by Charles Todd
“You are wrong. No, I refuse to believe you.”
“Damn it, man, I can prove it. But why in the name of all the hounds of hell did you give that child to Susan to care for? She hated Sam.”
“No, that’s not true. She looked after Tildy beautifully. Tildy came to love her. Susan wanted to keep her. And I had to tell her that she couldn’t.”
“She wasn’t a family heirloom, a clock or ring you could pass around. You were playing with the life of a child.”
“Was I? With Sam Milford dead, who else would love her for her own sake?”
“Why does Susan Milford mean so much to you? You’ve protected her—and manipulated her—lied about her mental state—used her for your own ends.”
“I knew her mother. Long ago. I made a promise. And I have kept it in my own fashion. She was happiest with Tildy. I saw a difference that gave me hope.”
Rutledge stood up. “You tell me you’ve had help in all this. I need to speak to anyone who might have information I can use. I want to know who was following Sam Milford. Or me, for all I know. If you don’t have the names by tomorrow, I’ll have you dragged to the police station and put in a cell.”
“Did it occur to you that the intended victim on the Crowley road was you?” The hooded eyes studied him. “You are in someone’s way, you know.”
“I’m in yours. And if I can find evidence that directly links you to murder, I will see that you are taken into custody and stand trial as an accessory.”
“My conscience is clear. But I will give you a little free advice, Inspector. Who did that child threaten most?”
Rutledge shook his head. “No,” he countered. “I’ve had enough.”
And he walked out of the house.
20
He was, much to Rutledge’s surprise, still sober.
But Fenton’s face seemed to sag as he opened the door and found Rutledge on his doorstep.
“Carson told me you brought in Ruth Milford. Then decided not to charge her.”
“I needed information. She refused to give it.”
“She must have done, finally. Or you wouldn’t have let her go. Come in. We can’t talk out here.” He led the way to his study. “Drink?”
“I’m on duty.”
“I’m not. I wish to hell I were. I can’t seem to fill the hours of the day anymore. Once I could go eighteen hours without sleep, and then I only needed two hours and I was back at it again. Now I watch the hands of the clock move like treacle, and wonder how the hell I can make it through until dark. And in the dark I wait for sunrise. Not much of a life.” He took a deep breath. “How can I help? You look as if you’ve gone eighteen hours back to back.”
Rutledge had taken a room again, shaved, changed clothes, and tried to eat breakfast. He had been afraid to sleep, knowing how badly he needed it.
“Someone asked me a question just now. You might be better able to answer it than anyone else. Who did that child Tildy threaten most?”
“Threaten? She was two, going on three, for God’s sake.”
“Then why was she taken?”
“Because someone saw her and wanted her. It’s the most likely answer. We went to The Bog and questioned everyone there. It’s in the report, ask Carson. But I didn’t hold out much hope—too close by, she’d have been recognized the minute she set foot out whatever door she was held behind.”
“Who had a motorcar in Crowley?”
“Motorcar? There isn’t one, to my knowledge. If anyone needs to take a train, the dogcart is available. It belongs to”—he closed his eyes, as if to see the report more clearly—“Will Easter, no, Esterly. He keeps a horse.”
“How do they get their supplies at the pub?”
“They’re brought in by van, from the vendors. That’s been one of the problems. Crowley doesn’t do that much business with anyone these days. There have been complaints about the distance, and a few firms have talked about delivery charges. Another headache for the pub, I should think. But that’s why we never expected ransom demands. There didn’t appear to be enough money to make the risk of taking the little girl worthwhile. She was taken for some other reason.” He frowned. “Are you saying one of the van drivers came back for her?”
“Another possibility,” Rutledge acknowledged, not wanting to tell Fenton what he knew. “The Blakes want to sell up. Would they have taken the child, thinking to drive Ruth into closing the pub?”
“I wondered about the cousin. If she was jealous of the child. But the signs weren’t there. She was as devastated as the Milfords. No, there was something odd about the whole abduction. And yet there was nothing I could put my finger on, nothing I could work with. Nothing that made any sense. That’s why I kept my eye on Ruth, because it had to be something about her. Not the child. The mother. And I never found out what that was.”
On the drive back to Church Stretton to look in on Susan Milford, Rutledge fought the overwhelming drowsiness that was threatening to overtake him.
Hamish was there, his voice harsh as he said, “If yon lawyer is right, and ye’re the target, no’ the sister, then ye’re running blind. Gie’ o’er and sleep.”
“I can’t. I need to speak to her before she’s had a chance to confer with Hastings. Then I’ll rest.”
“Aye, and if it’s too late?”
“I’m safe until I am closer to Crowley. Leave it.” He’d spoken aloud.
And he was right. He reached Church Stretton in its saddle ringed with hills, and went directly to the doctor’s surgery.
Susan Milford was awake, but she refused to see him. Setting the doctor aside, Rutledge said, “This is no time for the vapors.”
“Hardly vapors—she’s threatened me with legal action if you come near her,” Dr. Matthews began, then added, “Oh, very well, but I shall have to be there if only to referee.”
She was dressed, though her clothes had seen rough usage, and there was a strong hint of burning Sunbeam about them. Sitting up on the examination bed where she had been brought last night, she eyed Rutledge balefully.
“I saved your life,” he said. “In some societies, that would mean I would now be responsible for you as long as you lived. Thank God this isn’t true in England. Therefore, I can have you taken to Shrewsbury and put in a cell. It’s where I put Ruth Milford, when she refused to cooperate. Apparently it wasn’t a very pleasant experience.”
She opened her mouth to retort, thought better of what she was about to say, and closed her mouth smartly.
“Why were you on the Crowley road two nights ago?”
“I wasn’t. I was on my way to Ludlow. I told you.”
“Why did you take a framed photograph from the pub?”
“I happened to want a photograph of my late brother. I’m sentimental that way.”
“No, you wanted to see what Alasdair Dale looked like. Why?”
“I have never met this man. Why should I wish to have his photograph?”
“But he has Tildy, doesn’t he? And he was on his way to Ludlow. He goes there often. You are still looking for her.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her mouth had a mulish set.
“Who took her from her mother? Surely Hastings told you.”
“I don’t know anyone called Hastings.”
Rutledge fought to keep his temper. “Indeed? I just spent the morning with your solicitor. He had quite a lot to tell me about you. Including the fact that you are quite mad, and I shouldn’t trust anything you tell me—”
Her face flamed. “I am not mad.” Her voice was tight.
“No? He showed me the letter you wrote shortly before you left Betws y Coed. When you threatened to kill yourself. I notice that you are still with us, very much alive.”
“Here—!” the doctor interjected, but her words cut across his.
“He didn’t. I don’t believe you!”
“Ask him, when next you see him. Although knowing the man, you won’t get a straight answer.
”
She faced him defiantly. “Go to hell.”
He changed tactics. “Do you care anything about Tildy? Dale could very well be the man who had your brother killed. Does that count for nothing?”
“I don’t think he did. I think it was Ruth herself. Or her cousin’s husband. Donald Blake.”
“Why would Ruth kill Sam Milford?”
“So she could marry Dale. A happy little family, that.” Her voice was bitter now. “A Chester solicitor. The best schools. Tildy would be too young to remember Sam. She would take to her new father, and come to love him. At least that’s what Ruth must want.”
But Dale hadn’t wanted to marry her. She’d discovered that in Llangollen. And she had gone back to Sam Milford. She wasn’t suitable, a pub owner’s daughter, for the circles Dale moved in.
Still, her words were close enough to the truth.
He said, playing back her arguments, “What did Donald Blake have to gain, killing Sam?”
“I don’t know. But it was Blake who took Tildy. It appears he was tired of waiting for Ruth to sell the pub. She was holding on to it for her daughter’s sake, even though it was dying. He expected her to sell up, once Tildy was gone. Then he was going to play the hero after she’d done that, and bring Tildy back.”
He stared at her. “Blake? Was this true? Or is that another of Edwin Hastings’s little lies? He’s a consummate liar, Miss Milford. I can’t trust anything he tells me. Or you.”
“He traced the child to Worcester. But I found out more. A man claiming to be her father had put her into an orphans’ asylum, telling them he’d come for her again when he was able to take care of her. His description fit Donald Blake. But Hastings got her out of there, with a few well-placed donations. And I took her. Then she was taken from me.” She closed her eyes at the memory.
“Then who killed Sam?” He was thinking out loud now, trying to work it out.
“I don’t know. How could I know? Hastings thought Sam was looking for someone in Oswestry. Something to do with a funeral.”
The assault was supposed to have occurred after the funeral of Ruth’s friend. Had Milford been searching in Oswestry for anyone with red hair because of that? But what had lured him to the Aqueduct? A lie, passed on by Betty Turnbull? “Why did he have to die?”
“According to Hastings, it was because he wouldn’t stop searching for Tildy. And that worried someone.”
“Why did you want that photograph of Dale, if it was Blake who took the child?”
“Someone was starting a fire with a bit of newspaper. Never mind where this was. As they were crumpling it up, I saw a face I thought I recognized. A photograph of a couple who had just become engaged. A prominent solicitor and a very wealthy widow. But I’d seen him—I was sure of it—in the village where I was staying when Tildy vanished. I thought—I wondered if he had taken her. I know, it was—but I was desperate. I remembered that Sam had sent me a photograph when he’d enlisted. I found it, but I’d been angry, I’d torn it across. The man in the background wasn’t clear. I thought there might be another at the pub, and I was right. And it was the same man. Hastings told me that this man didn’t know Sam—but he must have done. When I heard that Sam was dead, I went to the Aqueduct. I intended to show that photograph to the narrowboat men. And one of them told me Dale had been there. I saw you as well, that night. I thought that you were after him too.”
“Did you speak to Joseph Burton?”
“I don’t know. I don’t recognize the name.”
Even so, he had enough now. He hadn’t known to ask about Dale when he was at the Aqueduct. What’s more, Susan had given him a possible motive. If Dale was about to be married, he might well have been horrified to learn that there was a love child who could be traced to him. What would his wealthy widow have made of that? Dale had no way of knowing that Sam was searching for the missing child or even for her real father because he wanted the little girl back, and had no intention of making his wife’s affair public.
Nor did he know that Sam was unaware that Ruth had committed adultery. But in that late-night confrontation with Ruth, she had demanded that he return Tildy—
A sense of urgency swept through Rutledge. “There are some things I must see to—”
“Do you know where Tildy is? Is that it?” Susan demanded. “Is that where you are going?”
“Not yet.”
“No. You won’t leave me here! I’m going with you.”
“It’s too dangerous.” And for all he knew, Dale had already killed the little girl.
“No, I tell you, I have come this far. I must find Tildy.”
“You can’t keep her, Miss Milford. She has a mother.”
“And what if she doesn’t remember Ruth? But she remembers me?”
“It doesn’t matter. You aren’t her family.”
Something in her face changed. “That was cruel.”
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Matthews demanded, completely at sea.
She turned to him, pleading. “Tell him that I can go, that I’m all right—you’ve seen to my arm, there’s nothing to be done about my foot except to bind it up, and you’ve done that as well. My ribs too. I can travel in that motorcar of his. Tell him!”
Matthews looked from one to the other. “You were going to call the police if I let this man near you—and now you wish to leave with him?” he began. “I am not convinced you are well enough to go anywhere—that blow on the head—I had to take three stitches—”
In the end, she got her way. She had begun to scream, bringing Dr. Matthews’s nurse running, and then his wife.
Matthews, over the shrill cries, said, “Look, this has got to stop. Take her with you, for God’s sake. They can hear her all the way to St. Lawrence churchyard. The Long Mynd for all I know. I’ve done what I could. She’ll be all right. Just make her stop.”
And she had, as soon as he agreed. Smiling at Mrs. Matthews, at the nurse, saying graciously, “I’m so sorry. But he’s quite stubborn sometimes, you see.”
Matthews helped her out to the motorcar, the nurse bringing up the rear with a pair of crutches, while Mrs. Matthews went to speak to the anxious couple in the waiting room alarmed by the disturbance.
As they pulled away from the surgery, Rutledge said, “That was unconscionable.”
But she didn’t answer him. He said, “There’s a rug in the back. You haven’t got a coat.”
“I’ll be all right.”
He slowed, found it without looking, and handed it to her. “Don’t give me any more trouble or I’ll put you out at the nearest crossroads.”
But it was a good three miles down the road before she wrapped the rug around her.
He wasn’t sure just what he was going to do with her. He didn’t want to drive all the way back to Shrewsbury, thirteen or fourteen miles behind them.
Putting her out of his mind, he began to concentrate on what lay ahead.
He reached the turning for Crowley, and said to the silent woman beside him, “You’ll stay in the motorcar. Do you understand?”
“I want to see his face. Blake’s. I want to know how he could take a child that young and give her to strangers.”
“No.”
“He doesn’t know me. I can help you. Let me at least do that.”
“No.”
But when they pulled into the yard, Ruth Milford and Nan Blake were just coming out of the side door.
They stared at the motorcar, faces grim, as Rutledge prepared to get out.
Ruth, peering past him, said, “Is that—is that Sam’s sister? What is she doing here?”
“I’ve come to talk to you. May I come in?”
“Go away, and take her with you.”
“It’s important,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “I think you need to hear what I have to say.”
Ruth asked, “Is it about Tildy? Have you found her?”
“I know what happened the day she was taken from you.”
“I believe she is.” But he didn’t.
“Then come in. But she must stay out here.”
“It’s cold, and she has no coat. She was nearly killed two nights ago.”
“I don’t care.”
Nan said, “Let her come in. I’ll put the kettle on.” And she went ahead, back into the pub.
Ruth made no attempt to help Susan Milford out of the motorcar. Rutledge got out the crutches, but Susan couldn’t manage them with her arm. In the end, he had to help her limp into the pub. Ruth came behind them, shutting the door.
He settled Susan at one of the side tables, then moved closer to the bar.
“Where are Will and Mrs. Blake’s husband?” he asked Ruth as he pulled out chairs at one of the tables against the wall.
“Will has gone home. I don’t know where Donald is.”
“Never mind. It’s you I’ve come to see.”
She was still standing. “Tell me. If you know anything about Tildy, tell me.”
He took a deep breath. “I know who took her. And what happened to her after that. Sit down. It won’t be the best news I could bring.”
After a moment she took the farthest chair from him, and sat down.
“Your daughter was taken by your cousin’s husband. He took her to force you to sell up. She was placed in an orphans’ home in Worcester. And from there she was adopted—”
“No. You’re lying. I know who took her. I’ve always known.”
“So you thought. But you are wrong.”
“Nan?” she called. “Nan, come and hear this. Never mind the tea—”
Her cousin came to the bar, alerted by something in Ruth’s voice.
Ruth said, “He’s telling me that Donald took Tildy. To make me sell the pub. I told you he wasn’t to be trusted.”
Nan said, “Donald? No, why would he do such a thing? He loved Tildy as much as I did.”
“I’m afraid it’s true. And there is a solicitor in Shrewsbury who can show you whatever evidence you require,” Rutledge replied.
“No, you’re wrong—” Nan began, but Susan spoke then.
“It’s true. Whether you want to believe it or not. Sam’s solicitor found her, gave her to me. I had your daughter for weeks—months—”