A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  He stayed where he was, in the chair across from the one she’d vacated. “This might have worked with Sam, even with your cousin. But I have seen the hotel registers. I’ve spoken with the tailor, Banner, and with the man whose firm provided the driver for your journey. I know you were meeting someone, and that you registered later as man and wife. Matilda isn’t a child of an attack, she’s a child of a liaison you had with an officer while your husband was in France, fighting for his country. You’ve lied to me from the start, and you lied to the police when Tildy was taken. Either you had something to do with her disappearance or you must know who did. And yet you kept that to yourself.”

  She stayed where she was, defiant. She had had time to learn how to lie.

  “Did you tell your husband the man’s name, or did you let him search for someone who didn’t exist, except in your imagination? In the end, he must have found Thornton, and it cost Sam his life. The time for lying has passed. Tell me where I can find Alfred Thornton. And your daughter. If she’s still alive.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t know anyone by that name. I swear to you.”

  There was the despair in her voice now.

  “Then you leave me no choice, Mrs. Milford. I am taking you into custody as an accessory to kidnapping and to the murders of three people.”

  It was harsh, and he’d intended it to be. That was the only way to break through the shell she had built around what she’d done, and make her face her own culpability.

  Collapsing in her chair again, she was sobbing in earnest now, very real tears.

  He handed her his handkerchief. She didn’t appear to have one of her own. “Where is Thornton? If I clear him of any part in this inquiry, your secret is safe with me. It will not be brought out at the inquest. But you must realize that if this man is guilty of kidnapping or murder, you will have to testify. And I can’t do anything about that.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.”

  His voice was very quiet in the small room. “Then collect your coat and whatever else you may need. We’re leaving for Shrewsbury immediately.”

  “Oh, dear God, I wish I were dead,” she wailed as he got to his feet.

  Just then the door slammed back on its hinges and Nan Blake burst in. “Will said something is wrong, that that man was back, and needed to speak privately to you—is that true? Is it Tildy? Ruth—?”

  He said, “I think you had better leave, Mrs. Blake. This isn’t the time.”

  For several seconds she stared at Rutledge, trying to read his expression, then failing at that, she turned back to Ruth. Her voice was no more than a whisper now. “Oh, dear God, she’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Ruth got unsteadily to her feet. “He’s taking me to the police. You’ll have to see to the inn. I can’t—I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Nan went to her cousin, caught her by the shoulders. “The police?”

  “It isn’t the child,” Rutledge said then. “It’s another matter. Will you go upstairs and put some things into a valise? Mrs. Milford will be glad of it.”

  She turned on Rutledge. “I don’t understand any of this. But before I let you take her away, you are going to explain what’s happening. Do you hear me?”

  Ruth said, “Nan. Let it go. I—it’s nothing that you can fix. It’s nothing any of us can change now. I’ll have to do as he says.”

  But Nan Blake was adamant. “Look at you—you’re in no condition to go anywhere.” She wheeled to face Rutledge. “I’m taking her upstairs and putting her to bed. We’ll see about this tomorrow. I’ll have her solicitor here, if need be.”

  “Mrs. Blake—you’re only making matters worse for your cousin. See to her things, and I’ll bring around the motorcar. We leave in ten minutes. If you don’t have a valise ready, we will go without it.”

  He’d commanded soldiers in battle. She heard that in his voice now. “You can’t do this, it’s wrong.”

  “My other coat, Nan. This one is my old one. And a scarf—gloves.” Her cousin glared at her, still mulish. Ruth pleaded, “Please, Nan. I can’t—this is more than I can endure right now. Let it go. Let me go.”

  Rutledge waited until Nan went up the stairs, but he could hear her talking to herself, demanding answers, worried.

  “I’ll walk to the motorcar,” Ruth told him. “I’d rather.”

  “This isn’t necessary, you know,” he told her gently.

  “I don’t know any longer what’s necessary. I’ve lost Tildy. I’ve lost Sam. A year from now when The Bog is closed for good, I’ll lose the inn. There’s nothing to live for, is there? You might as well hang me. Sam’s death is on my hands, as surely as if I shoved him into that river myself.”

  He said nothing. He could hear Nan in the bedroom above, opening and closing drawers. She wasn’t muttering any longer, and he thought she might be crying now.

  And he was right. She came down the steps, the handle of the valise in both hands, a heavier coat under her arm.

  Rutledge went to take them from her.

  “I don’t understand, Ruthie,” she was saying to her cousin. “This makes no sense. What am I to tell Donald? Or Will? What are we going to do for credit, to keep the inn going? I wish you would tell me what to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Ruth told her. “I can’t see my own way clear any longer. I wish I could.”

  He helped her into the coat, nodded to Nan Blake, and opened the door.

  They walked to the motorcar in silence, Ruth trudging beside him like a child going to the dentist.

  He was fully prepared for her to change her mind before he had put her into the motorcar. To his surprise, she didn’t. And he was forced to carry out his threat. But there was still time, he told himself.

  Turning the crank, he got in and started down the incline. He could just see, as he prepared to turn toward the Shrewsbury road, the figure of Nan Blake still standing in the doorway of the Milford house.

  The silence lengthened. Rutledge glanced at the woman huddled in her heavier coat. Her hands were bare, and trembling. He’d turned on the heater but it did little more than warm their feet.

  Pulling to the side of the road, he fumbled blindly for the rug he kept in the rear seat. Finding it, he brought it across and handed it to her.

  The last thing he wanted, if he was honest with himself, was to turn her over to Inspector Carson in Shrewsbury.

  But women were sometimes harder to persuade than men. They held on to their loyalties longer and more intensely. Given what was about to happen to her, why was she so adamant about not giving him the man’s name?

  He mulled that as he drove. Had the love affair been that intense? What was the man’s hold over her? Simple physical attraction was one thing. This seemed to go deeper.

  And she had lost Tildy—to him? Why hadn’t she fought for her own child?

  He said, while they were still some miles from Shrewsbury, “Is your daughter still alive?”

  At first she didn’t answer. He thought she might not. And then she said, “How could I know?”

  “Mrs. Milford—Ruth—I’d like to understand. Help me.”

  This time there was no answer.

  He tried another tack.

  “I can understand why you lied about the child, telling everyone else you’d gone to London for a weekend with your husband. But what did you tell him? He would have known London wasn’t true.” When she didn’t answer, Rutledge asked, “Did you lie to him as well, did you tell him she was fathered in an assault?” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Ruth?”

  “What other choice was there? I couldn’t rid myself of the child.” There was infinite bitterness in the words. “I wouldn’t have her branded a bastard. She was innocent of my guilt.”

  “You couldn’t even tell your cousin what you’d done? You couldn’t trust her with the truth?”

  A shake of the head.

  “But Sam must have accepted your lie. You’ve told me that he loved Tildy.”

  “How could
he not? She was—she could enchant. There was something—she was never like me. I would look at her sometimes and wonder. That glorious hair—and she was spared freckles, except for the bridge of her little nose. Eyes such a clear green. It was as if God had given me something precious, and at the same time something that everyone knew couldn’t have been mine. A joy and a curse. A constant reminder. And I loved her more than anything or anyone.” The last words ended in a wail of despair.

  He remembered something.

  “The shoe. Why were you given a shoe?”

  “To save the pub. It’s supposed to be valuable. It’s said to have belonged to Mary Queen of Scots when she was a child. But Sam wouldn’t hear of it.”

  He turned his head to look at her, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “Do you mean that Sam knew the shoe—that it was the price of Tildy?”

  “Oh, dear God, no! I refuse to—no, it was unexpected—someone had promised to help. When it was possible. I’d stopped counting on it.” Her mouth twisted in an ironic grimace. “Sam wanted to save it for Tildy’s future. He thought we could find another way to keep the pub. But that was later. When the police arrived, and they saw it, they were convinced the shoe was some sort of omen. Or threat. Or, I don’t know, some sort of horrid message. I finally just let them think what they pleased. I didn’t care, as long as they searched for Tildy. Nothing mattered but that.”

  “Where did the shoe come from? Or—from whom?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  He let it go. Yet—he found himself wondering—had Thornton, finally learning about Tildy, decided that the shoe would save the pub and a grateful Ruth would understand that and let the abduction go unsolved? Because that appeared to be exactly what she’d done, despite her shocked denial. Shocked because he’d guessed?

  Changing his tactics, he asked, “Ruth, do you have any sense of what lies ahead for you in Shrewsbury?”

  “I don’t care.”

  Rutledge made one final attempt to break through her apathy. “If Tildy comes home, the man she believed to be her father won’t be there. Nor will you, her mother.”

  “You should have considered that when you forced me to make a choice.”

  “I have a duty to the truth. To three people who were murdered. To a child who is out there somewhere, alive or dead. I’m very sorry that you are caught in the middle between my search and a man you must have loved very deeply to keep him safe in spite of the fact that he could very well have ordered Sam Milford’s death.”

  “You could have trusted my judgment, my knowledge of that man. You could have believed me when I tell you that he has never harmed me or mine. You’re wrong. You have been from the start.”

  “Or you could have trusted me to find out as quietly as possible if your faith in him is deserved.”

  She kept her eyes on the road ahead. “What kind of faith is that?”

  As they drove into Shrewsbury, he knew he’d lost her.

  When he reached the police station, she began to fold the rug into a neat square, handing it to him as he came around the bonnet to help her down and carry her valise.

  She looked up at the facade of the station. “Will you tell Mr. Hastings where I am? I should like to speak to him.”

  “Do you know that Hastings is also the solicitor for your husband’s sister? Susan Milford? I’m not sure where his loyalties lie. Or hers.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I only need to put my affairs in order. So that Nan and Donald have the authority they need to sell the pub when the time comes.”

  “I’ll speak to him.”

  The sergeant on the desk looked up as the man from London walked in with a woman whose eyes were red from crying.

  “Inspector Carson, if you please?” Rutledge said, and waited.

  Carson listened to what Rutledge had to say, then asked, “She has information that is pertinent to your inquiry, but won’t give it to you. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “A name.”

  “Whose name? The kidnapper’s? Or are you talking about the murder of her husband, Sam Milford?”

  “Milford’s death. Someone arranged to have him killed up at the Aqueduct. Then when it was done, killed the man who did his bidding. I won’t know if this will clear up the kidnapping or not until I’ve found the person.”

  “When her daughter disappeared, Mrs. Milford was suspected to have had a hand in what happened. But Fenton cleared her. In spite of her behavior on the day in question, there was nothing else that pointed to her. And then there was the shoe, which he believed was a taunt by the kidnapper. What did Fenton miss?”

  “He didn’t. It’s what Sam Milford was searching for that cost him his life. But I don’t know what he was after. He didn’t tell his wife what he was doing, or anyone else that I am aware of. So far. But someone knew, someone kept an eye on him, and in the end killed him.”

  They had left Ruth Milford in Carson’s office and were standing in the quiet corridor outside it, conferring in low voices.

  “This is her husband and her daughter we’re talking about. Why won’t she help you? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “She believes she’s protecting someone who is not a party to any of this. But until I have interviewed the person in question, we don’t know if her faith is misplaced or not.”

  “Man or woman?”

  Rutledge shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Damn it, if you want to shut her up in my cell, you can tell me that much.”

  “I can’t. There’s more at stake here than either you or I can be sure of. She wants to speak to her solicitor—Hastings—but he’s played fast and loose with the truth about Milford’s sister, who might well be involved in some way. And I’d rather not have him speak to Ruth for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “What’s the sister got to do with this business?”

  “Either nothing or everything. I have to eliminate her as a suspect, and she’s somewhere in Wales right now, in hiding.”

  Carson took a deep breath. “When I took over here, that missing child was still very much on everyone’s mind. As time went by, it seemed less and less likely that she’d ever be found. Do you think she’s alive?”

  “I don’t know. There are days when I believe she could be.”

  “All right. I’ll clap your prisoner in irons. And you owe me. I want to see justice done. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  Carson opened the door and stepped into his office.

  Ruth Milford, pale, her eyes still red from crying, was huddled in her chair. But when the two men came in, she rose.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said politely. “I am so sorry to trouble you, but I believe I am to be your guest for a while.”

  He said, “You won’t find it very comfortable, Mrs. Milford. Cells aren’t designed for women. There’s little privacy, and you’ll be watched day and night. Do you understand that?”

  “I do. Yes.”

  “Do you want five minutes to reconsider your situation?”

  “No. But thank you.”

  “Very well. This way.”

  Rutledge picked up the valise. But Carson shook his head. “Leave it. We must search it and decide what she can have and what she can’t.”

  He led them to the rear of the station. Ruth Milford moved resolutely, and when he opened the cell door for her to enter, she walked straight inside. But it was several seconds before she could turn and face the two men.

  If anything her face was paler, and her eyes seemed too large for her face.

  Carson swung the door shut, shooting the bolt into place with a loud clang.

  And then they walked away and left her there.

  Preferring to leave his motorcar at the police station, Rutledge went on foot to the street where Dora Radley lived.

  She wasn’t in. He spent an unpleasant hour and a half in Hamish’s
company. It wasn’t until shortly after three that she came down the street.

  Seeing him almost as soon as he caught sight of her, she hesitated, then continued toward him. He stopped by the short walk to her door, and said, “We can have tea in a shop. Or we can talk in your parlor.”

  “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

  “Sadly, no.”

  Once inside, he came to the point. “I know the work you do. You must have benefactors who contribute to the efforts you make on behalf of those women and children.”

  She said, “They are generous. I expect that’s because they would rather give me their money than be called to work with the women I meet or take in a destitute child.”

  “I’d like a list of them, if you please.”

  Staring at him, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’d like a list of their names.”

  “I will give you no such thing! I depend on these people, and I won’t have you harassing them with visits from Scotland Yard. Do you know how quickly they would turn their backs on me, if that happened? I’d lose everything I’ve fought to do. No.”

  “I don’t intend to harass them.”

  “Then why do you want such a thing?”

  He worded his reply carefully. He couldn’t tell her what he suspected, that she had wittingly or unwittingly provided information to someone that had been used to track Sam Milford. It could so easily be the same man whose whereabouts Ruth Milford refused to give him.

  “Sometimes people know things that are helpful to the police, but aren’t aware of the information they might have until they’re asked. I may be wrong, but it’s worth looking into, if I’m to find Tildy Milford.”

  “But there’s no one among my benefactors who even knew the Milfords.”

  “Have you asked them?”

  “Asked? No, of course not. I’ve had no reason to inquire.” And then something changed in her face. A flush spread across it.

  “Tell me,” Rutledge said urgently. “If you won’t help me, help Tildy and her mother.”

  “But he doesn’t know them. I’m sure he doesn’t. It’s just that he does know a good many people who could be counted on to look out for the child if she was brought to an orphanage. They’re often on the board of governors, you see, and so I asked him to help. Nothing more. And he made inquiries in Shropshire and Cheshire. Towns where I don’t know anyone.”