by Charles Todd
At Kingston’s direction, Rutledge turned into the lane and took the second right he came to, trying to avoid the ruts and puddles left over from the last rain. They had covered some distance before he saw the farmhouse in a fold of the land. They were well beyond Moresby now, and the abbey ruins had disappeared from view.
Kingston was even more apprehensive now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“What are you going to tell them? Must you say you’re from the Yard?”
In a space between the kitchen garden of the farmhouse and one of the smaller outbuildings, a line had been strung. A woman was taking in the washing, mostly bedclothes she must have hung out that morning. She paused in her work, a clothespin between her lips, and stared at the two men approaching her. It was not a friendly stare.
“I told you she doesn’t like me,” Kingston said beneath his breath. “She has only taken me in because my cousin insisted. But where else was I to sleep? I can’t afford to put up at an inn or the hotel.”
They were within hearing distance now. The woman called, “I don’t recollect Tad sending for you. And who is this with you? Another penniless relative come to take advantage of a dying old man?”
5
There was such venom in her voice that Rutledge could almost feel her anger and contempt like a physical wall, and on the instant he changed his mind about the course this interview would take.
“I’m sorry, Hilda. This is Mr. Rutledge. He—” Kingston turned to Rutledge, his face pale and flustered.
“Mrs. Kingston?” Rutledge said pleasantly. “I apologize for intruding like this. But I knew your cousin, here, and I asked if I could come up to pay my own respects to his father.”
“You’re not sneaking him into that house, whatever you say about respects. He’s not wanted there, Kingston isn’t, and if he had any sense at all, he’d accept the fact that his father doesn’t want any part of him, death bed or not. Now or ever.”
Rutledge didn’t stop. He was within thirty feet of her before he paused. “You speak very harshly of your husband’s cousin. What has he ever done to you?”
“His reputation is enough. He’s a thief. And don’t speak to me about the prodigal son, in Scripture. There’s no fatted calf or anything else for him here. He’s wasting his time and my husband’s goodwill, hanging about as he is.”
Rutledge rather thought it was possibly sharing the inheritance that angered her, not Kingston’s past.
“What is the elder Mr. Kingston dying of?” Rutledge asked.
“His kidneys are failing.” She gestured to the line of bedclothes. “I can hardly keep up with the laundry. I don’t need this extra work, I’ve my own to do.”
“Where is the elder Mr. Kingston?”
His companion began to speak, but Rutledge held up a hand to silence him.
The woman glanced from Rutledge to Kingston and back again. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “You’re not a solicitor, are you? Here to try and break the will?”
“I’m from London, Mrs. Kingston. Where is your husband’s uncle?”
She gestured down the road, and Rutledge could see that the lane continued past this smaller holding and snaked across the land for another hundred yards before disappearing.
“The main farm is over there, beyond that rise. But if you’re smart, you’ll turn about now. Nobody wants either of you here.”
A voice came from behind them. Rutledge turned to see a farmer bearing down on them. He was clearly angry, and he must have been close enough to hear some of the conversation with his wife. Rutledge tensed, uncertain what to expect.
But the man’s wrath, if that’s what it was, was directed to his wife. “I’ve told you. Mark’s my cousin, and you’ll treat him as such. His father gave me this land and a start, and I owe him something for that.” Still angry, he turned on Rutledge. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Rutledge. I came here with Mr. Kingston. He seems to feel he’s not wanted. I wondered why.”
“Small wonder, if he’s treated this way when my back is turned.”
Kingston couldn’t help himself. “How is my father today? Is he any better? Has he asked for me?”
“Haven’t I just told you he’s dying of his kidneys?” the cousin’s wife snapped.
But the cousin said in a kinder tone, “The doctor thinks he may not last the night. I’ve spoken to him. I promised you I would. But I don’t think he’s in his right mind. I don’t think he hears me. Or understands half of what I’m saying.”
“Would it upset him if I went in to speak to him? Tad, it’s important. I wouldn’t ask, except this might be my last chance.”
“I’m not feeding both of them their dinner,” the woman warned.
Her husband ignored her. “All right. I’ll take you to the house. Mary is there, she won’t be happy to see you, but I’ll try. And you never know.”
Kingston turned to Rutledge. “I must go. Please, understand.”
“Who is Mary?” Rutledge asked.
“My father’s housekeeper.” There was more constraint than affection in Kingston’s voice. “She never liked me, she swore I led her son into mischief. In truth it was the other way around. He was older and more proficient at not getting caught.”
“I’ve work to do in Moresby,” Rutledge said. “I’ll leave you to speak to your father alone.”
The man’s face reflected his gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, and reached out for Rutledge’s hand. Then he thought better of the gesture and let his drop.
Rutledge stayed where he was, watching Kingston and his cousin until they had disappeared over the hill. The woman had gone on collecting the bedding, not looking at him, as if ignoring him might make him disappear in a puff of welcome smoke.
When he was sure that Kingston was indeed being led to the main farmhouse, he turned on his heel and left.
But the woman couldn’t let it go. “There’s nothing for him. Or for you,” she called. “So don’t be getting any ideas about what the will says.”
Rutledge turned. “I shan’t worry about it. I’ll leave it to the police, if anything happens to that man while he’s staying with you.”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut smartly. Reaching for the basket at her feet, already half full, she hefted it to her hip and marched back into the farmhouse, slamming the door behind her.
Back in Moresby, for a time Rutledge sat on a weathered bench near the harbor, his mind busy with the problem of Clayton’s murder while idly watching clouds building up over the Yorkshire moors. Finally, satisfied that he must be right, he walked on to the police station and Inspector Farraday’s office.
The local man listened to what he had to say about Kingston, then nodded. “So that’s who he is. I knew my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. I knew he was up to something. What you don’t know,” he went on, a glint in his eye, “is that Kingston was a troublemaker of the first water, when he was younger. I can’t tell you how many fights he must have started, and he was a thief to boot. Drove his poor father mad, because there was no dealing with him. I was just a constable then, I did what I could, but most people disliked bringing charges, for his father’s sake. It was a good week when he vanished in the night.”
“He’s not the same man now,” Rutledge said, frowning. “You can’t jail him for what he did before he was twenty. Unless there is an open warrant for it.”
“People like Kingston don’t change. Oh, yes, in appearance, I grant you. That explains why I didn’t recognize him straightaway. And consider this: if he’s been given leave to come here in the hope of seeing his father, how is he managing to live?”
“I’ve told you. He’s staying with Tad Kingston and his wife.”
“Cold comfort there. What if he’d been standing up there on the headland, wishing he had the price of a meal, and he saw Miss Clayton leave for the evening? He might have thought the house was empty, and if Clayton was there, quietly reading or dozing in his chair,
he might not have heard Kingston breaking in.”
“I’d agree with you but for two things. No one broke in to that house. And nothing is missing.”
“All right, the door wasn’t locked. But Kingston had no right to be in that house, did he? He’s not likely to steal the candlesticks, he’d have no use for them. But he might’ve helped himself to a few pounds from Clayton’s purse. We can’t be sure the daughter knew how much money he carried with him that Tuesday. She hadn’t counted it.”
“I can’t see Kingston hanging his victim. Bashing him over the head with the fire tongs, yes, perhaps. Hanging is another matter.”
“It served its purpose, didn’t it? Threw us well off the track.”
“Where did he learn to tie a hangman’s knot?”
“He’s been gone nearly eleven years. Closer to twelve, come to that. He could have learned a good many unsavory things in that time.”
Rutledge shook his head. “I don’t see Kingston in the picture.”
“Then who else, pray, fits it?”
“I’d like to look into Clayton’s past. His background in Somerset or wherever it was. That shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.” What’s more Sergeant Gibson, at the Yard, was a master at digging out information, no matter how obscure the lead. But he didn’t need to tell Farraday how he intended to go about it.
“Wild goose chase. No, of all the people we’ve questioned, I’d put my money on Kingston. Besides.” He studied Rutledge for a moment. “Nearly three pounds were stolen from a house near the harbor just the week before. The day after Kingston arrived in Moresby.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “You never said anything about it before now.”
“We thought it was one of the local lads. In fact we’ve been keeping an eye on him to see if we’re right.”
“Then it’s possible he killed Clayton in a botched attempt to rob him.”
“He’s fourteen and scrawny. How did he heave Clayton up the stairs, much less convince the man to let him in?”
“I’d keep an eye on that boy, all the same. If he’s brought in for that theft, then Kingston is in the clear for it.” Rutledge took a deep breath. “I’m going to need to consult with the Yard. Before we take this inquiry any further.”
“And if his father dies, meanwhile? And Kingston discovers there’s nothing in the farm for him, what do we do?”
“He works for a man called Hartle in Scarborough. It should be simple enough to find him there. As you say, he will need to keep that position if his father leaves him nothing.”
“If he’s killed once, he might take it into his head to murder his own cousin.”
If murder lurked in Kingston’s heart, Rutledge thought to himself, it would be Tad’s wife that he would be tempted to kill.
“He could hardly take over the farm, if he were hanged.”
“Still,” Farraday said. “Kingston lied to the police, didn’t he? What else is he concealing? I ask you.”
Farraday had made up his mind. But Rutledge remained unconvinced. He asked, “Is there a telephone nearby? It will be the quickest way to resolve this.”
Farraday shook his head. “Not in Moresby.”
That settled it.
“Then I’ll have to take the first train to London, find out where Clayton’s roots are, look to see if there is anything in his background we ought to know about, and return as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, keep an eye on Michael Clayton. He’s feeling left out of the family circle just now. Keep another watch on Kingston. If his father has changed the will, I’m more worried about Tad’s wife deciding that Mark Kingston should simply disappear. There’s a good deal of water out here. What better place to toss a body?”
“My money is on Kingston,” Farraday said firmly.
Rutledge started to say that the inquiry was his, not Farraday’s, then thought better of it. There was no need to antagonize the man. Nodding, he said, “I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Allow Kingston to see his father. If he’s not our man, then we’ll have done him a grave disservice if we interfere with that.”
He went back to his lodgings, quickly packed his belongings, and carried on to the railway station. As he’d expected, the next train to London pulled in twenty minutes later, and he was on his way south. With his last look at Moresby Abbey, he had a feeling that Farraday would act on his own once the Yard was out of sight. It would be necessary to speak to Bowles, and through him to the Yorkshire Chief Constable. A word in his ear would keep Farraday in line.
It was only after they’d reached York that Rutledge realized he’d be in London in time for the Gordons’ party. He’d tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on the inquiry. Now he could allow himself to think about Friday with a clear conscience. He felt a rising excitement at the prospect of seeing Jean so soon.
A man entered the compartment, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He took the seat across from Rutledge and opened it. From where he was sitting, Rutledge could read the headlines on the page facing him.
He didn’t like the look of them. It appeared now that the assassination of the Archduke had involved more than a handful of fanatical nationalists, bent on making trouble. There were indications of a Serbian government role. It was no longer a question of hanging a few anarchists. Austria would be well within her rights to march. Meanwhile, Russia’s threats to step in and protect a fellow Slavic nation would take on new and ominous overtones. No longer saber rattling but a very real danger of war. The question was, would Germany, Austria’s traditional ally, feel compelled to act on her behalf? The Kaiser was making it clear that any involvement on Russia’s part would be viewed as a serious matter.
And yet—and yet. In the end, wiser heads might prevail, and it would all blow over. Tsar Nicholas would listen to his advisors and recognize that protecting Serbia would cost more than he could possibly gain. The Kaiser could consider he’d done his duty by Vienna by stepping up. And Serbia might take fright and deliver up to Austria all those who had had a hand in the death of the Archduke, allowing them to stand trial.
All the same, Rutledge rather thought that Farraday was right, this business could well engulf most of Europe. In Victoria’s day—even in that of the late King Edward—the English royal family’s blood ties with the rest of Europe, including Russia and Germany, would have counted for something. The question was, would King George have the same influence?
Time would tell.
He put it out of his mind and watched the passing scene until it was too dark to pick out landmarks. As soon as he reached London, he and Sergeant Gibson would track down where Ben Clayton had come from and find out whether he’d had a past there. Then he’d be free to attend his own engagement party, setting out at midnight if he had to, in order to be at his destination by Saturday morning. There was a pressing need to return to Yorkshire as soon as he possibly could.
Best of both worlds . . . Rutledge smiled to himself. As a married man he would have to learn to juggle both of them.
Dressed and shaved, Rutledge made one stop on the way to the Yard, arriving there late on Friday morning. He ran down Sergeant Gibson and conferred with him for half an hour.
Gibson was a veteran at the Yard, and he had amassed contacts across half of England, or so it sometimes seemed. An irascible man, he had no favorites, and was Rutledge’s ally only as far as it concerned Chief Superintendent Bowles. But he was the best at what he did, which was finding out information that eluded everyone else.
No one knew quite why Sergeant Gibson disliked Bowles. He concealed his feelings very well, but there was something possibly left over from a distant past that might also have explained why Gibson had never risen beyond the rank of sergeant.
There was no doubt that Bowles was a difficult man for anyone to deal with, although his superiors looked at his record and either turned a blind eye, or agreed that they were unwilling to promote him further, even to be rid of him.
Rutledge thought the problem with Bowles was simple.
He’d begun his career in the ranks, a man of limited education and lower-middle-class roots. He’d taught himself to speak well, had polished his image by choosing a better tailor when he reached the rank of Inspector, but he had never changed his mind-set. Suspicious, jealous, seeking to appear the initiator of any successfully concluded case, he had acquired a reputation for never applauding any effort by someone who might in time challenge his position as Chief Superintendent.
Chief Inspector Cummins had felt his wrath, and so had Rutledge, among others, ostensibly for not following orders, but it was generally felt that the new breed of better educated men from a better social class had drawn his ire simply because they were able to deal comfortably with a wider range of witnesses and suspects. Addressing a duchess or an archbishop came as easily to them as interviewing a guttersnipe or a fishwife.
Listening to Rutledge’s request, Gibson said, “It’s a wild goose chase.”
“Possibly. But according to the records in Somerset House, where I went this morning, our man can be traced to Somerset, to a village just outside Bristol. Netherby is the name of it. What the official records can’t tell me is why he chose to leave there and never come back. What did he do—or fail to do—that might have led to his death once it was discovered that he was living in Moresby.”
“There was no one in Moresby with a better motive? Sir?”
“The interviews in Moresby were well done, and I followed them up for myself. There’s nothing in Clayton’s present life to explain such a vicious killing. And he seldom referred to his past. In fact, even his children weren’t certain just where he’d lived before coming to Yorkshire.”
“Then you’re as likely to find you have the wrong Clayton. Did you consider the possibility that he’d changed his name with his county?”
