by Charles Todd
That whetted her curiosity. She turned to stare at the Calder house, then turned back to Rutledge. “She’s often in the tea shop by the harbor at this time of day. The Tea Cozy. Her sister owns it, and she helps out if they’re busy.”
Rutledge thanked her, and as she was going in the same direction down the hill, he said, “I’ve been told there was an unpleasantness on this street several days ago. I’m surprised you spoke to a stranger from London.”
“It was shocking,” she agreed. “Poor Mr. Clayton. Hanged, he was.” She shivered. “I didn’t sleep a wink for the next two nights. I told Mrs. Calder she was welcome to come and stay with me. For the company, you understand. Her husband is away, taking their son to Thirsk to visit a cousin on Mr. Calder’s side of the family.”
“She was alone, then, in her house?”
“Indeed she was. And in the morning she heard such a scream as would curdle milk. It was Miss Clayton coming home and finding her father like that. She fainted, and it was several minutes before she came to herself and fled to Mrs. Calder, who had come to her door and was looking to see what the screaming was about. Miss Clayton begged her to find someone to help cut the poor man down. Together they went to find a constable, and the police came. They saw to everything. And Miss Clayton went back to her brother’s house, I’m told, refusing to stay in number seventeen alone.”
“How old is Miss Clayton?”
“Eighteen last May, poor love.”
He nodded, agreeing with the unspoken thought that she was too young to have suffered such a shock. “Why was she out? Had she gone to market?”
“She’d spent the previous two nights at her brother’s house. His wife is expecting their first child and it’s been a difficult time for her. I told my husband that it was a lucky thing too, or Annie might have been killed as well.”
“I can’t think who could have done such a thing to Mr. Clayton,” Rutledge said as they came to the junction with the main road down to the harbor.
“None of us can. He’s never been one for the drink, and he wasn’t a betting man. Since his wife’s death, he’s never so much as looked at another woman,” she added approvingly, as if this were a measure of his regard for his late wife.
“How long has she been dead?”
“Six years. She died of a tumor.”
They walked in silence for a time, and then Rutledge said, “Did Mr. Clayton have any enemies? Anyone who was jealous of him? Or who had a grudge against him, or perhaps against his shop?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” she said, “and that makes it worse, doesn’t it?” She sighed. “We never locked our doors. It took me over an hour to find the old key, but we lock them now, Tom and I. I expect Mrs. Calder does as well.”
They had reached the greengrocer’s shop, and his companion stopped. “You can’t miss The Tea Cozy. At the end of this street.”
He thanked her, and walked on.
The shop was a woman’s domain. In the large window was a collection of handmade tea cozies, apparently for sale, and behind them were displayed a half dozen teapots of various sizes and shapes. He turned to look up at the eastern headland, where the ruins of the abbey stood out against the sky. What, he wondered, must it have looked like before it had been destroyed? A dark, elegant church soaring above its outbuildings, and strong enough to withstand the winds and storms that blew in from the sea.
Beyond the tea shop he could see the lighthouse, shorter than many but marking whatever rocks guarded the harbor. The tide was turning, and the boats at anchor bobbed and swayed, as if eager to escape their moorings and move out to sea on their own.
He opened the door of the shop and stepped inside. A counter to his left held trays that must have been laden with pastries and cakes earlier in the day. Even now there seemed to be a wide sampling. French-style tarts, traditional buns, a variety of biscuits, and even a few scones. Three cakes, slices missing, sat on tall, stemmed glass plates, and there were three small pies inside a glass box, wedges already cut.
Rutledge nodded to the fair-haired woman behind the counter and took one of the empty tables. There were only a few people in the shop now, an older couple sitting to one side, finishing their morning tea, and a younger woman with a baby in a pram awaiting her order.
A second woman came out from the back, bearing a tray with teapot, cup, and saucer, a small round bowl of sugar and a smaller jug of milk. Setting it down in front of the younger woman, she said, “There you go, Maggie, love.” On a floral plate there was a fruit tart, strawberry, he thought, or possibly rhubarb. The younger woman thanked her and with a glance at the sleeping baby, turned eagerly to the treat before her.
The woman crossed to Rutledge’s table and said, “And what would you like, love?” She looked to be in her early thirties, pretty and all-business, despite the warmth of her greeting.
Rutledge ordered tea and a lemon tart, then said, “I wonder if I’ve missed Mrs. Calder. I was told by a neighbor that I could find her here?”
“And who shall I say is wanting her?” the woman asked, her face changing from friendly to cold.
“My name is Rutledge, I’m from London. Inspector Farraday can vouch for me, if you like.”
She glanced over her shoulder to where Maggie was pouring her tea, then pulled out the chair from the far side of his table and said in a low voice, “I’m Mrs. Calder. Is this about poor Mr. Clayton? We’d heard someone was coming up from London and might wish to speak to us.”
He took out his identification and held it out to her. She studied it before handing it back to him.
“Let me fetch your tea, then.”
She disappeared for several minutes and returned with another tray, setting it before him and then sitting down again.
“It was the most terrible thing,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I never went into that house, you understand. Constable Blaine did what needed to be done. Annie Clayton was in such a state, and I didn’t want to see for myself . . .” Her voice trailed off. “She told me she feared he was dead,” she went on after a moment. “And I didn’t doubt her. Later, I called myself a coward for not being sure.”
He poured his tea and added sugar, then the milk. “The doctor’s report says the victim had been dead for some time. That he’d been—er—killed around two or three in the morning. There was nothing you could have done. But your house is next to the Claytons. You must have heard something in the night? Raised voices, a struggle?”
“But I didn’t,” she said earnestly. “Not a peep. Our bedroom is on the far side of the house, of course. Still, if there had been a fight or the like, I’d have heard it. I don’t sleep as deeply when my husband isn’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“In Thirsk. His aunt hasn’t been well, and he took our son down to visit her.” She cast him a wry look. “Auntie and I never saw eye to eye on anything. And so I seldom go down. Just as well, for poor Annie’s sake. I was glad I was there when she needed a woman to turn to.”
“Had you seen anyone in the area, before this? A stranger, someone watching the house, or someone you recognized, appearing to be looking for Mr. Clayton?”
Mrs. Calder shook her head. “There’s no one been about. It’s a quiet street. Someone would have noticed.”
“Did Mr. Clayton have any problems? Anyone who disliked him? Or perhaps someone he owed money to?”
“Mr. Clayton? He was a respectable man, never in any trouble that I know of. He was the sort who’d be right there when you needed help. Caring, he was. My husband liked him. And Annie, Miss Clayton, is the sweetest girl. She kept house for her father after her mother’s death. Peter was already helping out in the shop, Michael was off to school. She’s never been a minute’s worry to her parents. I told Mr. Clayton not a fortnight ago that he’d have to think what he’d do when she found a young man and was wed, but he said he had told her that when the time came he’d manage just fine.”
“And are there young men coming to
call?”
“A few. I know them all. For heaven’s sake, they grew up in Moresby, I knew their parents, sometimes even their grandparents. But there was no particular one. She was a sensible lass, you know, she wasn’t the sort to be swept off her feet by pretty words. She enjoyed the attention but wasn’t ready to settle.”
A man without enemies, no bad habits, a good friend to his neighbors . . .
Rutledge said, “I saw that the house next to his is for let.”
“Yes, old Mr. Talmadge died of his heart not six months ago, and the family put the sign up not two months’ gone, when they’d finished clearing it out. It needs a little work inside, Mr. Talmadge was in his eighties, but it’s a solid house, nevertheless. I told Mr. Clayton he ought to buy it for Annie and let it until she made up her mind.”
“Could someone have mistaken the Clayton house for the Talmadge house? Clayton was alone, he might have been taken for his neighbor.”
She shook her head. “Anyone in his right mind could see the difference in age. And Mr. Talmadge was bald as a plate.”
He finished his tea, thanked her, and walked with her to the counter to pay for it.
Mrs. Calder stopped him as he was about to leave the tea shop. The warm July sun spilled through the doorway, a shaft of gold across the wood floor.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, her eyes on the ruins above them on the headland. “He must have known this person. Mr. Clayton. If I never heard any noise, it was because he wasn’t afraid of his killer and so he didn’t cry out. No struggle. Until it was too late.” She shivered. “Not a very pleasant thought, is it?”
Rutledge had already considered that possibility, but here was the first proof. He thanked her and walked back the way he’d come.
It was time to speak to Clayton’s daughter, and his sons.
Peter Clayton lived above the family’s shop on Abbey Street, just off the High. He was a cabinetmaker by trade, like his father, and the samples of workmanship on display indicated a prosperous business. Bookshelves, bedsteads, tables and chairs were spaced neatly to show them at their best angles. The turnings on table legs and bedposts were smartly done. The woods were of good quality as well, suggesting that the shop served prosperous townspeople in addition to the carriage trade. Chests and armoires stood against the far wall, many of them miniature samples of what the larger piece might look like. Even the miniatures were elegantly made, with the pride of a craftsman. Rutledge studied them with interest, thinking that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be looking at furnishings for his own house or flat. Once Frances was engaged . . .
A thin young man came out of the back room and said, “I’m sorry. The shop is closed today. There has been a death in the family. I was just coming to put crepe on the door.”
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’m sorry to intrude, but it would be helpful to speak to Miss Clayton as soon as possible, and her brothers as well.”
The young man hesitated. “I’m not sure—and they’ve already spoken to Inspector Farraday.”
“Yes, I know. But the inquiry has been turned over to the Yard. May I ask who you are?”
He flushed a little. “Joseph Minton. I help out in the shop when Mr. Clayton and his son are making these pieces.” He gestured vaguely around.
“Would you ask if the family will see me?” Rutledge persisted. This was one aspect of his work that he disliked, speaking to members of the family before the shock had fully worn off. “If too much time is lost, the chances of apprehending their father’s murderer are slim at best.”
Minton hesitated and then went back the way he’d come. Rutledge could hear his diffident footsteps on stairs, and a tentative knock at a door at the top of the flight. Voices followed, and after a moment Minton clattered back down the stairs, as if relieved.
“Mr. Clayton asks that you not disturb his wife. She’s in a delicate condition.”
“I understand.”
But when Minton had led him to the door on the landing and stepped aside for him to enter, the first person Rutledge saw was Mrs. Clayton, just sitting down with the awkwardness of late pregnancy, in a chair by the window. A man—clearly her husband—and a younger woman were trying to persuade her to lie down again.
They turned as one to stare at Rutledge. Then Clayton came forward, introducing himself, his wife, and sister.
“I’m grateful you’re here,” he said, “although I was surprised that Farraday has sent for the Yard.”
“Usually an inquiry such as this can be closed in the first few days. But there appear to be no leads in your father’s death, and Inspector Farraday rightly saw that the sooner the Yard was brought in, the better.”
He was invited to sit, and as he came fully into the room, he could see how pale Mrs. Clayton was. She was wrapped in shawls in spite of the heat, and he thought she must be suffering from nausea still.
Miss Clayton, dark haired and pretty, was nearly as pale herself, and as Rutledge smiled at her, she said quickly, “Please—don’t ask me to go back over that morning.”
“I’ve read the report, Miss Clayton. I’ve come to ask about your father and anyone who might have wanted to harm him.”
“There was no one,” she declared. “I can’t think of anyone with a grudge against Papa.”
“Nothing was stolen? You haven’t discovered anything missing since Tuesday last?”
“Even my mother’s jewelry is still in the little case where she kept it. Inspector Farraday asked me to look. And Papa’s purse was on the table by the bed, next to his pocket watch. Where he puts—put them every night before going to bed.”
“You said his watch and purse were where they should be if he’d gone to bed. Then why hadn’t he retired for the night himself? Why would he stay up and open the door to a stranger at such an hour? Was he expecting someone to call?”
Peter Clayton answered for her. “We’ve talked about that. It’s possible that he fell asleep in his chair. And when the knock came, his first thought must have been that we’d come for him because something had happened—that Claire was taken ill.”
And that was very likely, Rutledge thought. The question was, how had the intruder kept his victim from raising the alarm once Clayton discovered that his daughter-in-law was safe. What had been said between killer and victim, that had made it possible to hang the man without a hand raised to protect himself?
Rutledge studied Peter Clayton. While he was strong enough to overpower the older man, there were no scratches on his face, hands, or arms. Surely the older man would have fought his son, especially if he thought Peter had run mad?
Annie Clayton said, “I wondered if perhaps he must have gone upstairs, taken out his watch and purse, then decided he wasn’t really sleepy. And so he went back to his reading. Peter thought he might have been worried about Claire. This baby is—would have been—his first grandchild, and he was excited about that.” Her voice caught on a sob.
“Did he do that often? Change his mind about going to bed?”
Again Peter spoke for her. “After my mother died, he seemed to miss her most at night, and he had some trouble sleeping. The warm milk was to help him with that.”
“Were there financial problems with the shop downstairs?”
“No, we’ve been very fortunate. My father’s doing, he worked hard to make it succeed. And I have a gift of sorts. I’d been able to introduce a few new designs that’ve been quite popular.”
“No arguments between you over any aspect of working together?”
It was Mrs. Clayton who answered, her voice hardly more than a thread. “My father-in-law was proud of the new designs. He told me so himself. I don’t think he’d have lied about that.”
Annie Clayton nodded. “It’s quite true. Papa was pleased. He said the shop would be his grandson’s inheritance. He was certain Claire would have a son.”
Mrs. Clayton smiled wanly. “I promised I wouldn’t disappoint him.”
“Your staff is trust
worthy? No problems with you, sir, or Mr. Clayton?”
Peter shook his head. “They’ve been with us for years. Minton, downstairs, is the second generation working for us. Annie can tell you—anyone can tell you—my father was a good employer. I don’t think we’ve ever had to dismiss an employee.”
“There’s a younger brother, I understand?”
“Yes, he was in York, but he came home at once.”
“Where is he now?”
A look passed between brother and sister, standing by the window. “Drunk,” said Peter Clayton shortly. “He hasn’t been sober since he arrived. He took it hard. They were close, Papa and Michael.”
“And what part of the cabinetry business will he share? Your brother?”
Peter Clayton frowned. “He doesn’t want to work with me. In September he’s going to university. He wants to be a doctor.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Papa was proud of that too. Although I’ve had my reservations.”
“Why?”
“We’ve done well, of course. But university isn’t cheap. Michael will need the proper clothes and books and digs. I wasn’t sure he had a calling. I thought it was more likely the fact that he doesn’t want to stay in Moresby. Dr. Sutton is getting on in years. I asked my brother if he intended to come back here and perhaps take up Dr. Sutton’s practice. He said he’d rather live in York. He goes there every chance he has.”
It was the first ripple of trouble in what had seemed an extraordinarily close family.
“And now, with your father dead, will Michael go to university?”
“There will be his inheritance, of course. And I’ll help him all I can. But I have my wife and sister to see to, I can’t do for Michael what my father would have managed to do.”
“I’d like to speak to Michael.”
Peter said, “Come see for yourself.” He led Rutledge down a passage and stopped at a door near the far end. “You needn’t knock. He won’t hear you.”
Rutledge opened the door. The odor of stale beer and wine seemed to leap out at him. Sprawled on the bed was a younger version of Peter Clayton, fair hair and wide shoulders and the same hooked nose. He was snoring raucously, and it was no pretense, although Rutledge crossed to the bed to be sure.
