by Charles Todd
“He was willing to kill for that life, wasn’t he? Sam Milford, Betty Turnbull, and Joseph Burton paid for that future. Susan and Ruth Milford and Mrs. Priestley nearly did. Three of his victims were your own clients. Rather a high price for one man’s happiness.”
“We must be thankful that he couldn’t bring himself to kill the child as well.”
Rutledge had to quell the urge to sweep everything from the man’s desk to the floor. Instead he got up and walked out, too angry to stay.
When he had his anger under control once more, he went to the hotel and put in a call. It was to Melinda Crawford, in Kent. The family friend who had been such a large part of his life.
She came to the telephone at once. “Ian? Frances says you’re in the North.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Shrewsbury, in fact.”
“Ah. Is there something I can help you with?”
He’d called on her before, in dire straits. But he couldn’t tell her what troubled him now. “This close to Scotland—I was wondering if you’d had recent news from David.” His godfather, the architect.
“As a matter of fact, I had a letter last week. They’re well. David and little Ian. Fiona and Morag. They’ve invited me to come up, but I don’t know if I can go just now.”
She had her fingers in so many things. She was always busy. But she had always had time for him.
“You should go. You’ve always liked Scotland.”
“And you should visit more often as well. David misses you, Ian. He still grieves for Ross.” The son he’d lost in the war. Little Ian’s father.
“I find it hard to get away . . .”
“It’s time you took a little leave.”
“Yes. When you write, send David my love, if you will.”
“He’d rather hear it from you.”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “I know.” Then he said, trying not to make it sound like false cheer, “I’ll give it some thought.”
He rang off after that. Still uncertain.
But before he could deal with the problem of Tildy, he had to be sure he still had the authority to do so. And he put in another call to Gibson.
The Sergeant who answered the telephone at the Yard reported, “Sergeant Gibson isn’t here, sir. There’s rather a push on. Could I take a message, sir?”
He couldn’t speak to a man he only knew casually. “I’ll telephone in the morning. Will he be in?”
“Yes, sir, I expect he will.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice as he added, “I seldom see his desk unoccupied, sir.”
Rutledge thanked him and put up the receiver, but stood there for a long moment afterward.
There had been nothing in the Sergeant’s voice to indicate that Rutledge was out of favor, on the verge of being let go. Rumors were rife at the Yard. Still. The Chief Superintendent often kept his decisions to himself, preferring to witness their effect on the hapless officer standing in front of him.
In the end he went back to the hotel Sam had always used and asked for a room. Whatever he did tomorrow, it had to have official sanction.
Hamish remarked, as Rutledge climbed the stairs, “It’s the coward’s way out, ye ken.”
But it wasn’t. Another Inspector, coming late to the inquiry, might see matters very differently and do more harm than he realized.
And there were the inquests . . .
Lighting the lamp, he tossed his coat and hat on the bed and sat down at the small table that served as a desk. Taking out his notebook, for the next five hours he worked on his report, making sure that every detail was properly supported by fact. There must be no questions about the evidence, no uncertainty about Dale’s guilt. Or the child’s future.
As he worked, he had a passing thought about Dora Radley. Had she heard that Dale was planning to marry again? He thought not, she hadn’t mentioned it. Still, he wondered if she’d had some hope in that direction. Sam Milford was married. Fond of him she might well have been, but Dora wouldn’t have pursued any more than friendship. Still, she’d shared Milford’s search with Dale. Because she truly wanted to help—or to curry favor with the attractive solicitor who had connections?
Sadly—or luckily—for her, she wasn’t an heiress.
It was early when Rutledge tried to telephone the Yard once more. Sergeant Gibson was in, but at present was in the Chief Superintendent’s office.
An hour later, when he called again, the Sergeant’s gruff voice came over the line. “Scotland Yard. Sergeant Gibson speaking.”
“Rutledge here,” he said. “I’ve closed the inquiry and am preparing for the inquests. There will be several. A long story, but a successful one.”
There was silence at the other end. Rutledge braced himself for what was coming.
“Himself just had an urgent telephone call. It was from the father of Mrs. Cecily Eastbourne.”
Rutledge closed his eyes. “Yes?” He hadn’t known her last name.
“Sir Henry wanted to thank Himself for the timely action of the Yard, in taking a Mr. Dale into custody in Chester. His daughter had been engaged to Dale, but fortunately it had been ended. He wanted to ask that the Yard keep all mention of Mrs. Eastbourne out of the picture. Himself agreed.” Again a brief hesitation. “We don’t know the facts in the case yet. Is that going to be possible, sir?”
Rutledge had already made that decision last night. There had been a little awkwardness in establishing motive, but he had managed to skirt the issue of the engagement. Instead, he had merely mentioned Dale’s ambitions. Enough lives had been ruined.
“It has been done, Sergeant.”
There was an audible sigh of relief. “I’ll report to the Chief Inspector, sir. He will be most grateful.”
Later in the morning, when he arrived at the surgery in Church Stretton, Susan and Tildy were sitting on the floor of one of the examining rooms, playing with a set of wooden blocks and the rag doll.
Susan looked up as he came in. But she didn’t speak, going back to the game she and Tildy were enjoying.
Dr. Matthews, standing behind him, said quietly, “I am glad I’m not in your shoes. You do realize that that woman is either unstable, or has spent a lifetime using it to get what she wants.”
“You don’t care for her very much,” Rutledge observed.
“I feel sympathy for the truly mad. They can’t help themselves, and we can’t always make them better. She manipulates.”
But she had been taught by a master. Hastings.
“Is she safe to leave with that child? If I have to make that decision?”
“She loves her. You can see that.”
“You haven’t answered me.”
“No. I haven’t.”
A little later, with Susan ensconced in the motorcar, Tildy in her lap, Rutledge left Church Stretton.
Once on the road, he said, “You will not make a scene. Promise me.”
She played with golden ringlets, winding them around her finger as Tildy looked out the window, showing something to the doll. Mrs. Matthews had insisted that she keep it. Once Tildy had said, “Show Auntie Jo?”
“Later, perhaps,” Rutledge replied. And didn’t explain.
They reached Crowley and pulled up the hill toward the inn.
Susan’s face was still, as if she had willed herself not to show any feeling at all.
As he drove into the pub yard, he saw Will looking out the glass of the side door. Then he was gone.
Rutledge got out. “Stay here. She doesn’t know why I’ve come.”
“I understand.” She pulled Tildy closer, but Tildy was staring at her surroundings as if she had a faint recollection of them, and pulled away.
He walked across to the door and went inside.
The three of them—Ruth Milford and Nan Blake and Will Esterly—were standing in the middle of the pub, staring anxiously at him.
“I’ve brought Tildy home,” he said, and Ruth’s knees nearly buckled. Nan had to catch her arm and hold he
r up.
“She’s been through an ordeal. I’ll tell you more about that later. But she’s healthy. I don’t think she’s suffered physically, but she has been shifted from pillar to post, and only time will tell. Wait—!” he said sharply as Ruth started toward the side door.
“There are two things you need to know,” he continued. “The first is that I’m recommending that Tildy be made a ward of the court, to be certain she’s all right in the years to come. You don’t deserve her, Ruth. You’ll have to earn the right to call yourself her mother. And I have brought Susan Milford, Sam’s sister, with me. She had the care of Tildy when you were trying to persuade yourself that Tildy would have a better life with her true father. I have seen what that better life was, and I can tell you now that he gave her nothing. And you will treat Sam’s sister with the respect she has earned. Do I make myself clear?”
“But she’s mad—Sam told me she was mad.”
“Sam was wrong.”
He went back to the door and brought in Susan Milford and Tildy. The child was clutching Susan’s hand, looking around her with wide eyes. Her gaze settled on Ruth, and she stared at her, frowning, before turning slightly and burying her face against Susan’s leg.
Ruth stifled a cry. “She doesn’t know me,” she whispered in anguish.
“She hasn’t seen you or heard your voice in a year. That was your choice, not hers.”
Susan, watching the two women in front of her, said nothing. But she put her hand down on Tildy’s curls, gently smoothing them a little. Protective.
Ruth went down on her knees, holding out her arms. “Tildy? It’s Mummy. Please, darling, come and give me a hug? I’ve missed you so terribly.”
Tildy stayed where she was.
Collapsing in a heap, Ruth began to cry softly.
He said to Nan, “Close the pub. Leave Will to keep an eye on it. Then pack some clothing. I’m taking the three of you back with me to Shrewsbury. Miss Milford has rooms there. You and Mrs. Milford will share them with her and with Tildy. I have matters to see to. But what happens to Tildy will depend on what I observe in the next few days.”
Nan said, “I shouldn’t go—Donald—”
“You will. For Tildy’s sake. Now get ready.”
Susan was kneeling by Tildy, who was asking, “Why is the lady crying?”
“She hasn’t seen you in a long time, darling. And you don’t remember her. Go and tell her you are sorry you don’t remember.”
The child walked hesitantly across the space between them, and reached out to touch Ruth’s hair. “I’m sorry.”
Ruth looked up, smiled a little, then said, “I am sorry too.”
She got up, touched Tildy’s face with her fingers, and then ran upstairs. They could hear her choking sobs.
Nan followed her, after a glance from Rutledge. Tildy, surprised, went back to Susan’s side.
Rutledge had started speaking to Will, when he heard Nan scream.
He went racing up the stairs, Will at his heels.
Nan was in the passage outside the room where Ruth had been sleeping.
She reached out and caught Rutledge’s arm. “She’s trying to kill herself—”
He ran into the room where Ruth was sawing at her wrist with a pair of scissors, blood all over the coverlet beneath her. He had to fight her for them, got them away from her finally, then pushed her back down on the bed.
“If you loved her, you’d want to live,” he said harshly. “Instead, you’re still thinking about yourself. What sort of mother are you? Now pack your valise, and go and sit in the motorcar.” To Nan he added, “Bind up that cut. Will can stay here while you pack your own case.”
It took him over two hours to put things in order.
Will, anxious and worried, said, “What will we do about the pub?”
“In good time. Just keep it closed for now. The family is in mourning.”
He got Nan and then Ruth into the motorcar, wincing as they took over the space that had always been Hamish’s.
And then he went back for Susan, who was sitting in a chair with a sleepy child in her lap.
She was looking around. “A pity the pub is closing. I’m sorry.” She turned to Rutledge. “Sam was happy here.” Then, “Did she really try to cut her wrists?”
He said, “I’m afraid so.”
“I used to play at suicide. I never had the courage to go through with it. I see now I was as selfish as she was. What will happen to Gwen—Tildy?”
“I don’t know.”
He helped them out to the motorcar. Then he watched Will close and lock the side door. The man’s face was sad as he turned and limped down the hill toward his aunt’s house.
Rutledge turned the crank and got in.
No one said anything to him.
He pulled away from The Pit and The Pony, heading for Shrewsbury.
He had learned early on that murder always left living victims behind. Tildy was one of them. He wasn’t sure the suite at the hotel would work. But for Tildy’s sake he was going to give it a damned good try. And there were the inquests to get through.
Glancing across at the child asleep in Susan’s lap, he thought of the small boy in Scotland, the one named for him. Ian had lost his father to war and his mother to murder. But his grandfather and the woman Hamish MacLeod had intended to marry at war’s end had given the boy their love, to keep him safe.
If the three women in Tildy’s life couldn’t give her what she needed, he’d see that Tildy went to Scotland. She could share Ian’s pony.
Or to Melinda Crawford.
He found himself smiling at the image of Tildy among Melinda’s exotic treasures.
Hastings, by God, would find a legal way to see that it happened. To make amends . . .
If it came to that.
Acknowledgments
We wrote this book before Covid-19 became a household word—talked about every night on TV, seeping into everyone’s nightmares all across the world.
A Fatal Lie went into production as the virus bloomed, and yet as production demands widened, there was always someone working who was available to do the job or see to the next step or make a decision about titles and font style and jacket art.
Emily and Julia were working at home, even as the virus exploded across the city—sometimes in difficult circumstances, but undeterred. Shelly and Laura got the copyedits done. There are so many others at HarperCollins who were doing what they always do to turn a manuscript into a book—design, jacket art, you name it. Ah, yes, that lovely jacket! And Lisa was there as well, as she always is.
We are grateful to each and every one of you! Yeah, Team Todd!
AND . . . a special thanks to Brian and Pauline, who introduced us to the Stiperstones, and to Sandy and Eddie, who owned the pub that was the inspiration for The Pit and The Pony.
Our thanks as well to Kathy and Nicky, great traveling companions, as we stayed in the Royal Goat Hotel, and later rattled over those mind-boggling roads in the quarry. It was also nice to be back in Betws-y-Coed again . . . we have such fond memories of that little town. We’d done much of this trip before with Pauline and Brian, but going back again for a fresh look led to this book. We never know where the story in our heads will suddenly find a home, it just happens. Travel does that. So here’s to getting there and finding the perfect place for murder . . .
—The authors
About the Authors
CHARLES TODD is the author of the Bess Crawford mysteries, the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live on the East Coast.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Charles Todd
The Ian Rutledge Mysteries
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
Watchers of Time
A Fearsome Doubt
A Cold Treachery
A L
ong Shadow
A False Mirror
A Pale Horse
A Matter of Justice
The Red Door
A Lonely Death
The Confession
Proof of Guilt
Hunting Shadows
A Fine Summer’s Day
No Shred of Evidence
Racing the Devil
The Gate Keeper
The Black Ascot
A Divided Loyalty
The Bess Crawford Mysteries
A Duty to the Dead
An Impartial Witness
A Bitter Truth
An Unmarked Grave
A Question of Honor
An Unwilling Accomplice
A Pattern of Lies
The Shattered Tree
A Casualty of War
A Forgotten Place
A Cruel Deception
Other Fiction
The Murder Stone
The Walnut Tree
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
a fatal lie. Copyright © 2021 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.