by Charles Todd
If he was right, if all his meticulous collection of bits and pieces of fact were right, he was nearly there.
If the dead Corporal had been the killer in Avebury, he’d have left the knife where he’d left the purse. Even hiding out in the barrow himself until it was safe to move on. He wouldn’t have wanted either of them to be found on his person if he was stopped and questioned. But the knife wasn’t there.
It could be hidden in a dozen of the mounds and barrows and standing stones that covered this plain. It would take an army of Constables days to cover them all.
But the sticking point was still this: what had driven one of the most experienced men at the Yard to commit murder? Not once. Twice.
Hamish said, “Aye, and so far ye’ve matched him, step by step, because ye’re as clever as he is.”
And that, Rutledge told himself, was something Leslie had not counted on.
Stopping by his motorcar, Rutledge opened the boot, unlocked his valise, and put the black leather purse inside. Then he put a fresh battery in his torch before locking the boot again.
That done, he quietly saw to the chestnut horse before going to the inn, where he was given his old room again.
Someone from the kitchen brought up the pitcher of hot water he’d requested, and he was busy washing his hands when there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” he called, and Dr. Mason stepped into the room.
“You’ve been away all afternoon. Any luck?”
“I haven’t been able to identify the dead man,” he replied, reaching for a towel. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“And the Long Barrow. You found nothing of interest there?” the doctor asked, leaning his shoulders against the doorframe.
“I saw no indication that Corporal Radleigh, if that’s actually his name, was living there.” And if Radleigh had gone into that chamber and felt what Rutledge had felt, it wasn’t surprising that he’d done his drinking in the forecourt!
“Still, the fact that he was lying in that open forecourt, not inside the chamber, seems odd to me. I expect that’s because he’d have been better preserved if he’d been thoughtful enough to die out of the weather. Why would a man sit and drink enough gin to kill himself where it’s rained for days?”
“Possibly he had no choice.” Rutledge hung up the towel again.
“That’s saying either he was too drunk to know the difference or he didn’t care.”
“It could also mean that he didn’t intend to die. Let’s say he sat there, drinking, watching the sun set, fell into a drunken stupor, and when the temperature dropped, he couldn’t wake up enough to protect himself.”
Dr. Mason looked toward the window. “There was something else I found in the examination. After you and Henderson had left. It bothered me that there was enough gin in him to kill a hardened alcoholic, but there were no physical signs of habitual drinking. I took another look, and now I’m of the opinion that the dead man was forced to drink the gin. Usually there’s bruising around the mouth and tongue, but given the state of his face, I couldn’t corroborate that. Still there was too much gin in his lungs to account for simple choking on a mouthful. It’s a wonder he didn’t die from that. There’s a cut on the temple as well. I can’t be sure it was an animal bite. I can’t tell you it was a blow, knocking him out.”
Rutledge regarded him thoughtfully. “As I recall, you believed that this was Henderson’s case?”
“Early on, yes, I did. But that bottle of gin—did you look at the label? It’s expensive, not the cheapest he could buy. For that matter, he could have bought four bottles for what he paid for this one. And drunks aren’t very particular about what they drink. Unless he’d lost all hope and decided to kill himself. When you put these facts together, my guess is that he was murdered.”
“Is it indeed?”
“I haven’t written a report for the inquest. I wanted to speak to you first. I had a feeling you might not want this to come to light. Not yet, at any rate.”
“Why should I want to hold it up?”
“Because you think this death is somehow connected with that of the young woman. Some days ago, we heard that there had been a housebreaking on the same night she died. A Constable in Stokesbury was looking for an ex-soldier. Witnesses had seen him there, or so the man delivering beer to the inn claimed.”
“Does Henderson know this?”
“I don’t believe he does. He’s just come back from Winterbourne, and unless the gossip has reached him already, he hasn’t heard the news. Someone will tell him, now that the body has been found.”
“If the soldier had killed her, why did he linger in the vicinity? Where he could be seen again. He couldn’t be that stupid.”
“Unless of course he was the sacrificial lamb.” Mason’s gaze was fixed on Rutledge’s face. “That’s why it’s so urgent for you to identify him. Do they know his name in Stokesbury?”
“No.”
“You haven’t said, but it’s clear you have some idea why that young woman had to die.”
“That’s what I don’t know.”
Mason crossed the room to take the only chair, and Rutledge went to stand by the window. “Is it one of us? Someone from Avebury?”
“No. At least if I’m right, Avebury is in the clear.”
Mason sighed. “A relief, that. Does your killer live in Stokesbury? If he knew about the breaking in, he might have seen his chance to shift the blame.”
Rutledge said, “No, he doesn’t live in Stokesbury.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth.
“For the longest time,” Mason said, running his fingers down the seam of his trousers, not facing Rutledge, “I’ve wondered about the man who’d killed her. I don’t know why. I expect it was because she was so unusual. The sort of woman a man finds it hard to get out of his head. If he’d loved her, if he’d fathered her child, he might not be able to drive a knife into her. He’d have found some other way. I must rethink that, now that he’s killed again.”
Rutledge said, “What will you tell Constable Henderson? That you think this was murder?”
“I shall have to tell him. But as I said, I wanted to speak to you first. Do you know the name of the Constable in Stokesbury? He’ll have to be told.”
“His name is Benning.”
“So you’ve been there? To Stokesbury?”
“I was looking for something else when I went there. One of a dozen villages I’d been to. It was only afterward that I stumbled over the story of the break-in.”
Mason shook his head. “You kept it to yourself.”
“No. Protective of information that might prove critical.”
“You know you could have done this yourself. Kill that woman. The soldier too. You come and go. Who would ever guess?”
Rutledge laughed. Not at the absurdity of Mason’s remark, but at the reality of it. It struck him then that, failing the dead soldier, Leslie might have tried to implicate him.
Mason got to his feet. “Will you tell me the dead man’s name, if you learn who he is? His family might care to have his remains brought home. Or not. But we should at least ask.”
“When I can. Yes. If we’re right and he was murdered, he deserves to have his name cleared, for his family’s sake.”
“I’m going down to order my supper. There are two chairs at the table reserved for me. If you’d care to join me?”
Rutledge thanked him but refused the invitation. It was best, he thought, to put a little distance between himself and Dr. Mason.
Instead, he made entries in his notebook of the new information, and then walked out of the inn and went to stand where the tall stones were just visible in the darkness.
A cold wind swept across the open spaces and the sheep huddled near the bank behind the ditch, out of the worst of it. He could just see their shaggy white bodies, like mounds of snow waiting to melt.
What was he going to report to Chief Superintendent Markham? A progress report was long
overdue. There was so much to tell—and so little he could tell. He rather thought that Markham had not summoned him before, hoping that the length of time it appeared to be taking Rutledge was an indication of a futile lack of progress.
As he walked on, Hamish reminded him of the dead woman in London. He would have to look into that too when next he was there. A third death at Leslie’s door?
Without answering Hamish, he turned and walked back into the inn. Taking the stairs two at a time, he collected his valise, swept the room with a glance to be certain he hadn’t left anything behind, and went out to his motorcar.
It was only half past seven, and if he hurried, he could reach London with time enough to sleep for a few hours.
Rutledge was half expecting to find a message from Haldane waiting on his doorstep, but the mail that had been collected by his daily and set on the table by his chair was commonplace, a bill from his tailor, a prospectus for a new motorcar, an invitation to the christening of a friend’s second child. He left them to be dealt with later and went to bed.
At nine he was up and dressed. But it was useless to call on Haldane, unless he’d been sent for. And Edwards had been promised another day in which to find the ex-soldier.
But there was the motorcar crash and the dead woman. He set out for Trafalgar Square and sat by the lions for what felt like an interminable morning. But his patience was rewarded when he saw the Constable he’d spoken to when the woman was struck. He was standing across the way, head bent to hear a little boy’s chatter, a well-dressed father watching with a proud smile.
It took longer to cross the street than he’d anticipated, cabbies, motorcars, and omnibuses swirling past. By the time Rutledge had taken his life in his hands and made it to the opposite corner, Constable Fuller had moved on.
He caught him up, finally, and watched the man’s face change as he recognized Rutledge.
“Any luck finding that motorcar?” he asked, falling into step with Fuller.
The Constable said, “We did. It had been abandoned on a quiet street behind the British Museum. There was damage to the left wing, and blood on the cowling of the left headlamp. Just where you’d expected it to be.”
“Then you’ve found the driver? You have him in custody?”
“As to that,” Fuller replied, clearing his throat, “Mr. Taverner is a prominent barrister and swears his motorcar was taken without his knowledge or consent. Since he was in court all day, there are more than enough witnesses to back up his claim that he couldn’t have been behind the wheel.”
“Taverner?” Rutledge repeated blankly.
“What’s more, he has a man who collects him every morning during the week. The motorcar is for his personal use at the weekend. It’s kept in the mews near his house. Lambert Square. According to Mr. Taverner, no one else in his family drives. We’ve questioned the staff, and they have supported that.”
It was the mews near Lambert Square where Rutledge had gone after the accident to look for Leslie’s vehicle. It hadn’t been there. Nor, it seemed, had Taverner’s, with its damaged wing.
“Then who was driving the Taverner motorcar?”
“We don’t know, sir. There was nothing in it when it was found to help us locate the driver.”
He had been so certain it was Leslie behind what had happened. He wanted to ask the Constable if he was satisfied with this outcome, even as he knew the police had done their work. The motorcar had been found. The owner questioned—
“Then what do the police suspect?” he asked instead. “That someone else was driving, without the owner’s knowledge or consent?”
As if he sensed Rutledge’s doubt, Fuller said grimly, “It’s the Taverner motorcar right enough. There was a bit of fabric from her dress caught in the hinge of the bonnet, above the damage to the wing. Has to be another driver.”
“No one saw him as he abandoned the motorcar?”
“We’ve questioned the households up and down the street, sir. We’ve accounted for all the fares picked up anywhere near the museum during the worst of the fog. I heard later it was thick well into Kent. My granddad swears they aren’t as bad as they were in his day, but that’s little comfort to Mrs. FitzPatrick’s family.”
“He must have walked well away from where he left it. Do the FitzPatricks and the Taverners know each other?”
“No, sir. That’s to say, not until now.”
“Thank you, Constable. I’d hoped for better news.”
“I understand, sir. I’ve taken this personally myself. So has Mr. Taverner. He’s offered a reward.” He touched his helmet to Rutledge and continued on his rounds.
Rutledge stood looking after him for all of a minute. A reward. That might well stir the public’s memory. But how had he himself been so wrong?
He had glimpsed Leslie behind the wheel of his motorcar not long before the woman was struck. And Leslie had stopped in briefly at the Yard close to the same time. But he couldn’t have sworn under oath that it was also Leslie’s motorcar that had seemed to swerve toward him as the headlamps were switched on—although Leslie’s motor had the same large round lamps. Still, there were any number of motorcars of similar age and model on the streets of London. In the fog, colors faded, dark greens and dark blues appearing to be black.
Hamish said, “Ye had your mind set on yon Chief Inspector. And it’s no’ like him.”
But Rutledge had felt since it happened that in switching on the massive headlamps and swerving in his direction, the driver had lost control, and as he fought to regain it, he’d come too close again to where Mrs. FitzPatrick had been walking.
“It wasna’ his motorcar. Yon driver’s. He didna’ ken how to manage it.”
Fuller’s words came back to Rutledge. Little comfort to Mrs. FitzPatrick’s family.
He walked on, in a dark mood. Not seeing the perfect winter day, clear and brisk, a hint of the spring to come in the blue sky over his head, until he found himself in front of Buckingham Palace. Instead of turning back, he crossed over toward Green Park and kept up his pace. When next he paid heed to his surroundings, he saw a hotel just ahead.
Was it too soon to put through a call to Edwards? To ask if he was making any progress? He was presuming on the man’s kindness, but there had been other times when he’d helped Edwards with information. They were, for all the complaints on Edwards’s part, useful to each other.
He needed answers.
Removing his hat, he walked through the elegant wooden doors into the crowded lobby, spotted the short passage beyond Reception that usually indicated a telephone, and headed in that direction. There was a dimly lit alcove halfway down the passage, and no one was before him.
He found that Edwards was in and at his desk.
“Any luck?” he asked, after identifying himself.
“You won’t believe me, but it was easier than I’d imagined. In all likelihood I’ve found your man. I started with the Engineers, and they were very helpful.”
“I was right then?”
“Close. It was A, all right, for Andrew. But the L and J were actually an H. For Henley. Andrew Henley Radleigh. Not a common last name, which helped.”
“And where was he from?”
“Manchester. Well, just outside it.” He gave Rutledge the address.
“Family?”
“You didn’t ask for that. I did find a Sergeant at the Engineers who remembered him as a fine soldier and good at improvising.”
“That’s helpful. Thank you. I owe you a favor in return.”
“I daresay you do. But will you remember that it’s my turn, the next time you call? I’m sure I’m three favors ahead of you by now. I keep reminding you that this isn’t an annex of the Yard.”
Rutledge laughed. “Yes, and who found the police record of that Lieutenant in Surrey? You wouldn’t have known about that otherwise. Consider this a good deed. Radleigh’s family hasn’t been told he’s dead?”
“No. That’s Yard business.”
&nb
sp; He rang off. Manchester was well north of Wiltshire. What had brought Radleigh there?
He was just crossing Reception when someone called his name.
He turned to look, and there was Kate Gordon, standing just inside the Foyer, smiling at him.
She was dressed very becomingly in a dark red coat with gold braid across the front buttons and on the shoulders, almost a military style. A matching hat was perched on her head.
He crossed to greet her, smiling in return. “Hallo, Kate. I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I’ve been deserted by my luncheon partner. Well, hardly his fault. His mother has taken ill, and he had to leave quite early for St. Albans. He left a message for me, full of apologies. I’ve only just got it, however.” She made a face. “I’d rather not go home to luncheon with my cousins. I only agreed to meet Josh to get away from them.”
He’d decided to set out at once for Manchester. Abandoning that plan, he said, “I’d be delighted to step in for Josh.”
“Would you? Thank you, Ian. I’d much rather dine with you anyway.”
“Where had you expected to go? The hotel dining room? Somewhere else?”
“I’d really like to go to that new restaurant everyone is talking about. Not far from Simpson’s. Baldwin’s?”
He’d heard people at the Yard mention it but hadn’t gone there himself.
“Baldwin’s it is.” He’d left his motorcar at the flat. Asking the doorman to find them a cab, he glanced at her. Why hadn’t she married long ago? He was very aware that she was fond of him, but he didn’t know quite how deep those feelings were. And he’d been very careful not to encourage them. For her sake.
They were settled in the cab, her red coat vivid in the dim interior.
“Do you remember my mother’s cousins, Gwen and Meg? They are so set in their ways that it’s very uncomfortable having them come for a visit. They complain about everything—the house is too cold or too hot, the tea is too strong or too weak, their breakfast isn’t quite what they’re used to. I’m not sure why they would ever wish to travel.”