A Fine Summer's Day

by Charles Todd

  Dr. Graham said, before Rutledge could ask his first question, “I never said anything to Miss Tattersall about suicide. But I must tell you that under the circumstances, I’ve considered the possibility. The problem is, I know of no reason for it. Tattersall was in reasonably good health for his age, and he had no financial worries. Rumors about that sort of thing usually get out sooner or later, and I’d heard none. Nor was there any note. I looked upstairs in his bedroom while Miss Tattersall was putting the kettle on. And yet murder seems to me to be equally far-fetched.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t think of any reason for it any more than I can for self-destruction.”

  “He came often to your surgery, I’m told, with imaginary ailments.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true, but I think he was mostly lonely. A good many of his friends had passed on or moved away to live with a son or daughter. We’d discuss whatever problem he claimed to have had, I’d prescribe exercise or avoiding a last cup of tea at bedtime, or simply tell him he was mistaken, that he was not ill. He’d thank me, settle my bill with the nurse, and be on his way. He was never insistent or rude.”

  “I’ve been told he had had a long-standing feud with the man who kept the grounds at the house.”

  Dr. Graham chuckled. “So he did. If it led to murder, I’ll be hard-pressed to believe it. I have never seen two more stubborn men. But the odd thing is, they were never that way in any other situation. There was something about the pruning that began the feud. Have you see the back garden? Yes? To tell you the truth, I think they rather enjoyed their verbal battles.”

  “And his quarrel with the solicitor? A matter of possible misappropriation of funds?”

  “There may be some truth to that. The man was no fool when it came to money. Simmons must have been desperate indeed if he tried to embezzle from the accounts of Joel Tattersall. But Simmons might well be guilty of raiding the funds of other clients, if his gambling got out of hand. I’ve heard that he frequented several clubs in London.”

  “And Tattersall might have threatened to tell those other clients, or at least make his suspicions public.”

  “That’s very possible. And he would have opened the door to Simmons, if he’d come to eat humble pie. Or pretended to have done. Something to consider.”

  “It appears that you and the constable here knew of the problems with Simmons. If others knew, what would be the point of killing Tattersall?”

  “We learned of it after the murder. There was the draft of a letter in Tattersall’s desk. Holliston read it and told us that it indicated the dead man’s suspicions and his intention to call for an audit of the books. Tattersall and his sister enjoyed a considerable trust fund, jointly held. Simmons and his father before him had the administering of it.”

  But Rutledge hadn’t been told about this letter.

  He said as much. Constable Hurley cleared his throat. “The doctor and I felt it best to mention nothing about it until there was time to judge whether it was true or just Mr. Tattersall’s suspicions.”

  Interesting information. It might even prove motive.

  “Could you tell whether or not the house had been searched, as in Simmons trying to find this letter?”

  “Miss Tattersall assured us nothing had been disturbed.”

  “Why did Tattersall use a solicitor in Wells, rather than one closer to home?”

  “It was his father who selected the firm of Simmons and Simmons. Or so I was led to believe by Miss Tattersall.”

  “Would she have killed her brother in order to inherit his share of the fund?”

  “I can’t imagine why. My understanding is that the fund is more than sufficient for their needs now and well into the future.”

  “Anything else you’ve chosen not to share?”

  Color rose in the constable’s face. “No, sir.”

  Dr. Graham added with almost Victorian righteousness, “I didn’t wish to ruin a man’s reputation without good cause.”

  “But you told the sister about the possible embezzlement?”

  “Not at this stage. It was unlikely that whoever killed her brother would return to kill her.”

  But nothing was unlikely yet.

  Rutledge rose. “It might have set her mind at ease. She fears that whoever killed her brother knows she was in the house at the time. And whoever it is might decide at some stage that she can identify him.”

  “Still.”

  He realized that a man of the doctor’s age would have been accustomed to sparing women ugly or sordid details. In matters of illness, he would have told their fathers or brothers how their female relatives should be treated, naturally assuming that the male members of the family would see that instructions were understood and properly carried out. An old-fashioned and outdated point of view. He wondered briefly what the very capable Miss Tattersall would have made of it.

  “I’ll like to speak to Inspector Holliston and possibly to Simmons. Thank you for your time, Doctor. Constable.”

  He turned and left both men in the office, staring after him.

  It was not a long drive to Wells, and he found the town bustling in the summer morning sun. Inspector Holliston was easily found in the main police station.

  A man of medium height with the springy step of an athlete, Holliston ran his fingers through his fair hair and said, “Sorry to put this matter off on the Yard, but we’ve had a rash of trouble. The heat, I expect. No relief from it. And so you got Mr. Tattersall.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Rutledge asked, curious.

  Holliston sighed. “A hanging. We haven’t decided if it’s suicide or murder. A man killed in his farmyard, but we aren’t certain whether it’s murder or an accident. Fell out of the loft window onto his own pitchfork. A drowning that could be suspicious. There were enough people eager to kill the bastard. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them did it. And now Tattersall’s death.”

  “Which you treated as murder from the start.”

  “For one thing, he’s a prominent man. For another, where did the laudanum come from? Finally, a man doesn’t kill himself without good reason. No health issues, no money worries, no enemies. A quiet man living a quiet life. A sister to look after, for that matter. Not a likely suicide. And yet it appears he drank that laudanum himself. No bruising of the lip or tongue. No sign of a struggle. One wonders why.”

  On the table behind where Holliston was sitting were three rowing trophies. Rutledge wondered where he rowed, and if they were past or present achievements. The way the sun shone in the window above them, he couldn’t read the dates. Or the inscriptions, for that matter.

  “Why, indeed. The only change in his life appears to be the problem with the solicitor. The possibility of embezzlement.”

  “That’s the odd thing,” Holliston said, moving the papers in front of him so that they marched with the border of his blotter. “It appears that there was a break-in at Simmons’s chambers not long ago. Nothing taken, but some of his files had been rifled. We’ve not found out any more about that. But it’s worth noting.”

  “Constable Hurley said nothing about a break-in.”

  “I doubt he knows. It was our patch, not his.”

  Rutledge said, “It might have some importance in both inquiries.”

  Holliston shrugged. “I don’t see how. Besides, Tattersall hadn’t written his letter to Simmons when that happened.”

  “Then how did he learn of the embezzlement?”

  “I expect he was careful of his business matters. In his desk were a number of small ledgers listing various transactions about his and his sister’s trusts.”

  “Do you think Miss Tattersall was worried about that trust—and poisoned her brother with laudanum?”

  “She seems an unlikely candidate for murderer. What’s more, given the sums in question, it would have been sheer greed, not necessity. The ledgers indicated that she had more than the usual freedom of access to her monies and spent them as she saw fit. My co
nclusion was that the trust was unlikely to have become an issue between brother and sister.”

  Unlikely . . .

  That policeman’s caveat again. And yet Rutledge had to agree. His conversation with Miss Tattersall had given him no reason to doubt her testimony. She was straightforward, almost blunt at times, and gave no impression of hiding anything.

  “It’s certain nothing was taken during the break-in at the solicitor’s chambers?”

  “According to Simmons and his clerk.”

  “If it was incriminating material, perhaps they preferred not to admit that to the police.”

  Holliston frowned. “If it were only Simmons, I might agree with you. That’s to say, if the man is stealing from his clients. But William Barry, his head clerk, is a different matter. I can’t quite see him lying to us. He worked for the elder Simmons, and he has a reputation for integrity and honesty.”

  “How can he not know? It’s possible he’s aware of embezzlement and is afraid of losing his position once he confirms your suspicions.”

  “I stand by my belief that he’s what he appears to be.”

  “Then either Simmons is brilliant in hiding his affairs from his clerk, or it’s been a fairly recent problem. And there’s his gambling.”

  “All right, I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m told that he was drunk when you called on him to take a look at Tattersall’s will. Is this a frequent occurrence? Does Simmons often drink more than he can hold?”

  “I’ve never known him to do that. I was as surprised to find him in that condition as my constable was. And at that hour.”

  “Perhaps his conscience was troubling him.”

  Holliston raised fair eyebrows. “You’re suggesting that he killed Tattersall, and then was overcome by remorse?”

  “It’s happened before. I think it’s time to have a word with Simmons.”

  Holliston gave him directions to the solicitor’s chambers, and then said, “He’s a likeable man. Simmons. I’m not sure where the gambling came from, or why. Unless he fell in with a bad crowd at that club in London.”

  “It’s always possible,” Rutledge agreed, and took his leave.

  He found the tall, handsome house with the brass plate by the door that read SIMMONS AND SIMMONS, and lifted the matching brass door knocker.

  The clerk who answered his summons was a plump man with white hair and steady brown eyes.

  He invited Rutledge inside and led him to the reception room. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, sir,” he said. “Mr. Simmons has gone to see a client, and I was in the back. Can I help you?”

  “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Simmons in regard to the Tattersall trust fund. I understand he administers it for the late Joel Tattersall and his sister.”

  “May I ask why you are inquiring?” the clerk replied, giving nothing away as he faced Rutledge.

  He gave his name, and after a moment, he added, “I’m from London. Scotland Yard.”

  “Ah. I was uncertain whether Mr. Tattersall’s death had been determined to be murder or perhaps suicide.”

  “Why should he have killed himself?”

  “I have no idea. But I have held this position for many years, and if I have learned anything at all, it’s that people often do things that one never expects them to do.”

  “For instance, your employer’s enthusiasm for gambling? I was given to understand that this was a recent—er—pastime.”

  The clerk considered Rutledge. “Mr. Simmons is a good man. And a fair man. But he doesn’t have the same dedication to the law that his father had. If anything, I would say he took up gambling out of boredom.”

  “This is his livelihood.”

  “I daresay it is. But there is no law that prevents a solicitor from enjoying himself.”

  “None at all, unless his habit of gambling has led him into deep waters, and he finds himself in need of more funds than he’s able to raise. Unless he turns to the trust funds that are in his keeping and helps himself to them.”

  The clerk never blinked an eye. “To my knowledge, Mr. Simmons has never broken the promise he made to his father, to conduct his business honorably.”

  “Then you’re saying—”

  The outer door opened and a man with dark red hair and sharp blue eyes walked in, interrupting them.

  “I say, Barry, can you lay your hands on that inquiry about the—”

  It was his turn to break off as he saw Rutledge sitting in the antechamber speaking to his clerk.

  “Sorry,” he said, nodding to Rutledge. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  But some sort of signal must have passed between Barry and his employer, because Simmons frowned, then said, “If you’ll forgive me,” and walked on to the inner door, passing through it without looking back.

  Barry excused himself and followed Simmons.

  From where he was sitting Rutledge could hear their voices but not what they were saying.

  After several minutes, Simmons returned and said to Rutledge, “I can see you now, but I must tell you I have an urgent meeting in ten minutes.”

  He showed Rutledge into a large inner room with a desk and several chairs. It was clearly where he met with clients, for the carpet and the window hangings and the dark wood of the furnishings spoke of longevity and trust. Even the paintings, dark and Elizabethan, save for the white ruffs of the sitters, added to the feeling of timelessness and respectability. The only thing out of place in this setting was the bright green blotter on the massive desk.

  Sitting down, and gesturing to Rutledge to follow suit, he said, “I’ve been told you’re from Scotland Yard and that you wish to see me about the Tattersall trust. Is that correct?”

  “More precisely,” Rutledge said pleasantly, “I wished to discuss a report from Inspector Holliston that you were drunk the morning he came to report Mr. Tattersall’s death to you. And later you couldn’t account for your whereabouts when asked where you were on the night your client died.”

  “I couldn’t because I couldn’t remember.” Simmons ran his fingers through his hair. “Look. I’d just proposed to the young woman I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and she turned me down. Not even a ‘Do let me think about it, Thomas,’ or an ‘I’m not ready to consider marriage just now, Thomas.’ A resounding no. I wasn’t expecting it. And I wasn’t about to relate that story to Holliston because he’s acquainted with the young woman and could, for all I know, be my rival. I went home and got drunk. The first time I’ve done that since I was at university, and rather stupid, yes, but at the time I couldn’t think of anything better to do.”

  Remembering the rowing trophies behind Holliston’s desk, Rutledge smiled. Holliston might well turn a young woman’s head. “And your gambling habit?”

  “That’s a rumor that got started after I’d been up to London. I put some money on a horse race, just for a lark, and by God I won. Quite a large sum, in fact. I shouldn’t have told anyone, but I was elated. After that I was occasionally invited by people I knew to sit in for a hand or two of cards. Friendly games, hardly wallowing in dens of iniquity, and I won as often as I lost. That experience changed my mind, gave me the courage to try my luck. I determined to speak to Rach—to Miss Barclay. Apparently my luck was short-lived.”

  “Do you play cards often?”

  “Two or three times a year? Whenever I’m in London. Never locally. And certainly never more than I can afford to lose. But I’d give much to know who started the rumors that I was in over my head,” Simmons ended grimly.

  “Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Tattersall had come to question your stewardship of his and his sister’s trust?”

  “I can’t. Unless those rumors reached his ears. Holliston also asked me about Tattersall’s concerns. I will say this. Sometimes Tattersall would decide that this or that would be a sound investment, and he would ask me to look into shares. If I couldn’t dissuade him, and the London banks warned me off from that particular i
nvestment possibility, I’d drag my feet rather than argue with him. It was simpler. South American gold mines, Trans-Africa railways, coffee plantations in Kenya—they all appear quite tantalizing when you read the brochures. As do the unbelievably good rates of returns guaranteed. The fact is, most of them never pay back a farthing, and as often as not the principal is lost as well. If you want to talk about gambling, there’s the real danger.”

  He was right. Financial bubbles usually burst.

  “Why did Tattersall take a fatal dose of laudanum?”

  The question took Simmons off guard. “God. I don’t have a clue. I’d have said he was the last man I would think of as a murder victim. Tattersall and his sister lived a settled life. He walked every morning, whatever the weather. He read every afternoon. In the evening they occasionally entertained but most often played a two-hand game of whist. Hardly the sort of people you expect to arouse strong passions in anyone.”

  “What becomes of the Tattersall trusts?”

  “Nothing. Miss Tattersall inherits her brother’s share, and that’s that. There’s no charitable distribution or the like. It isn’t like a will. The funds simply go to his sister.”

  “Would she have killed him for it?”

  “Miss Tattersall?” he asked, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “I can’t imagine that, either. As it is, she has enough money to see her through this lifetime and several more. I quite like her, as a matter of fact. Very different from her brother. He enjoyed the solitary life. I expect she would have traveled more, if the decision had rested with her. But they were devoted to each other.”

  “What happens to the trust when she dies?”

  “As I remember it goes to Eton. Hardly the sort of people who might try to collect early on their money.”

  To Eton. Where Tattersall and most likely his father had gone to school. Her share of the trust was not in Miss Tattersall’s gift.

  Rutledge left with a handful of names and began the tedious process of interviewing their owners. Holliston had most likely covered the same ground earlier, but given Simmons’s suspicions about the man, he thought it might be best to work independently.