by Charles Todd
“To be that wet, you must have been standing there in the rain. Thinking, most likely. And you finally come in here because it’s dry and you don’t want to return to your firm just now. You’d rather have a whisky, but it’s too early. You don’t chat me up.”
After a moment, he said, “You’re very good at reading people.”
She smiled again. “I’ve nothing better to do, standing back here except to wash the glasses and give the customer what he wants. And see I make the correct change. So I study the faces of the people I see, and I’ve got good at guessing what brought them through the door.” Shrugging, as if to make light of her skills, she said, “The tips are better when I know who I’m serving.”
Intrigued, he said, “Do they usually try to lead you on?”
She considered the question. “Depends, doesn’t it? If they’ve had enough to drink, they ask personal questions. If they’re lonely, they just want someone to talk to, never mind how I answer back. If they’ve had a fight with the Missus, they’re sullen, not much to say, and often no tip into the bargain.” She nodded toward his cup. “Care for something with that tea? There are fresh scones today.”
Rutledge shook his head. “Thanks, no. If someone has a problem he needs to work through, what does he do?”
“He sits over there, at the corner table, and broods. Sometimes if it’s a woman he’s thinking about, he might ask for advice.”
He said idly, “And what if he’s worried that a—a client of his might be guilty of a serious crime?”
She stared at him. “Is that why you were standing in the rain outside the Tower? I hear they shot traitors in there, during the war. Did you know? Is he likely to be hanged, your client? If he’s guilty?”
“He might well be. Depends on the jury, doesn’t it?”
The young woman nodded again. “Murder, then. Ask him. Face-to-face. It’s the only way. Or hand him off to another barrister, and let him worry about the right and wrong of it.”
He wasn’t sure that Markham would hand over the inquiry to a third man. More than likely he would let it drop. For that matter, he might well decide that he’d got what he wanted, Rutledge’s admission of failure.
“It’s not quite that simple.” He finished his tea.
“I don’t see why not.”
“I could be wrong.”
“If you are thinking he’s guilty, he probably is. But your choice,” she said. “That’s what it comes down to, anyway. Your choice.”
He paid for the tea and asked her to join him in a drink later. She thanked him and pocketed the coin.
As he walked back to the motorcar her words echoed in his mind. Your choice.
Better to know your enemy . . .
And if he was wrong, there might still be time to find a killer.
The rain had dwindled to a heavy mist by the time Rutledge had driven back through the city. The top of Big Ben had disappeared, and the bridge over the Thames ended midriver in a thick wall of gray. London took on another character in such weather. Almost sinister, brooding. A place of secrets, where sound was muffled and voices preceded people before they appeared.
He avoided the Yard, taking a less direct way to his flat. He was just turning into the street that ran past his door when the fog stirred a little and he glimpsed another motorcar ahead of him.
Rutledge realized that it was very like the one he’d seen Leslie occasionally drive away from the Yard. He couldn’t quite see it clearly enough to be sure who was driving. This was London, after all, motorcars were plentiful, and there were only so many variations in them.
Hamish said, “Is he back fra’ Yorkshire? This is no’ verra’ close to his street.”
Rutledge didn’t answer, listening to the faint sounds the other motorcar made as it passed between the houses on either side of the street. His own echoed the whispering noise of passage only a few seconds afterward. When the sounds stopped at the next corner, he realized that the other driver must have turned left. He made the turn himself, just as a lorry materialized out of the murk, blotting out the slight whispers he’d followed. He found them again, made a second turn, and recognized where he was—these were the streets he would normally take to the Yard in the morning.
Had Leslie just returned to London—and decided to see if Rutledge was still in Wiltshire or back at the Yard?
Hamish said, “It’s what ye would do, in his shoes.”
Know your foe’s whereabouts . . .
They had been taught that in the Army. Never lose sight of your enemy.
Rutledge took the next turning, picked up speed once he was beyond the other driver’s hearing, and drove to the Yard in a roundabout fashion. Traffic was with him. But closer to the river, the fog was heavy, tickling the back of his throat as he left his motorcar near the Abbey, and set out on foot the rest of the way. He was just stepping off the pavement by Big Ben when a motorcar came out of the gray wall toward him, and he had to leap back out of its way.
He had only the briefest glimpse of the driver, not enough to be sure whether it was Leslie behind the wheel—or not. The dark shape disappeared in the direction of Downing Street and Horse Guards.
Had Leslie seen him? Rutledge started after him. The fog muffled sounds, blinded him to what was happening, but he could just see well enough to keep up a steady pace.
Footsteps were coming toward him, hollow in the fog. He stopped and listened to the rhythm of the steps. A man’s pace, walking briskly. Had Leslie left his motorcar out of sight, and come back? Looking for Rutledge—or on his way to the Yard?
He decided to step out into the road and let Leslie pass him, then follow him down to the river where they could talk in private.
In the distance he could hear the muffled sound of horses stamping where the Household Cavalry stood guard.
The footsteps hurried past him. Then stopped.
Rutledge stayed where he was, his eyes on the wall of fog, all the while watching for any glimmer of the headlamps of an approaching vehicle.
There was silence all around him.
He smothered another cough as the fog caught the back of his throat again.
“’Ware,” Hamish exclaimed.
And the sixth sense that had saved him time and again in the trenches urged him to move.
He was nearly out of the road when a motorcar, its headlamps off, came up from Westminster behind him. He saw the brightness of chrome as the headlamps flared, pinning him where he was. Blinded, he couldn’t see the driver—but the driver must have had a perfect view of his startled expression staring toward the invisible windscreen.
A spurt of speed, and the motorcar swerved toward him. Rutledge dove for the far side of the street. The wing brushed the edges of his coat and hip so hard, it spun him in a quarter circle, and he had to fight to keep from sprawling backward on the ground.
Almost as quickly as it had come, the motorcar disappeared, a swirl of gray fog in its wake.
Rutledge stood there, fighting for breath.
He could hear the motorcar moving faster still, and in the same instant there was a heavy thud! A woman screamed, high-pitched and then abruptly cut off.
Stiffly at first, he raced toward the cry, passing the horses, nearly stumbling over a purse lying in his path, unable to see the owner until he was almost on her.
She lay awkwardly, one leg twisted under her, her face a bloody mask.
He knelt down beside her, felt for a pulse. It was faint, irregular.
“Someone summon an ambulance,” he shouted. “Hurry!”
In the distance a voice answered, “Where are you?”
“Send for an ambulance. I’ll hear the bell.” He got to his feet long enough to take off his coat and spread it over her, realizing as he did how tiny she was. Then he was back beside her.
He could hear footsteps running, but his attention was centered on the woman. The blood on her face was dripping into her fair hair, tumbled out of its pins. He took out a handkerchief to wipe th
e blood out of her eyes, and as he did, she opened them, looking up at him with pain and terror in her gaze.
“It’s all right, help is coming,” he said gently, fumbling for her gloved hand and holding it firmly in his. “I’m here, I won’t leave you.”
She clutched his fingers, a lifeline.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked, but she couldn’t manage to speak. All he could see was the twisted limb and a wound on her scalp, by her hairline. Her dark green hat was just under her other hand, and he was reminded of the gray hat belonging to the dead woman. Shaking off the memory, he went on speaking to her, afraid to move her lest she have internal injuries. Telling her that she would be fine, that he wouldn’t leave her. Asking her name.
Someone materialized out of the shrouding fog. He caught the gleam of the helmet badge first. A Constable. “There you are, sir. I’ve asked for an ambulance.” He looked down at the woman, then knelt next to her, across her body from Rutledge. “Should we try to move her? She’s still perilously in the road.”
Rutledge shook his head slightly, and said to the woman, “Here’s a policeman. You’re in good hands.”
But the light was fading from her eyes, and as the two men watched, she died.
The Constable crossed himself. “Who did this, sir?” he asked grimly. “Was it your motorcar?”
“I’m on foot. It was coming at speed, barely missed me, and then I heard it strike her. It was running without its headlamps. Then suddenly they were in my eyes. Almost impossible to see the vehicle or the driver. They might have blinded her as well.”
“I take it that it didn’t stop?”
“No.” This close he could read the Constable’s name. It was Fuller.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. She couldn’t tell me. Her purse is over there somewhere.”
The Constable rose and went to search for it. Rutledge closed her eyes, spread the bloody handkerchief across the dead face, and sat back on his heels.
He hadn’t seen the motorcar. He couldn’t describe it, and he most certainly couldn’t claim he knew the owner. It could have been anyone.
The Constable was back, a black leather purse in his hands. He knelt again, opened it gingerly, and, taking off his gloves, he poked around with one finger.
“Handkerchief,” he listed, taking it out. “Lace. Initials in the corner. JRRF. A small looking glass, same initials in silver on the back, a comb, a smaller purse containing money—ah. A case of calling cards.” He lifted out the silver monogrammed case and opened it.
“Mrs. Gerald FitzPatrick. It has her direction as well.” He was interrupted by the ambulance bell, and handed the contents of the purse to Rutledge as he stood up and prepared to stop it.
Rutledge set the contents back inside after abstracting one of the engraved calling cards, slipping it into his pocket. He could hear the Constable telling the attendants that the lady was sadly deceased. He went on, quietly giving information for the morgue.
When the attendants came to collect the body, Rutledge retrieved his coat and watched as she was placed on a stretcher and carried to the ambulance. Small as she was, she hadn’t had a chance against the speeding vehicle. He felt a sudden surge of anger.
Looking down at the puddle of blood, already mixing with the dirty rainwater, he saw her hat, picked it up, and strode to the ambulance before the doors were closed. “This is hers.”
The attendant thanked him and laid the dark green hat at her feet, next to her purse. Rutledge stepped back.
This was a case for the Metropolitan police, not the Yard. But he would make it his business to find out what he could.
He’d seen Leslie. He was certain of it. But where was he now?
As the ambulance pulled away, silent now, the Constable turned to Rutledge. “Your name, sir, in the event we can find the blackguard who did this.”
He gave his name and direction, adding, “I’d like to know what you discover.”
The Constable was about to tell him that he would find out in due course, if he was called on to testify to the speed of the motorcar. But when he looked up, what he saw in Rutledge’s face stopped him in midsentence. “I’ll see that you are, sir.” His gaze moved on to the wall of white. “A pity, this. They’ll send someone to speak to her family. I’m always grateful that’s not my duty.” He moved out into the street, searching for any evidence that might identify the motorcar. “It’ll be dented. Must have been.”
The two men searched for several minutes, but there was nothing. In the end he thanked Rutledge for his help, touched his helmet in a brief salute, and went back to his rounds.
Rutledge watched him disappear into the fog, then turned and walked back the way he’d come. He could hear the bell of Big Ben striking the hour, but almost missed his own motorcar, having to circle back twice before he saw it looming ahead of him.
Changing his mind, he walked on to the Yard. The Duty Sergeant looked up, greeted him, and was about to resume checking a list when Rutledge said, “I thought I saw Leslie on his way here.”
“He was, sir. Just stopped long enough to drop off a file for Sergeant Gibson. Then he left.”
“Heading home, was he?”
“He didn’t say, sir.”
Rutledge left, found his motorcar a second time, and drove with great care, watching for the shapes of pedestrians at every crossing.
In the aftermath of shock at the woman’s death, he tried to bring back the image of Leslie driving past where he’d been standing at the corner. But it was hazy, almost unreal. Still—Leslie had stopped in at the Yard. He’d been close by.
Had that been Leslie’s motorcar coming at him out of the fog? Try as he would, the only thing he could remember was the flash of chrome as the huge round headlamps flared in his eyes. Leslie’s motorcar possessed those. As did his own. In the almost white brightness, he couldn’t see past to the windscreen behind them, the radiator between them—not even the wings on either side. They had been blotted out.
Rutledge gave up trying.
Hamish said, “The police arena’ likely to find him. Whoever he is.”
Tempted, he took the next turning and made his way toward Carlton Square, where the FitzPatricks lived. It was not as fashionable a street as some, but the houses were handsomely kept up and spoke of old money. He drove past number 7, with its black trim and railing, leading down the pair of steps to the street. The lamps were lit in the front rooms, and he glimpsed a tall green-and-white vase with silk flowers in one of the windows, framed by what appeared to be matching dark green drapes.
Rounding the square, he drove on to the house where the Leslies lived. But there was no motorcar standing in front of it. Nor in front of any of the other houses. Which meant there was a mews in which they could be kept.
He looked for it, found the old horse stabling that had been converted behind some squares to house motorcars, but when he searched it, the Leslie vehicle wasn’t among the half dozen kept there, although there was one with a black body that was very close to his.
There was no point in driving on to the silent, empty flat. The unseen driver of the motorcar must surely have felt the wing strike Rutledge a glancing blow. He had most certainly felt the weight of Mrs. FitzPatrick’s slight body colliding with his headlamp and wing as he lost control of his forward speed. Let him wonder, then, just how much damage he had done.
He turned the motorcar toward the western road, but it was a good forty miles before he ran out of the fog into patches of light rain.
Tired and concerned about his own driving, late as it was, he found an inn in a small village well east of Marlborough and took a room. It was already ten o’clock, and he’d been on the road for some time. But he asked for warm water from the kitchen and sponged all traces of Mrs. FitzPatrick’s blood from his coat, then brushed out the wet areas. He’d learned in the trenches how to keep his uniform tidy, how to sew on buttons, and even how to mend small tears. Necessity, he thought as he worked, w
as often the best teacher. They’d been given small sewing kits. His batman had been all thumbs when it came to a needle—but one of the best shots Rutledge had ever seen. It had been, he’d thought at the time, worth the aggravation of doing such tasks himself. Grant had very quickly taught German snipers to keep their heads down or risk a bullet between the eyes.
Spreading his coat over the back of the only chair, he paused. Private Archie Grant had died on the Somme of gangrene from a wound in the calf. There had been no time in the heat of that first battle for seemingly lighter wounds to be treated. Even the severest cases had been ignored while the doctors tried to save those who would live. There had been too many casualties to tend half of them . . . And in his dreams Rutledge still heard the moans and cries of the dying.
Hamish said, “He was a guid soldier. It wasna’ an easy way to die.”
His leg black and swollen three times its size, Grant had stood at his post until fever and exhaustion took its toll. He’d died of blood loss in a forward aid tent as they tried to take the limb.
Shaking off the memory, Rutledge washed his face and hands in what was left in the pitcher of warm water, then undressed.
There was a darkening bruise at his hip. It could have been worse.
He was too tired to dream.
He got a very early start the next morning. It had been raining steadily since sometime after midnight, and by sunrise a heavy mist had settled over the countryside. Once more he drove with care, having no wish to run off the road and lose an axle, for he could see barely five feet in front of the bonnet. Finally reaching the avenue into Avebury shortly after nine, he paused briefly between the two stones at the entrance. Here the mists had thinned slightly, the great stones on his left looming out of it like gray, ghostly sentinels, appearing and disappearing. Even accustomed as he was to this place, he felt a slight shiver.
He moved on down the avenue, and at the junction with the street that ran down by the church or right toward the inn, he was about to turn when a woman’s figure materialized seemingly out of nowhere, directly in his path.