by Charles Todd
He was just finishing his meal when Inspector Stevenson, walking past, glimpsed him in the window, and turned around to the door.
Coming across to Rutledge’s table, he said, “Any luck with Broughton?”
“He’s gone to speak to the seller now. Apparently there’s a desire for anonymity on the seller’s part.”
“Well, if it was a matter of shoring up the family’s finances, that’s understandable. One doesn’t want his neighbors knowing about problems of that nature. How was the ham? I’m starved.”
He’d eaten a pork pie an hour ago. Rutledge thought he was intent on keeping an eye on him.
They talked about the Yard, about motorcars, and about the war, always careful not to find themselves discussing inquiries.
Rutledge was relieved when he could excuse himself and return to the solicitor’s.
He half expected Stevenson, who had all but wolfed down his own meal, to insist on coming as well.
“She doesn’t want to see you, sir,” Broughton told him as he stepped through the door. “I’m sorry, sir.”
He had found the seller. Hamish was telling him that it was enough. But Rutledge had learned long ago that tenacity sometimes paid dividends.
“I intend no harm, Broughton. But if Wentworth was killed because of that book, then I must find out why.”
“I’ve never heard of someone being murdered over a book, sir.”
Exasperated, Rutledge said, “If I must, I’ll have the police here in Singleton knock at every door in the village until we find this woman. You’ve told me enough about her that I could give them sufficient information to recognize her when they find her.”
Cornered, Broughton said, “No, sir, that’s not necessary. Let me try again, and see if I can persuade her.”
“That’s no idle threat, Broughton,” Rutledge warned him.
This time he waited in the solicitor’s office, tempted to pore through the boxes arranged so neatly on the shelves until he found the right client.
Finally Broughton returned, and this time he wasn’t alone. A very attractive woman in her forties came with him. She was dressed nicely but not fashionably, her dark hair, still untouched by gray, swept up from her face in a prewar style. There were signs of tiredness around her blue eyes, and she appeared to be upset.
Broughton didn’t introduce her, except to say, “This is the owner of the book in question.” It was clear he wanted to stay, but Rutledge ushered him out of the room and firmly closed the door in his face.
He came back not to the solicitor’s desk but to the chair beside hers.
“I’m so sorry to put you through this, but there are very good reasons. Otherwise I wouldn’t have insisted on seeing you.” He kept his voice level and unthreatening. “I’m in a quandary, you see. There have been two murders with only one connection between the two men. Your book on medieval apples. I can’t think why it should matter enough to kill for it. Perhaps you can tell me.”
“There’s no reason, absolutely none, for that book to lead to murder,” she said, facing him squarely, her gaze meeting his. “I sold it in good faith. I needed the money.” It was a hard admission to make, but she admitted it, and dared him to doubt her.
“I understand you have a son.”
She was suddenly tense. “He has nothing whatsoever to do with this matter.” But the anxiety in her voice was noticeable.
Rutledge found himself wondering if her son could have been the killer. Searching for his mother’s book? It had gone missing nearly a month before . . .
He said, “Tell me about how you came to be in possession of this book. Was it always yours, something you’d inherited from your parents?”
“No. It was a gift. From someone I didn’t particularly like. But I loved the book, and it brought back—memories. I couldn’t refuse it.”
“It was a rather expensive gift,” he reminded her.
“Yes. I’m well aware of it. And it was foolish of me to accept. But I was young, vulnerable, and I loved it,” she said again.
“Was the giver of this gift the father of your child?”
Her face flamed. “Great God, no.”
Rutledge believed her, although he could hear Hamish warning him about her.
Silently, he told Hamish, If she lied about everything else, she didn’t lie about this.
He said, “I’m sorry. It was a natural assumption, given the value of the gift.”
“I’ve told you. It meant more to me than its value. I was grateful for the kindness.”
Rutledge wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. There was something about her that was intriguing. She might be the mother of an illegitimate child, but she felt no shame, she faced him as an equal and made it plain that she was not the sort of woman he seemed—in her mind—to be suggesting.
“Do you know the name of the father of your child?” he asked gently.
Anger filled her eyes. “I’m not a slut, Mr. Rutledge. I’ve known only one man, and I was married to him. I’ve not told anyone else that, not even my parents. I couldn’t prove it—he was dead, he never saw his son. But I want you to understand that I have done nothing wrong. The book was mine to sell—or not, as I pleased. I have broken no laws, either of God or man, and I will not be treated like this.”
She rose to go, but he rose as well, stopping her. “Please. I meant no insult. It was pity, I think—”
But that was wrong too. He knew the instant he said the words that it was wrong.
“What do you want, Mr. Rutledge?” she asked, her voice husky with her anger, her eyes blazing.
And he thought, Whoever her husband was, he was a lucky man . . .
When he didn’t answer her, she demanded, “Is it the money? Or the book you’ve come for? Have the decency to tell me, and I will settle this matter right now.”
Rutledge stared at her.
She carried on, buoyed by her anger. “I’ve no proof, of course. But I am not lying about this. The buyer didn’t wish to keep the book after all, but he was generous enough to send it back to me, and allow me to keep the money. I was in need of money just then, and I was so very grateful. I didn’t question his kindness. I accepted it. I don’t quite know how he learned of my situation, or what the book meant to me, why I had to sell it. Perhaps it was wrong of me, perhaps I should have written to him and told him I would return the money. But I didn’t have it. It had gone to pay the bank over my son’s school fees at Oxford. And I was already worrying about where I could find more. But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—sell the book again.”
She was about to walk away, but he touched her arm and said, “Forgive me. I knew none of this, I haven’t come for the money or the book. I am trying to find a murderer. And your book appears to be the only connection I’ve found between the two victims.”
“Who were they?” she said, stopping in the middle of the room.
“The bookseller who had been seeking the book on medieval apples, and the client who’d asked him to search out one.”
“Small wonder you think so ill of me,” she said, the anger draining away. “Do you think I killed these men? But why should I? I had the note telling me that I was free to keep both.”
“Do you still have that note?” he asked.
She reached into the pocket of her coat and drew out an envelope. “This was in the package with the book. It was posted from London.”
He took it from her and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside.
Hamish was already certain. “That’s no’ the handwriting of the Suffolk bookseller.”
God knew, Rutledge thought to himself, he had spent enough hours on the ledger. Wentworth hadn’t written the note.
And he thought, studying it carefully, that someone had attempted to disguise his handwriting.
His mind was working furiously now. The book had been stolen from Wentworth’s bookshop. And he had informed the London police. If for some reason he’d wanted to return the book, he had only to do it, an
d tell Templeton anything he chose to say—the book was damaged in the post, it was not a fine copy, as it had been advertised to be. Besides, the ledgers listed a sale. And a loss. Not a return.
“Please sit down,” he asked her gently. “I have this backward, I think, and I’ve only just realized it.”
She glared at him, unconvinced.
“I don’t want the book. The man who did is dead, and it would do no good now to take it back from you. As for the money, the man who paid for it is also dead, and he was wealthy enough that no one will care about the cost of a book. Even that book. He had already posted it as a business loss.”
Slowly, warily, she came back to sit down.
“Go on.”
“I want to know why that book has cost the lives of three men. Help me answer that, and I’ll go away.”
“You said three men.”
“I’ve reason to believe that Harvey Mitchell was one of them.”
“He was my solicitor. And a friend. You can’t be serious, that he was killed because of this book? No. Scotland Yard has sent someone to Singleton to look into his death. They’ve been searching through his files to see if there’s something in there. That’s what Mr. Broughton told me.”
“And there may be.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the little wolves. “Ever seen anything like this before?”
She sank back into her chair, her face pale. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it near where Wentworth—the bookseller—was killed. You recognize it, don’t you?”
“I—this makes no sense.” She reached for the little carving, turned it over in her fingers, smoothed the beautifully carved fur.
“The village where the bookseller and the book buyer were killed is called Wolfpit.”
She didn’t answer, still looking down at the little figure. Rutledge would have sworn it was important to her. But then she handed it back to him, and said, “No, I’m—I’m wrong, it’s just that it reminded me of something from a very long time ago.”
After a moment, Rutledge asked, “I’ve driven a long way to find out about this book. May I at least see it?”
He expected her to refuse, it was there in her face. And then she shrugged. “I expect there’s no harm in it. But I’d rather you didn’t come to my house. It will cause talk.” She added wryly, “I’ve fought very hard for my reputation. I’ve told lies and pretended not to care and cried myself to sleep when it hurt too much. The only male who comes to see me is five years old, and his mother is a friend.”
He laughed, as he knew she expected him to, and waited patiently for her to go home, fetch the book, and come back. He wondered if she would . . .
Ten minutes later she opened the door and walked in, a large object swathed in a scarf carried in her arms. He sprang to his feet and went behind her to close the door while she carried her burden to the desk. There she began to unwrap the scarf.
Rutledge watched as a beautifully bound folio-size book appeared.
It was bound in exquisitely tooled cordovan leather, the title in gold lettering. She stood back, an expression of love transforming her face.
Reaching out, he turned several pages, until the plates appeared.
He drew in a breath. He’d been told what was in the book, but the drawings were stunningly beautiful. The text was in Latin, but the color was as fresh as if it had been painted yesterday. Protected from the light, the illustrations seemed to glow. The bark, the parts of the flower, the shape of the leaves were masterly. But the skins of the fruit, from dark crimson, nearly the color of blood, to the palest green with red striations, were perfectly shaded to give the contours an almost three-dimensional quality, as if the reader could reach into the page and touch them. Each fruit had been shown cut open, to view the flesh and the seed. And the origin of each variety was displayed in the accompanying text.
Rutledge could understand why Templeton, with his interest in orchards, would have wanted to own a copy of this book. The drawings were hand painted, there couldn’t be all that many done. It was worth every penny Templeton had paid for his copy.
“I can see why you love it so much,” he said finally.
“My husband’s brother—Eric’s uncle—gave it to me. He said Lawrence would have wanted me to have it. I’d found it in the library while I was looking for something to show my young charge different techniques in painting. She had a small talent, and I wanted to encourage it.” She broke off then, turning away, as if she’d said too much.
“Where was this?” he asked lightly, running his forefinger over the binding. He remembered that the book had been re-bound. Not many firms could do anything half so beautifully. Turning it over, he saw in the corner of the back cover, closest to the spine, that there was a small ornate G. She hadn’t answered his question. He looked up. “You haven’t told me your name. I can ask the local police. I’d rather you tell me.”
“Vivian Moss. It won’t help you, you know. It’s the only name anyone knows here.”
“You called him your husband.”
“He was. We married quietly, by special license, one month before he came into his inheritance. He was a year younger than I was, and we thought it would be best not to tell anyone until then. But there was a war in South Africa, and his regiment sailed for Cape Town. It was going to be a short war. It was, for him. He died of a fever three months later. And I had discovered I was pregnant.” She shrugged. “They were locked in grief, his family. I had to hide mine. I couldn’t prove we were married. And I had too much pride to face them down. So I left.”
She reached for the shawl and then took the book from him. “I hope this has helped you find a killer.”
“Who carved those wolves? You know, don’t you?”
Vivian Moss turned away. “I thought I did. I was wrong. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”
She walked out of the room.
He couldn’t force her to tell him. But he had other means now of finding out what it was he needed to know.
16
Rutledge waited until he heard the outer door open and shut behind Miss Moss. And then he went looking for the solicitor’s clerk.
His office was at the other end of the passage from Mitchell’s. It was surprisingly tidy, although with the shelves of files ranging around all four walls, there wasn’t much room for the desk and two chairs.
Broughton was going through a file, making notes. He looked up as Rutledge came in, and said, “There were some matters that Mr. Mitchell hadn’t finished. I’m trying to prepare a list of them for whoever takes over his clients. It will be someone outside Singleton. Unless someone wishes to buy the firm. But that will be up to his family, I expect.”
Rutledge said, taking the chair on the far side of the desk, “You stole the book belonging to Miss Moss from Wentworth’s bookshop. The one he was forced to replace for his client.”
Broughton flushed. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Yes, you do. You knew she didn’t want to part with it. You saw to it that she got it back. I expect I could ask Mrs. Mitchell if on the dates in question, you had taken several days of leave from the firm to attend to personal business. I’d rather not intrude on her grief.”
“I don’t know that Mrs. Mitchell took an interest in the day-to-day running of the firm.”
“She may not have. But she will remember her husband complaining about the extra work he had had to take on—or work that was left undone while you were away. It was probably only a matter of four days. From here to London, from London to Suffolk, changing trains, and the return. Nothing else in the shop was taken or disturbed. And you would have known when the book was put into the post, and when it would have been delivered. It was a tight schedule, you had no idea when Wentworth would turn the book over to his own client. Or were you there when he collected it from the post office?”
Rutledge was watching Broughton’s face, and he saw that he’d hit his mark.
“Don’t lie to me,�
�� he said harshly. “Miss Moss is once more in possession of the book. She doesn’t know it was stolen from the new owner. And so she has kept the sum Wentworth paid for it. Still, I could arrest her for having it. And let the courts decide if she should be punished as an accessory.”
Broughton looked at him. “You wouldn’t do that to her.”
“Only you, Mr. Mitchell, the dealer in London, and Wentworth knew that her book had been sold. That’s a very small group of suspects. Wentworth is dead, and so is Mitchell. That leaves me with two. I have spoken to the dealer in rare books, and I believe him when he says that his reputation has to be safeguarded, or he’s out of business. That leaves you. Someone else appears to be looking for that book now, and he doesn’t know where to find it. He killed Mr. Mitchell, searching for it.”
“You don’t know if that’s true,” Broughton protested. “Inspector Stevenson hasn’t taken anyone into custody yet.”
“Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you killed Mitchell because he discovered the truth about what you’d done—and was about to tell Miss Moss everything.”
Broughton flushed and then went pale as he slowly got to his feet. “My God, you can’t seriously think—I served Mr. Mitchell and his father before him—I was here the day he joined this firm—he came to my birthday party that night—”
Rutledge watched him sink back into his chair, then said, “I’m satisfied that I’ve uncovered a thief. Now the question is, what am I to do about it?” When Broughton didn’t answer, Rutledge changed his tactics. “If the man who shot Harvey Mitchell discovers who has that book now, he’ll find Miss Moss, just as he found Mitchell. He’s killed three people so far. Do you think he’ll have any qualms about killing her? I won’t be here to prevent it. I’m leaving in an hour. She’ll be at his mercy. And there’s nothing on earth you can do to protect her.”
Broughton shook his head in defeat. “No, you can’t do that to Miss Moss. She didn’t know anything about what I did. I told her the buyer wished to remain anonymous, and she mustn’t tell anyone about his generosity. She was so grateful, you should have seen her, it nearly brought me to tears as well. I had no idea that the book was connected to Mr. Mitchell’s death. You can’t just walk away and leave her in danger. At least speak to Inspector Stevenson. Do something.”
