by Charles Todd
“A little. But I’m not sure what you’re after,” Warren said, parrying the question.
“Have they been troublesome in the past?”
“The only trouble has been occasional public drunkenness and assault. It’s not unusual for a man who served in the war to find himself in an altercation with someone who wasn’t. I’ve told you, we don’t run to murders, here. Although you’d think, given the isolation of the Fens, that we’d regularly find a body or two in the ditches or under one of the bridges. There are people in Newmarket who might wish to be rid of a troublesome debtor or the like. But the thing is, people down there don’t know the Fens; they couldn’t hide a body as well as I could, for one. And since you can see for great distances, someone stopping a motorcar to toss a corpse into a ditch is more likely to be spotted than someone around, say, Norfolk, with its low hills.”
Whoever his man was, Rutledge thought, he hadn’t hurried into murder. He’d waited, and rid himself of his target in such a way that he wasn’t a suspect.
“Thornton. Ruskin. Brenner. What do you know about them?”
“Nothing professionally. Thornton’s family goes back a long way in the Fens—to the fifteen hundreds, I expect. There are memorials in the churchyard at Isleham to many of them. I’d be surprised if he turned out to be our man. Quiet, respectable, and no history of violence. Ruskin and Brenner haven’t been quite the same since the war. But they’ve done nothing out of character that I got wind of. Brenner was drunk once or twice, but as a rule he’s sober, and even if he’s drunk he stays in his house. Ruskin keeps to himself, is surly sometimes with his custom, but no better nor worse than the others.”
“It doesn’t mean they don’t have another life.”
“If they do, then they’ve managed to keep it quiet. There’s been no gossip.”
“What about Ben Montgomery?”
“I don’t think he’s been home again more than three or four times in ten years. You’re out of luck, Rutledge.” He smiled to take any sting out of the words.
“Brenner knew Hutchinson. I’d swear to it.”
“Did he, by God?” Inspector Warren said, rapidly rethinking his rather cavalier dismissal of Brenner and the others.
It was Rutledge’s turn to smile. “And Montgomery is in the Army in London. What are the odds that he hasn’t at least encountered Hutchinson? He most certainly knew the Swift brothers and Burrows.”
“What else haven’t we uncovered?”
“That’s the question.” Rutledge began to collect the lists.
“Are you going to London, then?”
“Not yet. But I shall have to if I’m to question Miss Clayton and Montgomery. And find out how Brenner knew Hutchinson.”
“Miss Clayton? Captain Clayton’s sister? I knew him before the war.”
“Hutchinson came to his funeral. In Burwell.”
“I’ll be damned.” Warren stared. “Are you sure of that?”
“It helps,” Rutledge said, “to remember that even people we think we know well can kill.”
The call to London yielded no fresh information. Sergeant Gibson had found little to pass on. “There’s not been much time,” he explained.
Still, Rutledge gave him the three names he’d mentioned to Inspector Warren. “I don’t think you’ll find skeletons in these closets, not unless we’re very lucky. But I have to be sure.”
He had intended to stop at The Lamb for his dinner. It was close by the Cathedral and even older than The Deacon, where he’d stayed earlier. But wind was already tossing the trees as he went back to his motorcar, and the sky in the east was black. He had no wish to be crossing the Fens in a driving rainstorm, and it appeared that that was what was coming.
He could hear the thunder behind him as he drove out of Ely, and it rode his coattails out across the Fens. There was the faintest line of sunset on the western horizon, and it seemed to intensify the darkness behind him. The storm loomed like a great black beast, shot with lightning and roiled by the wind.
Halfway to Wriston, he heard a motorcycle coming up behind him, throttle open, racing the storm. It passed him with a roar, but he could see it long after the sound had faded into the distance. Then it was over one of the humpback bridges and lost to sight.
Not five minutes later, great drops of rain, driven by heavy gusts, hit with the force of hail, and Rutledge picked up speed, putting the large motorcar through its paces on the straightaway. The duck pond was empty as he reached the second green, and the trees near the church were thrashing like tormented souls. He came to a skidding halt in front of The Dutchman Inn, and made it through the door just as a crash of thunder followed a blue flash of lightning.
“Mr. Rutledge?” Miss Bartram’s voice came from the sitting room, sharp and anxious.
“Yes, I just missed the storm,” he called, his words almost lost as the rain came down in wild sheets, pounding the roof and making the windows rattle.
She came to meet him, her face anxious.
“Something’s happened,” she said. “Constable McBride was just here, asking for you.”
Chapter 12
Rutledge looked out at the High Street, almost invisible in the blowing sheets of rain. Lightning flashed, thunder crackling almost on its heels, and Miss Bartram cried out.
He slammed the door against the still-rising wind.
“Has anything happened to Mr. Burrows?”
“I-I don’t know. I don’t—Constable McBride didn’t say—just that it was urgent.”
He could hear the wind rising as the thunder moved toward them, and he debated trying to reach the police station. Almost at once he thought better of it.
Whatever had happened, it would have to wait. There was nothing either he or McBride could do just now.
Miss Bartram said, “I was intending to put the kettle on. I—” She broke off as thunder seemed to shake the house. The glass drops on the tall lamp behind her tinkled discordantly, and in the kitchen something fell with a crash. “I do hate these late storms so!” Turning, she hurried into the sitting room and sat down. “It will be over soon, that’s the one saving grace. Meanwhile—” The lightning was blue, reflected in the glass of the displays, seeming to surround them. The next clap was deafening.
Standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the short hall, Rutledge said, “I think that struck something. But not here. It should be moving on now.”
And he was right. They could follow the storm as it swept westward. In a few minutes the worst had passed, leaving behind a hard rain. Lifting the curtain to look out at the street, he could see that it was awash with puddles, and that surely meant that the ditches were full, nearing capacity. It was a sobering thought.
With a word to Miss Bartram, Rutledge opened the inn door. Turning to step outside, he encountered Miss Trowbridge, umbrella in hand, hurrying toward them. Her skirts were wet and heavy with mud.
“The lightning struck one of the arms of the mill. We need to repair it as soon as possible.”
“Who do you need?”
“Mr. Ross. He’ll know what to do.”
“Come inside. I’ll find him.”
“My shoes are muddy—”
“Never mind, come inside.”
He waited until she was safely indoors, took her umbrella with him, and got the motorcar started. Reversing in a spray of muddy water, he drove down to the ironmonger’s shop. Ross was inside, tidying up the table with the boxes of nails.
As soon as he saw Rutledge striding through the doorway, he said, “Was it the mill?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. One arm, according to Miss Trowbridge.”
“Right. I’ll get what I need and collect the others.”
He turned toward the back of his shop as Rutledge said, “Can I help?”
“We’ve repaired it before. We’ll manage.”
Following him, Rutledge could see the fields beyond the shop, glistening with water as the sun tried to break through the heavy clouds in the east, a single ray lighting up the sky for a moment and then vanishing just as quickly.
Ross was right, he seemed to have everything in hand. Rutledge turned, went out through the High Street door, and made his way through the rain to the police station.
McBride was at his desk, and he rose as Rutledge came in.
“You’re soaked, man,” he said. “Were you on the road when this hit?”
“I made it as far as the inn in time. But there’s an arm of the mill that’s down. Lightning. Ross is collecting his people to see to it.”
“I’m needed, then. This came for you. An hour ago.” He passed an envelope to Rutledge. “Special messenger.”
The motorcycle.
Rutledge tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper.
The message was from Jason Fallowfield, forwarded by Inspector Warren.
I’ve spoken to Mr. Lowell, the father of the artillery officer, Major Lowell, who offered his help to Inspector Warren. His son will be in Ely this evening, passing through from Lincoln. I thought you’d want to know. If you could call around seven, I’ll be happy to arrange for a meeting.
Rutledge took out his watch. There was barely enough time to reach Ely.
“I must go. Miss Trowbridge is at the inn. Give her the umbrella. And tell Miss Bartram that I’ll probably be staying over in Ely.”
And he was out the door, back in his motorcar, and setting out for Ely. He could watch the clouds lift, and the Cathedral appear like a mirage again, floating above the steaming fields. The road under his tires, slick clay, with puddles concealing the pits and ruts, was treacherous and took all his concentration. He was aware of Hamish in the rear seat, just behind his right shoulder, but had no time for him. The bottoms of his trousers, one sleeve, and across his back where the rain had soaked his clothing felt the cool wind of his passage, but there was nothing to be done about them.
The Cathedral clock was showing five minutes after seven o’clock as he caught sight of it passing Palace Green. And it was nearly ten after the hour when he pulled up in front of the house belonging to the bride’s family.
It was still raining as he walked up the path, and he could feel the wet soaking through his coat, damp against his flesh now.
The same maid opened the door to him. “Mr. Rutledge?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Mr. Fallowfield and Mr. Hale are waiting for you in the library. If you’ll come this way?”
He followed her down the passage, where he was shown into a large library, shelves ranging around the room, and long windows looking out on a garden dripping and windblown.
Jason Fallowfield and his father-in-law rose to greet him, and Fallowfield made the introductions.
“Major Lowell is just changing for dinner. He was held up by the storm. Are you all right?”
“I’m afraid I was caught in it as well,” Rutledge said. “It’s kind of you to arrange this meeting.”
“Not at all. I’m glad to have been of some use.”
Hale, who was tall, slender, and graying, said, “I really don’t see what can be gained by this meeting, but Jason here tells me you were very anxious to meet Alex.”
“He was there,” Rutledge said. “He may have noticed something that the rest of us have missed.”
“I am astonished that no progress has been made—” He broke off as the library door opened again and the Major walked in.
Fallowfield introduced Rutledge and then said, “I’m sure you’d like to speak to Alex alone. Mr. Hale and I will join the ladies in the drawing room.”
It was clear that Hale would have preferred to stay. And Rutledge could understand why—after all, it was the wedding of his daughter that had nearly been ruined by the shooting. But Fallowfield showed unusual resolve in ushering him out of his own library.
Rutledge had used the moment to judge Lowell.
He was of medium height, his carriage that of a career military man, his fair hair already graying at the temples. He came forward, took one of the chairs, and said, “I have only a few minutes. I’ve given my statement to Inspector Warren, but I understand that you have several questions about that day.”
“You seemed to take charge very efficiently.”
“There were no policemen. Hale hadn’t hired any to handle the traffic, as the motorcars were to stop at the top of the Green. I myself sent someone to bring the police to the Cathedral. Young Fallowfield seemed to be thunderstruck, and I got him out of the way as quickly as possible. My first thought, God knows why, was that the man with the rifle had meant to kill him. Hutchinson wasn’t even in the wedding party, a guest only, and certainly Fallowfield thought it likely as well that he must have been the intended target.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand the logic of that. Why should someone wish to kill the groom on his wedding day? Surely the man with the rifle knew what he was doing?”
“Who else would anyone be shooting at?” Lowell countered. “We most certainly had no idea why Hutchinson should be killed. Hale was arriving with his daughter; the other important guests had already been seated. The groom was there, a matter of feet away. I heard the shot, of course, and I looked at every possible vantage point. I saw no one. No one at all. Whoever it was hadn’t stood there gloating, he’d vanished. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take a second shot from another position. With the groom safely away, I waited for the police, who came promptly, I must say. And with all due respect, Inspector Warren hadn’t been in France. He was doing his best, but he was as shocked as the rest.”
“Where was the killer?”
Lowell frowned. “I would have said that the shot came from above my head, but the doorway confused the sound, it echoed and changed it. I don’t know Ely very well and wasn’t aware until later that one can go up into the tower. Still, the most likely source was by that gate into the Cathedral grounds. It was most certainly his best chance of getting away unobserved.”
“You don’t think he took a greater risk, using the tower?”
“I was there in the doorway. He’d have had to pass me.”
“But you weren’t. You ran forward to make sure Fallowfield was moved to safety, and the doorway was unguarded. I’ve climbed up there. It takes time to make your way down.”
Staring at him, Lowell considered the matter. “Yes, of course. You’re right. I should have remained where I was. But I didn’t. And I don’t know that anyone else stayed there.”
“Did you see a man with a barrow?”
“A barrow. No. I don’t believe so. Or I should say I never saw the barrow. But come to think of it, as I was motioning Hale and his daughter to leave the scene as quickly as possible, I did see a frightened old man with a bicycle. I don’t know where he came from, but after I’d shut Fallowfield in the Bishop’s quarters, I noticed him being buffeted by people running up the street from the school.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“No, both hands were on the handlebars, as I remember.”
“Did you mention him to Inspector Warren when you gave your statement?”
“I don’t believe I did. Until you asked about the barrow, I’d quite forgot him. Besides, he was hardly a threat.”
There was a tap at the door. It opened on the heels of that and Jason Fallowfield said apologetically, “Sorry. But they’re going in to dinner.”
“I’ve kept you too long, Major. Thank you for your help.”
Fallowfield politely accompanied Rutledge to the outer door, saying, “I must apologize for my father-in-law. He’s still rather bitter about what happened that day. And I can’t fault him for that. But we were there, and if we can help the police in any way, so much the better.”<
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“I’m grateful,” Rutledge said. “We’ll have our man in the end. It’s just a matter of time.”
But as he walked back to his motorcar in the light rain that was falling now, Hamish was reminding him that he had been rash to promise.
He drove not to The Deacon Inn but to the house Teddy Mathews shared with his sister.
They too had just sat down to their evening meal, and Miss Mathews was reluctant to interrupt it.
“We have guests. It would be more convenient if you could return tomorrow.”
“I won’t be in Ely tomorrow,” Rutledge told her. “And it’s rather urgent.”
She went to fetch her brother, and apparently he’d seen her displeasure, for he asked almost at once, “Has something happened?”
“I need to clarify one point in your statement,” Rutledge said carefully. “Did you see an elderly man with a bicycle standing with you behind the barricade?”
“I don’t believe I did,” he answered slowly. “Should I have?”
“I can’t be sure until we find this man. But thank you—and you as well, Miss Mathews—for taking the time to assist the police.”
From there he went to the house of Mrs. Boggs, the washerwoman.
She had just finished her tea, and affably asked him if he’d had his.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Boggs,” he told her. “There’s just one question I’d like to ask. Did you notice anyone with a bicycle walking past the Cathedral doors just after the shot was fired?”
“A bicycle? I can’t say that I did.” She cocked her head to one side, as if listening to an inner voice. “But now you mention it, I did see an elderly man coming out of the church. I don’t know where he went. I expect he’d been in one of the chapels, praying. Certainly not one of the wedding party.”
