A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  “He never came back here. I was on duty that night—even though there was no train coming through.”

  “There were no other passengers that day? Getting down—or waiting to take the train?” he asked, taking up the photograph. “Just my friend?”

  “It was a quiet afternoon. Often is, this time of year.” He scratched his chin. “As I recall, your friend did have a return ticket. He asked when the train left on the Thursday.”

  “Any visitors in the town who might have come by motorcar?”

  “There was someone going up to the house earlier. My wife thought it might be regarding the sale. Likely an estate agent.”

  “You never saw him? No? Could your wife describe him to me?”

  “I doubt she saw more than his shoulders and his hat in the motorcar. It wasn’t close by, at all.”

  “I see,” Rutledge answered. And he did. Milford wouldn’t be coming back to Trefor for the return to Oswestry. Instead, he’d fallen to his death.

  After leaving the station, he drove up to the Hall. It was indeed a handsome house, brick faced with white stone. More or less an H in style and Georgian in design. Turning, he looked out. The view over the valley was stunning.

  There was no one about to ask questions regarding an estate agent. But the house had an emptiness about it that spoke of standing vacant for some time.

  Although he walked around the house, the sense of emptiness increased. No one on the sunny terrace, drapes pulled to in all the rooms on the ground floor, not even a family dog to bark at strangers straying too close. But as he started back to the motorcar, a man in work clothes, a pick and a spade in his hands, stepped out of a shed. He saw Rutledge and called to him.

  “Help you, sir?” His accent was Welsh.

  “Good afternoon. I was told the house had a visitor a fortnight ago. A Wednesday that would be.” He gave the date. “I’d very much like to speak to him, if he’s still here. I understand the house might be put up for sale.”

  “He was only here for a quarter of an hour, at most. Came to pick up some papers, he said. Fetched them and left. I was working in the drive just then.”

  “A regular visitor?”

  “Not to say regular. The Family isn’t at home. But if they need anything, they send for him to see to it. He has a key.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, he’d never give it to the likes of me.” He gave Rutledge a cheeky grin. “Nor did you.”

  Rutledge returned the grin. “The name is Gibson,” he said, thanked the man, and walked back to his motorcar.

  He made his way back to the station and the road that carried on to the Aqueduct, covering the distance that Sam Milford had walked in no time at all behind the wheel of the powerful motorcar. But as he drove, he tried to picture the man trudging along the road, perhaps looking over his shoulder in the hope of a lift from the person he was expecting to meet, or failing that, a farm cart going his way.

  What had Betty Turnbull said? A needle in the hay.

  And yet, in spite of everything, he had not only identified Sam Milford, but he’d also traced him to Crowley, then followed his movements from there all the way to the place where he’d been killed. It had taken nearly a week.

  But he still didn’t know why Milford had come all this way. Except for the narrowboats, there was nothing at the Aqueduct.

  Milford could well have told Betty whatever he’d thought she’d accept, spinning her a tale that she believed, while keeping his real search to himself. Just as he himself had spun a tale for the stationmaster, and then put off the gardener at the Hall with a name that wouldn’t mean anything to people in this part of Wales. No sense in putting the wind up if someone gossiped.

  Hamish said, “Aye. But what if she’d questioned someone without telling him, and stumbled on something she shouldna’ ha’ discovered?”

  Rutledge only had her word that they were looking for anyone with bright red hair . . .

  If she did, did she tell Milford? Or use it in some other fashion that saw her murdered? Blackmail?

  “It was the money she wanted. No’ the information. She would take it fra’ both parties.”

  In the silence of the motorcar, he found himself agreeing with Hamish.

  Hamish said, “And what of the child?”

  “Let’s hope she’s alive,” Rutledge said grimly. “There must have been two matters on Milford’s mind, in all this. Find the child, if she was still living, and once she was found—or her death acknowledged—find the person who had done this. He must have come here for one or the other reason.”

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, if this was no’ for the child at a’, if it had only to do with the man, the lass would ha’ still been the lure. To bring him to a place where he could be killed.”

  “In which case,” Rutledge said, “she’s dead. No longer needed.”

  “Aye,” Hamish replied morosely. “A killer wandering about wi’ a wee lass in hand, crying for her mither, is likely to attract unwanted attention. He would ha’ tired of her soon enough.”

  Rutledge reached the northern end of the Aqueduct and almost at once noticed the subdued atmosphere, very different from the first time he’d been there. A number of narrowboats anchored in the basin, a dark green, two less funereal black ones, a pair of reds, and a bright yellow and green. They seemed to be empty of cargo, floating high in the water today.

  He left the motorcar out of sight in the trees and started past the houses, toward the shops. Clusters of people, men and women, stood closer to the crossing, in the waning sunlight near the shops, talking quietly, sometimes looking over their shoulders. Some of them stared at Rutledge as he walked by, but no one spoke or asked his business, or even met his glance.

  His initial intention was to stay clear of the little shop where he’d ordered tea before, and instead try to find the old man he’d met across the Aqueduct on that first visit. He looked in the shop window to see how crowded it was, then changed his mind when he realized it was as empty today as it had been then. He went inside, shutting the door behind him.

  The shopkeeper looked up, frowning.

  “Good day,” he said, as if he’d never seen the man in his doorway before. But Rutledge had caught the flicker of recognition before it was quelled.

  The shop was empty, and Rutledge said, “No custom today?”

  “The police have just left. Not even an hour ago. Everyone is on edge.”

  “What’s happened?” He hadn’t passed them on his way here. Had they turned off toward Llangollen instead of proceeding to Trefor?

  At first he didn’t think the man was going to answer him. Then, fiddling with the displays on either side of the register, he said finally, “There’s been trouble.”

  “Serious trouble, if the police were called,” Rutledge said easily. “I saw the narrowboats in the basin. Fighting among the men, was it?”

  The shopkeeper regarded him sourly. Then he gave a little shrug. “Joseph Burton was found dead yesterday morning. Floating in the north basin.” He gestured toward the door and his right. “This one.”

  “And who is Burton when he’s at home?”

  “Brother of one of the narrowboat owners.” The shopkeeper glanced out at the crowd. Some were already beginning to wander away, back to their houses.

  Rutledge waited.

  “Walked the horse mostly. He was suspected of theft twice over. And last year, his brother threw him out. Joseph disappeared for a bit—some said he’d been taken on by the firebrick company in Trefor, then they let him go for troublemaking. Whatever the truth of it was, he was back after Boxing Day, hanging about, picking up work where he could find it.” Then, as if he realized he’d said too much, he looked hard at Rutledge. “What’ll you have? Besides gossip.”

  “Tea,” he said, and then added, “a sandwich, if you have one.”

  “Egg?”

  “That will do.”

  The shopkeeper set about the order, slicing bread and taking
the egg salad from a heavy crock and spreading it thickly between two slices of bread. It looked dry.

  “How did this man die? Was he drunk and fell into the water? What did the police have to say?” Rutledge walked over to the door, and keeping his voice merely curious, fought down his impatience.

  “I was told there wasn’t any marks on him, when they pulled him out. They reckoned he’d been drunk and fell in. That was last night. Today the police came back and searched all the narrowboats, then took away Steve Fuller. I told you, Joseph worked for his brother back in the day.”

  “Have they indeed?” Rutledge answered, surprised. He walked over to the table where he’d sat on his first visit. “Which narrowboat is Fuller’s, do you know?”

  The shopkeeper brought over the sandwich and a cup of tea, setting them down without fanfare. “Yon yellow-and-green one.”

  He could just see it from where he was sitting.

  “And what does rumor say about Fuller?”

  “That he’s not guilty, of course. Steve has a temper on him, right enough. And uses his fists sometimes before he uses his head. But he’s no killer.”

  Hamish was saying quietly, “Could the woman have been wrong about Bed—?”

  The two names weren’t close. Bed versus Bur.

  But he asked anyway. “Does Burton have a family?”

  “Aye, he does. A wife. She left him some years ago.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Here, what do you want to know for?”

  “Passing the time.”

  “It’s Hester.”

  Rutledge turned his attention back to the shopkeeper. Some people were beginning to make their way toward the shop. “Anyone here or across the Aqueduct by the name of Bedford? Or was it Beddoes? I didn’t hear the last name clearly.”

  “There’s none of either name here.”

  “I was here a week ago. Looking for a man I was to meet. He never came. Was Burton here then?”

  “Likely he was. Why?”

  Rutledge got up, took the photograph from his pocket, and walked to the counter. “I was searching for this man.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “You must have served him something. He walked here from the train, an hour and a half on the road. He’d have been tired and thirsty. And he’d have been looking for someone. You told me before that you hadn’t seen him. But I think you did. Someone pushed him off the Aqueduct that same day—or evening. And I’ll have the police back here again, if I’m not told the truth.” There was steel in his voice, this time, and the shopkeeper glanced quickly at his face.

  “What is this man to you?” He poked a thick finger at the photograph.

  “He arrived on a Wednesday afternoon. The stationmaster in Trefor remembered him. There was no train to the Aqueduct that day, and so this man walked here. On Saturday morning he was found dead, his body in the River Dee just below the Aqueduct. According to the doctor who examined him, he’d fallen from a great height. That pointed to the Aqueduct. The horse walk. It happened a fortnight ago. And no one up here admits to having seen him, spoken to him, watched him walk out across the Aqueduct.”

  “Here, I don’t want any trouble—”

  “You knew he’d died. The account of finding him in the river would have reached here. You were aware of it when I came here the first time asking questions. And you lied to me then. The police will want to know why. They will be asking if he fell—or was pushed. I have every reason to believe he was killed, that he didn’t fall by accident. It’s your choice. Talk to me—or explain yourself to them.”

  “I want no trouble—” he repeated.

  “I am in a position to make a great deal of trouble for you. Ask the police to search this shop and your house for evidence—take you in for questioning. Speak to everyone who was here when that man fell—keep the narrowboats here indefinitely until the police are satisfied that they have their man. For this killing, and Joseph Burton’s.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m afraid I can. If you don’t believe me, watch.”

  There was a heavy silence.

  Rutledge said nothing, his gaze firmly on the shopkeeper as the man silently argued with himself. In the end, the threat won.

  “All right. I’ll admit to seeing him. The man in that photograph was here. He came in late on that Wednesday afternoon, ordered an ale, then asked if he could leave his valise behind the counter while he looked for someone. He wouldn’t tell me who it was. Just that he wanted to speak to him about a personal matter. He finished his ale and went out, then came back again just as I was closing up at seven. It was already dark. I asked if he’d found whoever it was he was searching for. He told me he hadn’t, that the man was expected in the next hour or so, on one of the narrowboats coming up from the south. Then he asked if there was a place where he could spend the night, since it would be too late to walk back to Trefor. I told him there wasn’t, but that he could sleep on the bench back there.” He turned slightly to point to a bench in the rear of the shop near the displays of boat gear. “He took his valise with him, and he left. I never saw him again.”

  “And that didn’t worry you? You didn’t wonder what had become of him?”

  “When I opened the shop door Thursday morning, there was no sign of him, nothing to show that he’d slept here. I’d left a blanket on the counter—it was still there. I thought he’d found the man he was after and gone with him on the narrowboat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when I came here, asking questions?”

  “That was almost a week later. You said you were to meet him and had missed him. But he was looking for someone on a narrowboat. I wasn’t sure what to believe, and I didn’t want any part of it.”

  Rutledge took a chance. “No. You lied to me, because Joseph Burton was the man my friend was hoping to meet. And you knew Burton’s reputation for being a troublemaker.”

  “I’ve said—he never told me—I swear he didn’t.”

  “But you saw them together, didn’t you? As you were closing up here, and going home.”

  “Yes, all right. They were standing out there in the dark, talking. The two of them. Near where the Aqueduct begins. I saw money change hands. I didn’t like the look of it. I was glad he hadn’t come back to sleep in the shop. I didn’t want to be involved.”

  “Change hands how?”

  “That man in the photograph gave Burton money.”

  “When did you see Burton next?”

  “Not until two or three days later. He walked in, ordered breakfast, cheeky as ever.”

  “And you said nothing to him about the man who had come here to talk to him? Or about someone asking questions?”

  “Why should I? I told you, it was none of my affair.”

  “Was Burton here when I came before?”

  There was a long silence. Then the shopkeeper said, “He came up behind you, when you walked down to the edge of the Aqueduct. Then went over past you. Jaunty man, dark hair.”

  Rutledge remembered him. He’d crossed as if accustomed to the height and the narrowness of the horse walk, as if he’d done it hundreds of times. For his brother’s narrowboat. If it was Joseph Burton who had pushed Sam Milford from the Aqueduct, he’d known how to do it without falling with him.

  What had Sam Milford come here to ask Joseph Burton? Had he paid him for information he believed the man possessed? And then had he been lured to his death, thinking he was with a man he could trust to help him?

  Or perhaps the more pressing question was, who had sent Sam Milford here, to contact a man who had already been paid to kill him?

  Was that how it had happened?

  Rutledge put the photograph of Sam Milford away. “I’ll speak to the police.”

  “Here! You said—”

  “I don’t think it was Steve Fuller who killed Burton. I’ll tell them that. But first I want a statement from you. Now. Putting down everything you’ve told me.”

  Th
ere was an argument—the shopkeeper clearly had no wish to find himself part of a police inquiry. Rutledge wondered if he’d ever been guilty of taking smuggled goods from the narrowboat owners. But he let that go.

  An hour later, the laboriously written statement folded and safely tucked into his notebook, Rutledge thanked the man and left.

  He did stop at the police station in Trefor, and with the permission of Inspector Walsh, an older man with a heavy Welsh accent, he interviewed Steven Fuller.

  Very little of substance came from that, except for one interesting exchange.

  Fuller, slim, with thinning hair and a stoop, said, “I was never close to Joseph. He was my half brother, and we had little enough in common. Except for Mum, of course. But he was never what he might have been. Always looking for an easier way. Like his pa. I gave him work, and he stole from one of the other narrowboats. I could never prove it, but it was my reputation or his, and I let him go. Mum was all right with that, but my stepfather blamed me, not him. I avoided Joseph after that.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry he’s dead. But truth be told, I don’t have to worry about him pushing me off the Aqueduct some dark night, when I don’t see him coming.”

  Rutledge asked, “Do you believe he’d kill you?”

  “I always had a feeling he might. I can’t say why.” He shook his head. “It was just a way about him. It was always there. To see what he could get away with.”

  “Did he come into money lately? More than he ought to have?”

  “I don’t know. He was always trying to borrow from Mum. But his pockets were empty when he was pulled from the basin. A shilling, a sixpence, and a ha’penny. It was all he had to his name.”

  “Where did he sleep? Did anyone look there?”

  “The police did. It’s little more than a shed, out beyond the wood. I was with the police when they searched.” He grimaced. “Dreadful way to live. But any money he had slipped through his fingers like water.”

  “Nothing out of place?” Rutledge persisted. “Perhaps a valise you didn’t recognize?”