into St. Oswald’s on Church Street. But it was a cold afternoon, and most men were wearing hats or caps, while the few women about had on hats or covered their heads with a silk scarf against the chill.

  He hadn’t expected it to be easy to pick out hair color. Still, he noticed three people with red hair. The first was a boy of about seven, lagging behind his parents as they strolled down a quiet street. But the child’s eyes were brown, not green, even though his lopsided wool cap had revealed a forelock of bright red gold, and his face was a sea of gold freckles as he passed Rutledge and gave him a shy grin.

  On Curlew Street, he encountered a woman just leaving a friend’s house, pausing on the steps for a last word. A curling tendril of hair had escaped her very becoming hat, and he could see that it was red. He stopped to ask for directions, as an excuse to approach her. But her eyes were hazel, not green.

  The thin man just crossing another street wasn’t wearing a hat, his thick red hair blowing in the wind as he hurried on. He had a slight limp, but carried himself like a soldier. Rutledge easily caught up with him, only to realize on closer inspection that his coloring was darker, and he possessed a receding chin that had neither dimple nor cleft. It wasn’t possible to determine the color of his eyes, but he was too slight a figure to have taken on Sam Milford on the trestle over the River Dee and come out the winner, even with the advantage of a few more inches in height.

  Rutledge was beginning to understand just how difficult Milford’s search had been.

  Hamish said, “It’s late, the streets are nearly empty. Tomorrow if the day is fair, ye’ll have better luck.”

  But Rutledge wasn’t as certain. How many times had Milford been to Oswestry—and he’d had no luck? He’d moved on, finally, into Wales, and the Aqueduct. That was barely another twenty-some miles farther north. But what had led him there? What had he learned in Oswestry that had taken him to the boats? Betty Turnbull didn’t appear to know—or was keeping to herself anything she might have learned, helping Milford.

  “It’s no’ sich a great distance,” Hamish reminded him. “A narrowboat man could have family here, a brother—a cousin. And had come down for a visit. It’s no’ impossible.”

  It didn’t matter what Milford had discovered, he’d apparently abandoned Oswestry as a destination. And that had led to his death. The question now was, had someone followed him north, or had Milford’s unexpected appearance there suddenly presented a very real danger to someone with secrets?

  “Ye’ve come full circle,” Hamish told him.

  Rutledge spent Tuesday night in Oswestry. Traveling to the Aqueduct last week, at the start of the inquiry, he’d taken the main roads to the Dee. Now he preferred to follow Sam Milford, and look for any traces there might be of him along the way. That was best done in daylight.

  Still, after dinner at the inn where he’d found a room, he was restless and walked for two hours, finding himself at one point in front of Betty Turnbull’s rowhouse. It was late, there was only one light on, and that at a first-floor window. As he watched, it went out, and the house was pitched into darkness.

  She hadn’t known that Milford had gone north, instead of turning back toward Shrewsbury and then home. Or at least she denied knowing about the change in his plans. Which was it?

  Milford had paid her for her help in searching the town, and for a room at the rear of her house . . .

  What did he leave in that room that might be useful?

  Rutledge was just considering that when Hamish said softly, “’Ware.” As he’d so often done in the trenches on night watches, when his sharp hearing had caught a sound before Rutledge had picked it up.

  Rutledge wheeled to find a burly man coming toward him.

  “Evening,” he said, but Hamish had warned him, that sixth sense, and so he was prepared when the man spoke brusquely.

  “Lingering about in the dark, mate?” There was a strong odor of beer on his breath.

  “No. Deciding that it was too late to call on Mrs. Turnbull. I’ll have to return in the morning.”

  “You’re up to trouble, more likely,” the man replied, the brusqueness changing to belligerence. “I’ve been watching, mate. From my window over there. You’ve stood here a full ten minutes or more. Waiting for the old woman’s light to go out, before you go in?”

  “If I’d wanted to go in, I’d have gone around the back,” he said reasonably. “Easier in that way.”

  “I’ve half a mind to haul you up to Constable, and let him decide.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. You’ll regret it.”

  Something had changed in Rutledge’s voice, and the man was still sober enough to catch it. But he said, “It’s my street, mate.”

  Rutledge didn’t respond.

  Uneasy suddenly, the man seemed to be debating what to do next. It was impossible for Rutledge to see his face clearly, but the confusion was there in the way his weight shifted.

  Rutledge finally spoke. “If you see Mrs. Turnbull in the morning, tell her Inspector Rutledge will be calling on her at nine. Good evening.”

  He walked on, his shoulders tensed against attack, but the man stayed where he was.

  True to his word, Rutledge was at the door of the rowhouse at nine sharp the next morning. He’d already left his room at the inn, and he expected to be on the road north within an hour. But there was unfinished business with Mrs. Turnbull.

  As he knocked he wondered whether the neighbor he’d encountered last night was still on guard. But he didn’t turn to look in that direction while he waited for Betty Turnbull to answer.

  When she didn’t, he used his fist, loud enough this time to be heard in the back of the house, in the event she was in the kitchen.

  No response.

  Glancing up, he saw that the curtains were still drawn in the bedroom where he’d seen the light go out last evening. Had she left early, to do her marketing?

  Trying the latch, he found the door still locked.

  He moved back toward the road, where his motorcar was waiting, for a better view of the bedroom window. And as he did, he looked up to see a door across the road open, and the burly, unshaven resident coming to stand in the opening.

  Calling to him, Rutledge asked, “Does Mrs. Turnbull usually sleep this late?”

  “Her’s an early riser,” he answered. “Meets the milk van coming up the road.”

  He turned back. There was something about that closed curtain. Drawn tight, no shred of light coming through a crack. He could feel his unease increasing.

  “Fetch the Constable,” he called to the man. “Straightaway.”

  The man said something over his shoulder to someone unseen in the house behind him and came striding across to where Rutledge had his hand on the gate into the tiny walled garden that led up to the door.

  “What’s happening?” He stared at Rutledge, frowning. “You were here last night.”

  “I was. And Mrs. Turnbull isn’t answering. Find that Constable, now. I’m going round to the back.”

  “Not out of my sight, you aren’t. Constable can wait.”

  Rutledge took out his identification, and the man squinted for a better look. But he stood his ground. “I
f you’re going round back, I’m coming as well.”

  “Then show me the way.”

  There was a narrow access passage between two of the houses just down the way, and the two men walked swiftly toward it, went through the dimly lit, littered area, and came out on a scruffy alley where the back gardens of the next street over stopped only four or five feet from those belonging to Betty Turnbull’s street. They quickly identified the house they were after, and the neighbor didn’t hesitate. He forced the wooden door in the garden wall and dashed inside, avoiding the clutter, the chicken coop, the small shed, and a line for hanging out the wash.

  He was about to crash through the kitchen door as well, when Rutledge stopped him. He reached out, touched the door latch, and it swung inward.

  The man looked at him, about to step over the threshold.

  “No. A matter for the police.” And Rutledge moved ahead of him, working slowly through the small ground-floor rooms, then starting up the stairs. The neighbor followed at his heels, refusing an order to stay in the kitchen.

  The first bedroom door they came to was shut, and Rutledge opened it. The mattress was rolled up, sheets covering the furniture. Unused.

  They opened the other, and behind Rutledge, the other man drew in a harsh breath. “Oh, my God.”

  She was lying in bed, her hands composed, quiet, seemingly at rest. Except for the large feather pillow that covered her face and head. The room was tidy, as if her killer had removed any sign of a struggle. But for the pillow, still in place, she might have been sleeping.

  The neighbor rounded on Rutledge. “I should have taken you to Constable last night. This would never have happened—I should have known what I’d seen—”

  “Be quiet,” Rutledge cut him short impatiently. “What’s your name, man?”

  “Waggoner. Bruce Waggoner—”

  Rutledge said, “Go and find the Constable. Or I’ll leave you here to guard the body and go myself.”