A Hanging at Dawn
Page 14
They finished the short walk in silence.
“You’ll want to speak to the lad who found the body,” Holcomb said when they reached the police station.
“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “This should be as good a time as any.”
“He can’t add much to what the doctor told you, but he’s a good lad, and still shaken by what happened.”
Rutledge crossed to the motorcar. “You’ll show me the way?”
“Happy to, sir.” He turned the crank for Rutledge and then got in beside him.
“Straight through the village, and the first left. After that, it’s not far.”
The farmhouse sat back in a windbreak of mature trees that must have been planted at the time it was built. Gray stone, a slate roof, and an urn of early pansies by the door. It could have been any one of the farms Rutledge had passed, driving into Wales.
A woman came to the door as they stepped out of the motorcar. She was tall, with graying hair that still had a hint of dark red in it, and an attractive face that was lined with worry at the moment.
Holcomb said in a low voice, “Her husband’s great-grandfather came from Scotland to work on the Aqueduct. MacNabb. Met a Welsh lass and married her. When the work was done on the Aqueduct, he stayed.”
Rutledge was taking off his hat. “Mrs. MacNabb? My name is Rutledge. I’ve been sent by Scotland Yard to look into the death of the man your grandson found by the river.”
She nodded to Holcomb, then said quietly to Rutledge, “We were expecting you to call. My grandson has nightmares now. I hope you’ll be gentle with him.” And she opened the door wider, to allow them to step in.
The parlor was lit by windows on two sides, today letting in only the gray light, but Rutledge could picture it on a sunny day, the yellow-and-lavender wallpaper reflecting it in every corner.
Over the mantel in pride of place was a painting of a man in Highland kit, standing by a loch where trees climbed the surrounding hills.
She saw Rutledge’s glance and smiled slightly. “My husband’s great-grandfather’s father, and mine. I’m a cousin as well as a wife. It was sent to him after his father’s death. I sometimes think its purpose was to make my great-grandfather homesick. But they hadn’t seen eye to eye in life, and there was nothing for Robbie back there.” Abruptly changing the subject, she said, “May I offer you tea?”
“Thank you, no,” Rutledge said, smiling and taking one of the overstuffed chairs she indicated. “I think it best if we keep our visit short.”
She nodded. “I won’t be a moment.” And then she was back with the gangling boy of eleven or twelve who had gone fishing and found a dead man.
His face was rather pale, and a sprinkle of freckles stood out across his nose. He said politely in a low voice, “How do you do?”
Holcomb leaned forward, but Rutledge was there before he could speak. “Hallo. Roddy, is it? My name is Rutledge, I’ve come from London to find out what I can about the man you discovered. It would help me search for answers if you could tell me a little about what happened to you.”
It wasn’t what the boy had expected. He said, “I can’t tell you much. I hardly looked at him.”
“I’ve seen him,” Rutledge said, nodding. “It was very unpleasant. But I was wondering. Was he floating when you got to the riverbank? Or caught in the shallows somehow?”
“I don’t know,” Roddy replied. “I didn’t see him at first. Not until my hook caught in his coat, and—and I pulled. I didn’t know it—I had no idea what it was. Until he rolled over.”
“It must have been a dreadful shock,” Rutledge agreed. “That particular place in the river. Downstream from the Aqueduct, do you think?”
“About half a mile,” the boy said, nodding. “It wasn’t overhead. But I could hear sounds from up there.”
“Anything or anyone in the vicinity of where you were fishing, along the river just there?”
“I don’t think so.” He glanced uneasily at his grandmother. “I wasn’t—I shouldn’t have been out there, fishing. But I found the pole, you see, and I wanted to try it. I thought it best to stay out of sight.”
There had been a search of both banks, upstream and downstream, but nothing had been found, and now there was no indication that others had come searching for the dead body before Roddy’s discovery.
Rutledge nodded. “I’d have done the same. Good fishing in the Dee, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t tried before.”
“Why did you choose that particular spot?”
“It was flatter just there, I could get to the water more easily.”
“And no one had been there before you? No footprints or other signs of anyone about?”
“No. I wasn’t really looking—but I’d have—I’d have moved on if I’d seen other people.” He lifted a shoulder, not looking at his grandmother. “I should have been helping. It was a Saturday.”
Somewhere in the house a door slammed, making the boy jump and glance anxiously at his grandmother. Before she could say anything, they heard brisk footsteps, and the door to the parlor swung open. A younger woman stepped in. Mrs. MacNabb introduced her daughter-in-law without any inflection in her voice or change in her expression, but her gray eyes were as hard as flint.
Even dressed as a farmer’s widow, it was clear what sort of woman Roddy’s stepmother had been. It was there in her face and the way she moved forward, her gaze on Rutledge, prepared to be the center of attention.
Roddy had moved back toward his grandmother, eyes down, looking at no one and nothing.
But before she could ask to be introduced, Rutledge rose, smiled pleasantly, and said, “Mrs. MacNabb, I believe? We were just leaving. A few questions for Roddy, in the course of my inquiries. He’s a good lad. You must be quite proud of him.”
Holcomb was on his feet as well, following Rutledge toward the door.
Rutledge let him pass, looked at the elder Mrs. MacNabb, and said, “Thank you. We won’t trouble you again.” And to Roddy, he added, “You were a brave lad.”
The boy mumbled something. The grandmother followed them to the door, and shut it after them.
Rutledge strode to the motorcar. Holcomb was already turning the crank.
“I wasn’t going to give her a chance to interfere,” he said grimly.
“If I’d found a body out here, along the river or the road, I’d not have been surprised to see it was her. I don’t know how the grandmother puts up with her. Did you learn anything from the boy?”
“Only that no one was still searching the river for the body. We can’t be sure of that, of course, they could have come and gone long before Roddy went fishing.”
“Falling from that height, there wouldn’t be any question the man was dead.”
“I don’t think a murderer would have cared either way,” Rutledge replied. “But if no one else came looking for him, it could mean he had no friends up there wondering where he’d got to. Therefore he was very likely a stranger.”
But before driving back into town, Rutledge asked Holcomb to show him where the body had been drifting when Roddy MacNabb’s hook brought it to light.
The sun was just struggling to break through when they reached the spot.
The ground was trampled and muddy still where the men had worked to bring the corpse in and others had come to stare. The little clearing was no longer a tempting place to stop and try for a fish. Holcomb looked around it and shook his head. “It was bad luck the dead man got caught on something here. For a killer, that is. If it’d stayed midstream, now, it might have floated well away.”
“That was very likely what a killer hoped for.” As Rutledge turned to go, he looked up at the graceful dark red brick aqueduct, towering far above his head, the very top section gray cast iron. He realized that the top of the structure must be where the waterway and the horse path were carried across. Eighteen slender pillars rose from the valley floor in arches that ran from right to left, bridging t
he gap from side to side. A span of near 1,000 feet, if he was any judge, and a good 120 feet high. Yet the waterway itself was invisible from here. In fact, at first glance one could almost believe the Romans had built it.
“Elegant piece of work, isn’t it?”
“That it is.” Holcomb shaded his eyes as a shout echoed from above, and another voice answered it.
“What if our man’s killer waited to make his move until he was certain his victim would go into the river? Where the body had a good chance of being carried away downstream, possibly never found?” Rutledge asked thoughtfully. “If he did, it speaks of premeditation, not an argument that got out of hand. It’s a place to start.”
“A different world up there,” the Constable agreed darkly. “Not one I know.”
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of the Bess Crawford mysteries, the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live on the East Coast.
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—The New York Times Book Review
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—Anne Perry, Internationally Bestselling Author
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Also by Charles Todd
The Bess Crawford Mysteries
A Duty to the Dead
An Impartial Witness
A Bitter Truth
An Unmarked Grave
A Question of Honor
An Unwilling Accomplice
A Pattern of Lies
The Shattered Tree
A Casualty of War
A Forgotten Place
A Cruel Deception
An Irish Hostage
The Ian Rutledge Mysteries
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
Watchers of Time
A Fearsome Doubt
A Cold Treachery
A Long Shadow
A False Mirror
A Pale Horse
A Matter of Justice
The Red Door
A Lonely Death
The Confession
Proof of Guilt
Hunting Shadows
A Fine Summer’s Day
No Shred of Evidence
Racing the Devil
The Gate Keeper
A Divided Loyalty
A Fatal Lie
Other Fiction
The Murder Stone
The Walnut Tree
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from A Fatal Lie copyright © 2021 by Charles Todd.
a hanging at dawn. Copyright © 2020 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-304856-0
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-304857-7
Cover design by Guido Caroti
Cover photographs © Pikoso.kz/Shutterstock (temple); © Mia Stendal/Shutterstock (fog); © Laura Crazy/Shutterstock (fog)
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