by Charles Todd
“Another possibility is that they shared a secret of some sort. Or someone believes that they did.”
“That has possibilities. I’ll pass the suggestion along to Davies. He’ll be grateful.”
“At least he’s not faced with an innocent man sitting in prison, awaiting trial.”
“Yes, well, if you feel that strongly, then the jury might also. What’s the proof against this man?”
“Circumstantial, all of it. And the local man’s memory of a troublesome lad who left town under a cloud. Farraday was a constable then, and he seems to think Kingston escaped his just deserts.”
“That shouldn’t affect his judgment now.”
“I believe it has.”
They had reached the small restaurant where Cummins usually bought his lunch, and Rutledge followed him inside. He wasn’t hungry, but he ordered a cup of tea to be polite, and then changed his mind and asked for a sandwich as well.
He liked Cummins, he always had, a fair-minded man who took care with his cases and supported those under him. But he didn’t think there was much Cummins could do about Yorkshire. And Kingston would have already lost his position in Scarborough, and perhaps the girl he wished to marry as well.
As if he’d heard the thought, Cummins said, “Have you decided where to live after your marriage?”
“For the time being, I expect I’ll stay where I am. There’s my sister to think of, you see.”
“Well, take my advice. Two women in the same house, vying for the attention of one man and eager to make him happy, can be difficult.”
He was considering the ramifications of that—after all, it was Frances’s house—when he realized all at once that Cummins had changed the subject and was waiting for an answer or at least a comment about what he’d just said.
Rutledge lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. I seem to have lost my train of thought.”
“Engagements do tend to destroy a man’s concentration,” Cummins said with a laugh. “I was asking if you’d had a chance to look over the new file on your desk.”
“The new file? No. Truth to tell, I haven’t seen it.”
“Odd case. I think Bowles gave it to you as punishment. He was not happy that the local man in Yorkshire gave him the news before you did.”
Rutledge stirred his tea and said, “I doubt he’s ever happy. Yes, all right, I’ll go back and have a look.”
“Good man.”
For the rest of their meal, the two men discussed other Yard business, and then Cummins summoned the waiter and paid the bill, insisting that he settle up for Rutledge as well.
Rutledge wondered if the Chief Inspector had happened to see his abrupt departure from the Yard and come looking for him with an eye to smoothing over whatever it was that had disturbed him. As a rule Rutledge kept his temper well in hand, but Farraday’s betrayal and Bowles’s complacency had struck him as callous and deliberate.
He said wryly as they rose to go back to the Yard, “I know better than to lose my temper. But injustice rankles more than I care to say.”
“You’re young,” Cummins replied, an echo of bitterness in his voice. “The time will come when you tell yourself you’ve done your best, and that it must be enough.”
I hope I never reach that stage, Rutledge answered, but not aloud, for he saw that Cummins himself had already come close to that point.
The odd case, as Cummins had called it, took him just west of Wells, to Stoke Yarlington. It was a village of pretty thatched cottages, a venerable square-towered church, and a small manor house set behind tall gates at the far end of the High Street.
Rutledge drove again, as he had done to Bristol, and when he arrived it was rather late. He’d snatched a brief moment with Jean before leaving London. He looked for a place to spend the rest of the night, and found it not far from the narrow green in the heart of the village. The building appeared to have been a coaching inn at one point in its history, but now it housed the only pub to one side and a tearoom on the other. Above there were six bedchambers, if they could be called that, and tall as he was, his head brushed the rafters in the largest one available. He’d asked for it after seeing the others. At least the bed in the one he’d chosen appeared to be long enough for him. The woman from the pub left him with an oil lamp, and the admonition that if he wished his breakfast, he must ask in the tearoom.
“My sister runs it,” Mrs. Reid said, preparing to shut the door. “Just tell her you’ve taken a room.”
“Where is the police station?”
She regarded him suspiciously. “It’s the front room in the constable’s cottage. Look here, is it the murder brought you from London? If so, this room’s taken. We don’t cater to the newspapers or the people they send down.”
“I’m from Scotland Yard, Mrs. Reid. I was asked by the Chief Constable to look into the murder. I’m afraid you must take your objections to him.” It was late and he was tired. His voice brooked no discussion of the matter.
She nodded after a moment, her face uncertain, but she shut the door smartly. He rather thought the news of his arrival would have reached every ear in the village by first light, but there was nothing he could do about that.
After an early breakfast, he went to find the constable. The police station, if it could be called that, was indeed the front room of the cottage, but another room had been added to the rear to compensate for the lost space.
Constable Hurley was in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging down at his sides, when Rutledge knocked at the door, then walked in. Middle-aged, running to weight now, and balding early, he gave the impression at first glance of being incompetent.
Hurley said, “You’re the man London sent down? Sir?”
“I am. Tell me about what happened to Joel Tattersall.”
“Surely you’ve seen the report, sir?”
“I have. But you saw the body, according to what I’ve read. I’d like to know what else you saw and what you felt when you arrived at the scene.”
“His sister found him. Miss Tattersall. A spinster. She was quite frantic, and I heard her crying for the doctor to come quickly. Dr. Graham is past seventy and slow. I went ahead to see what I could do, and there he was, Mr. Tattersall, lying there on his side just back of the door. She’d seen him as she came down the stairs, thought his heart had given out, and rushed for help, as there was no one else to send. The daily, Mrs. Betterton, hadn’t arrived, for it had just gone seven.”
“What did Dr. Graham have to say?”
“He thought it was Mr. Tattersall’s heart as well. But he sent for his son, who lives in the next village, and the younger Dr. Graham took Mr. Hurley away to his surgery and told us later that afternoon that he hadn’t died of his heart at all.”
“He had died of an overdose of laudanum, according to the report I saw. Why was he taking it?”
“But that’s just it, neither Miss Tattersall nor her brother had been prescribed it by Dr. Graham. Mrs. Betterton, who does for them, takes it sometimes to help her sleep because she has a neuralgia in her back. But she never carries it with her to the house.”
“Is Dr. Graham certain of that?”
“He is, indeed, still having all his faculties, in spite of being slow afoot. Laudanum is a freakish thing, Mr. Rutledge, as you well know, sir. It gives the body rest, and frees it of pain, but too much and a person dies. Or can’t stop craving it.”
“Who was in the house at the time?”
“Only Miss Tattersall, and she swears the door was on the latch when she opened it to run for Dr. Graham.”
“And what does gossip have to say about Mr. Tattersall’s death?”
“He had a falling-out with his solicitor some weeks ago. Sorry to say, no one likes the man. He has chambers in Wells, but his firm has handled the affairs of the Tattersall family for generations. The trouble is, Mr. Simmons has developed an unfortunate taste for gambling. Mr. Tattersall accused him of embezzling certain funds. Mr. Simmons replied that Mr. Tattersall�
�s refusal to listen to reason resulted in poor investment choices.”
“And has anyone spoken to Mr. Simmons since Mr. Tattersall died?”
“He was drunk as a lord when Inspector Holliston went to call on him. Asking about the will, you see. There was no making any sense of what he said.”
“Inspector Holliston is the man in Wells?”
“Yes, sir. It was he who asked that we summon the Yard. I’d not have done it on my own account.”
“Why?”
“We like to do things in our own good time, you see. No offense intended.”
“None taken. What in your opinion happened to Mr. Tattersall?”
“It’s possible he took the laudanum of his own accord. He was something of a hypochondriac.” He stumbled slightly, as if the word were unfamiliar to him. “I know it’s what Dr. Graham had to say about him, always coming to the surgery with this or that ailment, most of them in his head.”
“But he wasn’t prescribed it.”
“And then there’s the man who does the outside work of the house. Bob. He and Mr. Tattersall were always at odds over the pruning. Bob having an aggressive hand with the shears.”
“Hardly a reason to murder a man.”
“You don’t know how those two fought over the years,” Constable Hurley answered darkly.
Rutledge had seen it before. Men who deliberately tried to aggravate each other, to the point of madness. Something in their personalities, something in their mind-sets that led to bickering and sometimes beyond. Yet the loss of one often led sooner rather than later to the death of the other. But not always.
Rutledge read the statements that had been collected and then nodded. “We’ll begin with Miss Tattersall, I think. And then Dr. Graham.”
Miss Tattersall’s red eyes spoke of sleepless nights. But she was of a class where duty was paramount, even overruling grief. Tall, slim, with an intelligent face and no pretense at beauty, she was wearing a plain black dress with jet beads at the throat.
Leading them back to a small sitting room overlooking a bed of roses, she offered them tea, but Rutledge politely declined, instead offering his sympathy on the loss of her brother.
Following up on that, he asked gently, “Can you tell me just what happened when you discovered your brother’s body? I’ve read the interview, but it will help me to see that morning more clearly.”
She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and then said quietly, “I came down as usual to put the kettle on. I like the early morning, and I enjoy the quiet before Mrs. Betterton arrives to bustle about. You passed the stairs as you came in. I’d just started down them when I saw my brother lying there at the foot. My first thought was his heart, because he was lying so still. I called to him as I hurried down to him and put out a hand to touch his cheek. It was already cool. Unnaturally so. I realized then that he was still dressed, that he hadn’t gone up to bed. That he must have been lying there for quite some time, while I was sleeping. There was no one else to summon Dr. Graham, although I opened the door to see if there was anyone on the street. I was wearing slippers, although I was dressed, of course. I looked at them for a moment and decided they didn’t matter at a time like this. And so I walked quickly down to Dr. Graham’s house. He was already awake. I’d been afraid I might have to pound on the door. I told him I feared something had happened to my brother. He could see that I was in my slippers and distressed. He came at once, just stopping long enough to fetch his bag.”
She looked away then, staring out the window where a climbing rose the shade of blood framed the glass, one or two blossoms still visible despite the July heat. Her fingers smoothed the dark blue chintz arm of her chair. Rutledge waited.
After a moment, she picked up the thread of her story. “He asked me—Dr. Graham—if I’d tried to resuscitate Joel. I said no, explaining that his skin was already cool to the touch. But perhaps that was from the night air, and I thought then that I ought to have tried.”
Rutledge stopped her. “Had your brother had trouble with his heart before this?”
“No. Not at all. But our mother had, you see. We came to the house, and he asked me to allow him to go in first. I hadn’t told him that Joel wasn’t in his bed. He was quite surprised to find him lying there by the door. But, of course, there was nothing to be done. Dr. Graham insisted that I go into the kitchen and make both of us a cup of tea. I really didn’t want it, but he’s an old man, and I thought it might be best to make it for his sake. I even asked if he’d like a little something in it. Joel often took a drop or two of whisky in his tea. But he said no. And so we sat there, with my brother still lying at the foot of the steps, and waited for the kettle to boil. I asked Dr. Graham then if it was his heart. He said he feared it must be. By that time Mrs. Betterton had arrived, and we had to give her a cup of tea as well. While I was occupied with her, Dr. Graham saw to it that Joel was removed to his son’s surgery and he also had the floor cleaned where—where my brother had died.”
“And at that time you still felt it was a natural death?”
“Oh yes, anything else never crossed my mind. It wasn’t until the constable, here, told me about the laudanum that I knew it was something vastly different. Joel never used laudanum. I don’t think he approved of it. But what I don’t understand is how it came to be in his stomach. I didn’t find a glass by his chair or in the kitchen. Where I’d expect to see one if he’d had something to drink before retiring. I also looked in his room. A little later, however, I found a broken glass in the dustbin.”
“Where is it now?”
“I expect it went to the tip.”
“Was your brother in any pain? Did he have any problems that would make him look for relief, and then swallow the wrong dose?”
“If you’re asking if he were anxious, the answer is no. And he never complained of pain. But then he wouldn’t. We’d been brought up not to complain, you see.”
And yet the constable had told him that Tattersall was something of a hypochondriac. Was he careful not to worry his sister with imaginary ailments? Or afraid she would make light of them in her blunt, practical way?
“When the possibility of murder was raised, what did you think?”
“I didn’t know what to think. I had been asleep just up those stairs. If someone had come into this house, they must have known that.”
“And nothing was taken?”
“Nothing. Inspector Holliston asked me to look, and I did. Not so much as a matchstick was missing.”
He was reminded of the inquiry in Moresby, where nothing had been taken except for a man’s life. But Tattersall hadn’t been hanged.
“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished to see your brother dead?”
She shook her head. “No. I’d have said he wasn’t the sort of man who would ever be murdered. It’s odd—and it’s troubling. I find myself looking at people in the village and wondering. But of course that’s ridiculous. I don’t know of anyone who would do such a thing to him.”
“Which suggests that someone could have entered this house without breaking in. He could have come through the door and found your brother still downstairs?”
“Yes, sadly, that’s true. We thought we had nothing to fear. How foolish we were. But I expect if someone had wanted to come in badly enough, he’d have found a way. We leave the kitchen door off the latch as well, so that Mrs. Betterton can come and go without disturbing us.”
“Why do you think your brother was lying there by the stairs, so close to the door. Was he looking to find you—or to follow someone out? You told the doctor that the door was on the latch.”
“If someone had come in and wanted to harm him, he would try to stop this person. I don’t think he would have considered coming up the stairs until he knew I would be safe. Possibly he intended to lock the door after whoever it was left.”
There was a stoicism in her voice that had the ring of truth in it. Setting aside her pain and her grief, she was l
ooking at her brother’s last moments as objectively as she could. She was of an age and a class that demanded it of her, and she would not fail in her duty. Mourning would have to wait.
Rutledge thought it very likely that she was right. The dying man’s effort to lock the door behind whoever it was who had killed him was a natural instinct to protect his sister. But he’d never reached the door. Then why had she thought it was locked?
Unless the killer had locked it when he came in, and then let himself out the back way, so as not to be seen.
Rutledge asked to see the kitchen door. The back garden, protected by a high wall and shaded by tall trees, ran down to a small shed at the bottom. He went to have a look at it, then tested the wall’s height himself.
It was just possible for him to pull himself to the top of the shed and then swing himself over the high wall. It was a long drop on the far side, but into heavy grass. Beyond lay a plowed field and beyond that a thin copse of trees.
If the killer had left by this route, he must have been tall enough to do what Rutledge had done.
But by the side of the house, there was a narrow passage with a small gate into the garden and flagstones leading across to the kitchen door. The way that the housekeeper arrived and left each day. If the killer had watched the house, he would have seen her regular movements, and perhaps late at night even tested the gate and the back door himself.
Not a random killing, then. A premeditated murder?
7
Dr. Graham was in his surgery. Rutledge and Constable Hurley waited for some ten minutes before he was free to speak to them.
The man’s hair was white, as was the mustache that bristled above his upper lip. His hands were blue-veined and thin, but there was no quiver of age in them as he gestured to two chairs in front of the table he used as a desk. And his gray eyes were sharp, steady. His nurse, who looked to be thirty, had also been steady and unflappable in the face of a visit by Scotland Yard.
