A Divided Loyalty

by Charles Todd

  “Good day, sir,” Gibson said, in a dark voice that predicted a bad morning was about to get much worse.

  Rutledge smiled, then said, “There’s a woman in London I need to find—she’s not a suspect, but she might be our victim. I need to know if she’s alive.”

  “I don’t know if we have the men to search at the moment, sir. But I’ll try. Give me the name and tell me how to reach you.”

  “I’ll have to call you again. There’s no telephone in the village. The name is Joan Miller.” He went on to describe the dead woman. “And no distinguishing—”

  “Joan Miller, sir?” Gibson broke in. “Well, I can tell you she’s alive. Two days ago, Inspector Kent was interviewing her about a break-in at the house where she’s an upstairs maid.”

  “Is she a suspect in that inquiry?”

  “No, sir. She was asleep on the servants’ floor when someone came through a window in the pantry. Inspector Kent wanted to know more about one of the sons in the family. He’s got gambling debts.”

  “And you’re certain it’s the same Joan Miller I’m looking for?”

  “According to the Inspector’s report, she came to London some six or seven years ago and went into service. References from a house in Shrewsbury where she was a kitchen maid for two years.”

  If this was the Joan Miller who had run away with the Rector’s well-digger, she had landed on her feet. Moreover, she’d kept her husband’s name. Still, it was common enough.

  In Rutledge’s experience, women who were looking to leave another life behind reverted to their maiden name, or even their mother’s maiden name, to ensure a fresh beginning.

  Had she used the other man to cover her escape from Miller? What did that have to say about the sexton?

  And did it make him a suspect, even if the dead woman wasn’t his wife?

  Rutledge said, “Age?”

  “Thirty-four, birthday coming up in May. The seventeenth, according to the report.”

  He thanked Gibson and put up the telephone.

  There couldn’t be any doubt about Joan Miller. The same name and the same birthday couldn’t be wrong.

  Which left him with no identification and possibly no suspect. But then it would have been almost too easy for the killer to find his victim.

  Hamish reminded him, “You canna’ be certain yon lass wasn’t mistaken for her. If she had left the well-digger and turned respectable. And someone knew it.”

  But Rutledge had a feeling that his inquiry had just hit a dead end.

  Driving back to the village, he found himself thinking ruefully that Chief Superintendent Markham would have been very pleased with such a swift and tidy solution: the sexton killing the straying wife who had returned hoping for forgiveness.

  It was the sort of conclusion the man preferred: straightforward and uncomplicated by nuances.

  Rutledge looked for Mrs. Branson as he came into the village, wondering if she might still be wandering the streets. Was her memory as trustworthy as she claimed, or was it a victim of lonely old age and imagination?

  There was no sign of her. And the light was going.

  It was just at the evening supper hour when he walked into The Dun Cow’s crowded bar and asked for sandwiches and tea to be sent up to his room. It was Saturday night, he realized.

  The middle-aged woman who took his order said, “There’s a message from Constable, sir. I put it under your door.”

  Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, hoping for good news. But the folded square of paper slipped under his door said only, Doctor wants to know what to do with the body if there’s no one to claim it.

  It was premature to be thinking about a burial when there had been neither an inquest nor an arrest. But the surgery was small, and a dead body was a problem.

  The question would have to wait. He slipped the square into his notebook, just as there was a knock at his door, and the woman from downstairs came into the room with his meal.

  He sat by the window and ate it, grateful for the meager fire on his hearth, and thinking about the overheated study at the Rectory.

  And there was the answer. Let the Rector decide what to do with the unclaimed body. Rutledge thought it was very likely that he would take on the charge as a matter of course. But surely there would be a name by the time such a decision had to be made.

  That raised another thought: the Simmons funeral must still be waiting for the grieving family to decide whether they wanted to bury him in that grave after all.

  The sandwiches—egg mayonnaise and a ham and cheese—were well made, and he finished them before taking out his notebook and putting down what he’d learned since his arrival.

  Looking at what he’d written, he thought it seemed like very little progress had been made. He’d ruled out Joan Miller as the victim, but there was no one to put in her place.

  He remembered the bruised, torn grass by the grave. Impossible to say now if there was blood around the site. If the woman hadn’t been killed there in the churchyard just before she was put into the empty grave, where had she been killed? In the vehicle that had brought her to the churchyard? In someone’s house? Her own? Wherever it had occurred, there would have been blood to clean up. The killer would have faced a dilemma—getting rid of the body or getting rid of the blood left behind somewhere . . .

  He considered the empty ruin he’d seen by the river. But the woman didn’t appear to be the sort who would let herself be lured into such a place, even by someone she knew. It must now be the realm of bats, foxes, and owls. Hardly a romantic rendezvous.

  And where was the weapon? Back in someone’s kitchen? Before it was noticed as missing? He remembered the man from the bar staring after Mrs. Branson. In the inn kitchen, perhaps.

  Needles in a haystack, he thought wryly. But he closed his notebook and put on his coat again.

  Driving out of the village, he came to the old bridge, stopped short of it, and then walked slowly across, casting about as he went. It would certainly be a far more romantic spot for two people to stand here in the middle of the bridge, watching the sun set, its winter brightness seeming to sink into the water below. Or as the moon rose, casting long shadows and lighting the water . . .

  What if it wasn’t romance that had brought the woman here but fear? Or anger. Why then would she let herself be lured to this isolated place, where she was vulnerable? Perhaps it was jealousy, and she had threatened to make a scene?

  But how had she got here? From the description of her clothing, she wasn’t dressed to walk far. In her killer’s motorcar? Was this where he felt it was safe enough to finish what he had planned for her? But why kill her? What had she done or done to him, that required murder?

  Halfway across, he stopped.

  Were those dark stains in the road bed? Or his imagination?

  It hadn’t rained since the murder. Pulling off his gloves, he scratched at the dark spots. Then, taking out his handkerchief, he collected as much as he could before folding it and putting it into his pocket again.

  He went twice over the bridge, but there was nothing more to be seen. He even walked along both banks some distance in both directions, letting the torch taken from the boot of his motorcar play along the water’s edge, under tree roots, or where the grass and brambles had drooped into the water.

  Rutledge was about to turn away when he saw it. There, where a drifting dead limb had caught in the roots of another tree, along the bank on the far side, was that something snagged on the limb? He moved closer to the water, hoping he could reach out and fish whatever it was free. But he had to go back to the motorcar and put on his Wellingtons before he could get near enough on the spongy earth to find out what it was he’d seen.

  Even so, he could feel his boots sinking into the soft, wet ground along the river’s edge, and he caught the heavy odor of rotting vegetation and stagnant water here by the roots. Reaching out as far as he dared, he just managed to touch whatever it was with the tips of his fingers. Getting a
grip was impossible. He backed away, found a suitable length of branch farther up the bank, and with that in hand, tried again.

  This time he was able to lift the object with his stick and slowly draw it toward him. Impatient, he forced himself to take his time, for the stream itself was flowing fast enough to carry his quarry off if he dropped it in the current.

  And then it was finally where he could grasp it with his left hand as his right brought the object closer.

  Dropping the branch, he stood there and examined his find.

  It was a woman’s blue glove. It had been made of a fine leather, possibly Italian, but it had stretched and was soggy now.

  Had it been dropped over the rampart of the bridge as she struggled with her assailant? And where was the other glove? Had the killer kept it along with a hat and a purse because he realized that one glove might lead someone like Rutledge to look for the other?

  There was no way to tell. He smoothed the soggy leather and tried to judge the size of the hand that had been in it. It was too stretched now even to guess. And once dry, it would very likely shrink. But there was a round pearl button that closed the glove at the wrist. And that could be matched if the size could not.

  Pleased with his success, he started back to the motorcar.

  Coming into the village, he drove straight to the doctor’s surgery, and found Allen was just seeing a last patient out, a woman coughing heavily.

  As Rutledge was stepping out of the motorcar, the young woman had reached the street. She ducked her head shyly as she passed him. He walked on toward the doorway where the doctor was still waiting.

  “Rutledge.”

  “I’ve brought something. I need your knowledge as a medical man.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Come in.”

  Dr. Allen led him to his office, and turned up the lamp on his desk. “Now then. What do you need to ask me?”

  Rutledge took out his handkerchief and carefully spread it open. “Can you tell me whether this is human blood? Look, just here, the rusty color on the cloth. Not the earth and pebbles around it.”

  “Let me see.”

  Allen took the handkerchief from him and put it under the light. “Are you sure this is blood?”

  “I think it might be.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “That’s not the issue. Is it animal or human?”

  “Give me a few minutes.” He left the office, carrying the handkerchief with him. Rutledge started to follow, but Allen said, “No, let me work on it.”

  He waited impatiently, pacing the floor. And then Allen came back.

  “My guess is that this is indeed blood. Human or animal I can’t be sure. Nor could I swear to it in a courtroom. Still, it might help you to know what I think. There’s a strong possibility that it could be human.”

  “Yes, it does help. I won’t keep you from your evening.” He held out his hand for the handkerchief, and Allen gave it back to him. “Thank you.”

  “And you found this where?”

  “It’s best not to answer that. At least for the moment.”

  Allen smiled grimly. “I can’t say that I blame you. The fewer people who know, the better.” He followed Rutledge to the outer door. “Good evening, Inspector.”

  “Good evening.” He walked down the path to the motorcar. He now had the specks of blood on his handkerchief, and the blue glove. And the bridge. It was a start. Finally.

  He sat there in his room, staring at the street below, working out what he’d found and what it told him about the inquiry.

  The most likely explanation for the woman’s body being found in the churchyard had been that she was murdered elsewhere and the killer had left her as far from the scene as possible—where, most likely, she wouldn’t be easily identified. No weapon, no clues, nothing to put a name to her killer. It was clever, and it had worked.

  But the glove in the water and the likelihood that he’d found blood on the bridge now pointed to the murder having occurred there. In the dark, and the lost glove had gone unnoticed. Or she might have set them with her handbag on the stone top of the bridge, and they’d fallen over during the struggle.

  That brought the murder closer to home.

  Which meant that her killer might already have known about the open grave.

  Hamish said, “She was wearing a dark coat. It wasna’ blue.”

  “But the walking dress was blue.”

  Could it have been a chance encounter, there on the bridge?

  Rutledge thought not. For one thing, where had the woman walked from, and where was she going? Surely not very far on such a cold night. And not along an old, deserted road to nowhere.

  Who, then, had she been meeting?

  There was no train service to Tern Bridge. Nor omnibus except for the afternoon run. And that driver had claimed he hadn’t seen the woman nor put her down in the village.

  But had anyone asked the driver later, on his next run, if he’d seen her walking toward the river and the old bridge?

  Where would she have gone from there? If not to the village, then to one of the outlying farms?

  He got up, reached for his coat and hat, and ran down the stairs.

  Constable Leigh hadn’t left the police station. He’d finished his evening rounds, and was warming his hands over the dying fire in the hearth before going back out into the cold.

  He looked up as Rutledge came in. “Any news, sir?”

  Rutledge told him about the blood on the bridge but said nothing about the glove he’d found.

  “Well, that sheds new light on where the victim was killed, sir. That could mean you might be right about the sexton’s wife, after all. I still find it hard to believe he could have murdered her. He’d be more likely to look for the well-digger.”

  “He didn’t kill his wife. Joan Miller is alive and well in London.”

  The Constable’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “It was true then? The gossip? I’ll be damned—Court never believed it.”

  “I doubt he wanted to. I think he’d have told us when we were questioning him. It would have cleared him straightaway. All right, assuming for the moment that this murder has nothing to do with the Millers, who could our unknown woman have been meeting on that bridge?”

  “It’s a common enough place for lovers, sir. But generally not this time of year.” Leigh frowned, going over his knowledge of likely village men. “Rector is happily married. Dr. Allen as well. Grissom, at the pub, is not married, but he’s been courting the woman who works behind the bar for these three years. The ironmonger is married to the postmistress, and the greengrocer, Mr. Bishop, is a widower. We lost eleven of our young men in the war, and three more haven’t recovered from their wounds. They’re not likely to be meeting strange women at the bridge. The rest are over fifty.”

  Rutledge said, “The farms, then. Are any of them closer to the bridge than the village?”

  “No, sir. But none of the farmers are likely to be out courting at that hour. Even in winter, there are chores that need doing, and most are up by first light.” He shook his head. “Of course there’s Mr. Ward, who fancies himself and is always chatting up the women when he comes in on market day. He’s known to travel around to other villages too, on whatever excuse he can think of. I expect he’s no better behaved then. His wife tolerates the flirting, but keeps him on a tight rein. If she ever caught him in a real dalliance, she’d take a pitchfork to him.”

  “Would she indeed? I think we ought to have a talk with Mr. Ward. There might have been a dalliance that got out of hand, and our victim appeared in Tern Bridge thinking he was free. He might be desperate enough to kill her before his wife found out.”

  “At this hour, sir?” Leigh took out his watch. “It’s nearly half past eleven. He’s bound to be in bed.”

  “Then he’s less likely to lie to us, with his wife within hearing.”

  The farm was on the same side of the village as the old bridge. When they’d bounced and slid along the
rutted lane and reached the house, there were still lamps lit, one of them showing through the dark windows of the front room.

  “That’s odd, at this hour,” Leigh said, staring at it. Just then a large brown dog came racing out of the barn barking furiously at them. “What’s the matter, Rusty? Why is everybody awake?”

  The barking changed its tone to an announcement of visitors as the house door opened and a man’s deep voice called, “Who’s there?”

  “Constable Leigh, Ward. With Inspector Rutledge.” He was stepping out of the motorcar, bending over to scratch Rusty behind the ears. “We’d like to speak to you, if we could.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Ward looked over his shoulder before saying, “It won’t take long, will it? I’m up at four.”

  “Not long at all,” Rutledge said easily, and together he and Leigh walked toward the farmhouse door, Rusty sniffing at his heels.

  Ward took them into the front room, turned up the wick in the lamp, and then closed the door before gesturing to the chairs by the hearth.

  It was like many farmhouse parlors, rather old-fashioned, with a framed photograph on the wall of what must have been Ward’s parents, staring at the camera with unsmiling faces. The man had the same hairline as Ward’s, and the woman had the same chin. There was a rosewood chair with a brocade seat standing beneath the photograph, and it appeared to be the same one the woman had been sitting in.

  Ward himself had thick dark hair already graying, dark eyes, and a face that had been handsome in his youth but was sagging along the jawline now. Rutledge could see why Constable Leigh had mentioned that he fancied himself. It was there in the way he stood and looked at them before sitting down.

  “Right, then,” he said. His boots were unlaced, and there was a button undone on his flannel shirt, as if he’d been preparing for bed. “Been up with a sick bull. I think he’s going to be all right. Cost enough to buy him in the first place.”

  Rutledge spoke before the Constable could. “I think you were asked earlier about the woman found in the churchyard.”

  “I was.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have a photograph to show you. And the description we have is rather vague. We’ve been unable to identify her. I’m told that you travel from time to time to other villages on market days. I’d like to have you look at the body and tell me if you’ve seen her on those occasions. In a pub, perhaps, or at one of the market stalls. It would help with our inquiries.”