by Charles Todd
A victim had no one in the law to speak for him or her. The police were bent on finding the guilty party. The courts were set up to determine guilt, and if guilt was proved, to offer sanctioned retribution for the crime committed. Prison or the gallows. Society was then satisfied by the restoration of order. Civilized order, where personal revenge and vendettas were foregone in the name of law.
Was that any consolation to the victim? Did it make up for the missed years of living?
When he himself had stood in the trenches, facing imminent death and seeing it reach out for him in a multitude of disguises, the concept of dying gloriously for King and Country had taken on a different image, a certainty of life ending in a shock of pain and sheer terror, with nothing left of the man he was or might be. Only a bloody ruin to be tumbled into a hasty grave if he was found—if not, lying where he’d fallen, obscenely rotting on the battlefield where even the crows dare not come for him. And in those months when he’d wanted to die, to bring the suffering to an end, he had thought longingly of what might have been … if there had been no war. Yes, he knew, better than most, what the dead have lost.
And where was Margaret Tarlton, if she wasn’t lying in that grave?
It always came back to the children. Find them—or not—and he would have his answer. But you couldn’t wish children dead, to solve a mystery.
Rutledge said aloud, “We’ve come full circle.”
“Aye,” Hamish said in resignation.
As he strode into the Swan, the young woman behind the desk called, “Inspector? Inspector Rutledge!”
He turned, and she went on, “A Superintendent Bowles in London has been trying to reach you. The message was, please contact him as soon as possible. He left his number for you—” She held out a sheet of paper.
He hesitated, not sure he was ready to speak to London. The young woman said helpfully, “You’ll find the telephone in the cloakroom, just there.”
It took ten minutes to put the call through and fifteen more for someone to locate Bowles. In the end, when Bowles finally called him back, Rutledge had prepared himself for a catechism.
Instead Bowles said loudly, as if compensating for the distance between Scotland Yard and Dorset, “Is that you, Rutledge? I’d like to know why Thomas Napier descended on me this morning, concerned about his daughter! What in God’s name have you done to the woman!”
“I brought her from Sherborne to Singleton Magna last night. Hildebrand showed Miss Napier the clothing the victim was wearing when she was found. According to Miss Napier, the apparel belonged to Margaret Tarlton.”
“Good God, haven’t you found her? I thought she was in Sherborne.”
“She never arrived there. I’ve located witnesses who place her in Charlbury, on the point of leaving to catch her train. I was just about to ask the stationmaster if he remembered her. Neither Simon Wyatt nor his wife seems to know who drove her to Singleton Magna.”
There was an audible sigh at the other end of the line. “First the Napiers, and now the Wyatts. I told you not to tread on any toes!”
“I haven’t.” So far. He could foresee the possibility of it.…
“What’s the Mowbray woman doing in Miss Tarlton’s clothing, anyway?”
“It’s quite possible the dead woman is Miss Tarlton.”
“Well, get to the bottom of it, man! I don’t see what the problem is! And Hildebrand’s complaining that you’re never around when he needs you, and I’m told the children still haven’t been found. That was your responsibility! There may be no expectation of finding them alive now—but find them we shall! Do you hear me? What’s taking so damned long?”
“The victim has been buried. With your permission, I’m told. If we don’t locate Miss Tarlton, we have a dilemma.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. “Are you saying you want that corpse exhumed?”
“It may be necessary—”
“No! I’ll send someone to Gloucestershire, on the off chance the Tarlton woman’s gone there. If she has, we’d look a fool, wouldn’t we? There isn’t a man in the picture, is there? Someone in London she may not want the Napiers to know about? I’ll have Worthington ask her family about that, while he’s in Gloucestershire. If she’s not with them.”
“I don’t think London is at the bottom of this business.”
“You aren’t paid to think, you’re there to find answers! And for God’s sake, placate that Napier woman before her father comes down on the lot of us! Don’t annoy the Wyatts either, do you hear me?”
There was a distinct sound of the receiver at the other end being slammed into its cradle.
Rutledge felt like doing much the same.
He found Peg, the chambermaid, and asked her to take a message to Miss Napier’s room.
“Miss Napier left not ten minutes ago, sir. Someone brought a motorcar over from Sherborne, and she’s being driven to Charlbury.”
He swore, silently, as Peg curtsied and went on her way.
“Aye, you should ha’ seen it coming!” Hamish said, commiserating. “But yon Frenchwoman addled your wits. You’ve no’ been thinking straight all the morning, and see where it’s got you! A tongue-lashing by auld Bowels, and that headstrong lassie slipping off to Charlbury the instant your back’s turned, intent on meddling in this business.”
“Making mischief isn’t at the bottom of it. Elizabeth Napier still wants Simon Wyatt. The question is, to what lengths is she willing to go, if she thinks there’s even an outside chance of getting him?”
“I’ve a feeling,” Hamish warned, “that you’d best be on your way to Charlbury, to find out.”
But Rutledge first went to the station to ask the master about Margaret Tarlton, describing her and the clothing she’d worn.
The man shook his head. “I don’t remember a woman fitting that description taking the London train. There were three men from Singleton Magna going up that day, and two women who bought tickets to Kingston Lacey. I know them both by name. That was the passenger tally, according to my records.”
“She may have taken the train south, rather than to London.”
“I doubt it. Not that many people do, from here. I’d recall that. I’d recall her as well.”
Rutledge thanked him, then walked back to the inn for his car. He might well need that exhumation order if Worthington came up empty-handed.…
Marcus Johnston, Mowbray’s lawyer, was coming down the street toward him as Rutledge drove out of the Swan’s yard. Just as he was about to make the turn for Charlbury, Johnston hailed him. “Any news? I’ve been trying to find Hildebrand to ask. But he’s out in the field again, which tells me not to be sanguine.” He came up to the car and put a hand on the lowered window.
“No. How is your client?”
Johnston took a deep breath, as if bracing himself to think about Mowbray. “Poorly. He forgets to eat, can’t close his eyes more than five minutes, which says he’s not sleeping. Distracted by whatever wretched scenes he’s seeing over and over in his head. When I try to discuss his defense with him, he looks at me as if I’m not there. Damned odd feeling, I can tell you! According to one of the constables, you persuaded him to speak. I’m surprised.”
“I was asking him about his children. He wanted to stop me, and the only way he could do that was to cry out.”
“I should have been there!”
“With four or five people crowded into that wretched cell, he’d have been suffocated! I wasn’t after a confession, I only wanted to know how much the children had grown. Since that 1916 photograph was taken. The flyer hasn’t helped; I thought perhaps we could do something more.”
Johnston shook his head. “I’m beginning to believe he’s hidden them too well. It’s unlikely, to my way of thinking, for a stranger in this town to find any place the local people don’t know about. And yet—” He let it go. “I went to the services for Mrs. Mowbray. I felt someone ought to be there besides the police and the undertaker. I don’t l
ike funerals. This one was worst than most. The rector didn’t know what to say about the poor woman—whether she’d lived a blameless life or was no better than a whore. Which left him platitudes, most of them more apt for a sermon than a burial. No one wanted to mention the circumstances that had brought her there. Murder, I mean. I hadn’t thought to bring flowers, and the ground looked appallingly bare and lonely when they’d filled in the earth. I suppose I ought to see to a simple marker—Mowbray certainly doesn’t have the resources for it. I don’t think he truly undertands that she’s dead.”
“And you were satisfied in your own mind that you knew the victim’s identity? That it was Mary Sandra Mowbray?”
“Yes, of course!” Johnston said, surprised. “In a town this size, if anyone goes missing, there’s gossip—and everyone hears about it. I daresay Hildebrand could have told you the instant he set eyes on her that the victim didn’t belong here! A man like that knows the possibilties and can discount most of them on the spot, I should think.”
“Even though her face was so badly beaten?”
“He’s a good policeman. Thorough, dogged. And Mowbray made no secret of his intentions. The first order of business naturally would have been to bring him in and lock him up. Even I find it hard to deny the man’s guilt; I can only hope to show mitigating circumstances. And even that’s a damned narrow tightrope.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if the woman had been someone else, it would surely have come to light by this time.”
“What if a reliable witness informed you that the dress the victim was wearing belonged to another woman, not to Mrs. Mowbray?”
Johnston smiled, the tiredness in his face reflected in his eyes. “As Mowbray’s barrister, I’d be delighted to hear it. As a realist, I’d ask myself why anyone would choose to lie about it.” He took out his watch and opened it “Good God, look at the time! I’ve another client waiting, I must go.”
He walked away, and Rutledge looked after him, his face thoughtful.
The day was gray, humid. Farmers were out in their fields, a sense of urgency about them as they worked, as if they could smell the rain coming.
Charlbury, looking drab in the dull light, seemed unchanged, and yet there was something electric in the air as Rutledge drove down the street. He wasn’t sure if that was his imagination or real.
There was another motorcar in the inn’s side yard this morning, a stocky man in a dark uniform desultorily polishing the bonnet.
Instead of stopping there, Rutledge went directly to Constable Trait’s house, getting out to knock at the door. That sense of pending catastrophe seemed to hold him in its grip as he waited for an answer. It wasn’t his imagination, it was something in the mood of the place.
For the most part the streets were empty, and the gardens too. Doors were shut. He wondered how many pairs of eyes watched him from behind starched curtains. He could feel their stares, intent and waiting.
“They know,” Hamish warned him. “They’ve already been told.”
The second summons brought not the constable but his neighbor, Mrs. Prescott. He had seen the twitch of white lace curtains as she had looked him over before deciding what to do. Curiosity, he thought, had won over prudence.
“He’s not to home,” she said, standing in her door and leaning out to speak to him. “You won’t find him here.”
“Where is he?” Rutledge asked. By God, if the man had gone courting again—!
“His turn to lead a search party.” She moved down onto the front step, and said earnestly, “Is it true then? Is that Miss Tarlton missing and given up for dead? I’d not like to think of two deaths so close to home in so short a time!”
“Where did you hear about Miss Tarlton?” Rutledge asked, though he knew full well.
“Miss Napier. She came to find the constable herself. And she was that upset to learn he’d already gone out. ‘But it can’t wait—it’s been a week, that’s enough time wasted!’ she said. I could see her hands trembling, and her face was white, she looked about to cry. I brought her inside for a cup of tea, for she didn’t want Mr. Wyatt to see her that way. Took a quarter of an hour to settle her down, poor soul.”
Two masters at work, he thought. Mrs. Prescott intent on pulling the truth out of an apparently distraught woman, while Miss Napier was carefully sowing the seeds she wanted to bear fruit.
“Did she tell you what was wrong? Why she needed Constable Truit?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Prescott said, casting a glance up and down the quiet street. “She said her secretary, that was visiting the Wyatts, had disappeared. She wanted to know if I could tell her anything that might help. But I couldn’t,” Mrs. Prescott said, with simple honesty. “I never saw Miss Tarlton leave. Miss Napier, she asked me to make inquiries in Charlbury. Among my friends. To see if they had any word. And that’s what I did.” She paused, her eyes worried. “All Charlbury knew who she was—the Tarlton woman. She’d come to apply for that position at the Wyatt museum. They was in need of an assistant for Mr. Simon. A pretty young woman. Such lovely hair. I saw her when I carried a jar of my plum preserves along to Mrs. Wyatt. Why should anyone want to harm her?” It wasn’t a question he could answer. Yet. She added philosophically, “Well, it gives busy tongues something new to wag about We’ve nearly talked to death Mr. Simon’s choice of wife and still nobody knows quite what to make of her.”
He was furiously angry with Elizabeth Napier for giving the story her own peculiar twist. No association with Mowbray or his wife—no link with the body found outside of Singleton Magna. It was as if the two crimes—if there had indeed been a second murder—had been unconnected. As if there were still Miss Tarlton’s dead body to find, well hidden in someone’s bushes or back garden.
Small wonder the village had withdrawn behind closed doors!
Another search, this time turning Charlbury upside down. Delving into secrets that no one wanted to see exposed. Because there were always secrets—whether they had had any impact on the crime in question or not
And Hamish had been right Elizabeth Napier had adroitly outmaneuvered him, by coming here and starting her own rumors. By worrying her father and sending him directly to Bowles to complain of the police.
Hamish interjected, “Helplessness is a weapon that’s hard to fight”
And Rutledge had no taste for playing the bully.
All right then, he’d see if he could undo some of the damage!
He said to Mrs. Prescott, “We don’t know that anyone had a reason for wishing to harm Miss Tarlton. But Miss Napier is understandably concerned that her secretary can’t be found, and she’s taken it upon herself to initiate a search.”
Mrs. Prescott sniffed. “What you’re telling me, then, is just what she said you would. It looks bad for the police when there’s two mysterious goings-on in one week! First that poor woman in Singleton Magna is killed, with her children. And now Miss Tarlton can’t be found. Miss Napier says that that Inspector Hildebrand has all but told her she’s making mountains out of molehills. But she won’t give up. Not her. And I know Miss Napier from before the war, when she came to Dorset regular. She’s not one to run about like a chicken with its head off! If she’s alarmed, there’s something to be alarmed about!”
Rutledge said, “There’s no sign of foul play. For all we know, Miss Tarlton may well be visiting her family in Gloucestershire!”
“She’s not,” Mrs. Prescott said with conviction. “Miss Napier, she called them last night, and they haven’t seen Miss Tarlton since she was down in July for her cousin’s birthday!”
“Retreat while there’s a way open,” Hamish warned him. “She’ll no’ believe you, whatever you have to say.”
Rutledge for once took his advice. After thanking Mrs. Prescott, he drove back to the inn, to leave the motorcar there.
The chauffeur of the other car looked up quickly as Rutledge came to a halt, as if expecting to see someone else. Thomas Napier, perhaps? He nodded politely once he realized tha
t Rutledge was no one he knew and went back to his task of brushing out the interior. It looked spotless.
“Is that Miss Napier’s motorcar?” Rutledge asked, getting out. It was a simple way to open a conversation. And the car was, he’d noticed, very like the Wyatts’.
“Her father’s, yes, sir,” the man replied warily. He was sturdy, in his midtwenties, and there were burns across his face and the backs of his hands. Rutledge had seen such wounds before, on airmen sent down in flames.
“Where will I find her?”
“My instructions were to wait for Miss Napier here. That’s all I know.”
Rutledge turned to look up the road toward the Wyatt house.
“I don’t know what there is about this town,” the driver said unexpectedly, coming to stand behind him. “It’s—unfriendly. I wouldn’t want to live here!”
“What’s your name?” Rutledge asked over his shoulder.
“Benson, sir.”
“I understand Miss Napier came here often in the past. Did you drive her?”
“No, that must have been Taylor. He’s retired now. I was hired some six months back to replace him.”
“Knew Margaret Tarlton, did you?” He caught himself using the past tense but let it go. He turned. If Benson noticed the slip, he gave no sign.
Instead he studied the man before him. “Who’s asking?”
Rutledge told him. Benson nodded. “You must have been the policeman who came for Miss Napier last night! Yes, I know Miss Tarlton—I’ve driven her around most of London, on occasional business for Mr. Napier or his daughter. Always tries to be punctual and says she’s sorry if she keeps me waiting.”
“She was expected in Sherborne?”
“On the evening train. Miss Napier wanted the car most of that day and said she’d go along to the station herself to fetch Miss Tarlton. But she wasn’t on the train.”
“What did Miss Napier have to say to that?”
“She said something must have detained Miss Tarlton, and she’d want me to go back on the next day. But Miss Tarlton wasn’t on that train either.”
