A Divided Loyalty

by Charles Todd

  “I don’t have the time to come into the doctor’s surgery.”

  He hadn’t denied going to markets.

  “I have a motorcar, as you’ve seen. It will take very little of your time.” He’d begun pleasantly, as if asking a favor of the man. There was steel in his voice now, and Ward heard it.

  “Even if I had seen her before, I’m not likely to remember where. Market is a busy time,” he said stubbornly.

  “That may well be. On the other hand, you might give us a name. If not hers, then that of the village.”

  Ward was about to object again, but Rutledge didn’t give him the opportunity.

  “Unless of course you know who she is, and why she came to Tern Bridge.”

  “Here, I’ve said no such thing.”

  “Then you’ll come with us now?” Rutledge rose. They hadn’t taken off their coats in the chill of the room, and he added, “You’ll need your coat.”

  He got to the door before Ward could rise and opened it. And he was just in time to see the door down the passage close quietly, shutting off the lamplight in what must be the kitchen.

  Ward, his face a thundercloud, walked out of the room and down the passage, to open the same door. He said something to his wife, and came back with his coat.

  They moved in silence out to the motorcar, and Rutledge tried not to think of Hamish in his accustomed place as Ward climbed heavily into the rear seats. It was where the voice seemed to come from sometimes.

  It took them a quarter of an hour to reach the doctor’s surgery, and it was clear that Ward was unhappy about accompanying them. His answers were mere grunts, as if his mind wasn’t on what was being said to him.

  “It’s late—” Allen began when he saw Rutledge and Leigh standing at his surgery door, but Rutledge spoke across him.

  “Sorry to disturb you again, Doctor. I’ve brought Mr. Ward to help us with our inquiries. I’d like him to see the body.”

  Allen stared at them for a moment, then said, “Oh, very well.” He stood aside, and Rutledge led the way down the passage to the room where the woman lay.

  Allen stopped them at the door, moved ahead to light the lamp, and then went to draw back the sheet so that only the woman’s face showed.

  Ward hesitated on the threshold, then walked straight to the table and looked down at the body.

  “No,” he said decisively. “Never saw her before.” There was a firmness in the words that had the ring of truth. He turned and left. Dr. Allen began pulling the sheet back in place, but Rutledge was already following Ward. By the time he reached the outer door, the farmer was already on his way to the motorcar standing in front of the house.

  “Bloody waste of time,” Ward was saying, loud enough to be heard.

  Allen stopped Rutledge. “What was this all about? Is he a suspect?”

  “No. He goes to market here and in other villages. He could have seen her somewhere. I’m told he has an eye for the ladies. And she’s pretty. It was possible he knew who she was.”

  “And you believe him when he says he doesn’t know her?”

  “That remains to be seen.” He thanked Allen and followed Leigh out to the motorcar, where the Constable was already turning the crank. The surgery door closed, and the lamp in the entry was put out, leaving the three men in darkness.

  Ward grumbled all the way back to the farm, but Rutledge ignored him. As soon as they pulled up at the house, Ward had the door open and was already shouting at Rusty to stop his barking. He went straight to the house, went inside, and didn’t look back.

  “Do you believe him?” Constable Leigh asked, echoing the doctor’s question.

  “Yes. I think so. I watched his face as he looked down at her. There was neither recognition nor any sign that he was uncomfortable seeing his victim in the presence of others.”

  Rutledge reversed, and said as he started back down the twisting lane, “His wife was listening at the door. She may be more aware of his straying than he knows. I don’t think I’d like to be in his shoes tonight.”

  “Nor I,” Constable Leigh said fervently.

  They drove in silence the rest of the way and Rutledge took the Constable to his cottage at the far end of the village.

  Returning to The Dun Cow, Rutledge listened to Hamish pointing out that the inquiry was still going nowhere.

  “Ye canna’ even be certain yon blue glove belonged to her.”

  It was a long night, and Rutledge had known it was going to be. He listened to Hamish until the hands of his watch pointed to two. And then he drifted into a troubled sleep.

  At breakfast, Constable Leigh was morose. “I can’t think what to do next, sir, and that’s the truth. It appears our victim was killed here, but her murderer could be anywhere. What if he was arguing with her in his motorcar, saw the bridge, and decided it was as likely a place as any to rid himself of her? Then why not leave her there? Or in the water? Why risk taking her as far as the churchyard?”

  “To keep us guessing?” Rutledge shook his head. “No, there’s something we aren’t seeing. Ward, for instance, could have met her in one of his forays to other villages. What if someone else had the same opportunity? If the dead woman wasn’t from Tern Bridge, how did the killer know her? Was he related to her? If so, why hadn’t she come here from time to time to visit?”

  “A matter of an inheritance, then? If she was removed, he stood to gain?”

  “Possible of course. Is there anyone in the village expecting to inherit? Simmons, for instance. Was there someone else coming to claim part of his inheritance?”

  “That’s not likely. He only had the one child, sir, a daughter. And she grew up in Tern Bridge. Besides, there’s not that much to quarrel over. He was a careful man, saw her married well, but he’s not rich by any stretch.”

  “Who else in the village leaves from time to time?”

  “I—let me think, sir.” He closed his eyes, mentally running through what he knew about his patch. “From time to time? Rector will fill in for another parish when there’s the need. He went as far as the Welsh borders once or twice. But he always takes his wife with him. The ironmonger’s daughter Nell lives in Shrewsbury. He and his wife go to visit her a few times a year. Dr. Allen has a sister in Bristol. The baker, Mr. Swindon, has a brother in Gloucester, although he’s most likely to visit here than the reverse. Mr. Swindon doesn’t care to leave the baking to his wife. The late Mr. Branson and his wife often went to Bath. He was fond of the concerts there. He’s the nephew of Sir Alan Grant.”

  Grant had been a crony of the late King Edward, a wealthy landowner with some of the best shooting in Scotland.

  “Still, we’ll speak to Simmons’s daughter first. And then—” Rutledge stopped in midsentence. Branson—Mrs. Branson. She’d spoken to him by the inn. And she’d said something—that the woman in the grave had seemed to be familiar, although she couldn’t place her. At the time, he’d taken that to mean she wasn’t really certain.

  Rutledge put down his teacup and started for the door. “Carry on with Simmons’s daughter, Constable. There’s something I need to see to. Possibly in London.”

  “Joan Miller?” Leigh looked confused. “Again?”

  “No, I think not.”

  He was gone before Leigh could ask another question. He had no idea where Mrs. Branson lived, but as she had walked away from their conversation, he’d registered the fact that she was going beyond The Dun Cow. It only took him ten minutes to find the Branson house on his own. It was one of the best examples of Georgian brick in the village. And the gate to the walk had a large and ornate B in the center of the ironwork.

  He was prepared to cover his tracks if he was mistaken.

  A deep breath, and then he was walking up the path to the door, and lifting the knocker.

  4

  Mrs. Branson was reading in her sitting room when Rutledge was shown in. She marked her place, looked up at him, and frowned. With a nod she dismissed her maid, then said, “Come in, Inspec
tor. I’m not sure I welcome your visit.”

  “I expect you’re quite safe, Mrs. Branson. And you’ll be even safer once we have a murderer in hand,” he said reassuringly.

  She was wearing lavender today and it complemented her white hair. An attractive woman still. One tended to miss the sharp eyes. Constable Leigh had all but said she was a meddler, a busybody. He himself had wondered if she might be more than a little confused. Looking at her now, in her own surroundings, not wandering about the streets, Rutledge was rapidly revising his earlier view of her.

  She gestured to a chair and politely asked if he’d care for tea. “Or there’s my late husband’s whisky, if you’d prefer it.”

  “It’s rather early for both,” he said. “But thank you.”

  Mrs. Branson nodded approvingly. “Yes, so it is. Well, then, what has brought you to my door?”

  “You told me you thought you might have recognized the woman taken from the late Mr. Simmons’s grave.”

  “No, I believe I told you she seemed familiar.”

  “I stand corrected. Someone you feel you might have known or seen here in Tern Bridge?”

  “The more I’ve thought about her, the more I’ve come to believe she wasn’t someone who had lived or worked in the village. I no longer travel as widely as I did when my late husband was alive. But I still visit Bath from time to time. I have friends there.”

  “I see.” He wanted to urge her on, but he was learning that it was best to let her tell her own story in her own way.

  “My late husband enjoyed the concerts, and I began to wonder if I’d seen her there, at one of the musical evenings. I couldn’t picture her in evening dress, try as I would. And so I wondered if she’d visited while we were staying with our friends. But I can’t recall her in that setting, either.”

  “You’ve given this a great deal of thought,” he commented.

  “I know my civic duty, Inspector. But more than that, the poor young woman in Dr. Allen’s surgery deserves a name and a history. She was deprived of both when she was killed.”

  Rutledge accepted the rebuke. “That’s why I am here, Mrs. Branson,” he responded quietly.

  “Yes, so you are. But I have nothing to give you, try as I may. For that I must apologize. Even if I sent you to Bath, how would you go about finding her? She might have been a visitor, as I was.” A note of anxiety crept into her voice. “It’s frightening, not being able to remember. Yet I am sure I have seen her face before.”

  “Still, it could be worth my while. If she in fact lived there, someone must surely have reported her missing. Judging by her clothing, she was a respectable young woman. And I shan’t have to search the city. I can begin by calling in at the Bath police station.”

  Her face brightened. “Yes, how clever of you. I hadn’t thought of that. It gives me some comfort.” She paused, then said, the anxiety creeping in again, “Will I be safe, do you think, while you are searching?”

  “I believe you will. I’ve instructed Constable Leigh to question everyone who might have traveled out of Tern Bridge, either to local markets or farther afield. You will be only one of a number of people asked to give statements. If I were you, I would say that your age has clouded your memory, and you would like to have time to think about your answers.”

  A flash of fire from her eyes told him she had resented the suggestion, even as she recognized its wisdom.

  “Yes, I expect I can bring myself to do that.”

  “If you are right, and I find this woman did come from Bath, we can rethink your failing memory,” he said lightly, smiling.

  “Of course. You are sure you won’t take tea with me, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “Later perhaps. I’ve informed Constable Leigh that I’m off to London at the moment. If I lose my way and find myself in Bath instead, I shan’t be at all surprised.”

  She smiled then, and it changed her face. He had a brief glimpse of a younger and very attractive woman. Mr. Branson, he thought to himself, had been a very lucky man.

  Thanking her, he rose and let himself out.

  Bath was a beautiful city, one Rutledge had always liked. The cathedral, the Pump Room, the Roman baths—they were interesting, but most of all he’d enjoyed bright summer evening strolls along the Crescents, looking up at the differences in doors and windows and architectural decorations. His godfather, an architect, had taken him there with his own son, Ross, and made a game out of following threads of details. As Rutledge and Ross had competed, walking up and down the streets, pointing out variations, Trevor had rewarded them with sweets from his pockets. It had sealed Rutledge’s affection for the Crescents, those semicircular rows of elegant white terraces that had once made Bath a famous Regency spa.

  He went to the central police station and asked to see an Inspector.

  A few minutes later, a tall, thin man in his fifties came out, looking like nothing so much as a scarecrow given a nicer suit of clothes.

  “Scotland Yard,” he said with a rueful grin as he held out his hand. “Now what have we done to deserve this honor?”

  Rutledge smiled, shaking hands. “I hope I’m about to clear up one of your inquiries.”

  “God knows that would be helpful. Inspector Graves. Come back to my office.” He led Rutledge to a room that was almost shockingly neat, except for the cluttered desk, and pointed to the files spread out there. “If you can find the answers to these, I’d be grateful.”

  Rutledge took the chair Graves offered. “A missing person case, recent, a young woman between late twenties and early thirties. Fair, blue eyes, nicely dressed in a dark coat, blue walking dress and jacket. One matching blue leather glove. Purse and hat still missing.”

  Graves stared at him. “Good God.” Then he shook his head. “You’ve been talking to my Sergeant. I thought you were being glib with your promises of help.”

  “I’m describing a body discovered in Shropshire. Tern Bridge to be precise. She was killed outside the village, then left in an open grave prepared for a funeral on the next morning. We don’t know who she is.”

  “Well, then, your search can also end here. She was reported missing three days ago. Serena Palmer. Schoolmistress at a small private girls’ school in Bath. She went to see her doctor on Monday week for a stomach complaint, told the Head that he had ordered bed rest. She intended to stay with a cousin in the city, where she could be cared for properly. When the Head sent someone round to see how Miss Palmer was recovering, the cousin knew nothing about any illness. Or where Miss Palmer might be.” He searched his desk for a folder, and found the one he was looking for. Opening it, he produced a photograph and passed it to Rutledge. “This was taken three years ago. But it should do.”

  Rutledge looked at it.

  Two women standing together, dressed for an evening party, smiling at the camera. They looked very much alike, except that one was about ten years older. Sister? Cousin? The younger one was the woman in Dr. Allen’s surgery. Rutledge had no doubt about it.

  Graves, watching him, said unnecessarily, “Miss Serena Palmer is on the left, there.”

  “Yes, I recognize her.” He passed the photograph back. “What was the diagnosis? Why did the doctor recommend bed rest?”

  “He didn’t. We sent someone round to ask.” Graves shrugged. “She’d taken a valise with her. In case? A good many young women who go missing are pregnant. They sometimes intend to take their own lives. Others go to face down the father. A few find a doctor in the back streets of London. The brave ones try to find a way to raise the child somewhere they can pass as a widow.”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “That was the surprise. No. She was found to have a venereal disease. My guess was, she’d killed herself. Many do. The treatment is not pleasant.”

  “The doctor who examined the body didn’t mention any disease. Could I borrow that photograph for a few days? The Yard will see that it’s returned.”

  Graves hesitated, and then said, “Why not? If she’s your b
ody, we can call off our own search. But the cousin—the older woman in the photograph, Margaret Palmer—has asked us to return it.” He gave it to Rutledge.

  “Yes, I understand.” He rose, shook hands again, and added, “I’m sorry this was the conclusion of your inquiry. I’m glad to have a name for mine. I expect the cousin will have to come to Tern Bridge to identify the body. After that, it can be released in her care.”

  “My Sergeant will give you her direction and send a Constable with you to her house. She’s going to take this hard, Rutledge. She’s been here every day asking for news. Any hope. They were close.” He looked at the thin file. “I’ll see you get copies of what little I have here, for the inquest. A pity, isn’t it?”

  “Sadly, yes. Does Margaret Palmer have any idea who the man is? Or where he could be?”

  “She says she doesn’t. Her cousin never mentioned him. Or any man. As a mistress at the school, she was particularly careful of her reputation. At the outset, when I thought pregnancy might be the cause of her disappearance, I asked. I was told that she’d lost her fiancé in the war and was still in mourning for him. I questioned the Head at the school and several of Serena Palmer’s friends. No one had any idea she was seeing someone. This suggests to me that he must have been married.”

  “She came to Tern Bridge for a reason. It’s hardly the place to drop out of sight—the village is too small, everyone knows everyone else’s business. The nearest railway station is several miles away. Too far for her to walk, dressed as she was, and carrying a valise. Someone met her train, listened to her accusations, and killed her.”

  Had they stopped at the bridge, not for the romantic moonrise but to finish their quarrel? And had the man decided there and then that he couldn’t reason with her? That the only way out for him was to kill her? She must have been terribly angry, refusing his help, determined to make him suffer as she was suffering. And he’d brought a weapon with him . . . Had this happened before?