A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  It was still quite dark when he came awake with a jolt.

  The stair treads, creaking slightly. Under someone’s weight?

  He brushed his hands over his face and eyes, trying to clear his head.

  Coming up—or going down?

  Going down. In the dark, someone had bumped into one of the chairs in the pub.

  He moved as quietly as he could, out his door, down the passage to the next room. His torch was already in his hand, but he covered it with his fingers as he switched it on.

  The covers had been thrown to one side, the sheets almost blindingly white in the torchlight.

  And the room was empty.

  He closed the door, walked back to the stairs. As he reached them he heard the yard door open and close.

  Ruth had gone out into the night.

  He kept the torch beam aimed to the floor, his fingers over the light to dim it further, picking his way through the tables and chairs, reaching the yard door and hesitating before opening it. She was nowhere to be seen.

  Then he caught movement and knew she was standing just to one side of the pub, sheltered by the corner.

  She stood there for a very long while, her arms wrapped around herself. Then she began to turn, back toward the yard door. He was going to be caught there, with nowhere to go—

  But someone called her name softly, and she turned back quickly, hesitated, and then went toward the sound of the voice.

  “I didn’t know—I didn’t think you would come.”

  Rutledge couldn’t hear the response. Whoever it was, the speaker was out of his line of sight. But it was impossible to move nearer, for fear of giving his presence away.

  “Did you kill Sam? I have to know. It’s what he told me. Rutledge.”

  There was a reply but she said, “I didn’t want to believe any of it. But Sam is dead, and he told me it was murder.” Her voice rose a little. “I want to know—how did he die? Was it my fault? The lies I told?”

  This time the voice was closer. “I never touched your husband. I give you my word—I’ll swear on anything you like.”

  Listening, Rutledge was certain now that it was Alasdair’s voice. And he could hear the ring of truth in it. But Alasdair hadn’t killed Sam. He’d hired Joseph Burton to do it for him.

  “I wish I had never met you again. Everything in my life has gone wrong since then. Please. I want my daughter back. She’s all I have left. There’s no point in going on, if she’s taken away from me too.”

  “I didn’t take the child, Ruth. I will swear to that as well. I didn’t know she existed until someone mentioned her to me. But I knew then she must be my child. Her age, her coloring—my father and grandmother had that red-gold hair. Elaine and I never had children, but I’d like to think they would have been as pretty as our daughter, if we had. Why did you never tell me?”

  Rutledge, hearing him, thought, Unless he’d seen the child, how had he been so certain of her coloring? He was lying to Ruth. Why?

  “You hadn’t cared enough even to write, when you went back to France, I had to face all of it on my own. I wanted to hate you then. But when she went missing, and the shoe was right there, waiting for me. I thought it was to tell me not to worry, she was safe. You could give her so much more than a failing pub. I told myself it was for the best. She—Tildy was as sweet as she was pretty. She would have everything as your child. The best schools. The finest home and pretty clothes. It broke my heart to see Sam in such pain. But she was mine, not his. And you were her father. I’d always told myself that if you came for her, I’d let her go. But you hadn’t. Until then. But now I want her back, Alasdair. You must give her to me. That’s why I wrote to you last week.”

  “Ruth—I swear to you.”

  “Alasdair. If you won’t give her back, I’ll talk to that man. I’ll tell Rutledge that it was you. And Mr. Hastings will see that she comes home. But I don’t want it to be that way. I just want Tildy.”

  There was a hardness in her voice that brooked no refusal. And Dale, in the darkness just out of Rutledge’s sight, heard it too.

  “Ruth. I swear. I don’t have her.”

  “But you do. You are the only person who has a reason for wanting her. She’s your child. She’s only Sam’s legally. I’ll even give you the shoe back.” And she turned, walked purposefully back toward the yard door.

  Rutledge had no time to think. He flattened himself against the inside wall, turning his face away from the door. She came inside, shut the door firmly behind her, leaving Dale somewhere near the edge of the yard.

  “Ruth—” Dale called her name in anger and despair, but she walked straight across to the stairs and began to climb them, her footsteps dragging.

  Rutledge heard Dale swear then, long and feelingly. After a bit, Rutledge had the sense that he was gone.

  Ruth had made it clear to Dale that she would have the child or else tell the police what she suspected, that he’d taken Tildy. And for whatever reasons he’d done it, there was no turning back the clock. Why? Because the child was dead? If he’d come to test Ruth’s loyalty, he’d got his answer. And he didn’t have the price of her silence. Or wouldn’t pay it, for the very same reasons he’d abducted Tildy to begin with?

  Rutledge straightened up, listening. In the silence, he thought he heard a motorcar moving away from the village. It had been left in the drive, he thought, where no one in the village would spot it. Ruth must have seen it, and gone down at once, before Dale had had a chance to reconnoiter—and find Rutledge’s own motorcar in the shed.

  Why had Dale ever allowed himself to have an affair with Ruth, so many years after he’d walked away? Had he been flattered? Lonely?

  Or was there something between Sam Milford and Alasdair Dale? Something that went back to the war, and had nothing to do with the child they shared through Ruth?

  Dora had told Dale about Tildy . . . but she was already missing by then. Dale already knew . . .

  Rutledge stood there, his back still against the pub wall, trying to fit these new pieces of information together.

  “’Ware!” Hamish said softly.

  Rutledge kept very still. Was Ruth coming down again?

  And then he heard someone walking away from the yard.

  He slipped out the pub door, then moved to the corner of the pub, where Ruth had been standing only minutes before. But there was no one to account for the sounds.

  He stayed where he was.

  And in the distance, where the village cottages were spread out along the road, he could have sworn he saw a flicker of movement as a shape passed between two of them. He didn’t see it again.

  Someone had overheard the exchange between Dale and Ruth Milford.

  Who had been listening? Will? In the very early morning hours, he often came up to the pub to start the bread rising. And he was devoted to Ruth. He’d helped keep the pub going when Sam was in the trenches, he’d stayed on when Sam came home. Quiet, patient, loyal Will. They had often seemed to forget he was there, in the kitchen, a part of the pub but not a part of the family. And he never seemed to mind.

  Rutledge stayed by the corner of the pub for more than an hour, giving Ruth time to fall asleep again.

  He’d been right about Dale coming to Crowley. Only it had been Susan who was nearly killed. And Ruth who had turned him away, even though Dale had tried to persuade her that he was innocent.

  Rutledge was growing cold, outside in the early morning chill, but he was reluctant to walk back inside and run into Ruth somewhere in the dark pub. Or frighten her by coming up the stairs to his room. Finally, he went to sit in the motorcar in the darkness of the barn. He was too restless to sleep, anyway.

  He could understand why Ruth had never told Dale about Tildy. She had let herself be drawn into that brief affair with him, trying to recapture a past when she had believed they were in love. He’d walked away the first time, breaking her heart by marrying someone else, someone from his own social world. Then, despite the three w
eekends they’d shared, Dale hadn’t asked her to divorce Sam and marry him. He could have done—his wife was dead. Instead, he’d told her he was returning to the Front, and left her once more feeling betrayed. Only this time, she was to discover that she was pregnant, and he hadn’t written to ask if all was well. It had made her bitter. And yet when she thought he’d taken Tildy, she had wanted the child to remind him of the mother. To haunt him. But it hadn’t . . . apparently he’d never wanted Tildy for her own sake.

  How had Dale found out about Tildy? Dora had told him enough for him to follow Sam and have him killed. But the child had been taken almost a year before that. Had Dale come to Crowley, seen her with Ruth, and realized who she was—then quickly driven on before anyone had seen him? Who would have noticed a passing motorcar on its way to The Bog? Or had he encountered Sam somewhere in France, and Sam had shared the good news? Rutledge found that harder to believe. Would he have talked about a child he hadn’t seen and already knew was not his? Someone mentioned her to me . . . Who?

  He got out and turned the crank.

  Ruth was safe enough for the moment. And Susan Milford had nowhere to go, and no way to get there if she did. She could wait as well.

  It was time he had another talk with Hastings, the solicitor.

  It was just before dawn when he set out for Shrewsbury. Driving too fast on the muddy road, he tried not to recall how long it had been since Sam Milford had died—or how much time had passed since he’d spoken to Markham. Silence was unusual on the Chief Superintendent’s part. A man who preferred to keep his finger on the pulse of every inquiry, he found it hard not to use the increasingly available telephone system to offer his opinion of whatever progress his officers had achieved. And so far there had been silence. Still. Better silence than to discover he was being recalled for not coming up with answers in a more timely fashion.

  Hamish said, as Rutledge barely missed another deep rut, filled with rainwater and nearly invisible in the uncertain light, “There’s no’ a political gain here. There’s no medal for finding the killer of the owner of a small pub aboot to close.”

  Still, Rutledge thought again, not convinced.

  He rolled into Shrewsbury, the rain-wet streets glistening in the lamps, the roads quiet.

  Rutledge went directly to the chambers of Hastings and Hastings.

  There was no answer. When he looked at his watch, he knew why. Driving on to the police station, he asked for the direction of the solicitor’s house. With some reluctance, the desk sergeant gave it to him.

  It was a street of fine old houses, where old money resided in comfort. It suited the solicitor perfectly.

  Rutledge began pounding on the door as soon as he reached it. The blows echoed on the quiet street, and somewhere a pair of dogs began barking inside one of the houses across the way. Another followed suit.

  The door was jerked open. A butler was standing there, his nightclothes stuffed into his trousers, shirt over them, a coat over that. He had obviously dressed on his way down from his quarters.

  “Leave at once or I shall summon the police,” he said, his face grim.

  “I am the police.” He handed the man his identification. “Scotland Yard, here to see Mr. Hastings on urgent business. I’ll wait inside.”

  The butler was peering at it. “Indeed, sir, but Mr. Hastings is asleep in his bed. I ask you to return to Mr. Hastings’s chambers during regular hours.”

  “I’m sorry. This won’t wait.”

  The staircase went up just inside the foyer. A voice came from the landing. “Oh, let him in, Franklin. He’s not likely to go away. I’d like a cup of tea, if you please, with a whisky in it. Mr. Rutledge will take his plain, as he’s on duty.”

  He started down the stairs, and Rutledge saw that he was wearing a robe over his nightdress.

  So much the better. Hastings, he thought, wouldn’t care for that at all. And would have to make the best of it.

  Hastings led the way to a handsome book-lined study, gestured to one of the leather chairs, and sat down in the other. “You’re younger than I am. Put a match to the fire. I feel the cold more often these days. Or shall I ask Franklin to give you a room, to freshen up?”

  Ignoring the jibe, Rutledge did as he was asked, and by the time the fire was drawing well, Franklin had arrived with their tea.

  Waiting until the man left, he said to Hastings, “This time I won’t settle for less than the truth. I want you to know that now. Susan Milford was nearly killed last night.”

  He heard the quick intake of breath, then the quiet “Is she all right?”

  Rutledge said, “I’ve seen to it. Someone put a rope across the road to Crowley. The Sunbeam was going at a high rate of speed. It crashed and began to burn. He tracked her, looking for her body. I found her instead, and he had to give up.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Sam Milford is dead. The child that he cared so much about is still missing. Ruth Milford has lied to me from the start, and so have you. Where is Tildy Milford?”

  Hastings sighed. “I don’t know. Not any longer.”

  “Did Milford know that you were a party to her abduction?”

  “Oh, no, you’re quite wrong. I was never that. Quite the opposite. I found her when the police failed.”

  Rutledge considered him. “And you did nothing to bring her home?”

  “You see, I didn’t know who had taken her. I still don’t. And so I thought she would be safer if she was not found. Until we knew why.” He stretched his legs, so that his feet were closer to the blaze. “Secrets are power in a way. I learned that long ago, and I have employed people to help me find out secrets I need to learn. But even they couldn’t find the truth in this instance. Sadly.”

  “You said you found her. Where?”

  “She was taken to Worcester. The police looked all over Shropshire and Cheshire. It was my people who decided to look farther afield. It was claimed by the person who brought her in to the orphanage that her mother had died, her father couldn’t raise her on his own, and so he was forced to put her up for adoption. And because she was a pretty little thing, a family was found almost at once. I saw to that, arranged everything, and so she was placed where I could keep an eye on her. But Tildy is unusual. Her coloring made her noticeable. And Sam Milford was searching for her. Asking questions. By that time I’d discovered that she wasn’t his child. And so I thought he would give up in time, that perhaps he was searching so hard because his wife was pushing him to find her. But Ruth wasn’t, you see. It was Sam, not Ruth, who cared so deeply. Rather odd, don’t you think? Still, it did explain why the mother wasn’t as eager to have her back again. And so I left her where she was.”

  “How did you discover her history? Do you know the name of the child’s father?”

  “Not the name, of course. I was intrigued when Milford came in after the war and changed his will to include a child I didn’t think he could have fathered. To my knowledge, he hadn’t come home on leave at any time. I’d made a point to write to my clients who were serving their country. He’d replied several times and mentioned how much he missed his wife and the pub. I went to the clinic where the child was born. The name given there for the father was, as you’d expect, Sam Milford, but I placed some very discreet queries, and I found that he had not been in England when the child was conceived. It would have saved a good deal of time and trouble, if I’d merely asked Milford outright. It seems he knew about the child’s father. Well, not who he was, of course. Apparently whatever account he’d been given by his wife, he had been satisfied with it.”

  “Who did you ask about Milford’s whereabouts in 1917?” But he already knew.

  “A fellow solicitor. He’d served with the Bantams. An officer. He was happy to help me.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Alasdair Dale. A good man. We’d worked together a number of times on other matters. I knew he could be discreet.” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea how many families lo
st their only heir in the war? We’ve done what we could to trace bloodlines. Not always successful of course. But we must at least try.”

  “Did Dale ask why you were looking into Milford’s whereabouts?”

  For once Rutledge had caught the solicitor off guard. He shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly uneasy. “No, of course not. He’s discreet, as he should be.” Hastings cleared his throat. “Alasdair’s father was a solicitor. I’d known the family long before Alasdair was born. I happened to mention when I asked him to look into Milford’s records that his young daughter had reminded me a little of Alasdair’s grandmother. Beautiful woman. The child had that same bright coloring.”

  Rutledge swore. Hastings had led Dale straight to Tildy. And there was Trefor Hall, without an heir and leaving the sale of the property to the family solicitor. Was that Dale? Was that how he had come to know about the narrowboats and the Aqueduct? Was that how he had found Joseph Burton? It all made sense.

  Hastings was still speaking. Justifying himself. “When the child went missing from where she’d been in safekeeping, I asked Dale to help me find her. I knew I could trust him. And I must say, he and I searched diligently. Sadly, we never succeeded.”

  Rutledge’s voice was taut with his anger. “With all your scheming, all your secrets—did you have any idea that the man who was helping you search for that child was actually Tildy’s father?”

  Hastings’s face drained of what little color it had, age spots standing out starkly on his cheekbones and forehead. “I can assure you. He is not. He would have told me, if I’d made such a terrible mistake. He would have confessed to me.”

  “If you had confessed to Sam Milford that you knew where Tildy was, you might have saved the man’s life. He was followed to Oswestry, possibly by one of the minions you yourself have employed. And whoever hired them was worried enough about what Milford might learn in that obsessive search of his, to have him pushed off the Telford Aqueduct. Two other people have been killed as well. Susan Milford almost became the fourth victim.”