by Charles Todd
“There’s been a murder here, Gibson. I happened on the scene just after it had occurred. And I’ve reason to believe it should be a matter for the Yard.”
“Have the local people requested assistance, sir?”
“No, not yet. But I have a feeling the Chief Superintendent ought to speak to the Chief Constable. Wentworth is the name of the victim. Stephen Wentworth. He’s a man of some importance here. And the circumstances around the death are unusual.” He went on to describe what he’d found in the middle of the road.
“If you’re a witness, sir, it might not be the wisest thing to take over the inquiry.”
Rutledge wanted to tell him that he wasn’t ready to return to London. But he couldn’t, not without explaining more than he cared to have Gibson know.
“I didn’t witness the actual murder. But I was first on the scene, minutes after it happened. I expect that gives me an edge over the local people.”
“I don’t know,” Gibson said slowly, considering the explanation.
“Then leave it to Markham to decide what should be done. But since I’m already here in the village, it seems pointless to have someone else travel down from London.”
“There’s that,” Gibson agreed. “We’ve been at sixes and sevens here, on another inquiry, and we need all the men we can bring in. That’s why I’m in here of a Sunday morning.”
“I shan’t have access to this telephone on a regular basis. But keep trying until you reach me.”
“Aren’t you still on leave, sir?” Gibson asked, remembering.
Rutledge took a deep breath. “I am, but my business in Suffolk can wait.”
“All right, then, I’ll see what Himself has to say. He won’t be in until later in the morning.”
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”
He rang off.
Standing there, he admitted to himself that he’d been intrigued by Miss MacRae’s account of a man waiting in the road, and coming up to Wentworth, speaking to him, then shooting him. It wasn’t the sort of thing that someone generally made up, not on the spot. If Miss MacRae had intended to throw the police off the scent, she would have claimed a botched attempt to rob them, highwayman style. It would have made more sense, seemed more plausible.
What’s more, unless she had planned ahead to kill Wentworth, why attend the dinner party with him? Or had that precipitated any quarrel?
He had the strongest feeling that if Penny didn’t believe her account, neither would Inspector Reed.
Locking the door after him, Rutledge listened to Hamish mocking his explanation to Sergeant Gibson.
“Ye havena’ met yon Inspector Reed. Ye canna’ be certain he’s no’ the man for this inquiry. It’s your ain self ye’re thinking about. This murder willna’ be solved in a day, and that will keep ye oot of London until ye’re prepared to go back.”
“Damn it, I was there,” he answered the voice in his head. “I came on the scene whilst Miss MacRae was still in shock, before she’d had a chance to think clearly. Even if I give the police a statement, setting down what I saw and felt at the time, I’m not sure Penny will give it much weight. As it is, he probably thinks I’m a party to Wentworth’s murder. After all, I could have disposed of the weapon while Miss MacRae went for the doctor. They’d have to sweep the fields and sift through all those hayricks before they could be sure. And Reed is more likely to listen to Penny than to someone claiming to be Scotland Yard and unable to prove it.”
“Aye, ye’ve persuaded yourself just fine.”
Rutledge returned the keys to Constable Penny, then went back to The Swan for his breakfast. Until Reed came to the village or sent word of his intentions, there was very little he could do.
Through the dining room window, he could see people dressed for morning worship making their way toward services in St. Mary’s, in family groups, children dressed in neat coats and caps against the winter chill, their faces well scrubbed and pink with cold. A woman passing his window wore a very fetching hat, an upswept brim framing her face and a dashing feather curling down one side.
It reminded him of Frances, who adored smart hats and was tall enough to wear them well. He could imagine her choosing just such a one for her trousseau.
And that reminded him that he’d promised to meet Melinda Crawford for breakfast . . .
Well, it was too late—and too far from London—to do anything about that. With any luck, Melinda would assume that he’d been tired enough to sleep through their arrangement, and leave a note for him at his parents’ house before departing for Kent.
On the other hand, Melinda Crawford was sharp enough that she might well come round to his flat in search of him.
What would she make of finding him gone?
He answered his own question. She would be worried.
He cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner, and using Wentworth’s telephone to put in a call to his parents’ house, Frances’s house now, where Melinda had stayed after the wedding.
All would be well if Melinda didn’t call out the cavalry. He had no doubt at all that she would manage to find him, drawing on resources that never ceased to amaze him.
He couldn’t chance it. Hastily finishing his tea, Rutledge went back for the keys, then on to the bookshop to put through a call to the house.
Melinda herself answered.
“I called to apologize—” he began, but she cut across his words.
“Are you all right, Ian?”
“Yes. I’m in Suffolk. In a village called Wolfpit. There’s been a murder.”
“Then there’s no need for an apology, my dear.”
He had to be truthful. “I wasn’t called here.”
Down the line, he could hear her soft chuckle. “I didn’t imagine you had been. But never mind. I’m sad for the victim, but perhaps it’s Fate.”
Rutledge wasn’t certain just how to take that. “I promised you breakfast.”
“I’ve had mine. Ram is here with the motorcar, and my boxes are already taken out. I’ve closed up the house, and made arrangements for it to be opened when Frances comes home from her wedding journey. She asked me to see to it.”
“Thank you. Er, could you do a favor for me, before you leave London?”
“I’ll be happy to.”
He told her where to find the key he’d given to Frances when he first took the flat. And where to find his identification. “Could you post that to me, in care of The Swan, here in Wolfpit, Suffolk?”
“Of course. Consider it done. And Ian? Come to Kent, when you’ve finished your inquiry. We were all so busy with the wedding. You and I haven’t had much time together. You must have a few days left of your leave?”
He had avoided long visits with her since leaving Dr. Fleming and the clinic.
Rutledge smiled, hoping it would be reflected in his voice. “The Yard may have something to say to that.”
“Then I’ll just have a word with the Home Office. Mallard is a dear friend.”
Horrified, he said, “No, you mustn’t. Truly. I’ll do what I can.”
“I look forward to it. Is there anything else, my dear?”
He thanked her and rang off, standing there by the telephone for a long moment. Perhaps Hamish was right. Perhaps he’d leapt at the excuse to prolong his absence from London.
On the other hand, he’d know soon enough how competent Stowmarket’s Inspector Reed might be.
Still, all his training, all his experience as a policeman told him that this wasn’t the usual village murder.
A horseman came up The Street from the direction of the Stowmarket Road and stopped in front of the police station. Rutledge could see just enough of the door to realize that this must be Reed coming to find out what was afoot in this outlying patch, and his responsibility toward a death here. Or more properly, not a death—a murder. Wentworth hadn’t shot himself . . .
He left the bookshop and made his way to The Swan without passing the police station. Wentworth’s keys were
still in his pocket, and he hoped that Reed wasn’t anxious to search the bookshop.
After several minutes, the horseman came striding across The Street toward the inn.
Rutledge had hastily taken his hat and coat up to his room as soon as he’d realized he was to have a visitor. By the time he’d come down the stairs again, Reed was just stepping through the inn door. A man of middle height, strongly built, with curling hair the color of burnished copper.
He looked Rutledge up and down, then said, “Well, now, well met if you’re Inspector Rutledge.”
“I saw you as you came to the station. I was just on my way there.” Only partly true, but it would do.
The inn’s pub was closed of a Sunday morning, and they took a table near the bar, where the light was good.
“Penny tells me you witnessed Wentworth’s murder.” Reed studied the man opposite him.
“Not entirely true,” he said and explained once more.
“What were you doing on the road at that hour?” Reed asked. He had cold gray eyes, probing and suspicious.
“I couldn’t sleep. I was driving through to Ipswich.”
“And what took you there?”
“I have a few days of leave. I decided to get out of London for a bit. My sister was just married, and the past week was rather hectic. Duty done, I thought I might slip away.”
“Odd place to choose to slip away to. Ipswich.”
“Chosen randomly, I’m afraid. Mainly, I expect, because I’d never led an inquiry there.” It was the truth, in a way. He’d been trying to put London behind him, literally, and there were no memories, no reminders in Ipswich. Of course, he’d had no goal in mind. But Ipswich was beyond Wolfpit, toward the coast, and it sounded reasonable enough to be his intended destination.
Reed considered him, one hand fiddling with his riding gloves.
“You don’t have any identification, I’m told.”
“That’s correct. This journey wasn’t a Yard matter. I saw no need to bring it with me.”
“Then how do I know you’re who you claim to be?”
Exasperated, Rutledge said, “I’m told Wentworth had a telephone put in his shop. I suggest you go there and put in a call for Sergeant Gibson at the Yard. Ask him whatever you like. I’ve worked with him for some years.” Belatedly he remembered that he still had the keys.
“Why do you want to take over this inquiry?” Reed’s eyes were hard.
Rutledge wondered what Constable Penny had told this man.
“Because I’m here. Because I was a witness, on the scene earlier than Penny and much earlier than you. It makes good sense.” As he said it, he had a sudden memory of the smell of boiled cabbage from last night’s dinner still drifting from the kitchen passage of the inn as he’d climbed the stairs, his mind on the bed waiting for him at the top of the flight. Was Reed a family man, with responsibilities at home that would pull him in two directions, duty and hearth? Taking a gamble, he added, “Of course, if you want to handle it yourself . . .”
“I don’t,” Reed said shortly. “I was married two weeks ago. I’ve hardly had time to realize it. And there’s much to be done, settling her into my cottage. It’s larger than her own. Besides that, she’s from Wolfpit. She knew Wentworth.”
Alert now, Rutledge said, “Then it must be a problem for you.”
“Not for me. For her.” Something in his voice led Rutledge to think that there was more than a passing acquaintance in the word knew. “I wanted to be wed last summer, but she preferred a winter wedding. She said she would need the extra time.”
“Not surprising,” he replied casually, without emphasis. “Brides generally make more of wedding than a man.”
Reed looked away. “Yes, well.” After a moment, he added, “Do you think this Miss MacRae is telling the truth?”
“I don’t know. It’s too elaborate a lie, if you think about it, when a simpler one would do.”
“Women tend to exaggerate.”
“I think in this case, it was closer to the truth. She didn’t have time to concoct a plausible story. And where’s the murder weapon? Which brings me to the point of asking if Wentworth had enemies.”
Reed got up, pacing. “How the hell would I know? Ask Penny.”
“He’s of the opinion that Wentworth was the sort of man everyone admired.”
“Well, there may be some truth to that.” There was bitterness in his voice, as if he believed his wife held the same view. “Those born with a silver spoon generally are admired. Or hated.”
After ten more minutes of beating about the bush and going nowhere, Reed left without settling the problem of who was in charge of the inquiry.
Wentworth’s motorcar was in the yard behind the police station now. Rutledge went out to have another look, but he found nothing of interest. The vehicle was well kept, tidy inside, and there were no personal belongings in any of the pockets that might shed a light on Wentworth—or Miss MacRae. Her coat and purse had been removed.
He drove out of the village the way he’d come in last night, and pulled to the verge well before he came to the place where the shooting had happened.
Although he had searched rather thoroughly by the light of his torch, he got his bearings from what he’d seen in the fields, then paced up and down the road in a regular pattern, looking for anything that might have been missed in the dark. The ruts were deep, even along the shoulders. And late autumn grasses, dry and easily snapped, had encroached here and there. In London this work would have been done by a line of Constables an arm’s length from each other, walking in the same patterns. But not here in the countryside. There was no one to call in. He had no authority—yet—to ask for assistance.
Halfway through he’d still found nothing of interest, but he persevered, patiently making certain that he kept his lines straight.
And then in one of the deeper ruts, he noticed an odd shape that was not a stone. Raising his head, he checked his bearings again. About here, he thought, the man must have been standing when Wentworth’s headlamps picked him out.
He knelt and with his pocketknife carefully dug out whatever it was. Brushing off the caked mud, he realized that it was a small wooden carving in the shape of a wolf howling at the moon, head raised, ears back, tail curled around its haunches. And not more than two inches high. Yet the workmanship was of excellent quality, and he thought, from the smoothness he could feel, he would find once it had been cleaned, that it had been well polished.
Either an expensive toy for a child or a small treasure, he thought, turning it this way and that. But how had it come to be here? And how long might it have been lying there, lost?
Certainly anyone in Wolfpit might have owned it at one time. That wouldn’t be surprising. He had noticed, etched into the glass of the inn’s pub window, a wolf in a pose very much like this, and just the head had been depicted on the bookshop sign.
Dropping the carving in his pocket and dusting off his hands, he completed his pattern without finding anything else but a ha’penny.
That done, he walked across the fallow fields to the hayricks, taking his time searching for any sign of the shooter. If there had been footprints, they were gone now, and there was nothing to indicate that anyone had waited here until the flash of headlamps down the road warned of someone driving toward Wolfpit.
Rutledge paused. What if his own headlamps had been the first to come out of the darkness? What then? Would he have been stopped in the middle of the road and faced with a man armed with a revolver?
It was an interesting proposition. Wentworth had been delayed into the early morning hours. Anyone might have passed this way before he appeared. How long had the killer waited? And how had he been sure that it was Wentworth before he’d stepped into the road?
Rutledge cast about again. A waiting man paced—kicked at the straw—showed signs of impatience . . .
Frustrated, he finally turned to go, and as he passed on the far side of the rick closest to the road, he co
uld have sworn he caught the faintest hint of tobacco. It was almost ephemeral in the damp morning air, and for a moment he wasn’t quite certain where it was coming from.
“No’ a cigarette,” Hamish said quietly in the back of his mind.
And he was right, Rutledge thought. It was more like the aromatic pipe tobacco that some men had blended especially for them in shops in London.
He searched, to no avail, and then, just as he was about to give up, he saw it. A small pile of ash and unburned tobacco, no larger than a sixpence, at the very edge of the nearest rick. He squatted beside it and studied it, then touched it gently with one fingertip. Smelling it, he knew he was right. Someone smoking a pipe had stood here, waiting.
“No’ verra’ clever, pipe ash around hay.”
“An unexpected conflagration would have put a spanner in his plans,” Rutledge agreed, rising.
Had the killer known where Wentworth’s motorcar might have been coming from?
Rutledge went back to his motorcar and drove on, backtracking Wentworth. It had been too dark last night—and he’d been too deep in the throes of nightmare—to notice what lay along the road. Slowing as he passed first one, then another house, he considered them. Both too small for a dinner party that lasted into the early hours—one was hardly more than a tenant cottage. Continuing down the road, he saw the roof of a larger house, possibly a manor, set in a park of trees. There was an elegant H on the open gates. Did it stand for Hardy? That was the name Miss MacRae had mentioned.
Cursing the lack of his identification, his authority to ask questions, he turned in the drive and came to a stop at the black-painted door of a lovely Georgian house with three stories and a pretty portico. The winter-bare branches of rosebushes set in small gardens on either side were dull green.
He lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall.
A middle-aged maid in crisp black answered the summons. Rutledge smiled at her.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “My name is Rutledge. I’m looking for Miss MacRae. I’m told she came to dinner here last evening with Stephen Wentworth. She didn’t attend morning services, and I wondered if they’d decided to stay the night.”
