by Charles Todd
Markham said to Rutledge, “I’ll inform you when the inquest is held. Now get out of my office.”
They walked together back through the Yard. Word must have run like wildfire before them, because the onlookers seemed to multiply with every step.
Rutledge met every eye, as he had done before, when he had been the one stared at. Leslie stared directly ahead. And finally, blessedly, they were on the stairs and almost at the door.
As they got into the motorcar, Rutledge said, “Why?”
Leslie answered after a moment, his defeat in every word. “I loved two women, you see. But I’d vowed to love and honor only one. I thought, in a sense, that death was less painful for Karina than my rejection.”
Leslie had asked one more favor from Rutledge, just before they walked the short distance into the prison. “I don’t want Sara to hear this from strangers. Will you tell her? She has friends, they’ll stand by her. Her sister as well. Just don’t tell her why. Or about France. I don’t want anyone to know I loved her. It was an act of madness. That will do.”
It wasn’t a duty that Rutledge wanted to perform. But Leslie had been a fellow officer, and he’d known Mrs. Leslie.
“Very well. In exchange for an answer from you. The lapis beads?”
“They burned in the house. I thought it best.”
Two hours later, he was knocking at the door of the Leslie house.
The daily answered, and took him into the parlor, where Mrs. Leslie joined him shortly afterward.
He’d changed, rebandaged his hand, and she smiled at him. “Brian is in Cornwall. He left yesterday morning. But Lucy said you wished to see me?”
Rutledge said quietly, “I’m afraid he’s not in Cornwall, Mrs. Leslie.”
Her face changed, a growing horror filling her eyes. “He always drives too fast—did he suffer? Was it—was it too awful?” And then realizing, she added, “Was anyone else hurt?”
“It wasn’t a motorcar crash, I’m afraid.” There was no way to ease the blow. “He asked me to tell you himself. I’ve just arrested him for murder. He’s confessed.”
“Brian? No, I don’t believe you. I refuse to listen to you.”
She rose, intending to walk out of the room.
“It was a woman he knew. During the war.” She would hear the rest, before it was over, he thought. She didn’t need to know it now.
She broke down then, and after a while, he left her with the daily, who provided him with the direction of Mrs. Leslie’s sister. He himself brought her to the house, and the two women disappeared up the stairs, both in tears. Twenty minutes later, he asked the daily, who was shocked and tiptoeing about the house as if a death had just occurred, to take tea up to them. He sat in the pretty drawing room for some time after that, but they never came down again.
Rutledge left finally, feeling that it was best to go, and went home.
He felt no satisfaction. These were people he’d known.
The inquest was held ten days later. Leslie, drawn and looking as if he hadn’t slept, was present. Rutledge gave his evidence clearly and concisely, ignoring the swell of shock and consternation among the people gathered in the inn’s largest room.
He had told no one what he was going to say, except Dr. Mason. Not even Henderson knew. And the Yard had closed ranks around the problem in their midst. When he left out much of the truth about Karina, the former Chief Inspector cast him a grateful look. But Rutledge hadn’t done that for the prisoner or his wife. It had been for the dead woman, who didn’t deserve to have her story told.
The finding was what he’d expected. Leslie would now stand trial for two murders. The inquiry was closed.
Afterward, in Dr. Mason’s surgery, well away from the inn, Rutledge drank some of the whisky he’d been offered and said, “The horse is all right?”
“I put some salve on his nose. It works for people, why not Prince? The cuffs broke the skin, but the cut didn’t go deep or break the bone. He’s doing well. I may even put up my shingle as a horse doctor now.” He was making light of it, but Rutledge knew he’d been very angry at the time.
Changing the subject, Rutledge said, “I’ll take the gin bottle back to London. I still don’t have the murder weapon for Karina. Mrs. Larchian.”
“Yes, I noticed it hadn’t come up. I’ve been looking, you know. We’ve had a spell of dry weather, and I took Prince out to do some searching of my own. No luck so far. Is it essential to his conviction?”
“We have a statement from Leslie. Still, I’d be happier if I had it. It would be—tidier.”
“I searched the barrow from one end to the other. Not inside, mind you. But the whole of the exterior. My guess is that he shoved it under one of those boulders around the forecourt.”
“No. He’d have hidden it well away from there, I think. To confound us, if nothing else.”
“That’s an interesting possibility. I hadn’t considered it. He’s been that clever all along. Yes, of course, it makes sense.”
When he’d finished his whisky, Rutledge took his leave, and thanked the doctor for all he’d done.
“It’s you I must thank, for giving us a name to put on the gravestone. I’ll see to it personally. A long way to come to die. I saw Mrs. Marshall demanding her photograph back, just before the inquest. I would have kept it myself, if she hadn’t. You saw to it that the Corporal’s family has been kept abreast of what happened to him? It must have been hard to bear.”
“They declined to come to the inquest. Or attend the trial. I’m convinced they’re waiting for him to come walking through the door one day.”
“I pity them. And Karina had no family to notify?”
“None that we can discover.” He’d asked Haldane to look.
“Well, Avebury will be her family, as long as I’m alive.”
They shook hands soon afterward, and Rutledge left.
On his way out of Avebury, he stopped the motorcar and walked over to the shrouded figure where Karina Larchian had died. He stood there for a moment, thinking about her. Then he touched the stone lightly, and walked back the way he’d come.
It was three days later when the letter from Dr. Mason arrived in the post. Rutledge had just come in from the Yard, and it was lying on the salver where his daily put his letters.
He opened it and read the note.
There’s a package on the way to Scotland Yard, directed to you. In it you’ll find both the murder weapon and a statement from Constable Henderson and myself showing that I had found it while out riding. Stuck to the hilt in the side of Silbury Hill. It fits the wounds, Rutledge. I remember them too well. The truth is, I searched that damned hill all one day, and I wasn’t expecting to find anything. Next morning in the sunlight, there it was. Your evidence is now complete. And I feel better knowing that Karina can finally rest in peace.
He was still dressed for the cold wind coming down the Thames, and he turned, went out again to his motorcar. It was well after five, and the sun had already set. There had been no package before he’d left the Yard. If it had been brought upstairs afterward, it was best to see it put into evidence straightaway. Besides that, he wanted very much to see the knife.
There was activity on the river when he reached the Yard, twinkling lights marking the passage of small boats. Markham’s vehicle had been brought around, and was waiting for him near the door. There was room for Rutledge’s motorcar as well, and he expected to be at the Yard for only a matter of minutes. He took the space.
Stepping out, he shut his door and was about to walk toward the building.
“’Ware!”
Rutledge wheeled just as there was a flurry of movement from the shadows, and his first thought was that he’d disturbed roosting pigeons. Then someone in dark clothing was rushing toward him, and he threw up his left arm to protect his head and face, his back hard against the motorcar behind him as something slashed across his arm, through his outer coat, the one beneath it, his shirt, and then into his flesh. He felt
the warmth of blood beginning to flow.
20
His attacker was gone before he could respond. A dark shape lost in the darkness of the night.
He pushed himself away from the motorcar, already lunging forward to follow just as the door to the Yard opened, a splash of light spilling out, a man in an overcoat and hat momentarily silhouetted against it.
Rutledge recognized Chief Superintendent Markham’s voice, bidding good night to someone out of sight behind him. And then he was stepping out into the cold air. The door was still half open as Markham frowned uncertainly. “Is that you, Rutledge?” The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the light. “You’re to have that report on my desk tomorrow,” he called. “The earlier the better.”
“Go back inside,” Rutledge shouted, but Markham kept on walking in his direction.
“Get out of here, damn it. Go back inside!”
Markham froze, unaccustomed to be shouted at by one of his men. A shapeless figure darted forward, arm raised. The knife flashed as it swept downward across Markham’s shoulders and back. The force of the blow threw him forward, and he fought to keep his feet.
Blood had filled Rutledge’s glove, was spilling down his overcoat. But he ignored it, dashing forward just as Markham began to collapse with an odd cry.
Rutledge reached out, caught the attacker’s sleeve, and pulled hard. The coat came away as the man wheeled, spinning out of it, leaving it in Rutledge’s hands as he leaped over Markham’s body and began to run. Rutledge tossed the coat aside and went after him.
He was gaining ground as a pair of men, talking quietly, came around the corner. His quarry slowed a fraction, uncertain how to avoid them, and Rutledge, paying no heed to them, saw his chance and launched himself. He brought his attacker down in a flurry of arms and legs, both of them falling hard. His prisoner, gasping for breath, cried out gruffly for help.
Shouting, the men were racing forward, catching Rutledge by the shoulders and roughly pulling him up and off what appeared to be his victim.
“Hold him—Scotland Yard,” he managed to say before the tight grip on his wounded arm sent waves of dizziness over him. “Find the knife,” he added thickly. “Markham—”
One of the men reached down and pulled the winded man to his feet. “I don’t see a knife.”
In the same moment, someone else had just come out of the Yard’s door, stumbling across Markham as the light swept across his body. “Good God,” the newcomer exclaimed. He looked up, saw Rutledge and a stranger in the grip of two men, and yelled, “What the hell—”
Another man came out on his heels, kept his head and called over his shoulder, “We need help here. You, there—bring those two inside. We’ll sort this out.”
Twisting his head to see who it was, Rutledge recognized Chief Inspector Murray.
Two men pushed Murray aside and were already kneeling by Markham, then trying to lift him to carry him into the lighted entry. Murray gestured angrily at Rutledge’s captors. “You men—you heard me. Inside, damn it.”
As they started forward, Rutledge’s prisoner almost broke free, but one of the men holding Rutledge caught an arm, and all four moved toward the door. Others were coming out now, and they hurried forward to usher them inside. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.
Rutledge was shoved through the door, his prisoner just behind him. Gibson was there now, swearing at what he was seeing.
Afterward, when it was all over, Rutledge realized that the attack had taken no more than three minutes, start to finish. Now, he sat down on the stairs, his right hand clasped over his left arm, trying to stem the flow of blood. The cut was long, and part of it, where the knife first penetrated, was deep and hurting like the very devil.
Against the far wall, Inspector Harris was working with Markham, trying to remove his coat, and another man came to help him, exclaiming at the amount of blood pooling on the floor beneath him. “Get an ambulance. Now,” Harris called over his shoulder, hands already wet and red.
Gibson noticed the blood on Rutledge’s coat, and came forward, but Rutledge shook him off as his prisoner, ignored for one brief second, tried to slip out the door.
“Stop him!” he ordered Gibson, and in the struggle that followed, the attacker lost his cap. In the bright light of the entry, Rutledge could see he was wearing corduroy trousers and a heavy shirt. And then he watched in shock as the fair hair that had been pinned up under the assailant’s cap slowly tumbled down around her shoulders.
There was stunned silence, even Inspector Harris turning to see what had happened. The fair hair, half obscuring the face, seemed to draw attention to clothes two or three sizes too large.
“Gentle God,” Rutledge said softly.
Just then Chief Inspector Murray came in the door, a bloody knife with a broken blade lying across the palm of his hand. “I found this,” he said unnecessarily. “Outside.”
It was a kitchen knife, with a fine bone handle that boasted a silver tip with initials engraved in it.
Inspector Mitchell, now working on Markham with Harris, looked up from trying to stanch the blood and said, “The other half is still in his back. Where’s that damned ambulance?”
But Rutledge barely heard them. He was staring into the flushed, angry face of Sara Leslie.
He said, “Why?”
Someone else had recognized her now, moving away, as if she’d suddenly come down with the plague. Others followed suit. No one seemed to know what to do or why she was there. Chief Inspector Murray moved to stand with his back to the door.
She looked harried, cornered.
“Gibson?” Rutledge said, still watching Mrs. Leslie. And the man stepped forward. “Was there a package for me today? It came through the post, I think.”
Gibson nodded. “It can wait.”
“Bring it to me, please?”
Murray was staring at Rutledge. “Is that the Chief Superintendent’s blood? On your coat?”
“No. That package.” It was the voice of command. “Bring it to me now.”
Gibson took the stairs two at a time, fast for a man of his bulk. He was coming back down again just as they heard the clang of the ambulance pulling up. In Gibson’s hands was a longish package wrapped in brown paper.
“What do we do about her?” Murray was asking now, preparing to let the ambulance attendants in. “I don’t understand—”
Rutledge reached for the package, but his left hand was useless. “Open it,” he commanded, and Gibson began to tear off the outer wrappings. He fumbled with the inner bit of paper, nearly dropping what lay inside, but then he had the contents clear.
Two St. John attendants came through the door, a stretcher with them. Murray guarded the entrance as Mrs. Leslie tried again to slip out. Harris was saying to the first attendant, “Careful. Back wound. There’s a blade still in there.”
The attendant was kneeling by Markham. His shirt was open, hanging about his waist, and the attendant’s face was grave as he looked at the wound across Markham’s shoulders.
Gibson was staring at what he held in his hands. It was another knife. It too had a fine bone handle with a silver tip. His lips were moving as he read the initials.
Mrs. Leslie’s face went white as she saw what he held, and she slipped to the ground in what appeared to be a dead faint.
“It’s the knife used in the Avebury murder,” Rutledge said to Gibson as the other attendant knelt to hold smelling salts in front of Mrs. Leslie’s nose, then got up to come across the foyer to Rutledge.
The two men who had pulled Rutledge off his prisoner had been standing to one side, trying to take in what was happening around them. They were frowning at Rutledge now, as if he had stabbed Markham.
The attendant helped Rutledge off with his outer coat, then took scissors from his pocket and cut away his tweed coat and the shirtsleeve beneath it. Clenching his teeth against the pain, Rutledge was trying to make himself clear to Gibson. “Dr. Mason found it. There are statements in
there as well. For God’s sake, don’t lose them.”
Gibson carried the knife to where Murray was standing, and the men compared the two.
The attendant was wrapping the wound on Rutledge’s arm, saying something about a doctor and stitches.
With his good arm, Rutledge reached out to Gibson. “Keep that safe. Both of the knives. They’re evidence. And don’t let her leave.”
“Trust me,” Gibson said harshly. “Until we know what’s happened here. Who cut you?”
“She did. Markham as well.” The attendant was urging him to stand up. Rutledge did, and felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him. Markham was on the stretcher now, facedown, clearly unconscious, being carried toward the waiting ambulance. His back and shoulders had been roughly bandaged, to stop the bleeding, but the pristine white was already turning dark red in blotches, and the broken blade protruded obscenely.
“Mrs. Leslie?” Gibson asked, staring first at her as she sat up and then at Rutledge. “There’s no blood on her.”
Murray was speaking to the two men who had held on to Rutledge earlier, telling them they would need to give a statement. He sent them upstairs with a Sergeant who had appeared at some point, giving him instructions. They followed the man, carefully not looking in Mrs. Leslie’s direction. No one seemed to know what to do with her.
The stretcher was in the ambulance, the motor already running. The second attendant came hurrying back inside. “We can’t wait any longer. He needs surgery. And you’re losing too much blood.”
“I’m needed here,” Rutledge protested. But Gibson was nodding to the attendant, who reached out for Rutledge’s good arm to urge him toward the door.
“Not now, I tell you,” Rutledge said harshly.
Harris, looking at Rutledge, said, “Go on. You’re white as a bedsheet, man.”
Stumbling over the threshold, Rutledge twisted around in the attendant’s grip, turning toward Murray, the ranking officer. “Keep her in custody. Do you hear me? Those knives match. The initials. How could I have come by one of them?”