A Divided Loyalty

by Charles Todd

  Hamish, who had been quiet most of the day, said, “Ye canna be certain of anything. There’s only yon light to account for a tandem.” He didn’t add that Mrs. Parrish might after all be an untrustworthy witness, believing after she learned of the murder that she’d seen something in the circle.

  As he turned back toward Avebury, Rutledge had to admit it did seem odd that the killer had risked such a bright light, when he’d been so very careful about every other detail. Still, it had been necessary to look into available tandems.

  “And how far is it from here to yon stones? Four miles as the crow flies? Five? It’s a great distance in the dark.”

  Late at night, on a bicycle . . . Familiar or unfamiliar territory? That made a huge difference.

  Rutledge had walked some of that countryside. He wasn’t sure he’d chance doing it again on a bicycle late at night.

  But until he found evidence to support a different means of getting to Avebury, he intended to go on looking at tandems. There could be others no one remembered, rusting away in an old barn or shed, even a cellar. Somehow the killer could have known it was there.

  It was the first hint that the killer might be familiar with the villages around Avebury. Not a stranger but a neighbor. Even a former neighbor with a long memory.

  Mrs. Parrish had seen what she most dreaded to see. And so she had described it in the context of her fear. It was he who had leaped to the conclusion there was a tandem bicycle. Or—that the light was not as bright as she claimed it was.

  Maybe—perhaps—possibly—could—might. Hopeful words, a far cry from any real evidence.

  As he turned back toward Avebury, he swore.

  Chief Superintendent Markham had known what he was doing when he sent Rutledge to the stones. There was nothing here to find. Except for failure.

  Rutledge pulled to the verge, angry enough to salvage what he could from this day’s apparent defeat.

  But how? Ten minutes later, he’d decided on the best way to do just that.

  Reversing, he went back the way he’d come. The farthest away from Avebury was the tandem owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Blake.

  They were in their sixties, a small, spry, good-natured pair with graying hair and, he thought, a little lonely with both their children away in London. They had been particularly helpful with his inquiry into the tandem bicycle, and he’d liked both of them.

  Their cottage was on the outskirts of a village not far from Marlborough, and it was well kept inside and out. There were the dry sticks of hydrangeas by the steps and empty flower boxes at the windows, and the short path to the door was lined with round river stones that had been whitewashed, so that they could be clearly seen after dark.

  When he tapped at their door for the second time, Mr. Blake opened it and smiled up at him. “Back again?”

  Mrs. Blake’s voice came from the passage behind him. “Bring him back, dear, I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  Rutledge followed her husband down the passage to the kitchen, where Mrs. Blake was setting out cups and saucers, before disappearing into the pantry for the milk jug.

  “More questions about the tandem, Inspector?”

  “Not precisely. I’d like to borrow it, if I may. Just for a few hours. Before I make any decisions.”

  “It’s nearly dark. And I don’t know that mine is in the best condition,” Blake replied, frowning. “But we’ll have a look all the same.”

  Rutledge drank his tea, talked to them about London—Mrs. Blake was surprised to learn he wasn’t married—and the war.

  “But you’ve got a sweetheart, haven’t you?” she asked after a bit.

  He had a sudden memory of Meredith Channing, sitting across from him in a hotel dining room, asking him to help her find her missing husband.

  “Not at the moment,” he said, managing a smile.

  “Well, our daughter is married, but I’m sure she has any number of friends.”

  “Sadie, the poor man wants to choose his own wife,” Blake said.

  “Yes, but—” she began, turning to her husband.

  “It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Blake, but my sister is adept at introducing me to any number of her own friends.”

  Only partly mollified, she subsided, and her husband said, smothering a smile, “We’ll have a look at that bicycle, then.”

  Rutledge thanked her for the tea and followed Blake out to the shed. The tandem was in better condition than had first appeared. Blake dug around in a box until he found a tin of oil and worked on the chains for a few minutes until he was satisfied that they were moving smoothly.

  “There,” he said, standing up and wiping his hands on a rag. “That should do well enough. Now let’s have a look at the seats.” He inspected them carefully. “The leather is a bit brittle, but it should do.”

  Rutledge hadn’t told them why he was interested in tandems. He’d left the impression that he was possibly looking to buy one.

  “There’s one other thing,” Rutledge said. “I need a large sack. Something that would be the weight of the second person. Otherwise, I’m not testing it properly.”

  “A sack won’t do. It can’t help with the pedaling. To test it properly, you need a person.” He put the rag back where he’d found it. “You’ll need clips to protect your trousers and something other than that heavy coat flapping about your ankles. I’ll be back.”

  Rutledge was on the point of arguing when he realized that Blake was right. It would be impossible to manage an unconscious or drugged woman on a tandem bicycle. If nothing else, the erratic shifting of her weight would have made the machine unwieldy. So much for testing the viability of one.

  Still, it was against his better judgment to use a civilian, and he wasn’t sure Blake could stand up to the ride he was planning.

  Blake had caught the sudden frown and grinned. “My heart is as sound as yours, if that’s what’s worrying you. And I’ve been retired for three years. I’d like to do something besides cutting wood for the hearth and planting flowers for my wife and writing letters of a Sunday afternoon to my son and daughter.”

  He came back a few minutes later with heavy jackets, knit caps, and the clips. “My son’s jacket ought to fit you. And you’ll need a cap as well. Blue or green?”

  Laughing, Rutledge chose the blue.

  “And where might we be going? I know this countryside. I ought to, I was born and brought up on a farm just north of here.”

  “I want to pedal to—let’s say, Avebury,” he said, after hesitating for a split second in which he thought that if Leslie had intended to test such a theory as this, he’d have run up against the same set of problems. Small wonder there was no mention of tandems in the report. It was a mad idea.

  Still, looking at Blake, he saw that he was as wiry as a jockey, and must weigh hardly more than the dead woman.

  The excited twinkle faded from Blake’s eye. “It’s that body found by the stone you’re investigating. Scotland Yard, are you?”

  “What?”

  Blake tilted his head, watching the surprise that Rutledge couldn’t stop from showing on his face. “When you came the first time, I guessed you must be a policeman. There was something in the way you observed things, and listened to what I had to say. And you didn’t look or sound like someone from this part of Wiltshire. I thought then it might be about a stolen bicycle. But it’s not, is it?”

  “Would it matter if I’m looking into her death?” he asked defensively.

  “Not matter, no. But I’d have a better understanding of what you’re after. And why. Give me the lead here, and I’ll take you to Avebury my way. I used to play there as a lad, when I should have been in school. I’ll lash a torch below my handlebars. We’ll need it on the Down.”

  Even if they had to turn around, midjourney, it would prove something, wouldn’t it?

  Rutledge reluctantly agreed, and they guided the bicycle out of the shed, shutting the door behind them. He looked at his watch before mounting. They set out, ped
aling smoothly after they’d adjusted to each other’s pace.

  Blake chose back roads and farm lanes, rough terrain sometimes, but well within their ability on the tandem. They nearly came to grief once splashing through a muddy puddle, but sheer power got them through.

  Before very long, they were on the Kennet approach to the stones, and Blake, hardly out of breath, said, “I used to try to imagine who had built this circle. There’s the old legend that Merlin helped to build Stonehenge, but we never had wizards here.”

  “Let’s stop at this point,” Rutledge said. “I’d rather not be seen in the village.”

  They came to a halt, and Blake said, “That woman. The one killed here. What sort of tale was she told, to come this far on a tandem? It must have been urgent enough for her to agree.”

  And in the dark of night, where they wouldn’t be seen. But he didn’t add that aloud. Taking out his watch, he said, “An hour and twenty-five minutes. Twenty-six or -seven as far as the stone.”

  “Which stone was it?”

  “The large one on the left quadrant as you cross the causeway. The one like a hooded figure.”

  “That one? A pity. I always et my lunch there, at the foot of that one. Funny you should have seen the likeness as well. I found it comforting. I wonder if she did.” He shook his head. “What sort of man would choose this place to kill a woman?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out. All right, are you up to pedaling back?”

  “I would be, after a pint at the pub.”

  “Not this one. I’d prefer to go where neither of us is known.”

  “I know just the place.”

  It was quite late when they reached the Blake cottage again. The stop at the pub had taken longer than expected, both men choosing to add a sandwich to their pint.

  An anxious Mrs. Blake had put a lamp in the window and was watching for them. They took the bicycle around to the shed before going in the house proper, thoroughly wiping it down.

  As they stepped into the kitchen, she said, “What took so long? It was only a trial run, you told me.”

  Blake didn’t glance at Rutledge. “We got lost once, and stopped to chat with a farmer who was unhappy with us for crossing his land and scaring his cows. And Mr. Rutledge here couldn’t make it back straightaway, so we stopped at Langley’s pub for a quick pint. There was no way to let you know, love.”

  She took a deep breath. “It was you needed the pint, I’ll be bound. I expect it wasn’t only Langley’s you stopped in. Don’t scare me like that, Larry. It’s not right. I thought you’d taken a bad fall, at your age.”

  Rutledge retrieved his hat and coat and thanked them again. Mrs. Blake didn’t ask him to stay for supper, even though it had been cooking earlier as they had been preparing to set out.

  It was a measure of her worry, he thought.

  But he had a feeling that both he and Larry would feel the soreness in their calf muscles tomorrow after the unaccustomed use.

  Driving back toward Avebury, Rutledge went back over his conversation with Larry Blake. The man had come to the conclusion that he himself had reached—what was so important that the victim had agreed to take a bicycle that distance in the dark? What was it in Avebury that she wanted to reach so badly that it couldn’t wait until morning? Or who?

  Over a late supper at the inn, he gave the matter some serious thought.

  Interviewing the villagers earlier, he had put the usual questions in such cases—questions much like those Chief Inspector Leslie had asked before him.

  Did you know this woman?

  Have you seen or met her before, here in the village or elsewhere?

  Do you know of anyone she might have come here to find or to meet?

  Did you see or hear anything unusual among the stones or on the road over the causeway the night of the murder?

  Can you account for your whereabouts the night the woman was killed? Between ten in the evening and dawn? Can someone vouch for you during that period?

  Did you leave Avebury at any time the day before the murder?

  The responses that he’d been given echoed what Leslie had reported in the file.

  Except of course for Mrs. Parrish, who had witnessed the light moving toward the stones, and told no one.

  Who else had failed to come forward when Leslie questioned them? Or for that matter, when he himself covered the same ground?

  Hamish said, “If ye go back wi’ these same questions, ye ken ye’ll hear the same answers.”

  Rutledge quickly turned his head to see if anyone else had heard the deep Scottish voice. But the four or five people still dining were busy with their food and hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

  Very well, then, he asked himself, what questions ought I to be asking?

  By the time he’d risen from the table, he’d worked out a possible solution.

  The next morning Rutledge went to find Dr. Mason, who was scrubbing potatoes for the pot.

  He shrugged wryly. “I’ve learned to do many things that my wife once did for us,” he said, leading Rutledge to the kitchen at the back of the house. “I’ll put the kettle on, if you like.”

  “Actually I’ve just come for some advice. Who is the finest gossip in the village?”

  Mason had picked up the brush again, and he turned to stare at Rutledge. “Are you interested in hearing rumors—or starting them?”

  “I don’t know. Both, possibly.”

  “That would be Mrs. Dunlop. Her husband was the shoemaker. She does for me and for the Rectory and for Mrs. Parrish. Several others. But not at the manor house. There’s no one in residence just now, and they have their own staff. I daresay she knows one or two of them.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She’ll beat the carpets at Mrs. Parrish’s this morning. Sure you won’t stay for a cup?” he added wistfully, a lonely man with time on his hands.

  “Later perhaps.” He buttoned his coat. “Do I need an introduction?”

  “I doubt it. She’s probably already talked about you to everyone who will listen.”

  Rutledge smiled and went down the passage to the outer door.

  He walked back up the road to the Parrish house. A woman with a kerchief over her hair and a floral-patterned apron over her dress was just sweeping the front steps, and she looked up as he started up the path to the door.

  “Mrs. Dunlop?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d like to speak to you if I may?”

  “I’m doing for Mrs. Parrish. She won’t care for it if I spend my time speaking to you. I’ll be off at four.”

  “I won’t keep you very long.”

  She turned back to the door. “Come in, then. There’s no one in the kitchen.”

  He followed her down the passage, thinking that he’d seen more kitchens in Avebury than front parlors. But this was her domain, and it was spotless. There was a large pot on the cooker, and it smelled like a stew.

  “That’s for Mrs. Parrish’s dinner. She’s fond of my cooking.” She indicated a chair, but she herself remained standing.

  “You know most of the people here in Avebury, I think?”

  “I’m no gossip,” she said, bristling.

  “So I’m told,” Rutledge said pleasantly. “But there are questions I must put to you, if I’m to find who killed the woman found by the stones. Helping the police in the course of their inquiries is not gossip.”

  But she continued to regard him warily.

  “There are several possible reasons why the victim came to Avebury. She knew someone here. She was meeting someone here. Or she thought someone she wanted to meet might be here.”

  “Or she was lost,” Mrs. Dunlop added.

  “Or she was lost,” Rutledge agreed, although he didn’t believe that was what had brought her to this rather out-of-the-way village. “Did she know someone here? Or had she come to meet someone here?”

  “That’s not likely, not to my way of thinking. Most everyone seemed to be
shocked by violent death on our doorstep. We’ve lived with these stones, we’re used to them. But there are others who think the stones have powers.”

  “What sort of powers?”

  “How am I to know?” she demanded tartly. “I’m a good Christian woman and go regular to services at St. James’s.”

  “Something sinister—even evil?”

  “There was a man found dead on one of the stones at Stonehenge. Not that long ago. It worried us, that killing. What if people like that came here?”

  But he himself had been given that inquiry, and the death at Stonehenge had had nothing to do with the powers of the stones.

  “A man with a secret might use that as a blind for ridding himself of a woman he no longer cared for. Or believed she could tell his wife what he’d been up to.”

  “He’d be stupid to kill her on his doorstep.”

  “Not if she’d surprised him by appearing without warning.”

  “He’d be better off taking her to one of the barrows and leaving her there. Besides, where did he meet her in the first place? It’s not as if this is on the main road with people coming and going.”

  It was an interesting point.

  “He could have met her in London. During the war.”

  Mrs. Dunlop shook her head. “We lost more men than we got back.”

  “She might not know that.”

  “It’s two years since the war was over. Where has she been all this time?”

  She was as good at questioning as any Constable at the Yard, he thought wryly, listening to her.

  “Ill, perhaps? Uncertain where he was now? Not enough money to travel and search?”

  Watching him in her turn, she said, “I saw the photograph. She wasn’t a woman a man would forget easily.”

  Interested, Rutledge said, “How do you mean?”

  “She wasn’t a woman of the streets. She was respectable. And if she came all this way to find him, she wanted something. Needed something from him.”

  “And he killed her because he couldn’t do as she asked?”

  Mrs. Dunlop looked at him almost with pity, as if he knew nothing about women. “It could be his wife saw her first.”