The Gate Keeper

by Charles Todd

  “This is a house of mourning, I’m afraid. Miss Mowbray’s brother has just died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. But I’ve come rather a long way, and if she can spare me a few minutes, I’d be grateful.”

  Hamish warned him in time to look up.

  Behind the woman, in the recesses of the hall, a very attractive younger woman was just starting down the stairs. He recognized her from the photograph in Wentworth’s bedroom. If it wasn’t Dorothea, it must surely be her sister. He was certain of it.

  “Who is it, Jane?” she asked, pausing on a tread, one hand on the banister.

  “He hasn’t give his name, my dear.”

  But Rutledge was already speaking to Miss Mowbray. “I’ve come about Stephen Wentworth.”

  There was an instant’s stunned silence. He couldn’t quite read her eyes, because she was retreating into the shadows at the top of the stairs, moving back up them without turning away.

  “Shut the door, please, Jane. I have nothing to say to anyone today.”

  Jane began to swing the door closed, but Rutledge stopped it with his foot.

  “Miss Mowbray? It’s urgent that I speak to you.” He was talking to thin air. She had turned and disappeared down the passage to her right. And he couldn’t set aside this woman blocking his way and follow her.

  He stepped back and let the door complete its swing toward him. And for a moment stood there face-to-face with the black bow on the knocker before turning and walking back to his motorcar.

  Rutledge was just getting behind the wheel when he looked up at the house again. There were two faces at a first-floor window overlooking the street. He thought they were Miss Mowbray and Jane, but with tree limbs forming a tracery of shadow across the glass, he couldn’t be sure. He stared back until they were gone, then drove on.

  He reversed where he could and came back to the mock Tudor house, stopping some thirty yards away and well out of sight of its upper stories, with the hope that someone would come out and start up or down the road. But after an hour sitting in the winter cold, he turned the crank once more and drove away.

  It rankled, having to return to Suffolk empty-handed. And so Rutledge turned the bonnet not toward Wolfpit but toward Norwich, finding his direction by instinct. He came into the city from the Colchester road, having stopped at The Rose Inn for tea and a sandwich at eleven.

  This time he went directly to the Norwich police station to ask for the address of the Wentworth house.

  The Sergeant at the desk looked at his identity card and said, “Sad about young Wentworth.”

  “Did he come here often?”

  “Not often, no. But my brother-in-law is Constable here and is walking out with one of the housemaids. A good family. A Dr. Brent came himself to break the news. And Inspector Reed has called. From Stowmarket. You must be the man from the Yard sent to take over the inquiry.”

  “I am.”

  “He appeared to be of two minds about that.”

  Did he indeed? And clearly not above advertising his feelings . . .

  Rutledge smiled sympathetically. “I’m not surprised. But I saw him only last night. Going over the inquiry.” As though he and Reed were comfortably collaborating at this juncture.

  The Sergeant nodded. “Good man, Reed.”

  For the second time that day, Rutledge was handed a slip of paper with directions on it. But the Sergeant had more to say about the Wentworth household.

  “Constable Browne tells me that the Wentworths have no plans to attend the funeral service, once the body is released to the undertaker.”

  “It must be too much for parents to bear, burying a child.”

  “I expect it must be. We did enough of it in the war to last several lifetimes. Memorial services, of course.” He shook his head. “They tell me the cemeteries in France are being well looked after. It’s a comfort of sorts.”

  “I visited one not long ago. It’s taken time,” Rutledge told him, “but the Commission is doing all it can.”

  “Too many to return to their families, I expect.” He looked down at the papers on his desk to hide what he was feeling, then said, “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”

  The winter daylight had faded by the time Rutledge had found the house, tucked into a street of fine houses. The streetlamps had been lit, casting shadows over the roadway and making it difficult to read the house numbers. As he walked up the steps at number 19, he could just see that there was no crepe on the door to indicate mourning.

  He found he wasn’t surprised.

  Lifting the knocker, he let it fall against the plate, and waited.

  After several moments, the door was opened by a maid who coldly inquired his business.

  “I’ve come to see Mrs. Wentworth’s daughter. I’m afraid I haven’t been given her married name. I’m from Scotland Yard, I’m looking into the murder of her brother.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth have gone to a private luncheon, sir. Mrs. Courtney is resting.”

  It was far too early to retire. And he was in no mood to be turned away a second time.

  “I’m afraid it can’t wait,” he said pleasantly, moving to step around her. “If you will ask her to dress again and come down?”

  The woman tried to block him, but she was no match for his determination. She closed the door with a firmness that indicated her displeasure and led him to a small drawing room on the front of the house.

  There he cooled his heels for over an hour, with only Hamish for company. He had a feeling that the intent was to outwait him. Mrs. Courtney was going to be sadly disappointed. Finally the door opened and a young woman stepped in, a small black-and-white spaniel at her heels.

  He could see a fleeting likeness to her brother—the same fair hair and fair complexion—but she was plump where her brother had been slim.

  And she was wearing the black of mourning. But not for her brother, he thought.

  He rose and gave his name.

  “Yes, my parents have already told me about you,” she said impatiently, coming in to stand by the cold hearth. “I don’t know why you’ve chosen to call on me while they are out for the afternoon. I hadn’t seen my brother for several months before his death.”

  “I’m looking into that death,” he said, matching her in tone now. “And I’ve come here to ask you about any friends—problems—worries—that your brother might have spoken to you about. When he last saw you.”

  “He came to see his niece and nephew. It was Laurie’s birthday.”

  “Then he took no opportunity to speak to you alone?”

  “Why should he? I live here now, and have very little to do with Wolfpit. Norwich is my home.”

  He gazed at her for a moment, clearly making her uncomfortable by his silence. Then he said, “Your brother didn’t die in the war or of an accident in his motorcar, Mrs. Courtney. He was murdered. Without warning or compassion. Whatever you may think of him as a brother, you must have some sense of the need to catch his killer if only because murder can’t be tolerated. It’s your civic duty to help apprehend this person. And that includes speaking to the police when they knock at your door.”

  She bit her lip. And he realized she wasn’t made of sterner stuff, like her mother, but only pretended to be. “Stephen didn’t confide in me. He was always away. University. Peru. The war. I grew up, married, and came to Norwich. We didn’t have much in common, given the age difference. I didn’t know his friends, nor he mine, after he came home. Growing up, Stephen stayed away from his family as much as he could, visiting with friends or spending his time in the bookshop. I didn’t share in his life.”

  “Do you know why Miss Mowbray broke off with him? I’ve been given the impression that there was an attachment between them.”

  She was frowning. “I don’t see how this has anything to do with his death.”

  “His murder, Mrs. Courtney.”

  “I don’t have any idea why she should have done
such a thing. Unless, of course, she had known him long enough to realize what sort of man he really was.”

  “And what was he, really?”

  She gave him a blank stare. It was as if she had heard this remark repeated in the household so many times that she’d never thought to question it.

  He pressed her. “You allowed him to come and visit with your children on their birthdays. Surely if your brother was as terrible as you believe he was, you would feel differently about him and any influence he might have on young children.”

  “Mother will tell you—”

  “I’ve heard what your mother could tell me. I’ve come all the way to Norwich to ask what you can tell me.”

  She seemed to be at a loss.

  Rutledge waited, listening to Hamish in the back of his mind, quarreling with him.

  After a moment, she said, “It was always understood—that’s to say, he killed his own brother. My brother.”

  “Then why wasn’t he taken up by the police and dealt with accordingly?”

  “I—he was only a baby—” she began, then broke off. “He was evil.”

  “And yet he brings gifts to your children on their birthdays. Surely such an evil man, a killer of one defenseless child, is too dangerous to be allowed near any other young children?”

  “Our parents live with me now. I can hardly forbid him the door.” Her face was flushing, and he could see that she felt cornered.

  “Had your brother killed anyone else?”

  “Well, no—at least I’m not aware—what are you trying to make me say, Inspector?” she went on, goaded.

  “Mrs. Courtney, you can’t have it both ways. What about your children? Do they enjoy his visits? Or do they hide in your skirts, frightened of their own uncle?”

  “I—they—they’re far too young to be told such terrible things.”

  “Which tells me they like him. It must annoy your mother no end.”

  He thought she would have liked to slap him, to stop him from holding up a mirror and making her look into it.

  “You will leave at once,” she said, gathering herself together. “Or I’ll send my maid to find Constable Browne.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve just left the police station, Mrs. Courtney. They know I’m here and why I’ve come. If you want me to leave, simply answer my questions.”

  The spaniel, catching the strain in his mistress’s voice or the intensity in Rutledge’s, growled softly.

  “I don’t know any of my brother’s friends, or why he went to Peru, or what he’s been doing since he came back after the war. We don’t talk. Didn’t,” she amended.

  “Robin Hardy? Do you recognize that name?”

  “I know who he is. My brother preferred the Hardy family to his own. I didn’t have anything in common with them. Or with that Miss MacRae, who appears to have set her cap at him, or anyone else in his life.” She added contemptuously, “Except, of course, Mrs. Delaney, who managed quite well after selling him the bookshop. She just wanted the money, and didn’t care if it wasn’t suitable at all for Stephen to go into trade. He had enough money to do as he pleased, travel, buy a bookshop. Or he could have done something important with his life, to make amends for what he’d done. To show the world he was contrite and feared for his soul.”

  Her voice was thick with anger and a certain jealousy as well. She herself had married fairly young and now had responsibilities that tied her to this house she shared with her parents. He wondered if it was Stephen’s financial independence, his freedom from his parents’ wishes, that annoyed her, while she on the other hand must have been dependent first on her father and then on her husband. Even her dowry would have gone into her husband’s pocket, not hers. She might feel it was unjust for an evil man to be so fortunate.

  “Why did your brother go off to Peru?”

  “It was all of a piece with everything else he’s ever done. He doesn’t care about the family or his name or anything but his own pleasure. Didn’t. The bookstore is just the beginning. He went to Peru because he knew it would be talked about. And make us look as if we cared nothing for him. It was the farthest place on earth he could think of from Wolfpit. I’m sure of it. Now get out of my house, or I’ll scream and tell the servants you attacked me.”

  “No need, Mrs. Courtney. You’ve told me all I needed to know. I’m glad I came here to interview you rather than leave it to Inspector Reed. Good day.”

  Mouth open, she stared at him as he collected his hat and coat, turned, and walked out of the room and out of the house.

  Before he’d closed the outer door behind him, he heard her shout, “I told you nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  But he didn’t go back.

  Rutledge was in an angry mood all the way back to Wolfpit, aggravated by Hamish speaking from the rear seat, where he always sat, just at the edge of vision, like a wraith that never quite materialized. But Rutledge knew very well that he was there. After all, the deep Scottish voice had been with him since 1916, four long years. Never comfortable with its presence, never comfortable with the possibility of not hearing it. Of not keeping Corporal Hamish MacLeod alive as long as he could, even though he was dead and buried in France. Madness of a sort, Rutledge thought, because it was irrational. And yet so integral a part of him that he needed to hear that voice even when he dreaded it most.

  As he moved from dark countryside to brightly lit villages and back to dark countryside again, he felt his isolation strongly. Alone in this motorcar, not a part of the lives of any of the unseen people behind their drawn curtains or the half-seen animals whose eyes glowed orange in his headlamps, he belonged nowhere. To no one.

  Rather like Stephen Wentworth, who had a home but didn’t belong there. An outcast. Possibly a killer.

  Who had a need or desire to kill an outcast?

  Or was it the outcast who had been shot? What if it was what that outcast might know?

  It was an intriguing thought and worth pursuing.

  The only question was, how?

  It was Hamish who answered him in the darkness, his voice as close as it had once been in the long watches in the trenches. Kept low to prevent the Germans from hearing them and pinpointing a location.

  “The question he was asked. What was it?”

  Miss MacRae claimed she didn’t know.

  But what if she did, and was afraid to tell anyone?

  He had intended to return to Wolfpit to speak to Miss MacRae. Instead, he drove directly to the Hardy manor on the Wolfpit road. Once there he sat in the drive for several minutes, listening to Hamish.

  And then he got out and went to knock at the door.

  But before he could lift the knocker, the door opened, and a man stood there in shirt and trousers, his face grim.

  “Not here, man, for God’s sake. I’ll meet you. Down the road, two miles from here, is a tree with a branch that spreads across the road.”

  He shut the door in Rutledge’s face, his footsteps echoing as he walked briskly away.

  So much for speaking to Robin Hardy, he thought to Hamish as he turned the crank and got back into the motorcar.

  “Aye. There were men like him in the ranks, ye ken.”

  “MacDougal was one,” Rutledge commented aloud as he went back down the drive, then found a spot where he could watch the gates without himself being seen.

  “Aye, MacDougal. Sergeant Scott never knew whether to shoot him or praise him. Braver than the brave, but never considering the danger he put his neighbor in.”

  MacDougal had been decorated—posthumously. Robin Hardy was still alive.

  Then minutes later, a Renault came tearing through the gates and roared off in the direction of Wolfpit. The driver hadn’t bothered to look to his left. Rutledge gave him a good head start, then followed.

  Hardy was out of his motorcar and pacing under the long branch arching overhead when Rutledge came into view. He had put his headlamps on, and Rutledge did the same, creating a pool of overbright light under
the trees.

  “What kept you?” Hardy demanded.

  Rutledge took his time getting down. “I wasn’t aware there was any particular rush.”

  Hardy stared at him. “You came to interview me. I didn’t want it to be overheard in the house.” He wasn’t as tall as Rutledge, with fair hair that was darkening into the color of wet sand, and there was a long scar across his left cheek, very much like the dueling scars that Prussian officers once prided themselves on. Only this one was not the thin sharp line of rapier or saber. It gave Hardy’s face a sinister cast.

  “Yes, you assumed that I’d come to speak to you. I wondered if perhaps that was an indication of guilt.”

  Hardy laughed. “All right, yes, guilty as charged. But guilty of nothing more. My cousin sent word that you might be calling.”

  “Then why were you afraid of being overheard? If you had nothing to fear?”

  Taking a deep breath, Hardy said, “For one thing, it was my late arrival that kept everyone at the party. Everyone who knew me, that is. Some of the others had left. And I’m not a fool, Rutledge. Whoever shot Stephen either had the patience of Job, or knew precisely when he would be coming along this road. He had a young woman with him—Miss MacRae—and she must surely have told someone where she was going that night. How many did Stephen tell? And how many who left the party early knew he’d be late traveling home? That’s a large number of people who could have planned to intercept him.”

  “Yes, but you overlook one thing. Of that large number, how many would have chosen to wait for him to appear, when it was a cold night and they could be safely home in their own beds?” It was dark enough now that their faces were oddly shadowed in the glare of their headlamps.

  “All right. You have a point.”

  “Why didn’t you take Miss Hardy home?”

  “Because she’s engaged, and happily so. I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

  Something in the curt response wasn’t right. And Rutledge realized the man in front of him was in love with her—had been for some time—and had kept away on purpose.

  Rutledge decided to be obtuse. “I don’t follow your reasoning.”