by Charles Todd
“Take him into custody as soon as I can,” Rutledge replied grimly.
As he drove away from Haldane’s house, his mind was on the next step to take, and he inadvertently turned the opposite way at the end of the street. Or was it, he wondered afterward, because it was so familiar, that turning?
Looking up, he saw the house where Meredith Channing had lived, slowing as memories came back to him.
Would she have lived, if she had decided not to go to Belgium to help the wreckage of her husband find some peace? But then it wouldn’t have been Meredith, would it, to turn her back on the man she had married?
“She turned her back on you,” Hamish said.
“She turned her back on happiness,” Rutledge told him, driving on.
But would it have been happiness, if she’d remained in England? Would she have blamed him, in the end, when her husband died, alone and in pain?
Rutledge pushed those thoughts aside. He’d learned not to dwell on what might have been. Jean had taught him a hard lesson there.
He felt the stares as he walked into the Yard and down the passage to the Chief Superintendent’s door.
Knocking, he waited for the grunted “Come.”
Markham was in a foul mood. He would have to be very careful.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Markham looked up, his frown turning to a scowl as he snapped, “Where the hell have you been?” Before Rutledge could frame an answer, he added, “Your case is closed. Where’s your report? Or am I expected to take Constable Henderson’s in place of it?”
“There have been loose ends,” Rutledge said, choosing his words. “As a result, I’m afraid Constable Henderson’s is premature.”
“It appeared to be sound enough to me.”
“’Ware!” Hamish said softly in warning.
Rutledge didn’t need it. Keeping his tone of voice level and unchallenging, he said, “As far as it goes, yes.”
Markham searched among the files on his desk, found what he was after, and said, “He and Constable Benning of Stokesbury conferred. This Corporal Raleigh—a Devon name, I’m told—is not only the man who broke into a house in Stokesbury, he encountered a woman between Stokesbury and Avebury, killed her, took her purse. He was later found in the Long Barrow—whatever that is, when it’s at home—where he died of gin and exposure. Appears to be sound enough to me. What’s more, Chief Inspector Leslie identified the gin bottle as one from his house.”
“And when was Chief Inspector Leslie in Avebury?”
“He stopped in Stokesbury on his way back to London from Yorkshire, to see if there was any news. Constable Benning described the gin bottle. He has been to Avebury to view the body of Corporal Raleigh.”
“It wasn’t on the original list of missing items,” Rutledge said. “And I’ve identified the dead man. His name is Radleigh, not Raleigh, and he lived with his mother and his sister outside Manchester.” Then before Markham could object, he added, “I have seen his photograph. There’s no doubt of the identification. He had come to London to look for work, found none. He was most likely on his way back to Manchester.”
“Yes, I see. Henderson did say that the name in his pocket was hard to make out.”
“What’s more, Corporal Radleigh was not a man who drank. His family is Chapel, and his mother is in the temperance movement.”
“That’s enough to make a man take to drink,” Markham retorted sourly.
“Dr. Mason believes he was forced to drink the gin. There was a wound at his temple.”
“According to Constable Henderson, the man’s face was already half missing. Hard to be certain of that.”
“I trust the doctor’s judgment.”
“He’s quite elderly, as I understand it,” Markham said, stubbornly holding to his position. “And the dead man had Mrs. Leslie’s earrings in his pocket. How did you explain that?”
“They were put there by the dead woman’s killer. On purpose, so that suspicion would fall on the Corporal, when he was found. There must have been far more valuable possessions in that house. Why hadn’t they been taken? I don’t believe someone did break in. Despite the broken latch. I’m of the opinion it was a false alarm.”
Markham smiled grimly. “That’s all very well, Rutledge. Where’s the proof?”
“Constable Henderson is a good man. But he neglected to backtrack Radleigh. I’ve just set that in motion. The Chief Constable has asked for reports of any sightings, with dates and locations. It’s very likely that the Corporal was nowhere near Stokesbury when the break-in occurred. Or the murder of the woman in Avebury.”
A gamble. He couldn’t be sure of that. But Radleigh wouldn’t have been killed if he’d been the culprit in either crime. He’d have been hauled before Benning and charged.
Markham considered him. “You’re thinking that this is one of Dr. Allen’s other victims. Is that it? It could make sense.”
Rutledge shook his head. “Allen couldn’t have killed the dead Corporal. He was in custody—”
Markham interrupted. “Do you or do you not know who killed the victim in Avebury?”
“I do. I’d like to finish what I started, and make an arrest as soon as possible.”
Closing the file in front of him, Markham said, “See that you do that.”
“Thank you, sir.” He got out of the office and down the passage, finally breathing a sigh of relief.
There was Corporal Radleigh’s body to deal with. He’d promised the family their brother and son would come home. He didn’t think it would help them through the days ahead, but he intended to keep that promise.
He found an undertaker in Marlborough, gave them his instructions, and asked that the body be removed within two days. A Mr. Beech promised to see that all was carried out as he’d wish, and Rutledge left for Avebury.
Arriving in time for a sherry before dinner, he found that Dr. Mason wasn’t at home. There had been an emergency in West Kennet, and he had been called away.
Rutledge drove on to the inn, went up to his usual room, and stowed his valise in the wardrobe before going down to his meal.
He was halfway through the parsnip soup when the doctor came through the door and crossed the room to Rutledge’s table by the window.
“I saw your motorcar,” Mason said, removing his coat and draping it over the nearest empty chair. “Mind if I join you?” he added, taking the other place at Rutledge’s table. “I’m more than a little surprised to find you here. According to Constable Henderson, your inquiry is finished.”
“So he’s informed the Yard,” Rutledge answered him. “Why the rush?”
Mason frowned. “Constable Benning came to see if the dead man was the same ex-soldier wanted for housebreaking in Stokesbury. They conferred—the two Constables—and they were of the opinion that the Corporal was the man Benning was looking for. It wasn’t a giant leap to conclude that he must have met the dead woman on the road that same night and killed her for what was in her purse.”
The woman who usually served them came to collect Rutledge’s empty soup plate, and when she had gone away again, he said, “If that were true, why did Radleigh come back here? When he was well away, and no one could identify him?”
“It was Henderson’s view that he was making his way back toward London, not having found any work to speak of west of here.” The woman came back with a menu for the doctor, but he shook his head, ordering the mutton stew instead. When she was out of hearing, he went on. “He was careful not to show himself, traveling at night, and sleeping where he could. He must have remembered the Long Barrow from before, and he believed he’d be safe there. He may even have hidden there while the manhunt was going on. There are people who won’t even go into the forecourt. They claim the barrow is haunted.”
Rutledge said nothing.
“Henderson knew the date that the woman was killed, and Benning had the date of the housebreaking. It was too much of a coincidence. He knew Leslie hadn’t solved
the murder, and reckoned that was because the housebreaking hadn’t been discovered and no one had seen the ex-soldier. You have to admit, he has a case. A wrong one, in my view, because I still believe the Corporal was forced to drink the gin in that bottle.”
“He could have taken her purse without killing her. He was stronger than she was. Besides, what was she doing on the roads that late?”
“The supposition is that she started to scream. Look here, Rutledge, you’d gone elsewhere. It was tidy enough.”
“I expect it was.”
Mason was saying, “It didn’t sit well with me, I can tell you that.” He stopped as their main course was set before them, smiled for the woman serving them, then went on. “I won’t be satisfied until we know who she was and why she was here. It’s Henderson’s opinion that we will never know. He believes she was simply in the wrong place, and whoever it was she intended to visit didn’t know to expect her. And so he or she hasn’t reported her missing.”
“Finish your dinner. There are some things you need to know.”
Mason stared hard at him. “I was going to send you a telegram, you know. If you hadn’t come by now.”
Half an hour later, they were walking in silence to the surgery, and once there, the fire on the hearth built up and a glass of whisky beside them, Mason said, “Go on. I’m listening.”
And Rutledge told him.
It was nearly midnight when he’d finished.
Mason sat in silence for a time, looking into the dark red heart of the fire. Then he said, “I thought you’d run mad, when you told me it was Leslie. That perhaps there was an old quarrel between you. But it isn’t that, is it?”
“No.”
“And you think he took those beads of his wife’s, expecting to return them when the deed was done, a gift to make poor Karina believe that he had chosen her? Did she find out they were his wife’s? Is that how the clasp got broken? That must have been the last straw, he had to kill her then. But what a cruel thing to do, Rutledge. I’d thought better of the man.” He poured a little more whisky into their glasses. “I’ve seen her, Rutledge. He must have loved her. Why didn’t he just tell her it was finished? How could he use a knife on her, and leave her in a bloody ditch?”
“I wish I knew. I hope her letters to him will give us the answer to that.”
“Can you prove this? I very much want to hear you can.”
“Once I’ve spoken to Henderson.”
“He’s not a bad policeman. It’s just that nothing like this murder ever came his way. And he wanted to solve it, he wanted to prove to two officers of the Yard that he could do what they couldn’t.”
“It disrupted the investigation. Markham—Chief Superintendent Markham accepted his report. It was straightforward and convincing. If incomplete.”
Mason watched him for a moment. “Were you tempted? To let it go at that?”
“Once I might have been. God knows I didn’t want to believe it. I’ve come to know Karina too well, now. She and Radleigh deserve justice.”
“What will happen to you if you turn in the Chief Inspector? If he fights you—and wins?”
Rutledge shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” But it did. He knew he was already on probation. Had been since the Barrington affair.
Mason raised his glass. “To you, then. And to justice for Karina.”
Rutledge waited until morning to call on Henderson. A visit late at night would put him on his guard. And that was not what Rutledge wanted.
He had tested his reasoning on Mason, and his conclusions had held up. That had been important before he spoke to Markham. He would have only one opportunity to make his case.
Henderson was in the tiny police station. When Rutledge walked in, he looked up, then rose warily.
“I saw your motorcar last night, sir, when I made my rounds at ten o’clock.”
“Yes. I thought it might be too late to call. I’ve been tracing our late Corporal. I thought you might care to know what I learned.”
“How did you find him? I had no luck sending word around.”
“A friend in the War Office found him for me. I’ve been to Manchester to visit his family. The name is Radleigh, by the way. His photograph was framed and on the mantelpiece. His sister was in no state to travel to Wiltshire to make a positive identification, and a younger brother depends on her for care. But there was no doubt in my mind. The officer’s greatcoat he was wearing was given to him from the missionary barrel at his chapel. He’d come to London to find work, but they hadn’t heard from him for some time. His death came as a shock. The manner of it as well.”
Henderson sat down, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. “Sir? The manner of it?”
“His family were Temperance. He didn’t drink.”
“There’s always the first time, sir. A man in despair.”
“Yes, that’s what Chief Superintendent Markham suggested. I understand that Chief Inspector Leslie identified the maker of that bottle of gin.”
“He believed it was the one taken from his house during the break-in.”
“So I’ve been informed.” Rutledge paused. “I’ve also discovered the woman’s name.”
Surprised, Henderson said, “Who was she, sir? Was she connected to Avebury after all?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Rutledge answered. “I intend to make an arrest when I return to London. I’m sorry. It’s essential to catch her killer off guard.”
“I understand, sir,” he said slowly. “It will come out at the inquest.”
“Meanwhile, the Chief Constable is asking for reports of Radleigh’s movements before he was found. They’ll be coming in shortly. It’s best if you wait for that information before holding the inquest.”
“I thought—well, never mind what I thought.” He looked away. “See here, sir, I wasn’t trying to step on toes. It seemed so clear to me that the Corporal was the man we were after. And I was afraid you were reluctant to do what had to be done. After all, the Chief Inspector outranks you. He might not have liked you finishing what he hadn’t. I got to know him, a little, while he was here. He’d been an officer in the war—he’s now an officer at the Yard. Nice enough, but I wouldn’t care to be in his black books. To tell truth, I didn’t always know what he was thinking, even when he was talking to me.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Henderson hurriedly went on. “It’s my patch, Inspector. I didn’t like—damn it, she deserved justice. I had to lift her out of that ditch. All bloody, dead. I wanted her killer to hang.” He broke off, realizing how far he’d gone. “I’m sorry.”
Rutledge replied quietly, “What do you think has been driving me?”
Henderson drew a deep breath, his face flushed. “I couldn’t be sure. Half the time you weren’t even here.”
“The truth wasn’t here.” Rutledge walked to the door. “I had to find it.”
He hadn’t taken half a dozen steps before he heard a fist slam down on the desk with such force that something fell off and rolled across the floor.
Rutledge walked into his flat shortly after midnight. The rooms were cold, drafty, and he lit the fire, ready laid for him by his daily, and stood in front of it until it was drawing well, its warmth gradually displacing the chill.
Changing into more comfortable clothes, he sat down in the chair by the lamp and began his full report, his notebook on the table beside him.
It was well after five in the morning before he was satisfied with what he’d put down on paper. Karina’s valise was in his motorcar, her purse in his own valise, and the letters were where he could see them, on the chair across the room. He’d referred to them several times, and they still jarred him. Leslie had always seemed to be a decent sort, a good policeman.
Putting down his pen, he looked across at the dying fire and thought that Karina herself had helped him find her killer. The port official had remembered her, recalled the valise and the pin in her hat. Mrs. Brooke-Davies had remembered her, as
well as the British officer who had saved her life. And she had touched Dr. Mason, Constable Henderson, even Haldane. Why hadn’t she touched her killer? He could have spared her. He could have stopped answering her letters.
What had she said to Leslie that sealed her death?
He got up, put the notebook and his report away, then slept for two hours.
Just before seven, he was standing at the door of the Leslie house. The sun was just brightening the morning, a golden haze spilling between the houses and along the street. It had a misty quality to it, as if he could put out his hand and touch it.
Instead he lifted the knocker on the door and let it fall twice.
After a moment Leslie himself opened the door, his coat over his arm, his hat in his hand, as if about to leave for the Yard.
“Yes—?” He stopped as he recognized Rutledge. Something in the other man’s face must have warned him, because he glanced over his shoulder, stepped out, and shut the door behind him. “Not here,” he said brusquely, and began to walk, pulling on his coat as he went.
Rutledge fell into step beside him.
“I found your correspondence with Karina.”
Leslie turned to look at him. “Did you indeed. Where?”
“In her valise. I found that too.”
“You had no business reading something that personal.”
“I had no choice.”
They had reached the corner, and Leslie turned to his right. It was almost as if he had done it by rote. Rutledge matched him, stride for stride.
“Why did you lure her to England? And then kill her?”
Leslie said, “I don’t know. I expect—it was a wartime affair. You saw them while you were in France. I wasn’t the only one. For all I know, you had one. It was different when I came home.”
“She must have thought it was more than an affair. Was the child yours?”
Leslie swung around, facing Rutledge. “The child was hers. Not mine. Peter. He was frail, the escape from the Turks had been difficult for both of them, but he never recovered his strength. He died just after they reached the safety of France. She took him to the American Hospital in Rouen, but there was nothing they could do to save him. He’s buried there, incidentally. In Rouen.” There was anger in his voice, and sadness as well. “She had a photograph of the three of them. Her husband, her son, herself. It was all she had. Her husband was killed, but she was determined to save the boy. I met her in Paris, just a week after Peter died. She didn’t want to live.” He drew in a breath. “It would have been better for both of us if she hadn’t.”