A Divided Loyalty

by Charles Todd

  “Nor do I, for that matter,” Markham said sharply. “That’s not the point I’m making. You showed some initiative in Shropshire. Got results. I want to see that again in Avebury. Gibson will bring the file to you. Study it, and then go there and bring back some answers. I’m counting on you.”

  It was hollow praise, the point of it being to bring pressure on Rutledge to finish what Leslie had begun, as well as leaving open all possible blame if he also failed.

  “Surely it would be best for Leslie to finish his own inquiry. He saw the body, he saw the murder scene—he’ll have the details memorized. And as you know,” Rutledge went on with more enthusiasm than he actually felt, “not every detail makes it into a report. Intuition—”

  But Markham wasn’t listening. “I’ve made up my mind, Rutledge. There’s nothing more to say. Except that I shall expect to hear of progress.”

  He set the Shropshire report aside, his mouth drawn in a tight line, and picked up another one.

  Rutledge left.

  So much, he thought grimly, for any possibility of leave. Belgium would have to wait.

  Hamish said bluntly, “She wouldna’ expect ye to come. She made her choice, ye ken. And it wasna’ you.”

  He didn’t want to accept it.

  Gibson was busy, but a quarter of an hour later, he brought the Leslie file up to Rutledge’s office.

  “It’s all here, sir. I don’t quite know why Himself handed it on to you. Chief Inspector Leslie is a good man. If he couldn’t solve it, with all respect, can you?”

  “It seems I’m expected to,” Rutledge replied grimly, and thanked Gibson before either of them said too much.

  Markham be damned, he thought, waiting until Gibson had gone before collecting his hat and coat—and the file—and leaving the Yard.

  No one seemed to take any notice.

  Rutledge read the file through twice.

  Leslie had done his work well. The report was clear, concise, objective. Thorough.

  Slowly turning the pages, Rutledge could follow the Chief Inspector’s thinking. He himself would have done precisely what Leslie had done. Not always in the same order, possibly, reflecting the differences between the two men. But it was all there, every detail checked and rechecked. Nothing left undone.

  A classic example of careful, conscientious police work.

  He put the report aside. Resting his head against the back of the chair, he stared at the painting over the hearth. It was done by an artist he’d met in another inquiry, in fact his first after the war. It was a field of blood-red poppies blowing in a light wind, the sky a hazy summer blue. July . . . At first glance the painting was soothing, peaceful. Almost beautiful. Unless the viewer noticed the black soil in which they grew. The black, unspeakable earth of No Man’s Land.

  She had caught it perfectly.

  Even though poppies didn’t bloom in the summer.

  Shutting it out of his mind, he thought back to the inquiry he himself had just finished. Brought to a successful conclusion, the killer in custody, the inquest held.

  Still. If Dr. Allen had reported the syphilis when he conducted the autopsy, it would have been impossible to connect him to Serena Palmer’s murder. Without Mrs. Branson’s vague memory to guide him, he could have searched in vain for the man responsible.

  So many times an inquiry rested on such a thin thread of fact. Did it apply here, in Avebury? According to Leslie, the manor house was closed for the winter. Why not leave the body in the walled garden? By the spring, it would have been little more than bones, even the time of death uncertain.

  What was important about killing her at the standing stones?

  Rutledge stood up, stretched, and went to pour himself a whisky.

  Was there a Mrs. Branson somewhere in Avebury? Or a Mr. Branson, come to that?

  Whoever had killed the woman there had covered his tracks very well, with every intention of getting away with murder. He had been clever, where Dr. Allen had been arrogant.

  Sometimes the best way to find an elusive killer was to wait until he killed again or was careless. Certain he’d fooled the police once and could do it again. Yet he hadn’t . . .

  But what if this killer in Avebury didn’t intend—didn’t have a reason—to kill again?

  That had been the conclusion at the end of Leslie’s report.

  I fear that whoever he is, he has done what he came here to do, and gone back to wherever he came from. And that will make him impossible to find.

  Rutledge finished his whisky and put Leslie’s report back in its folder.

  There was nothing for it but to go to Avebury. Markham had made that clear enough. Whether he could find answers that Leslie had missed was debatable.

  What he would have to do is put Leslie’s careful work out of his head and approach the inquiry as if he were the first officer of the Yard sent to Avebury.

  And keep an open mind.

  As if reflecting his mood, the next day dawned gray and damp as Rutledge left London and its choking fog behind.

  Ten miles beyond London, the fog shredded and vanished. Rain followed until he crossed into Wiltshire, but it was clearing by the time he’d reached Marlborough and decided not to continue. He preferred to arrive in daylight, as Leslie had done.

  Avebury’s great megalithic stone circle was old. In its day it must have been an impressive sight. And the people who had begun it hadn’t lived to see what it would become, for it had taken centuries to complete. The sarsens, those great stone sentinels that had formed the avenues to the circle, and then the circle itself, had weathered with time, and the deep ditch that had been dug around the flat center on which the circle sat had filled in, its shape lost to vines and brambles and even saplings that had become trees. A village had even been built inside the circle, and fanatics had toppled the great stones to lessen their supposed power while avaricious men had thought nothing of splitting them into rubble to build barns and cottages. Less than a hundred still stood out of more than an estimated six hundred.

  Excavations had tried to find answers to the questions of who had built the circle and what it had been used for. Work had been done as late as 1914, but the diggers had hardly learned any more about the men who had labored with deer antlers to create something beautiful on Marlborough Down than they had centuries before. But for anyone with imagination, it never failed to astonish.

  This part of Wiltshire was cluttered with remains of a past so distant that it was lost in the shadows of time. There were even chalk horses cut into the hillsides—not like the graceful running horse at Uffington—but still impressive.

  There were long barrows and round barrows and chambered tombs standing out in the flat land of the plain as Rutledge drove up along the Kennet Avenue. He recognized Silbury Hill and the Long Barrow, a man-made ridge. Once, he’d eaten his lunch on top of the Long Barrow and lost count of the sites he could see from there.

  The causeway into Avebury over the ancient ditch was just ahead, and he slowed to pass between the two stones guarding the approach.

  Hamish had not been happy from the moment they had begun to see the first Neolithic sites. His Covenanter soul had no time for these strange ancient places, and he had let Rutledge know how he felt.

  Ignoring him as best he could, Rutledge slowed again to gaze at the stones still standing in the quadrant to his left. A sad few. He’d seen them before, once with his parents on an excursion and later on a walking tour that one summer. But they seemed fewer now, and in the gray of a winter morning, somehow desolate, as if they’d lost their way.

  Sheep grazed among them, oblivious to their importance, and one ewe was scratching her back against the rough side of one megalith, moving rhythmically back and forth, some of her thick coat of wool catching there. Another ewe knelt by the edge of the ditch, craning her neck to feed on a patch of grass growing nearly out of reach below.

  There had been cattle here, Rutledge remembered, when he’d walked through the village.
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  Which was the stone where the woman’s body had been found? He couldn’t be sure from Leslie’s notes. And by now, any evidence had either been found straightaway or trampled into the grass. Any possibility of finding something that Leslie had missed was so remote he felt a wave of frustration. Rutledge had no illusions. Chief Superintendent Markham had sent him here expecting him to fail.

  He drove on, and to his right could see the inn where Leslie had taken a room for the duration of the inquiry. It was just beyond where the road he was on ended at a junction, a T. Instead of going directly to the police station or to the inn to bespeak a room, Rutledge decided as early as it was that he would survey the village and familiarize himself with it again. He hadn’t seen it with a policeman’s eye when he’d passed through on his walking tour.

  Taking the left-hand turn, he glimpsed the churchyard at the foot of the gentle slope ahead. The manor house, also in this direction, wouldn’t be visible yet, for it was farther along the lane that passed by the church, its extensive gardens protected now from the winter. He could see how the ditch had been replaced along here by the building of the village.

  On his left he was now parallel with the stones, and he could see them standing out against the murky sky, sentinels on a grassy, man-made plateau. Their size from this vantage point was deceptive.

  Rutledge sat there for a moment, gazing at them, and then became aware of being watched.

  Just past where the ditch ended prematurely was a house set back from the road. He could pick out the rooftop over a line of trees that concealed what was on the far side of the ditch. A man with white hair stood there, a hammer in his hand, staring toward Rutledge.

  He’d been mending a section of the wooden fence that separated his property from the road. Waiting until Rutledge picked up speed a little and came abreast of him, he said, his expression speculative, “Looking for someone?”

  Rutledge had hoped to arrive unnoticed in the village, to take his time and reconnoiter before announcing his presence. That, besides his weariness and a need for petrol, had decided him to stop the night in Marlborough and continue toward Avebury this morning.

  So much for well-laid plans, he thought wryly.

  He quickly revised his intentions. Reaching for the brake, he brought the motorcar to a halt by the man.

  “Yes. The Constable.”

  “Constable Henderson has gone to visit his brother for a few days. He’s been taken ill—the brother. I’m Dr. Mason. How can I help you?”

  “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.”

  The doctor’s expression was still wary. “The Chief Constable sent word that someone was coming to take over the inquiry. The inquest had left it at person or persons unknown.”

  Rutledge swore to himself. It was just like Chief Superintendent Markham to alert the Chief Constable that the Yard was sending another man to take Chief Inspector Leslie’s place. It would have been better to let the new man follow his own instincts, and reopen the inquiry as he saw fit.

  He said, nodding, “I’ve been sent to take a fresh look into the matter of the body found here recently. Yes.”

  “I’m not surprised Leslie couldn’t find any answers. Whoever killed that poor woman left nothing behind.” Dr. Mason took a packet of nails out of his pocket and dropped them into the pail at his feet. Dusting his hands, he said, “I can show you what there is to see. God knows I had enough opportunity to commit the lot to memory.” Gesturing toward his fence, he added, “It’s to keep the sheep out. My late wife didn’t care for them eating her garden flowers. I’ve got into the habit of keeping up the good work.”

  He left the pail beside his gate, and without asking if this was agreeable with Rutledge or not, opened the door to the motorcar and stepped in.

  “Do you know Leslie well?” he asked, turning to consider Rutledge again. As if weighing him up.

  “Yes. We’re friends.” It was true enough, even though there was little social interaction outside Yard events. They’d dined together a time or two, but Leslie was married, and the married officers tended to club together. Rutledge began reversing, to drive back the way he’d come.

  “Then I don’t have to tell you he’s thorough.”

  “I’ve seen his report. I agree with you.” He stopped, waiting for Mason to tell him where to drive next. “I assume you saw the body. Do you think the woman was killed elsewhere or brought here to die?”

  “Killed just there at the stone, I should think. That’s where we found the bruised grass and the bloody ground. Then the body was dragged to the ditch, where it lay out of sight until we looked for it. Well, it makes sense, you know. We’re some distance from the next village, and that’s a long way to carry a dead body. They’re heavier than most people expect. What’s more, no one heard a cart or a motorcar that night. That would suggest the woman was still alive and either came here of her own free will or was under duress.” He shook his head. “This is hardly the place for a romantic encounter. I can’t really see how one could persuade a sweetheart to come all this way, just for a few stolen kisses. And the day and age when it was believed that the stones had some mystical properties is for the most part long past. Still, there are those who want to believe they have powers. I expect there will always be.”

  “Have you lived here long?” Rutledge asked, glancing at his passenger. Close to, he looked older than he had standing there by the fence. In his late sixties, perhaps?

  “My wife was born in that house. Our house now. But I was in Bristol for most of my career. She persuaded me to retire and bring her back to Avebury. There’s no other doctor here. He was killed in the war, and so people were happy enough for someone to take his place. Did you know, in the early days of the war, doctors stood in the trenches and fought like everyone else, doing what they could for the wounded meanwhile? The Army finally got clever enough to see what a waste that was, and stopped the practice. But of course you were in the war? I needn’t tell you that.”

  “The Somme.”

  “Dear God, that was another waste of good men.” He gestured up the road. “Drive on.”

  They passed the handful of shops on their right and a few houses on their left. One offered rooms for holidaymakers. When they reached the junction with the main road, Mason said, “Turn right here—back the way you must have come in. It’s how most people arrive, unless they’re calling at the manor house. That’s closed just now.” He paused as the bonnet of the motorcar pointed toward the causeway, then gestured to either side. “The land is flatter just along here, but it’s actually like a stage, the level the builders designed for their stones, raised up to be seen from some distance. Must have been impressive too. My house, the church, the manor house—they were built centuries later, where part of the original circle and stage had been pulled down to make room for the village.” Mason glanced toward Rutledge. “Do you know much about this circle? The stones themselves?”

  “A little,” he said.

  “Well, it was quite vast, that original circle. Quite amazingly large, when you consider they had such primitive tools to create the surrounding ditch. No shovels or spades or picks. Just, we’re told, deer antlers.”

  Intrigued, Rutledge let him chatter on. Mason was as different as night and day from Dr. Allen. And more intelligent as well. Was the man lonely, a widower with no one to talk to and eager to find a fresh audience? Or was he in his own way trying to manipulate the direction of the new inquiry?

  Mason was pointing now. “The murder is confined to just one section—here, to our right, where the larger stones are still standing. Rather like a gap-tooth smile. Their size is even more impressive because the rest are missing. You get a better feel for the height and breadth of them. Right, we can stop just here.”

  They got down, and Dr. Mason tramped across the grass toward one of the larger stones. “Watch for sheep dung. Sometimes in summer, the cows also come here to graze.”

  Rutledge followed him to the stone he was pointing out
. When they reached it, Mason put his hand on the rough, uneven surface, looking up to the top, well above his head and Rutledge’s.

  Like all the other remaining stones, this one was irregular in shape. And yes, larger up close than it and its brethren appeared to be at a distance.

  He stepped back for a better look at this particular stone.

  His first impression was of a tall, shrouded figure with head bowed, looming above him. It was so real, it took his breath away.

  And startling, like something slipping out of the mists of time. Or something the French sculptor Rodin might have hacked out of a block of rough, dark granite and left unfinished. Yet all the more powerful because of that, the missing details supplied instead by the mind’s eye.

  And then as quickly as the resemblance had appeared, it faded. A stone, oddly shaped to be sure. But nothing more.

  Mason, watching him, smiled, but said only, “You could dig them out of the surrounding chalk, these huge stones. They needn’t be transported here like those blue monoliths at Stonehenge. The trick was in standing them upright. I’m told they packed rubble around them at the base, but whatever they did, these have stayed here until the 1700s. Men had to work at it to knock them down. And then they hammered them to bits, filling a line of ox carts, to be carried off to whatever new building site there was. A tragedy really. Someone’s byre now holds the remnants of history.”

  Dropping down to one knee closer to the base, he added, “You can’t see the blood now, of course. I should think she died with the first thrust of the knife. But whoever it was made certain of that, striking twice more before dragging her to the ditch.” He gestured toward it, filled with the brown, dry debris of last summer and the bare trees growing there. “It must have been quite deep, when it was dug. And very wide. You’d hardly know it now.” He walked on, stopping at the lip. “She was tumbled in, but didn’t go far, caught up on that fallen tree just there. Pulled by the feet, her hair matted with earth and chalk and grass. Then rolled in.” There was disgust in his voice.