by Charles Todd
She asked no questions. “Go see to Elizabeth’s luggage. Take your time over it. I’ll have everything ready.”
He made a great fuss over bringing in the cases, carrying them up the broad stairs himself as Shanta came running, protesting vigorously that he must do no such thing.
By that time, Mrs. Crawford had returned with a small, oddly bulging sack. “I’ve added some soup,” she said breathlessly. “It will do no harm.”
He kissed her hands, and was out the door. But before he had shut it behind him she was already opening the door to the sitting room, saying briskly, “The most stubborn man! He insisted on taking up the luggage himself . . .”
HAMISH GRUMBLED, “YE’RE digging your ain grave deeper. It’s no’ verra’ clever—”
Rutledge had debated his best course of action, driving with a silent Elizabeth huddled in her seat staring out at nothing.
But once he committed Gunter Hauser to the police, saw him taken into custody and charged, it was out of his hands. This whole affair. And right or wrong, solid evidence or not, it was all too likely that the German would go to trial, and the case against him as an imposter in the country on false pretenses would make the murder charges far more believable. It was one thing to bring in the guilty. It was another to doom the innocent.
Like Ben Shaw, for one.
He swore.
Hamish said, “I canna’ find a reason for his killing those men.”
“Nor can I. Yet. If it wasn’t the Friedrichtasse, what was his business with Jimsy Ridger?”
“Something else stolen, that he canna’ name.”
Rutledge turned at the crossroads for Marling, passing a dogcart that held a pretty girl and two younger sisters. Her fair hair was almost hidden by a tam, the long blond tendrils blowing in the wind, her cheeks pink with cold. It could have been 1914, before the annihilation of a generation.
It was dusk when he turned into the drive of the manor house. Hamish complained, “Ye canna’ keep coming here—someone will ken a motorcar’s driven through the gates now.”
Rutledge said, “I’ll deal with that later, when I have the time.”
Hauser had lit the candle on the table, and as Rutledge walked up to the door, he heard the scrape of a chair’s feet on the stone paving of the kitchen floor.
“It’s Rutledge,” he said as he came through to the kitchen.
Hauser, haggard and unshaven, snapped, “You scared the hell out of me. I’d fallen asleep in the chair!”
“I’ve brought soup—a beef broth, I think—in this Thermos. And new dressings, and more whisky. In the boot are bread and pork pies and apples, along with more cheese.”
Hauser sniffed hungrily at the Thermos and exclaimed, “My God, it’s like the broth my grandmother used to make! Where did you find it?”
“Sit down and let me look at the wound.”
Hauser did as he was told, and grimaced as Rutledge peeled the blood-caked dressing away from the skin. Looking down, he said, “It’s not infected, thank God.”
“Not yet. It’s clean enough. There’s a good chance you’ll live.” Rutledge used one of the precious cloths to bathe the wound, and then re-bound it, this time with more finesse than he’d used in Elizabeth Mayhew’s house. “That should do. I’ve brought something besides the whisky, if the pain keeps you from sleeping.”
“Or to keep me from wandering? I could drive away in that motorcar. I wasn’t able to do it today, but by tomorrow—”
“Yes, you could do that,” Rutledge agreed impassively. He found a kitchen bowl that would hold the broth, and a spoon. Handing both to Hauser, he said conversationally, “All things considered, what will you do now that Ridger is dead?”
“There’s no choice but to go home. I haven’t the money to waste on wishful thinking.”
The crows flew up in noisy protest, and Rutledge stepped to the door to look out. But there was no one there, only a prowling cat.
He came back to the kitchen, satisfied. “Tell me, why do you think these ex-soldiers were killed?” Seating himself on the edge of the heavy wooden table, he said, “You must have known about them. Did you think that because you were whole, no one would touch you?”
“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting the killer out. I told you. Money is short. When it’s gone, I have nothing, and nowhere to turn.” He ate the soup with relish. “Men kill for passion, and they kill for money. And they kill to keep a secret. Take your pick.”
“They kill for revenge.”
Hauser regarded him for a moment, spoon in midair. “So. You have been asking questions about me!”
Concealing his surprise, Rutledge said, “The old Frenchman shot you for revenge. It’s common enough in wartime.”
“Still. You must know about my brother.” A pause. “Did you bring the laudanum so that when the police come, they will find it in my possession? Oh, yes, I looked in the sack while you were seeing to the crows. I’m a suspicious man.”
“I told you. It was brought to help you sleep. I want the hangman to find you healthy enough to break your neck as you fall through the trapdoor.”
Hauser put the cap on the Thermos of broth, leaving half of it for later. As if he’d lost his appetite.
Rutledge said, “Tell me about your brother.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Except that after the cup was stolen, my brother Erich was killed.” He looked away. The wound was still rawer than the slash on his chest. “Perhaps if we had had the cup, he would still be alive. Call it superstition, if you will. So. I had every reason to kill Jimsy Ridger. But no one else.”
“And yet you claim you’ll sell the cup, if you find it.”
“If we stay in Germany, my son will be old enough to fight in the next war. There’s always a next war. If I take him away from Europe, he won’t need the protection of the cup. He’ll be safe.”
Hamish cautioned, “He would make a verra’ fine chess player. But I wouldna’ turn my back on him!”
Rutledge, rising from the table’s edge, conceded the point.
RUTLEDGE WAS WALKING down the passage to his room when the maid, her arms full of brooms and mops, a bucket clutched in one hand, smiled at him. “Mr. Rutledge? Mr. Haskins at the desk asked me earlier if I’d seen you. There’s a telephone message for you!”
It was from Chief Superintendent Bowles. When he had been located, his voice came down the line affably. “I’ve had no word on the situation in Marling. No progress to report, eh?”
“So far, there’s nothing new. But the killing has stopped. For the present.”
“The Chief Constable will be grateful for that blessing. But it’s not good enough. There’s bound to be something to point in the murderer’s direction! What does the local man have to say? Dowling.”
“Murder at night on a deserted road leaves very little to be going on with. By the time police reached the scene, morning traffic had already obliterated any tracks or other evidence.”
“Not good enough,” Bowles repeated. There was a pause. “The Chief Constable informs me you’ve dined with the great Raleigh Masters. Rumor says the man’s dying.”
Rumor, Hamish was pointing out, had clearly said a great deal more.
“He seemed lively enough,” Rutledge replied, trodding carefully. “He was reminiscing about Matthew Sunderland. I remember him from the Shaw case.”
“Ah! So that’s why you were looking at the files! Indeed.”
“It was a matter of luck,” Rutledge agreed, “to hear someone of Masters’s caliber discuss the legal implications of a crime. Particularly one I’d worked on.”
Wary, Bowles’s voice changed. “And what did he have to say?”
“He’s of the opinion that Sunderland was one of the most brilliant legal minds of our age.”
“I would have to agree with him. Dining out is all well and good, you know, but you’re there to find a cold-blooded murderer. I’d prefer to see more progress made on that front!”
“Indeed,
sir!”
Bowles rang off, and Rutledge hung up the telephone with unusual care.
Hamish said, “He went through your desk. Or someone reported to him.”
“But he isn’t quite sure what brought Mrs. Shaw to the Yard . . .”
“Else, he’s waiting for your heid to be well into the noose—”
RUTLEDGE WENT TO call on Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Webber. Alone and overworked, the widows looked older than their years.
Hamish said distastefully, “I’d no’ want to be a policeman. I’d no’ want to question the grieving.”
“It’s the only way to find a killer. Sometimes.”
“Oh, aye? And ye’d be happy telling your ain secrets?”
Susan Webber, brushing her auburn hair back from her forehead with one hand, was holding on to the shy little girl burrowing into her mother’s skirts with the other. Peter’s sister . . .
“It was kind of you to let Peter ride in your motorcar,” she said as she led Rutledge into the parlor and turned up the lamp. It smoked, as if it needed trimming. A basket of folded laundry sat on a table in the passage, and there was evidence that cabbage was part of their dinner menu. He could smell it boiling.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I’m sure you are as eager to have an answer to your husband’s death as we are.”
She said, “What good will it do, then? It won’t bring Peter’s father back, and it won’t make my life any easier. Kenny might as well have died in the war. I’d got used to him being away, after the first year. Then he was back, and he needed more care than these two.”
He looked up to see Peter standing quietly in the doorway.
“Is there anything you can tell me, Mrs. Webber, that might be useful? Did your husband have any enemies—or any friends he didn’t trust?”
“Kenny wasn’t back home long enough to make enemies! And his friends were in the war with him. Or dead. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt him. Or us. And why would he stop along the road somewhere and drink wine? He never liked wine, it made his stomach raw.”
“He may have learned to like it in France.”
She shrugged. “Kenny learned to like a lot of things in France, didn’t he, that I didn’t know about. The French pox, for one. He was cured. He said. It was Jimsy’s doing, that’s what I was told. Jimsy got him a surprise for his birthday. It was a surprise, right enough.”
“Did you know Ridger well?”
“Him?” Her voice was contemptuous. “He was one of the hop pickers. My mother would have locked me in my room if I’d shown any interest in that direction! One summer when Jimsy was twelve, he helped Kenny’s pa to build a fence, and Kenny’s ma was kindhearted and let him stay to supper many a night. I don’t think Jimsy ever forgot that, and he was always respectful of Kenny. That’s what Kenny said when I railed at him about the whore. That Jimsy knew he was homesick and down, because they was going into the line again the next morning and Kenny had a premonition he’d be killed. But he wasn’t, was he?”
As Rutledge left, Peter followed him out into the front garden, staring longingly at the motorcar at the gate.
Rutledge showed him how the crank was turned, and let him peer into the driver’s seat at the gauges on the panel. When Peter hopped down to the road again, Rutledge got behind the wheel.
Peter said, “One night I saw my pa come home in a motorcar. He’d been working out on one of the farms. I was at the window watching for him. He said he liked riding in it and would do it again, if he got the chance.”
“When did you see this motorcar? Do you remember?”
The child smiled shyly up at him. “One night. I don’t know when.”
“Can you tell me about the driver?”
Peter shook his head. He wasn’t interested in anything but the vehicle.
“Did you see your father in this motorcar again?”
The fair head shook again. “It was the only time he came home early.”
“Did your mother see the motorcar?”
“No. She’d gone to sit with Mrs. Goode, who has a baby.”
As Rutledge pulled away, Peter said, running along beside the motorcar, “I think it was a woman. Older than my mother. Old . . .”
MRS. BARTLETT, SITTING by her kitchen fire, looked up at Rutledge with swollen eyes. The handkerchief in her hand was crumpled, sodden. “I miss him most at night, you know. Because he’d come home, then, and I’d not be alone anymore.” The tiny kitchen, scrubbed clean, had an emptiness about it, as if Mrs. Bartlett had given up on cooking. “When Harry worked somewhere and stayed the night, I never could sleep the way I should.”
“When you heard he was dead, did you suspect anyone? Did you think of anyone who might want to harm him?”
She looked up at Rutledge with complete bewilderment. “No. It was a murderer. It wasn’t someone we knew.”
Rutledge changed his tactics. “Mrs. Bartlett. I’m trying to find something that connects the three victims. Their service in the war, for one. And the fact that they lived here in Marling. Can you think of anything else?”
She considered the question. “It doesn’t make sense that anyone would want to hurt Harry. He was a good man. They were all good men, and it was cruel when they’d already suffered so much!” And then, unwittingly, she quoted Nell Shaw. “I don’t know what I’m to do without him. I don’t know how I’m to get on!”
“Did your husband know someone called Jimsy Ridger?”
“How should I know?”
As she broke down completely, Rutledge asked if there was someone he could bring to her. She shook her head.
And so he made her a cup of fresh tea, and she drank it gratefully. He wondered if she had eaten all day. As she settled into a calmer state, he took his leave.
Where were the women of the church tonight, when she needed their comfort? At home with their own families, and unaware . . .
25
THE NEXT MORNING HE FOUND HAUSER SHAVED, DRESSED, and waiting for him. The wound looked dry and as if it had begun to heal. Changing the dressing, Rutledge said, “It’s nearly time to make a decision about you.”
“Mrs. Mayhew. Is she all right?”
“She’s in good hands.”
Hauser nodded. “I’m happy to hear it.” But he didn’t sound happy.
He ate a good part of the food Rutledge had brought with an appetite. “A farmer’s breakfast,” he commented, finishing the last of the bread and bacon. “Very good. So. Have you found the man who knifed me? It won’t have proved an easy thing to do! He was a coward; he’ll hide himself well.”
“Not yet.” Rutledge toyed with a bit of eggshell, drawing imaginary lines on the table.
Hauser said, “Come now! You are a good policeman, are you not?” There was humor in the man’s face. But not in his cold eyes.
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said, getting up from his chair to rinse out the Thermos and set it on the drainboard by the sink. “I’ve learned that when a man wants something very badly—as you say you want this cup—he will measure the cost carefully. And if it comes down to it, he’ll willingly pay whatever price is demanded. The important thing is to understand the consequences. You were in the war. You know better than most what it’s like to face death. I think you’d go to the hangman with few regrets—except perhaps for your children.”
Startled, Hauser had the grace to flush. “It would be very easy to hate you,” he said after a moment.
“No. We were out there. In the trenches.” Rutledge heard a rough edge to his voice. “On different sides, but we were out there. That’s a soldier’s bond.”
Hauser got up and walked to the window. “I’ll have to move on, you know. People will see where your car has been. They’ll be suspicious.” He sighed. “It’s going to be damned inconvenient.”
“His Majesty’s Government won’t house you as well,” Rutledge agreed.
Hauser said in a different voice. “You know I never killed them. You won’t ha
ng me for the sake of your career.”
Rutledge collected the Thermos and walked to the door. “Tomorrow. After that, it won’t be in my hands, anyway.”
He left, wondering if he were making a mistake. Hauser could walk away now. Is that what he wanted, deep in his own soul?
In Marling, he found a note waiting from Melinda Crawford. It read simply, I think you’d better come.
Reluctantly he drove to her house on the Sussex border. He wasn’t in the mood to be questioned about Hauser. Shanta opened the door to him, saying quietly, “You are to go upstairs.”
He followed the direction of her eyes, walking up the stairs and turning to the left. In the back of the house, Melinda Crawford had made for herself a comfortable sitting room that overlooked the gardens. She was waiting for him there, standing by the window.
As he opened the door, she turned.
“Ian.”
“What has happened?” he asked, relieved to see that she herself looked well enough except for the deep concern on her face.
“Elizabeth. She left this morning, without telling me. When Shanta went in to bring her her morning tea, the bed was empty. We waited for a time, thinking she might have gone for a walk. But there’s a horse gone from my stables as well, and my groom tells me that it must have been taken sometime close to dawn.”
Rutledge swore under his breath. “Did she tell you? About the German?”
“Yes. I think she’s afraid you’re going to hang him. Foolish girl! But there you are.” Mrs. Crawford examined him critically. “You look terrible. You did yesterday, but I put it down to this business with Elizabeth. It isn’t, is it?”
“I’m tired, that’s all. I’ve been bicycling over the countryside and then dealing with her German.”
She rang the small bell at her side, and Shanta came in almost at once with a tray, glasses, and decanters. Mrs. Crawford poured a whisky for him and passed it to him. “Drink that, my dear. Tea built an empire—we need something stiffer to see us through Elizabeth’s histrionics. She had the feeling you knew this man. Is it true?”
