by Charles Todd
She was exasperated with him. “Really, I don’t know what Miss Newland could possibly tell you about something that happened in Ely.”
“Nor do I. But I intend to find out. The address, if you please.”
She went to the desk, found a small leather-covered book, looked up a name, and wrote the information on a sheet of stationery. Folding it, she turned and handed it to him. “I think you should leave now. There must be something you can do to find my brother’s murderer. Searching out old servants doesn’t seem to be very useful.”
Rutledge smiled. “Scotland Yard prefers to be thorough,” he answered and took his leave. She was frowning as he closed the door.
If Hutchinson had possessed great charm, most certainly his sister had none, he thought, driving toward Wiltshire. Perhaps with her brother providing for the two of them, she hadn’t needed any.
When he arrived in Abbot’s Green, he was surprised to find that the direction Miss Hutchinson had given him was a large, handsome brick house set back off the road on the far side of the small village.
He’d expected a pensioner’s cottage, but it appeared that Miss Newland had found another position.
And this presented something of a problem. If Scotland Yard came calling, the mistress of the house would very likely insist that he interview Miss Newland in her presence. If he insisted on speaking to her privately, it would cast suspicion on the lady’s maid. What had she to do with the police?
He drove up to the Georgian door, knocked, and asked for Miss Newland.
The maid who had come to the door said, “Who is calling?”
“My name is Rutledge. I’m here,” he said blandly, “about a small legacy left to one of the staff at her former place of employment. I should like to trace that person, and Miss Newland might be able to tell me where to find her. A private matter, I’m afraid.”
He was left to his own devices while the maid went to find Miss Newland. After perhaps five minutes, a woman in the severe black of her position came to the door.
“Mr. Rutledge?” she asked tentatively.
She was nearing forty, he thought, with fair hair that fought against the severity of the style that suited her dress, repressively impersonal. There was a small scar, round and rather unusual, on one cheek, near her mouth. It detracted from a pretty face.
“Yes.” He looked up at the house. “Could we walk here in the drive for a few minutes? I’d rather not be overheard.”
Mystified, she said, “You mentioned my former employer . . .”
“Mrs. Hutchinson. Yes. Will you walk with me?”
Reluctantly she came down the short flight of steps and followed him to the faun fountain that graced the circle created by the loop in the drive.
Certain now that he couldn’t be overheard, he said quickly, “I’m from Scotland Yard, Miss Newland. I’m investigating the murder of Captain Hutchinson.”
Shocked, she stared up at him. “Captain—but who—I didn’t know.”
She wouldn’t have seen the London newspapers. He explained what had happened. “And we have very little evidence to help us with our inquiries.”
Her face hardened. “Good luck to him, whoever he is. I hope you never find him.” She was about to turn away and go back to the house when he stopped her.
“Miss Newland. I need your help.”
“I told you. I wish whoever it is well.”
“Perhaps you do. But he’s murdered another man, and shot a third. We need to find a killer.”
“I haven’t seen the Captain since I was let go. After Miss Mary’s death. What can I possibly know that would be useful to you?” With one hand she shielded her eyes from the sun, searching his face.
“I have no idea,” he said truthfully. “But a woman whose cousin Alice Worth knew your former mistress suggested that I look into her death. I called on Miss Hutchinson, and she was less than helpful.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. She didn’t care for the woman her brother married, and he only married Mary for her money. He wanted that lovely house and the position the address gave him. Once he had what he wanted, he changed toward her. Mrs. Worth—the Alice you spoke of—was her only friend. He’d discouraged everyone she’d known growing up from visiting her. It wasn’t convenient—she didn’t feel well—they’d made other plans. After a while, they stopped asking to see Mrs. Hutchinson.”
“Was he that cruel?”
“I don’t think it was cruelty. He didn’t care for them, you see. They could give him nothing he wanted. He brought his own friends round, and they entertained lavishly. Miss Mary enjoyed that. They were invited to teas and concerts and the theater, to dinner parties and weekends in the country, but these were people the Captain—he was a Lieutenant then—wished to impress. He expected Miss Mary to use them as he himself did. To cultivate them and curry favor, to do small things to put them in her debt, whatever he thought would serve him best. She wasn’t comfortable using people in that fashion. The only times I saw him angry with her were over small things she’d failed to notice or do. He accused her of not caring, of letting him down. But she hadn’t. It wasn’t her way to look for opportunities to put herself or her husband forward. She hadn’t grown up in that kind of life, she had a position, she didn’t need to push so hard for recognition. It was just that he wanted even more fashionable connections.”
“And when the war came?”
“He was in his glory then. He expected to end the war as a Major at the very least. But he never seemed to find the right opportunity to shine. He could be very brave when he had to, but he wasn’t a good leader. Do you know what I mean? Miss Mary said to me once, ‘He climbs on the backs of other people. He’s never understood that.’ ”
“Were there other women?”
Frowning, she considered the question. “Oh, he charmed them, when they were useful or related to someone important. It never went beyond that. Well, there was one, perhaps, if you believed the rumors. The housekeeper wrote to me that he’d taken a fancy to one of the maids. This was after he’d come home from France. The spring of 1919. I never knew him to look twice at one of them, so I was quite surprised. And I told her so in my next letter. But Mrs. Cookson claimed he was besotted with the girl. And then one morning she was gone. Her things with her. Just like that. I expect she wouldn’t stand for what he wanted. God forgive me, I remember thinking that it served him right, to be disappointed.”
Some men considered the staff in their houses as natural prey. A pert maid, always underfoot, smiling . . . it could be tempting. But pretty or not, a servant girl was seldom related to a Colonel or someone in the Cabinet.
And then Miss Newland’s next words changed his mind.
“Mrs. Cookson told me she was a Scottish girl, pretty as a picture, with the most charming accent. Even the tradesmen who came round wanted to hear her speak. But an excellent worker for all that.”
“And that’s all you know about this girl?”
“It’s all that she wrote.”
“Where can I find Mrs. Cookson?”
“I should think she’s still at the London house.”
“Do you recall someone by the name of Swift coming to the house? Or Burrows?”
Miss Newland shook her head. “I never met the guests.”
“Tell me a little about Mrs. Hutchinson’s life before she met the Captain.”
“She was not the prettiest girl in Warwick, but she was well liked. And she had a way of putting people at their ease. I never knew her to be a wallflower. She always had partners at any balls or parties. I was over the moon when I was told I would be her maid. It was the best position anyone could ask for. We went to Newmarket for the races—her uncle was mad for the horses, and he’d spend a week before the flat racing calendar, going from trainer to trainer, looking over the field and deciding where to bet. He was good at it too. Ther
e was a man she met at one of the dinner parties. She pointed him out to me once. I was certain she was in love with him, and he with her. It would have been a fine match. She said they were well suited to each other. But her uncle felt she was too young, she should wait a year, and before that year was out, she’d met the Captain.”
“What was her uncle’s name?”
“Thaddeus Whiting. Sadly, he died soon after Mary’s death. I think it broke his heart.”
“And the other man?”
“He came to Warwickshire once to plead with her, to beg her to change her mind. But the Captain was exciting, charming. She thought that was what she wanted. A pity she was wrong.”
Newmarket was only a matter of a few miles from the Fen country.
“What was his name? This man. Do you remember?”
“I should. Of course I should. But I can’t bring it back. He took Miss Mary to a party at Warwick Castle, and I went along as chaperone. That was the only time I met him—”
The door had opened and one of the maids was standing there, beckoning to Miss Newland.
“I’m wanted, Mr. Rutledge. I must go. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you more. I’d have done anything for Miss Mary, and she knew that.”
“How did she die?” he asked quickly, before she could turn away and go back to her duties.
“Miss Mary? She cut her wrists. In the bathtub. There was a picture in one of the books in her father’s study. A man during the French Revolution did that, and he was painted lying in that tub full of bloody water. She’d had nightmares about it as a child. I expect she remembered.”
And then she was hurrying back to the house.
Rutledge knew the rather dramatic painting. Marat lying in his bathtub. But he hadn’t slashed his wrists. He’d been stabbed by a woman. Rutledge searched for the name. Corday. Charlotte Corday. But she hadn’t been shown in the painting. Only the dying man. The child had remembered what she saw—but not what it meant.
When the door had shut behind Miss Newland, Rutledge went back to his motorcar and turned toward London.
He faced the same problem as before. Miss Hutchinson would either insist on sitting in on the interview—or would forbid it altogether.
Leaving the motorcar at the far end of the square, he walked back to Number 7, and this time went down the steps beside the iron railing to the tradesmen’s entrance.
A scullery maid answered his knock and informed him that the housekeeper, Mrs. Cookson, was presently upstairs discussing the next day’s menu with Miss Hutchinson.
“But you could wait in the housekeeper’s parlor, if you like,” she said with a cheeky smile.
He smiled in return and was led through the servants’ dining room and down a short passage to the housekeeper’s small parlor.
It was tastefully decorated with what must have been cast-off furniture from upstairs. There was a small table desk, a tea table with matching chairs, and a more comfortable chair next to a bookshelf holding cookery books, household hints, a volume on etiquette, and an older edition of Debrett’s Peerage, well thumbed. He wondered if that had been a discard from upstairs.
He was still standing at the bookshelf when the door opened and Mrs. Cookson came in.
“May I help you?” she asked coolly. She was graying, her hair glossy and piled high on her head. There was a cleft in her chin, and her full lips were pursed in disapproval.
“My name is Rutledge. I’m from Scotland Yard. We’re investigating the murder of Captain Hutchinson. I’d like to ask you several questions.”
“The police were here the day after he—died.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were very helpful.” He smiled disarmingly. “But other matters have come to our attention since then.”
“And they are?”
“How well did you know Mrs. Hutchinson?” he began.
Surprised, she said, “But she died during the early days of the war.”
“I’m aware of that. Please answer the question.”
“I was hired when the house was opened, while the Captain and Mrs. Hutchinson were on their wedding trip. I hadn’t known her before that time. But she was quite lovely to work for, and I was as sad as anyone when she—she died.”
“Why do you think she killed herself?”
“I—the inquest concluded she had cut herself in a fall. There was broken glass beside the tub.”
“She brought her maid with her from Warwick. Did you know her well?”
“Miss Newland kept herself to herself. We were polite to each other, but not what you might call friendly.”
And yet they had corresponded.
“Why did she leave?”
“After the funeral, she was given what was due her in Mrs. Hutchinson’s will, and she chose to retire.” Her voice was strained as she said the words.
He could hear Hamish telling him that she was hiding something.
“That’s not what Miss Newland has told me.” And Miss Hutchinson had said she had her own lady’s maid . . .
“It was—there was some trouble about Mrs. Hutchinson’s personal effects. I was told that Miss Newland claimed certain items as promised to her.”
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t there. Miss Hutchinson said afterward that Miss Newland was a thief and she’d told her to get out.”
“And did she leave without a character?” Miss Newland had said nothing about the circumstances surrounding her departure. Was Mrs. Cookson given to exaggeration? Or had Miss Newland concealed the real reasons for being dismissed?
“She did. That very afternoon. I was sent to oversee her packing, as there had been the trouble over Mrs. Hutchinson’s things. And she was blee—” She broke off, turning red.
“Bleeding?”
“I could only think that Miss Hutchinson had slapped her. One of her rings cut into Miss Newland’s cheek.” Without thinking, she touched her own face, where Rutledge had seen the deep scar on Miss Newland’s.
The only way a ring could have cut that deep, he thought, was if Miss Hutchinson had struck her with the back of her hand.
“But she left, and that was the end of that.”
“I did keep up with her. From time to time.” Mrs. Cookson was walking the very narrow line between honesty and truth.
“In spite of the fact that she was accused of thieving.”
Mrs. Cookson bit her lip. “She had known Mrs. Hutchinson since she was a small motherless child. Sometimes things are said. ‘I’d like you to have this one day,’ or ‘It was my mother’s. I’ll leave it to you in my will, shall I?’ Whether they are meant or not. I can see Miss Hutchinson’s point as well. It was her brother’s house, and he wasn’t here to tell her his own wishes. There was no proof of promises on either side. Miss Newland must have been upset, close as she was to her mistress. She would have liked to take some small memento with her. In the heat of the moment, things are done and regretted later.”
Mrs. Cookson was trying to be fair. Rutledge, reading her expression and listening to the tone of her voice, could see that she had had to side with her employer’s sister, but she had been inclined to believe Miss Newland.
“I don’t see why it should matter that Miss Newland left us when she did,” she added, realizing that she might have said too much.
“It’s not always possible to see the links. Tell me about the young woman who was taken on as maid at the end of the war. The one from Scotland.”
“Catriona Beaton? You know about her as well? One of the maids left to be married, when the footman in Number 12 came back from the war. We advertised of course, and this young woman had excellent references. She was here some months. Nearly a year. She’d come down to London to make her fortune, and I wasn’t convinced that service was the right choice for her, but I changed my mind in the end. A hard worker, never any trouble
, knew her duties. And then one morning she was gone. Not a word, no request for a reference, not staying out her notice. Just—gone. I couldn’t believe it.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since then?”
“I told you. Not a word.”
“Why do you think she left?”
“She was young, eager to get on. I thought she’d found something better. That’s why she didn’t need a reference.”
“There’s more to it than that,” he said quietly.
Mrs. Cookson took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It was the Captain. He’d been away, and he came home for a fortnight. She’d been here two weeks by that time. Even I could see where this was going. He’d never spared a glance for the staff before. I doubt he could recognize any of us on the street. Now he seemed to know which room she was working in, when she’d be coming to make up the fires or turn down the beds. I was worried, I can tell you that. He’d talk to her. About her afternoons off. About Scotland. About what she wanted to do with her life. I don’t know what all. She asked me once what to do about him, and I told her, if he began to make her feel uncomfortable, I’d speak to Miss Hutchinson. One day she did come to me, saying that he’d asked if she’d have dinner with him one night. She didn’t know how to refuse him. And so I went to Miss Hutchinson. She must have had a word with her brother, but it didn’t do much good, I can tell you that. The night before she left, Catriona came to me, frightened and in tears. She wouldn’t tell me what had happened. She just said she was afraid. The next morning, when she didn’t come down, I sent one of the other maids up to wake her. And the room was empty. She’d gone.”
“What did you think had happened?”
“That he’d offered to set her up in a house somewhere. As his mistress. I think she decided that the best way to cope with the situation was to leave.”
“Had he set her up?”
“When he discovered she was gone, he went mad, accusing me of sending her packing, accusing his sister of the same thing, frantic to know if she’d left a forwarding address. And then one night he came in, and he was himself again. It was as if he’d never set eyes on her.”
