by Charles Todd
“It was poured on me, Constable. I didn’t drink it.”
But as the sun climbed and heated the interior of the motorcar, the odor intensified. “A waste of good spirits to pour them over a man and not into him.” The Constable sighed, then said, “Perhaps you’d like to come along with me, now, sir. And we’ll sort this out at the station.”
What had they done with his identification?
He was trying to stave off the Constable while he searched for it. But it was nowhere, not on him, not in the motorcar’s pockets, not under his feet on the floorboards.
The rear seat. He’d been pushed and shoved, to get him back there, his height creating problems—thank God they hadn’t resorted to breaking his legs—!
Getting out was an effort, and reaching out to search behind the seat set his head to roaring like a goods train going up a steep incline. Persevering, he worked his fingers along the back of the seat, all but holding his breath. Behind him, the Constable had moved near enough to block any escape.
Twice he ran his fingers behind the seat, leaning in, closing his eyes against the sight of Hamish there, frowning at himself for his fear.
His fingers found a corner, and he tightened them, pulling gently. Something came, then caught on the back edge of the leather before suddenly pulling free and into his hand. He extracted himself from the seat, and turning, held his identification out to the Constable.
“It tells me who you are. But not how you came to be riding the incoming tide, or when you swallowed all that whisky.” He looked at Rutledge’s head. “Or how you got that bloody great lump on your head.”
“Damn it, I need to see a doctor. The station can wait.” The Constable’s face was beginning to swim before him.
“I’ll decide—”
His voice was cold and hard as he struggled to cope. “Do that. And afterward, the Yard will see to it that you’re dismissed for obstructing an inquiry. Take your choice.”
The Constable continued to argue with him but escorted him to a doctor’s surgery just off a side street in the village. He’d been right, it was Porthmadog.
Dr. Llewellyn examined Rutledge’s head and said, “That’s nasty. What happened?”
“A pry bar in the hands of a large quarry worker. I was trying to persuade a murder suspect to see matters my way and talk to me. She declined. Her friend ended the disagreement. The next thing I knew, I was in the rear of my motorcar out on the strand as the tide turned.”
The doctor sniffed, then stood back. “You reek of whisky, man.”
“It’s in my clothing. Not my stomach. Except for this damned headache, I’m as sober as you are.”
In the end he was given a powder for his headache, and a patch for the cut there. He found a hotel—the Constable had to vouch for him before they would give him a room. His valise, in the boot of the motorcar, had not been touched. He bathed and shaved, combed his dark hair over the wound to make it less noticeable, then changed, while someone in the kitchen sponged his wrecked clothing. He felt at least presentable when he came down an hour later, planning to leave.
The woman behind the desk said, “Are you sure, sir? You don’t look as if you feel quite well.”
But he was angry now. He took with him the still damp clothing he’d been wearing, a packet of sandwiches, and a refill for his Thermos of tea.
When he reached the quarry two hours later and drove up to the pithead, there was a man now in the quarry office.
Rutledge had never seen him before.
He shook his head when he was asked to produce the woman by the name of Theresa and the workman called Eddie.
“There’s no one here by those names. Are you certain they work here?”
“I am.” He produced his identification. “If you lie to me, you will be charged as an accessory to their crimes, which may include murder.”
The man’s eyes widened, but nothing Rutledge could say would shake his insistence that he knew nothing about the two people the Inspector was seeking.
He even produced a list of employees for Rutledge to read.
It was proof of nothing except someone’s ability to plan ahead.
He went house to house in the village at the quarry gates. But he met with the same shakes of the head, doors only half opened as he asked questions.
Susan Milford had vanished again. For all he knew, Theresa and Eddie were hiding in a bedroom or attic until the troublesome Londoner had gone.
In the end, Rutledge let it go.
As he drove away, swallowing another of the powders he’d been given for his headache, he was still very angry.
And the person he was angriest with was the solicitor, Hastings. Who sat like a spider in the center of this web.
It was a long way back to Shrewsbury. He knew he wasn’t physically up to it, but his anger was still driving him, and he stopped when he had to, found a place to sleep for a few hours, then was back on the road again.
When he finally saw the approach to the Welsh Bridge very early in the morning, he thought for a frightening second that he was seeing double. For the bridge seemed to have wavered into two. Then it settled back into its familiar shape and he drove across it into the silent, dark city. He found the Prince Rupert, and asked the sleepy clerk if Sam Milford was in residence.
“No, sir. Not at the moment, sir.”
He took a room.
He was asleep almost as soon as he reached the bed.
It was after ten o’clock when Rutledge forced himself to open his eyes. For a moment he struggled to remember where he was, then he got up, shaved, and changed. When he came down the stairs to Reception, he could smell a ham roasting, and it turned his stomach.
He went into the bar, but diners were in the middle of their breakfast, and he turned around without the cup of tea he’d wanted.
Leaving the hotel, he walked to clear his head, and by the time he was in front of Hastings and Hastings, he was once more in control. But not of the anger seething through him, and that worried him.
Hamish, who had been there on the long drive back, said, “It’s no’ your heid, man, it’s the child. Remember that.”
He crossed the street, went to the door, and knocked.
A clerk answered, but Rutledge brushed him aside. The man danced after him, protesting, but Rutledge was already across the room and opening the door to the passage.
Hastings was in his office. He got to his feet, his eyes hooded, as Rutledge opened the door and the clerk began to make apologies for the interruption.
“Never mind,” Hastings said. “Shut the door behind you.”
The clerk, stopped in midsentence, glanced quickly from Hastings to the set face of the intruder. Then he was gone, the door swinging shut with a soft click.
“Sit down, man, before you fall down.” Hastings went to a cabinet behind his desk and took out a bottle with two glasses. “Whisky is good for the spleen,” he said, and poured.
Passing one to Rutledge, he set his own down on the desk, then took his chair.
Rutledge didn’t sit.
“I am here to take you into custody for obstructing an officer of the law in the pursuit of his duties.”
“Very well. I’m an old man. I can hardly fight my way past you and escape into the street. So you might as well tell me what the charges are.”
“Where is Susan Milford?”
“I have no way of knowing. I have discovered—as you appear to have done—that she’s alive. Where she may be is another matter. Staying with friends, that’s the message she left for me. She didn’t tell me who they were or where they lived. She generally doesn’t confide in me. And so I can’t trouble her with questions.”
“Why did she travel to Crowley, break into The Pit and The Pony pub, and steal a single photograph from the wall?”
“Did she? You saw her do this? You were a witness to this alleged theft?”
But he hadn’t. He’d heard someone in the dark pub. And the next day Ruth Milford had dis
covered that a photograph was missing.
Rutledge smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you admitting that Miss Milford was in Crowley? That she did indeed take the photograph in question?”
“What was the photograph of? It might help, if I knew what this was about.”
“It was of her brother. Taken on the night that he returned from enlisting in the Bantams. His neighbors had come to wish him Godspeed.”
“To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know that Miss Milford doesn’t have a copy of that same photograph. It would have been like Sam to have sent her one. If that’s the case, why would she wish to steal her sister-in-law’s photograph?”
“When the child disappeared last year, did Sam Milford suspect his sister had taken any part in that abduction? Did he demand that you tell him where she was?”
“No, of course he did not suspect her. Nor did Mrs. Ruth Milford. I believe I told you that it was a Mrs. Blake who brought up the half sister’s name. She’s related to Ruth Milford. A cousin, as I recall.” He lifted his glass and drank a little, then set it down again. “It’s good whisky, Rutledge. I haven’t poisoned it.”
But whisky didn’t go well with the powders he’d been given.
“You led me to believe that Susan Milford had been suicidal. Why?”
“Because she has been in the past, and I have no assurances that she won’t be in the future.”
“Did she kill her brother? Or possibly have him killed?”
It was Hastings who was suddenly angry. “Susan Milford isn’t a killer.”
“She attacked the woman who had had the care of her father.”
“She slapped her for saying something about the late Mr. Milford that wasn’t true.”
“She was the cause of my being attacked two”—he stopped, trying to remember—“three days ago.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met Susan, have you? How can you be so certain it was she?”
He gripped the back of the chair just in front of him. “Why do you protect her? At her brother’s expense?”
“I don’t. As her solicitor, it is my duty to protect her interests.”
“I thought she had taken her funds away from the trust. That tells me she also doesn’t trust you.”
Hastings smiled. “I don’t believe there is any law that prohibits a client from asking whomever she pleases to represent her at any given time. As I was the manager of the trust funds in question, she had every right to consult someone else as she made the decision to manage them herself, going forward. It was all quite legally done. I assure you.”
“What did she consult you about the other day, when she was here?”
“And you saw her enter my door? Susan Milford?” he parried. “But I will tell you this. I have been informed by my client that she is afraid for her own safety. She has no family. She does have a goodly amount of money in her own name, and as a woman she is vulnerable. The truth is, I don’t know why she is in danger, or from whom. I am not even certain she knows. Therefore I can do nothing to protect her.”
Rutledge looked at him. The wily old man in the chair behind the desk, sipping his whisky as if he were entertaining a favorite client, had just laid the groundwork for a plea of self-defense if Rutledge or anyone else tried to arrest Susan Milford for what had been done to him at the quarry.
Rutledge could picture her in a courtroom, telling the jury how he had spied on her with field glasses, claiming he was a policeman from London, and insisted on her accompanying him to England for questioning. Alone.
He had done no such thing. He had told Susan he wanted to ask her a few questions. But Theresa and Eddie could refute that, swearing that they feared for her safety and didn’t know what else to do. After all, Susan’s own brother had recently been murdered, hadn’t he?
There was the briefest flicker of a smile in the solicitor’s eyes as he regarded Rutledge. One clever man saluting another. As if he’d guessed what Rutledge had just realized.
“It really is quite good whisky,” Hastings said again after a moment.
“I haven’t touched my glass,” Rutledge countered. “Perhaps you’ll finish it for me. Meanwhile, where is Susan Milford?”
“I have no idea. I will swear to that if you like. Your guess is as good as mine.”
He was damned if he was going back to London with no one in custody, to sit in that cramped office of his and sort through reports he hadn’t written.
Rutledge took advantage of the hotel telephone once more to speak to Sergeant Gibson. He’d little hope of finding him in on a Saturday, but his luck held.
He began with the truth.
“I’ve been out of reach. I’ve been here longer than expected, with nothing to show for it, except more questions. I shall have to start over, find out what I’ve missed. There is nothing to report on the child. And that worries me.”
“Aye. Odds are, she’s dead. But you asked about bones, when last we talked. I haven’t received any reports that might be useful. It’s the walkers who find them, most often. And it’s not the season.”
“She was not even three. In the open, they would be gone before they could be found.”
“True enough. Anything more you need? Did you find the woman in Betws y Coed?”
“It served to muddy the waters, I’m afraid.” He hesitated. “Find a way to break the news gently to the Chief Superintendent. I don’t want to be recalled before this is finished.”
There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.
“Gibson? Are you still there?”
“I am, sir. The thing is, Himself hasn’t asked. Good day, sir.”
And the connection ended.
Rutledge stood there, still holding the receiver, a frown on his face. That wasn’t like Markham. It made him wary, just as it had made Gibson uncomfortable.
He was about to put up the receiver, and then in an unaccustomed moment of need, he changed his mind and put through a call to the house in London where his sister and her husband now lived. Frances had told him that they were having a new telephone installed.
She answered on the second ring, just as Rutledge was about to hang up, angry with himself for giving in.
“Hallo,” he said. “I’ve been in the north for some time now. And I’m likely to be here another week. I thought it best to let you know.”
“Ian, darling, I’m so glad you did. I stopped by the flat a few days ago. You weren’t there, and Mrs. Cuthbert didn’t know when to expect you. It’s unusual to be away so long, isn’t it? No problems, I hope?”
“Only a matter of distances. Keeps me out of touch more than I care for.” He paused. “Any particular reason for stopping by?” And now he asked the question that had driven him to put through this call. “Important mail . . .” He stopped himself from adding “from the Yard?” There was no need to worry Frances as well.
“Nothing on the table by your chair. That’s where Mrs. C. usually puts anything urgent, isn’t it? No, I’ve just heard that a good friend of yours has got engaged. I thought you might have missed the announcement.”
His mouth went dry, and he felt himself tensing, as if warding off a blow. “Has she indeed?”
“Not she, you silly man!” His sister’s laughter came down the line, happy and lighthearted. “It was Patrick Nelson. Remember him at university? He is marrying one of the Browning sisters. It’s a perfect match, don’t you think?”
He found the words somehow. “I do. I’m happy for him. He’s a good man.”
But all he could think of was his relief at hearing it wasn’t Kate.
Rutledge had meant what he’d said to Gibson, that he intended to start over, to find what he’d missed. And that meant returning to Llangollen.
On the way, he stopped in Oswestry to speak to Inspector Preston.
“Anything new in Mrs. Turnbull’s death?” Preston asked as soon as Rutledge stepped into his office.
“There was a lead. It went nowhere. I’m looki
ng for information today.”
“Well, I’ve none to give you.” The reply was short to the point of curtness.
“Then take me back a few years. Near the end of the war, there was a rape in Oswestry. A young woman had come here for a funeral. And someone attacked her. She was ashamed, she never reported that attack. But it’s also likely that the man involved was sought in other assaults. Or he may even have been killed. If so, you’ll have a record of that search.”
Preston, suspicious, said, “What does this have to do with the Turnbull woman? Unless she was this woman?”
“I have no reason to think that Betty Turnbull was ever assaulted.”
“Then why bring up this other issue?”
“Because that attack might have some bearing on the Milford murder. I think Sam Milford knew something. Discovered something. I have to rule out any connection.” He gave the rough dates, as far as he could determine them.
“Well, I can tell you we had no assault cases that we didn’t clear. Domestic matters, for the most part. Nothing outstanding, nothing unsolved. Unless it wasn’t reported. And if it went unreported, it didn’t cross our desk.”
Rutledge made light of it. “Then it isn’t important to my inquiry. That’s all I needed to know.”
He had been of two minds about Ruth Milford. And whether or not she had succeeded in killing her attacker. I did what had to be done. Her words had stayed with him. And Preston hadn’t put them to rest.
He went on to Llangollen. The truth had begun to unfold in the shop of the tailor, Banner. That was where he’d discovered the unidentified corpse’s name, had been led to Ruth Milford. And that was where she had been accompanied by a man who had waited for her outside Banner’s shop as she ordered clothes for her husband’s return from the war.
He, Rutledge, hadn’t found that man, and apparently neither had Sam Milford. Still, that officer had either been on leave—or been recuperating from a wound. He either lived in Llangollen or was in a clinic nearby. The only other possibility was that Ruth and he had come there to conduct an affair because neither of them was known in the town.