by Charles Todd
Rutledge turned. “Has no one come to look for her grave? Even if he didn’t speak to you about her?” It was necessary to be sure.
“How could anyone come here to look? Only her killer knows where she died.”
The door swung closed, and Rutledge found himself alone on the path from the side door to the church. As he walked back to the churchyard gate, he had the feeling that he was being watched. But he didn’t turn around. He was sure it was the Rector, already having second thoughts.
There was nowhere private where he could look at the photograph, except for the church, and he rather thought that the Rector wouldn’t follow him there.
He stepped inside, out of the wind, and walked to where enough light was coming through one of the windows that he could see properly. After the briefest hesitation, he took out the photograph.
Rutledge couldn’t have said afterward what he’d expected to see. But the woman had been described briefly in Leslie’s report, and he’d heard Mason’s comments on her appearance.
The photograph was quite clear. The Rector’s wife had taken an excellent likeness. Even in death, there was something about her. Around her throat, the pretty scarf the Vicar’s wife had kept aside was beautifully tucked into the collar of her walking dress. He could see the fleur-de-lis pattern.
The dark hair had been properly dressed in a becoming style, and against the white lining of the coffin, he could see how unusually black it was. Her face was oval, the dark lashes pointing up the paleness of her skin.
Listening to Dr. Mason and Mrs. Dunlop, he’d expected a great beauty.
Instead what he saw was something else, even in the repose of death.
She was attractive. Pretty, even. But it wasn’t that.
He moved slightly, and as he did, the clouds opened and for a moment the sun broke through, casting the rich colors of the window above his head across his hand and the photograph he held. Dark blues and greens and blood-red. And it was there now in the shifting light and shadow that he saw it.
Mrs. Dunlop was right. This woman was a threat, but not in the usual sense. Not beauty that stirred a man’s blood, turned his head, and made him do foolish things that he’d regret in the clear light of day. Nor temptation of a different sort, raw and earthy and available. Not even the sort a man coveted because with her on his arm, other men envied him.
He could feel it himself. An urge to protect her—to stand between her and whatever it was that had hurt her. To take away the sadness that was there even now.
What had happened to this woman, long before she died in a stone circle at a murderer’s hand?
A refugee? As the Rector’s wife suggested?
He remembered something that Dr. Mason had said to him while describing what he’d learned while examining the body. She’d had a child. Not recently. Some time ago.
Why had he felt there was sadness in the still features? The loss of that child?
Whose child was it, come to that? Where was the father? Had he deserted her? Died? Or was he in England, and she had come to find him?
The sun faded behind the clouds again, and it was just a photograph in his hand, in the usual tones of black and white and gray. A dead face, the eyes closed, and eyes told so much.
After a while, he put the photograph safely away, and with a last glance at the rood screen, left the church.
A little girl was quietly playing outside one of the shops as he walked back up the slight incline to where he’d left his motorcar by the inn.
She was squatting by the shop door, with a small spoon and a chipped bowl, and she was earnestly scraping at the dust with the spoon and scooping up pebbles to put into the bowl.
She was three, perhaps four, with a knit cap and a coat a little too large for her. But what attracted his eye was what she was wearing around her neck, the string of beads drooping almost to the ground as she worked.
He stared at them. They were lapis, a particular shade of blue, and he had seen them somewhere before. Or something that reminded him of these.
Glancing in the shop window, he could see a young woman chatting with the shopkeeper.
It was safe enough in this village to leave the child alone outside.
He went down on one knee beside her and said after a moment, “You have a lot of pebbles in your bowl.”
“Peas,” she said firmly, correcting him.
“For your dinner?”
She nodded, continuing her scraping at the ground outside the shop.
“That’s a rather pretty necklace you’re wearing.”
“My brother give it me.” She looked up for the first time, and he could see that she was a pretty child with long-lashed blue eyes.
“Where is your brother?”
“In school.”
“Did he buy the necklace for you?”
She shook her head vigorously. “It was in a tree.”
“A tree?”
“He climbed down to get it.”
Down. Not up.
“Did he indeed?” Rutledge said softly. “How long have you had it?”
She dropped the spoon and held up four little fingers. “I was that many old.”
“Ah, your birthday?”
Nodding, she went back to digging.
The shop door opened, and the young woman stepped out. He put her age at thirty. “Hallo,” she said, frowning to see the man from London talking with her daughter.
Rutledge stood up. “Peas for your dinner,” he said, indicating the half-filled bowl.
She smiled. “I shall have to cook them.”
He returned the smile. “She tells me she recently had a birthday.”
“Yes, she turned four. And nearly made herself sick eating too much cake, poor love.”
“The necklace was a birthday gift from her brother?”
“Well, he’s only seven. He found it somewhere, and she took an instant liking to it. I persuaded him it was a perfect gift for her. It’s a cheap string of beads, no harm done if she loses it.”
As casually as he could, he asked, “I wonder where he found it?”
“He told me it was near the causeway. I expect a summer visitor lost it.” She seemed to be certain the beads were worthless. “Last summer it was an earbob. Pretty little thing someone had lost. I asked around, but nobody claimed it. A piece of broken pottery before that, and a rusted horseshoe.” She sighed. “He’s always bringing something home. The clasp on the beads was broken, but I tied the ends together with a bit of string. Peggy doesn’t seem to care.”
“Peggy seems to think he found it in a tree.”
Smiling, she said, “Yes, that’s her brother for you. He’ll make up a better story, if he can. But he always tells me the truth.” In spite of the smile, he could see that she was becoming impatient. “You’re the man from London? The Inspector?”
“That’s right. May I look more closely at the strand? Will she mind?”
“Here, love,” she said, putting down the sack she was carrying. “Can Mum see your beads?”
It took some persuading because Peggy had found a pebble she liked, and she wanted to show that to her mother instead. Finally, the woman got the strand off, pulling the child’s hair a little and getting an angry pout in return.
“I don’t know why you should be interested in them,” the woman said, handing the beads to him.
They were graduated in size, the largest bead in the center of the string, the smallest at either side of the broken clasp. And they were undoubtedly lapis. What was left of the clasp was surely gold. The softness of the color couldn’t be anything else.
“How long ago did he find these?” Rutledge asked.
“I don’t know. Just before her birthday. Last Tuesday week?”
After the body had been found. After the inquest, when Leslie had left.
“I had to wash them. They were that muddy.”
If they were found by the causeway, it was well away from the area nearest the stone that had been searched
so thoroughly. A good forty or fifty yards?
There was nothing to connect these beads to the murder. He found himself asking, “May I keep these for the time being? I’ll give you a receipt for them, of course. But I’d like to find out more about them.”
“I don’t see why. It can’t have anything to do with the dead woman, can it? It wouldn’t have matched anything she was wearing. I helped the Rector’s wife clean her clothes.”
“That was kind of you. But I must be thorough, you see. I need to show them to someone in London.”
The woman was annoyed. “Peggy’s not going to like it. It was a birthday gift.”
Rutledge tried to think of a substitute that might please the child. “I’ll send her another strand from London, if for some reason I can’t return them. She prefers blue?”
“Lavender is her favorite color.”
He didn’t know where he was going to find lavender beads, but he agreed. “I’ll do my best.”
“Then go on, while she’s busy. I’ll have to tell her she lost them. She won’t be happy.” There was resignation in her face and voice. He thought that she wouldn’t have given the beads up to anyone but a policeman.
“Thank you. Your name?”
“Mrs. Alastair Johnson. Her name is Peggy.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.” He walked on briskly, listening to the mother trying to persuade her daughter to give up on hunting for peas. He had nearly reached the road that crossed the causeway and ended just before the inn when he heard a child’s wail behind him.
With a grimace, he continued walking. He rather thought the Johnsons’ dinner was not going to be a pleasant one.
But when he’d left the inn and was traveling back the way he’d come in the motorcar, he stopped and searched the area by the causeway for over an hour.
There was nothing left to find.
When he reached London, the first person he happened to meet, as he was starting down Oxford Street in search of a shop where he could buy lavender beads, was Kate Gordon.
“Hallo, Ian,” she said, smiling up at him.
She was alone. And she was—Kate. Her usual self. The rumors that had spread about him just weeks ago hadn’t reached her ears, or if they had, she hadn’t taken them seriously.
This was a meeting he’d dreaded, for fear she’d turn away in disgust. But she hadn’t. If anything, she appeared to be glad to see him.
He returned the smile. And then, taking a deep breath, he plunged into what had brought him to this part of the city. It would do no harm, surely? “Well met. I’m on an errand of mercy. I had to take a strand of beads away from a small child. They were evidence in an inquiry. I promised the mother I’d find something simple to replace them. Peggy likes the color lavender, it seems.”
Kate frowned. “Unless you want something like amethyst, I can’t offhand think of a lavender stone.”
“She’s four. Something bright and shiny will do.”
Looking around her, Kate said, “I don’t believe we’ll find them here. A children’s shop. That’s the place to begin.”
They walked on, searching for a children’s shop, and eventually they discovered what they were looking for.
Rutledge was aware again how comfortable they were together. Kate was describing an exhibit of paintings that she’d attended the day before, and he found himself talking about Avebury and the stones. But not about the dead woman.
In the children’s shop, they discovered a string of small pearls, designed for a young child, but Kate shook her head. “I don’t think that’s suitable. They are real.” Her eye was caught by the dolls, and she said, “Over there.” But the prettiest doll was nearly as big as the child. “This one?” she asked, moving on to a small doll wearing a walking dress and a fashionable hat over blonde curls.
But Rutledge had noticed a boxed set of a tea service for four, with painted tin plates and cups and saucers, a teapot, sugar bowl, and cream pitcher. When he looked more closely, he saw that the set included small silverware in a shiny metal. The design was pretty, a blue background with white and blue flowers held together by a lacey ribbon.
“I think this would appeal to her more,” he said, remembering the peas and the bowl.
“It’s rather expensive for a toy,” Kate said doubtfully. “Although I must say, I’d have adored it as a child. My set was china, and I expect it’s still somewhere in the nursery with my own dolls.”
Rutledge reached out and lifted the box from the shelf. “Peggy will be delighted.”
“They do lovely wrapping paper in this shop,” Kate said. “I saw the rolls of tissue on the counter over there.”
He had the box wrapped in lavender paper and gave the woman the address in Avebury. “Can this be sent?” He’d seen a post office in the village.
“Yes, of course. That charge is extra,” the clerk assured him.
After the arrangements had been made and he’d paid for the postage as well as the tea service, Rutledge realized that with this errand completed, he’d have no reason to take up more of Kate’s time.
As they stepped out into the street again, he said, “I owe you for services rendered. Would you care for a real cup of tea?”
“Yes, I would. Shopping is thirsty business.”
He offered her his arm, and she took it lightly. “I think there’s a shop just around the corner. Or is it the next one after that?”
They found the tea shop, with lovely confections in the window and a display of teapots and cozies that were as colorful as they were elegant.
They were offered a table by the window, but Rutledge prudently took another by a display of lacey cloths and napkins. This was a part of town where someone who recognized Kate might mention seeing her there with him. The last thing he wanted was to cause trouble for her with her parents.
When their tea came, they were well into a discussion of books, although he had much less time for reading, and Kate appeared to be enjoying the exchange as much as he was.
And then the shop door opened, a pair of young women came in, and Kate stopped in midsentence. But while they kept looking her way, they didn’t come over to the table to speak to Kate or to him.
The spell was broken, although Kate tried valiantly to keep it alive. When they finished their tea and left the shop, she thanked him for the afternoon, and went her way.
He didn’t know who the two young women were, but it was clear that Kate did. He had offered to see her home, but she thanked him and refused, saying she had several more errands to attend to. Still, her smile was warm, and he took heart at that.
Rutledge watched her cross the street and walk on. He wanted to go after her and apologize, but he had nothing to apologize for. But the brightness had gone out of the day, clouds moving in, promising rain. He found a cab to take him to where he’d left his motorcar, and drove back to the chill of the empty flat.
That evening, after supper, he sat by the lamp in the front room, and looked first at the photograph and then at the lapis beads.
According to the doctor she hadn’t been wearing any jewelry except for a ring. Or if she had, her killer had taken it.
Frances had enjoyed wearing jewelry and so had his mother. He had dealt with any number of cases where jewelry had been stolen or had been cataloged in the autopsy or looked into as a motive for murder. He was accustomed to dealing with various gemstones. And he had no doubt the beads were lapis. Real and fairly expensive because of the intense color, without impurities.
What’s more, as he sat there looking at them, he realized that they were oddly familiar, these beads.
He got up, poured himself a whisky, and scoured his memory for any past connection with lapis. Not a case, he finally decided—his sister’s strand was double—someone else, then. A dinner party? No. A retirement party.
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the memory. November? One of the senior officers in the Home Office was retiring. There had been a dinner in his honor. A woman guest was dr
essed in a cream top with dark blue sleeves that matched her skirt—
His eyes flew open. He’d been seated just down the table from Brian Leslie and his wife, Sara. And she had been wearing a single strand, graduated, like these in his hand.
The woman next to him at the table said something about how becoming the beads were with her gown, and Sara had been pleased, smiling as she lifted her fingers to touch them. Her reply had been lost in the general conversation. But the comment had drawn attention to her, and she had blushed a little.
Those couldn’t be the only strand of lapis beads in London.
But the image stayed with him, making him uncomfortable.
This was Leslie’s inquiry before his . . .
He picked up the strand again, examining it carefully. He’d come to London to make the rounds of better-known jewelers, hoping that one of them might recognize the beads. Instead he’d spent the afternoon with Kate Gordon.
Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, “There are jewelers in every town in Britain. No’ only in London.”
And that was true.
Rutledge walked to the window and looked out at the street. A light rain was falling, the night cloudy and dark. Then he turned back to his chair, and there was the photograph, the face of a nameless woman staring back at him. Only, her eyes were closed in death. Would she have owned lapis beads?
Finishing the whisky, Rutledge turned out the lamp and went on to his bedroom, leaving the beads and photograph on the table beside his chair.
But his mind wouldn’t let the matter go. Where had Leslie looked to uncover the identity of the woman? There was nothing in the report to indicate he’d gone to Wales or even to London to search for her. It was possible that he’d had so little luck he hadn’t felt it worthwhile to include his efforts in that direction. For that matter, what had he himself done so far?
He undressed and got into bed. And the question nagged at him for several hours, keeping him from sleep.
By morning, Rutledge had made his decision. Kate Gordon was the only person who knew he’d returned to London.
The Yard would assume he was still in Wiltshire.