by Charles Todd
The last thing he saw as he stepped out into the night was Mrs. Leslie’s flushed and angry face.
Rutledge’s arm was painful the next morning, but he overrode Matron’s protests, dressed, and went to look in on Chief Superintendent Markham. His room was filled with flowers, but the man himself looked gloomy, even in his sleep.
“He’s sedated,” the Ward Sister told Rutledge. She was an older woman, capable and gentle as she checked Markham’s bandaging without disturbing him. “The wound required quite a number of stitches. It’s best for him to stay quiet for a bit.”
“The broken blade. Did they save it, when they removed it?”
“I’m told a Sergeant Gibson took charge of it. Evidence, he said.”
“And the Chief Superintendent can expect a full recovery?”
“Unless infection sets in. But there will be an ugly scar at first.” She looked keenly at him. “You shouldn’t be up and about, much less dressed.”
He gave her his best smile. “I must give a statement. It won’t take long. I’ll rest, then, I promise.”
“See that you do,” she told him firmly.
He left then. His motorcar was still at the Yard, but he took a cab home to change, looking ruefully at his torn, blood-soaked shirt and coat. The cabbie had stared at him as well, as if wondering if his passenger was going to be trouble. The bandaging was cumbersome, but Rutledge had also required stitches to close the wound, and the padding was thick. He managed to get a shirt and a coat over it, then found another cab to take him to the Yard. He felt a little light-headed still, but the Ward Sister had assured him that it would pass as he replaced the lost blood. But not, he thought wryly, in time to face the Yard.
Sergeant Gibson was surprised to see him. And wary. “They told me at the hospital that you’d be staying for a day or two.”
“I’ve come to settle what happened last night.”
“I sent Mrs. Leslie home with a police Matron to keep an eye on her. Her sister was frantic, she didn’t know where Mrs. Leslie had gone. When she saw all the blood on the coat Chief Inspector Murray discovered outside, she nearly fainted. Matron had to assure her it wasn’t Mrs. Leslie’s.” He took a deep breath. “What the hell was going on, sir? Did news of her husband’s arrest turn her mind? She kept telling anyone who would listen that you’d killed a woman and attacked the Chief Superintendent. When I questioned her about how you were also wounded, she told me to ask you. But you were right, the two knives came from the same set. When Matron was relieved this morning, and came back to the Yard, she confirmed that. What’s more, I found the statements in the wrapping paper. Dr. Mason’s and Constable Henderson’s. It suggests that someone in that house is guilty.”
Rutledge pulled out the chair by Gibson’s desk. “I had all night to think about it. I wouldn’t let them give me anything for the pain, because I needed a clear head. I couldn’t make sense of it, I thought she was trying to make Markham release her husband. But she never spoke to him, she just attacked. Right now, I’m not sure what to believe.” He sat down, suddenly weak.
Gibson said, “Her sister has asked to have a doctor look at her. Matron told me she was still sitting there in those men’s clothes, not speaking, not moving. Refusing to change or go to her bed.”
Rutledge ran his good hand through his hair.
“The lapis beads were hers,” he said.
“What lapis beads?”
“They were in the house that burned. Why hadn’t he put them back where they belonged? It would have been easy enough. Had she found out that they were gone, that he’d given them to Karina, knowing he’d have them back? Was she that angry?” He put a hand on his arm, trying to dull the pain so that he could think. “But she wasn’t at the inquest, was she? Did she visit him in prison, and did he tell her? No, I’d stake my life on it that he didn’t. Although she probably was out for vengeance when she came here. I’d arrested Leslie, Markham had officially charged him. She hadn’t counted on the fact that I’d be here. But she acted, as soon as she recognized me, getting out of the motorcar. In her eyes, we’d taken her husband from her.”
Gibson was staring at him as if he too had run mad. “Sir. I think you ought to go home and rest. You shouldn’t have left the hospital. I’ll find a Constable to drive you.”
Rutledge shook his head irritably. “No, I need to speak to Chief Inspector Murray.”
“I don’t know that he’s in—”
Rutledge got to his feet, his gaze locking on Gibson’s. “Do you think that I stabbed Markham?”
Gibson looked down at his desk. After a moment he said, “The thing is, two inspectors heard you shouting at him. You’ve had words before. And I can’t quite see how she managed to cut you both. Two experienced men? She’s not a big woman.”
“She’d already stabbed me when Markham came out. I shouted to stop him, but he wasn’t listening. And she got to him before I could. You saw his wound, damn it, with that blade in his back. How could he have been able to stab me? He never saw her, his back was to her all the time.”
“There’s this. He’s not come to. They sedated him after the surgery.” He sighed. “I wish he was here to sort this out. They’re sending someone from the Home Office. Or they might have Jameson back. We’ll have to take her up on charges, sir. Attempted murder. Himself will expect that. Very well, sir. I’ll find Chief Inspector Murray.”
He left Rutledge standing there. Ten minutes later, Murray came striding down the passage, frowning.
The Chief Inspector was older than Leslie, a quiet but steady man with years of experience.
He took Rutledge into a vacant office and said, “I haven’t arrested her yet. She was in no state to be questioned last night. But it will have to be done. You know that and so do I.”
“That isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. When you searched Leslie’s house earlier, did you find letters to him from France? This is important.”
“Letters? No. We weren’t looking for letters, we were looking for anything that might be used at the trial. I have the list of what we found. It’s short. Leslie had covered himself well.”
“We need to find them. Trust me on this.”
Murray was no fool. “Does this have to do with the woman Leslie killed?”
It took Rutledge a quarter of an hour to plead his case. It would have been simpler if he could have told Murray everything. But the letters to Karina hadn’t come out at the inquest. Rutledge had seen to that. He didn’t want them to come to light now.
Finally Murray nodded. “Very well. We’ll both go. You to identify these letters, and I’ll be there to take them in charge.”
They didn’t see Mrs. Leslie, when they called at the house. The Constable who answered the door told them that she had finally been persuaded by her sister to go up to one of the guest rooms. Matron was there with her.
“In her state of mind,” the Constable was saying, “we thought it best.”
When he’d gone back to guarding the door, Chief Inspector Murray said, “Where do we look? There’s no need to duplicate the earlier search. These letters aren’t likely to be in the kitchen, are they?”
“His bedroom.”
They went quietly up the stairs and Murray opened the door to the master bedroom.
They searched it thoroughly, even lifting the mattress on the bed and looking on top of the wardrobe. But there was no sign of letters. On the table by the window was an old, well-used correspondence box, more decorative than useful, fashionable in the days when travelers carried a small, portable desk with them, something that could rest in their laps in a coach or on a table, when in use. This one was black lacquer with a hunting design in gold paint.
Rutledge went over to rummage through it. But the small square bottles of ink had long since dried up, the sealing wax crumbling in his fingers. The sheaf of paper was dry and stained with age. The place for the stamps was empty. Clearly decorative, not used since the days of coaches.
“Wi
ld goose chase, Rutledge,” Murray said. “I thought it was, from the start.”
“Mrs. Leslie’s room and dressing room. He knew we’d search in here. He would have had to put them somewhere.”
They moved on and began their search all over again. Murray was clearly finding it distasteful, but Rutledge said, “They won’t be anywhere that she could find them. Look for the most unlikely place.” He began to take out drawers, looking behind them and under them, while Murray watched. Stretching out on the floor, he felt under the wardrobe. Still nothing.
Murray, standing in the middle of the room, said, “Give it up, Rutledge.”
Rutledge, his arm aching enough to distract him, looked around the room, the wardrobe, the dressing table, the bedside table, the chair by the window, anyplace that might have been missed. He kept his expression neutral. “I want to go back to Leslie’s room.”
“What the hell for? We searched every inch of it.” But he followed Rutledge back there and waited, arms crossed over his chest. “All right. Five minutes, and I’m calling this off.”
Rutledge went to the desk, considered it carefully, and then opened the drawers, one by one.
“You’ve looked there.”
They searched the wardrobe again, to no avail, and then Rutledge turned to the curio cabinet that held small treasures.
“Not likely to be there,” Murray was saying. “I gave it a look.”
“The writing box, then.”
Rutledge opened it again, fitted the sloping top with its faded blotter into the slot made for it, and looked at the row of small cubicles for the ink, sand for blotting, nibs, sealing wax, and a tiny candle for melting it.
Murray, standing now at Rutledge’s shoulder, said, “It probably belonged to his grandfather. He was an officer in the Guards, I think. All right, close it up.”
But Melinda Crawford had had such a box, very like this desk, and Rutledge had remembered something. Hers had a secret compartment in which to keep correspondence. She had shown it to him when he was six or seven.
He bent forward, feeling along the sides. And there they were, two tiny rectangles of black ribbon. He grasped both of them, and gently lifted.
The entire section came up, revealing the lower level.
There were papers inside, filled with writing. He drew them out, and the two men spread them out on the bench at the foot of the bed.
“Leslie’s handwriting,” Murray said. “I’ve read enough of his reports.”
Rutledge was shuffling through the pages. “Look here. Someone has been practicing. See—this sentence—that one—there are others here. Words repeated. Capital letters. Lowercase. I don’t think this is Leslie’s work. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that someone was trying to copy his handwriting.” He was beginning to recognize sentences too. Familiar phrases. Practiced over and over until perfect.
The letters that Leslie had written were still in Rutledge’s possession, the ones that Karina had kept.
But there were no return letters in the compartment. Nothing from France to Chief Inspector Leslie.
He looked at Murray. “Dear God.”
“What is it?”
Had Karina written only once? And Leslie answered only once? And someone else had kept up a correspondence in his name for a year or more. But Karina had never responded, until that last letter telling her that Leslie was dying. The letter that had finally lured Karina to England.
Running through some part of Rutledge’s mind was a memory, and the thought, From the time I held out those lapis beads, there in Yorkshire, Leslie must have known for certain who had killed Karina. If not before.
He was a Chief Inspector at the Yard. Surely he’d have brought her in? Wife or not? After all, he was charged with the inquiry. And he had loved Karina.
In God’s name, why had Leslie chosen to defend his wife, over justice for Karina?
He made an effort to collect his thoughts. “I think we’ve got this wrong. Dreadfully wrong.”
Murray stared at him.
Rutledge closed his eyes against the horror of what he was realizing. Then, opening them, he said, “You need to listen to what I have to say.”
And he sat down on the foot of the bed, and began to talk.
When it was finished, when it was all over, when Sara Leslie had been taken into custody and he could finally go back to his flat, his arm was throbbing. Putting up his hat and coat, Rutledge sat down in the chair by the lamp, but didn’t light it.
After a while, he’d got up to pour himself a small whisky to help numb some of the pain—not all of it physical—when there was a knock at his door. In no mood for company, he stood there, ignoring it. But it was persistent, and his motorcar in the street was the best advertisement that he was at home.
Finally, setting down the decanter and the glass, he crossed the room and opened the door. A police Constable was just walking away, having at last given up on being admitted.
Not more questions. Not now.
Then he recognized the man. The young Constable who had been with him when Mrs. FitzPatrick was struck down.
He called, “Constable? Sorry. I didn’t realize there was someone at the door.”
Constable Fuller turned, relief in his face. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. But it’s about that accident where the woman was killed. I need your advice, sir, since you were a witness.”
It was the last thing he wanted. But Rutledge put the best face on it that he could, and said, “Come in.”
The Constable followed him inside, looking around with interest, then accepting the chair that Rutledge gestured to. Perching on it as if wishing now he’d never come here.
Rutledge was reminded of France and dealing with young Lieutenants just out from England. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, in an effort to put Fuller at ease.
“I was wondering, sir. You said you didn’t see the driver of the vehicle that struck Mrs. FitzPatrick. Is that still true, or have you remembered anything that might help in our inquiry?”
“That’s still true. I didn’t. Have you found the driver?”
“That’s the problem, you see.” Fuller cleared his throat. “We had a bit of luck. I’ve told you that the motorcar was found abandoned, and the owner was at a meeting with witnesses. We went around the neighborhood where it was left, asking if anyone had seen the driver. No one had. But it seems one of the residents had had surgery, and friends had come to call on the day in question, to see how he was faring. They came again four days ago, and he told them about a Constable calling. A bit of a fuss, as he put it. However, it seems that the two visitors, a man and his wife, had seen the person who was driving. They thought it was another friend coming to call on the patient, and then they noticed the crumpled wing as the driver got out and walked away. They contacted the Met and gave us a very good description. Both the man and his wife were interviewed separately, and their accounts agreed. We went back to the mews from which the motorcar had been taken, and made the rounds of all the households in the area. Several of the residents and their staffs told us that the description we’d given matched one of their neighbors, and they laughed at the absurdity, as they called it. We went to the house in question, but there was no one at home.”
The report was clear and concise. Rutledge said quietly, “Go on.” But Hamish was already hammering in the back of his mind and he braced himself for Fuller’s answer. Leslie, after all?
“That’s the trouble, sir. The description fit the wife of the owner of that house. And the owner is a Chief Inspector at the Yard. I’ve been holding off until I spoke to you. There’s got to be some mistake. I can’t report that, sir. And yet the neighbors we spoke with recognized the description, whatever they said about it being silly. They weren’t aware that she drove, you see. I’m not sure myself that she does.”
Rutledge said, “Are you certain of your evidence?” But even as he said it, he knew it was true. And that Mrs. FitzPatrick had died in his place.
> “Yes, sir. If it weren’t for who it is that we’ve found, I’d have no quarrel with it. I mean to say, she would’ve stopped, don’t you think? A woman in her position?”
Rutledge drew a breath. “You must take this to your superiors at the Met, and ask them to inform the Yard. The husband’s rank notwithstanding, the Yard will know what to do with such evidence.” Better for it to come from this man. The Yard would listen to Fuller. They had heard enough from him today.
“How can you be sure?” Fuller asked anxiously. “What if I am wrong?”
Rutledge kept his voice level. “You’ve done your duty. It’s not your fault that the answers are not what others might wish. Lay out your evidence clearly as you did just now, and they will listen. That’s their duty.” And he hoped to heaven he was right.
“Thank you, sir,” Fuller answered, still doubtful, but grateful as well. “Shall I let you know what happens?”
“Yes. Please.”
Rutledge saw him out, watched him walk down the street, then went inside, shutting the door. But it failed to shut out the thoughts racing through his mind. She would’ve stopped, don’t you think? A woman in her position? The words echoed over and over in his mind. He remembered seeing her on another afternoon with her sister and her friends, about to attend the theater. Smiling, laughing. He’d told himself she couldn’t have been so carefree, if she’d had any inkling of what her husband had done.
But she hadn’t been carefree—she’d been relaxed. And relieved.
He crossed the room to where the decanter was waiting.
They let the former Chief Inspector go a week later. Mrs. Leslie was in custody, the evidence that had been muddled by her husband’s efforts laid out now in clean, clear detail. She had refused to speak, even to her sister.
The lies, the tandem, the murders. Neither Karina Larchian nor Corporal Radleigh had been afraid of her. They had believed her, and they’d died.
Rutledge sighed. There was no way of knowing now if Karina had taken that wild ride in the night to the stones. Both women were young enough and strong enough to attempt it. And how else would Sara have got to the Stokesbury house again? Or whether the old man from the station had driven the two women most of the way, waiting patiently for one of them to come back to him. But Karina must have believed she was going to where Leslie was being treated, and that his wife was willingly taking her there. She would have walked, to reach him. And all the while, Sara Leslie had brought a torch to guide them to the right stone, while hidden in her coat was the knife she intended to use. His favorite—we have to pass it on the way to the surgery. He’d want you to see it.