Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery

by Charles Todd

  “If they did, we haven’t found the link.”

  “It’s there. Have you talked to the police in Glasgow or wherever it was Swift spent his war?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, then, how can you tell me that you’ve concluded I’m the killer? I’ve never been to Scotland. The question is, had Hutchinson?”

  “There’s Susan,” Rutledge said, remembering. “She used to keep house for Swift before his wife died.”

  “Did she go to Scotland with him?”

  “She didn’t. In fact she became the Rector’s housekeeper after Swift left. Still, he wrote to her once or twice after he was settled in Glasgow.” She had read them over and over again, until she committed them to memory. Or to be precise, those sections that meant the most to her, those referring to her relationship with her employer. He’d had no reason until now to wonder what else had been in the letters that hadn’t been important enough to her to remember.

  It was unlikely that Swift would have mentioned a casual acquaintance with a young officer or anything that had come of that meeting. Not to his late wife’s former lady’s maid. But it had to be looked into.

  Rutledge was relieved to find that the Rector wasn’t in when he knocked at the Rectory door and Susan herself answered.

  He’d brought Thornton with him. Susan seemed to be taken aback to find the man from Scotland Yard with a stranger in tow, asking to speak to her.

  “I’ve the Rector’s tea to make. He’ll be home again in a few minutes.”

  “It won’t take long. If it does, I’ll explain to the Rector myself.”

  Still uncertain she asked them in, took them to the sitting room, and stood there before them, awaiting their questions.

  Rutledge said, “When I spoke to you earlier, you told me about letters from Swift while he was in Scotland. Do you still have them?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw no harm in keeping them.”

  “And there is none. I’d like to read them, if I could. There might be something in them that seemed unimportant to you, but in hindsight might lead us to Mr. Swift’s killer.”

  “I’m sure there isn’t anything, sir. It was just a kindness to let me know all was well with the poor man.”

  With an apology, she left them to go up to her room. A few minutes later she had returned and handed the letters to Rutledge.

  They were worn almost to the point of illegibility, folded and refolded countless times. He gently removed the first letter from its envelope and spread the pages across his knee.

  They seemed immediately familiar, and he realized that she had memorized the opening, thanking her once more for her care of his late wife and asking if she was comfortable in her new position.

  Rutledge read on.

  I have begun to settle in. It’s so unlike the Fens that I’m at a loss to know what to think. A large river, a different pattern of farming, terrain that rolls, so that when I look to the horizon, there are trees and rising land in the way. The weather is cooler, but then it’s moving toward late fall. And the accents of the people I meet are almost impenetrable sometimes. It will be some weeks before I am comfortable with it. The people here are different as well. There are tenements in Glasgow as well as handsome streets of handsome houses. The Cathedral is large but not so fine as Ely. I try to tell myself that I am here to look forward and not backward, but my heart is in the churchyard in Wriston. Still. I have made some changes. I have moved from the hotel where I stayed after my arrival. It was very dear, as rooms are difficult to find, given the influx of people. The house is tall, three stories, but quite narrow. The furnishings are not the best, but comfortable enough. I tell myself that I know ancient Rome better than I know my own country. I could find my way to the Forum with the ease of someone born there. Finding my way through the twisting streets here is a lesson in humility. But I am satisfied, and much of that satisfaction is due to the maid I have hired to keep me in order.

  There was no mention of friends or acquaintances. Or those Swift must have met during his day. It appeared that he was more homesick than he chose to admit.

  Turning to the second letter, he found only two references to Swift’s work for the Navy.

  It’s time-consuming and that shortens my day, no leisure in which to look back.

  And again, I like those I work with well enough. They come from all over the country, uprooted as I have been, missing families and friends as I have done. But we have high hopes that the war will end soon. While I am in agreement with them, when it does end, I shall have to find another exile.

  It was on the last page that Rutledge stopped skimming.

  A name seemed to leap off the page.

  Catriona has kept my house in order, as you once did. She came well recommended, although she is hardly more than a child and had not been in service before this. She tells me she too is an exile, a long way from her home in the Highlands. She wants a very different life from that of her friends growing up in the small glen where she was born. Her grandfather didn’t approve, but she is a determined young woman and won his permission to spend six months in Glasgow. But I expect she will have something to say about returning to a narrower life. Her grandfather had lived in England, and it’s possible that she had heard his tales of his time there. She was very disappointed to learn that I’d never been to London. She seems to think that we must all have been there often, drawn by its wonders. That and the fact that Ely isn’t a large and bustling city has diminished me in her eyes. But she’s a good worker, cheerful and pleasant, and I am growing fond of her lighthearted presence in the house.

  Was this the elusive connection he’d searched for and not found? Was this the same Catriona who had worked in the London house that belonged to Mary Hutchinson?

  If it was, how had she gone from Glasgow and Swift’s house, to London and the home of Captain Hutchinson? Catriona was not an uncommon name.

  There was nothing more about her until Rutledge reached the last of the letters, this one written after the war, a month before Swift was scheduled to return to England.

  I am no longer the man I was when first I came here. I have had to learn to put the past away, and it was a hard lesson. Returning to the house in Wriston where we lived so happily, my wife and I, will be difficult at best. But I must try for my own sake as well as for hers. If there was another choice open to me, I think I would leap at the chance to take it. But there is not. Perhaps God wishes me to find that courage, before He shows me His grace again as He did when I was offered this post in Glasgow.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, it’s why he stood for yon seat in Parliament. London was a long way fra’ here.”

  And it was the explanation—perhaps not what he told the men who approached him about serving, but what led to his personal decision to stand.

  The final lines returned to Catriona.

  She’s grown into a young woman, our Catriona. If I had had a daughter, I couldn’t have been more proud of her. She reminds me of someone I once knew, that same thirst for life. I cannot bring her with me to Wriston—she will not come. And so you will not meet her. She has been searching for a position in London, and there is one that she likes very much. Her cousins, who have the care of her, are not best pleased, nor is her grandfather. They blame me for opening her eyes to this other world, but she’s too intelligent and too well read to go back to the glen. It would be a tragic waste. And they must see that. Still, I am writing to the woman in London to find out for myself if this is a suitable household.

  Tomorrow I begin to pack up this new life and say good-bye. . . .

  Thornton was standing by the window, restless and still angry.

  Rutledge ignored him.

  Instead he returned the letters to Susan, saying, “I’m glad you kept these. They do more to explain Swift to me than all the statements Constable McBride collected. Thank you for allowing me to
see them.”

  Susan flushed a little with pride. “I do treasure them, sir. Rector has been good to me, but I miss my mistress as much as he did. Mr. Swift. It was a comfort, his writing to me. And I understood why he couldn’t have me back when he came home again. It would have been hard for both of us without Mrs. Swift there.”

  Rutledge thought that Swift had been more than a little selfish in his grief. But he said, “Thornton, we must go. I don’t think we need to wait for the Rector.”

  Thornton followed him out to the motorcar, saying, “What was that all about? Those letters from Swift? What did they tell you?”

  “I must go to London. The question is, what am I to do with you?”

  “You were taking me to Ely,” Thornton said dryly. “If you’ve forgot why, I’ll be happy to find my own way home.”

  But Rutledge stood there, his hand on the crank, thinking.

  If he took Thornton to Ely, Inspector Warren would hold him until the man’s solicitor and a local barrister came to post bail. That could happen long before Rutledge got back from London.

  He said, “Fancy a drive south? It won’t be comfortable, but it’s the best I can offer.”

  “Why?” Thornton demanded suspiciously. “Are you taking me to the Yard rather than to Ely?”

  “Not precisely. I believe I’ve found a connection between Swift and Hutchinson. The question is, does that connection in any way change the likelihood that you killed both men? I think not. Still, it’s a distraction. And I don’t care for distractions.”

  “Are you accustomed to traveling around the countryside with an alleged murderer in your motorcar?”

  “Not as a rule,” Rutledge answered, turning the crank and ushering Thornton into the nearside door. “The thing is, if you escape, it will only serve to prove your guilt. And that will please the Chief Constable here in Cambridgeshire, as well as the Acting Chief Superintendent at the Yard. They are looking for a scapegoat, you see. And you’ll do as well as the next man. The courts will sort it out, and I won’t have to face my superior with the news that I haven’t a clue who killed Hutchinson and Swift.”

  Thornton stared at him. “Are you quite serious?”

  “That’s for you to decide. Shall I take you to Ely, or would you prefer a few more days of freedom? Such, of course, as it is?”

  “Put that way, how can I refuse?”

  Rutledge reversed and turned the bonnet toward the London road. As he passed the police station on the far side of the pond, he saw McBride staring at him. But he was not ready to talk to the constable about Thornton. At the turn, Miss Trowbridge was just walking up to her door with her hands full of freshly cut flowers, Clarissa winding sinuously around her ankles, looking for an invitation to go in.

  She turned as she heard the motorcar coming toward her, and she too saw Thornton in the seat next to Rutledge.

  Frowning, she watched them out of sight.

  Thornton said pensively, “She’s a very attractive woman. I would give much for a proper introduction. We’ve met only a few times in very public circumstances. Not the sort of thing one can pursue.”

  “I thought your heart belonged to Mary Hutchinson.”

  “It does. I was hoping that by killing Hutchinson I could lay her soul to rest finally. It has been a long road. But I wasn’t the one to send him to hell, where he belonged.”

  Rutledge was reminded of the letter Swift had written. The contrast of his devotion to his wife and Hutchinson’s callous treatment of his.

  “Are you sure that’s what Mary would have wanted?”

  Thornton turned to stare at him. “I—never considered that.”

  “She thought she loved him enough to marry him. Perhaps she forgave him even as she died.”

  “Dear God. No, don’t even suggest that.”

  He turned away, and Rutledge let a silence fall between them. It was not until they stopped for petrol and a late dinner that Thornton said, “Did you mean what you said as we were leaving Wriston? Or were you hoping to make me angry enough to force a confession?”

  Rutledge waited until they had given their order to the man who was serving them, and then he answered.

  “Perhaps I can be more objective. You have Mary Hutchinson’s letter. Still, you don’t know what was in her mind at the end, when she was dying. It’s also possible that the last thing she expected of you was to waste your own life in avenging her death.”

  Thornton pressed his hands against his face, then dropped them. His eyes were haunted. “Is that why I never acted until Hutchinson came north? Because I was afraid it wasn’t what she wanted?”

  “Only you can answer that.”

  But Thornton said no more. He changed the subject by asking about Rutledge’s war, and they spoke of other things until the outskirts of London.

  Dawn was rising in the east when they turned into the street where Rutledge lived.

  “You’ll need a shave and a fresh shirt,” he said. “I can offer both.”

  Thornton’s hand rasped as it brushed across his chin. “My God, aren’t you tired?”

  “I can’t afford to be tired.” He pulled up in front of the flat and got out.

  Thornton followed him, and twenty minutes later, they were leaving again, this time for the house where Hutchinson had lived.

  Thornton stared up at it with interest. “This was Mary’s. This house. I never came here, although she spoke of it often. She liked London. Her uncle preferred the country, but he brought her out in London. I didn’t know her then. I’d have lived anywhere that made her happy.”

  “I’d rather not let the occupants know that you had anything to do with Mary Hutchinson. Can you keep your head—and your temper—or must I handcuff you to the motorcar?”

  “I’d like to go inside.”

  It was early to make a call. The household was awake and already about its duties, but Miss Hutchinson, they were told, had not yet come down for breakfast.

  They cooled their heels for half an hour in the drawing room. And still Miss Hutchinson hadn’t come down to speak with them.

  Angry, Rutledge went out to the stairs. Short of bearding her in her bedchamber, the next possibility was to find the Hutchinson housekeeper on his own.

  He and Thornton walked unhindered to the door to the kitchen and made their way down the twisting steps.

  A scullery maid looked up from cleaning carrots for the midday meal. Startled to find two strange men coming toward her, she dropped her knife and fled to find the cook, or failing the cook, anyone else of sufficient authority to deal with the interlopers.

  The housekeeper, frowning in disapproval, came hurrying down the passage toward them.

  It was on the tip of her tongue, Rutledge could see, to tell them the tradesmen’s entrance was outside. Then, realizing that Rutledge had been here before, asking questions, she wiped the frown from her face and asked coolly, “How may I help you?”

  Rutledge said pleasantly, “I see you remember me, Mrs. Cookson. Could we speak to you in your parlor, please?”

  His expression, belying his voice, brooked no objections. She said, “This way, if you please,” and led them to the small room where he’d interviewed her before.

  “Is this about the late Mrs. Hutchinson?” she asked, offering them chairs.

  “In a way. I’ve come to ask about the young woman Catriona Beaton. Can you tell me what her references were, when she came to you?”

  “I don’t know that Miss Hutchinson would ap—” she began, but Rutledge cut her short.

  “I’m sure she would approve of your helping Scotland Yard. To be sure, I can ask for a search warrant, but she might not care for that added unpleasantness.”

  Mrs. Cookson, still standing, said, “I have the box just there.”

  She indicated a large flat box on a shelf behind him, and he
passed it to her. Inside were packets of envelopes, each packet tied with a ribbon and each one including a small card indicating the name of the servant in question. She thumbed through them quickly, finding the one he’d asked for. Taking it out, she untied the ribbon and began to look at each of the envelopes.

  “Here is the recommendation.”

  Rutledge took it from her and withdrew the sheets of paper inside.

  He scanned them quickly, then went back to read the pertinent parts.

  I cannot recommend her highly enough. She’s intelligent, quick, willing, and eager to serve in a larger household than mine. I believe you’ll find her a very fine addition to your staff.

  The second page of the letter was more to the point.

  She has grown up in my house, and I feel responsible for finding her a suitable position. You will understand that I should like reassurances that she will be cared for with diligence and that the distance from her home to London will not be viewed as relinquishing our duty. Her family will expect no less.

  It was most certainly to the point. And the signature was what Rutledge had expected to find there.

  Herbert G. R. Swift

  Swift had written the recommendation and the Hutchinsons had accepted Catriona Beaton into their household on the burden of that recommendation.

  But who the devil had set out to avenge Catriona Beaton?

  Chapter 19

  Turning to Thornton, Rutledge said, “What do you know about a Catriona Beaton?”

  “Catriona Beaton?” he repeated, frowning. “I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

  Rutledge was returning the sheets to their envelope and handing it back to Mrs. Cookson, but his eyes were on Thornton’s face.

  “There’s another letter here. From her grandfather,” the housekeeper said. “It came after she had left us.” Taking it out of the packet, she handed it to Rutledge.

  He opened it and found a very brief message inside.

  We have heard nothing from you for the past two months. Whatever is wrong, we will help you, you must know that. Just write. For the love of God, write.