by Charles Todd
“Was there anyone else in his life? A woman . . .”
She smiled sadly. “If there were, I’d die of the shock. Ours was a love match. I’d have given my life for Jerry. And he for me.”
“I’m told you didn’t live here in this house, just after your marriage.”
“My father wouldn’t have been satisfied with the Prince of Wales, much less Jerry. And as a consequence we visited infrequently. And yet Papa left him this estate, when he might have tied it up for me alone. I’ve always believed it was because he’d come to know that Jerry would be a good husband in every sense. To me, to the land, to the people we employ.”
“Where did you live before coming here?”
“Bristol of all places.” She smiled again at his look of surprise. “Jerry was the heir of his Uncle Thaddeus, and so we lived in a town house there. Quite a lovely old one. We’d met in London when I came out, and I knew straightaway that it was Jerry I wanted to spend my life with. When my father died, we turned the Bristol house over to my husband’s cousin and his family. They were looking for a larger home, and so it was suitable for them.”
Bristol. Even in Moresby, even here in Kent, the road led back to Bristol. Why Bristol?
He asked if she or her husband had by any chance known the Clayton family, or the Tattersall brother and sister. But she shook her head. “Should we have known them? Were they connections of my husband’s? If so I don’t believe he ever spoke of them or introduced me to them.”
And he believed her.
She considered his question from another perspective. “Are you saying that someone among these families, the Claytons or the Tattersalls, wanted to harm my husband—that this might be why he was so willing to move to Kent, when I asked him to take over the farm?”
“I don’t have any reason to think so, no,” he replied. “They were involved in other cases concerning Bristol. It’s a matter of thoroughness, that’s all.” He kept his voice level, his expression neutral, but it took all his willpower to conceal what was going through his mind.
Bowles would call it another of his leaps of the imagination, not founded on fact or backed up with evidence. But here were three cases revolving around this singular business of Bristol and a glass of milk. Surely there had to be something connecting them? A killer. Why had he singled out three such different men?
Annie Clayton had left her father in the house. But only for a night. Miss Tattersall had been asleep upstairs, as the staff had been here. How had a killer found his victims so alone?
He tried to concentrate, to finish his interview, but his mind was jumping from one possibility to another.
If these murders were connected, Kingston, sitting in a jail in Moresby, couldn’t have committed the last two. But did that clear him in the first death? Was one man at the bottom of this, or was it a conspiracy?
He said, “I’ve kept you longer than I should. Perhaps we could finish talking tomorrow?”
Gratitude flooded her eyes. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Unless, of course, what I could remember would speed your investigation?”
“I think we have enough to be going on with.”
“Then would you mind ringing the bell, there by the hearth? Mrs. Tolliver can show you out, and afterward, help me back up the stairs.”
She was pale, and Rutledge wondered if she had eaten or slept since she had been given the news.
He did as she had asked, waiting for Mrs. Tolliver to appear. When she stepped into the room, Rutledge said quietly, “I can find my own way out. I think your mistress needs you.”
He turned to go, but Mrs. Hadley said in a stronger voice, “If you find out who did this to my husband, or why, will you come at once and tell me? I need to know.”
Rutledge promised, nodded to her and to Mrs. Tolliver, and left.
Through the still open door he heard Mrs. Tolliver say, “I was afraid it was too much for you. Let me help you back up the stairs.”
And Mrs. Hadley answered, “Too much for me? When Jerry is lying God knows where, dead? I would do anything to find his killer.”
He found himself wondering if she had meant him to hear.
Rutledge finally ran Dr. Wylie to earth.
He was not in his surgery, but his nurse explained that there had been an accident out at one of the farms. Following her directions, Rutledge reached Sunrise Farm, only to learn that the doctor had dealt with the mangled foot and was now on his way to look in on a newborn at Foxhole Farm.
Rutledge had just turned into the muddy farm lane when he saw the doctor’s carriage with its smartly stepping black mare in the harness, coming toward him.
Waiting for him, Rutledge looked out across more hop fields, and beyond them to orchards already heavy with late summer fruit.
Wylie was younger than he’d expected, perhaps thirty-five, tall and slender with a shock of unruly black hair and intelligent blue eyes.
“Am I needed?” he called when he was close enough to be heard.
Rutledge introduced himself and said, “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Jerome Hadley’s death.”
“It’s better for you to join me here than for me to get down. Nellie is not accustomed to motorcars.”
And so Rutledge climbed up beside him in the small carriage.
“What made you suspect it was murder even before you’d done a cursory examination of Hadley’s body?”
“I knew he had a sound heart, and although that’s never a guarantee of a long life, I couldn’t believe it was that. When I saw the glass of milk on the blotter, Mrs. Tolliver told me that he never drank milk. Some people can’t, you know. It upsets their digestive system. And then I smelled the milk—a doctor uses his nose as often as he uses his eyes—and despite the sourness, I thought there was something else in the glass. I tasted it. And I realized at once that it must be laudanum. Where had it come from, and why was Hadley taking it? This was altogether too suspicious for me to say nothing. I told the constable what I suspected. He was worried about contacting Mrs. Hadley in Canterbury, but I must admit I was curious enough that I volunteered to go there myself.”
“Did you suspect her?”
“Not really. No. But I was concerned about the laudanum, and I wanted to ask her if she used it. I’d never prescribed it for her—there was no need, she’s a healthy young woman—but women sometimes use it in small amounts to help them sleep, and she might have got it in Canterbury. Women used to take arsenic, you know, to give them that ethereally pale complexion so desirable at one time. In such small amounts, it’s not deadly, but there could be an accumulative effect if users aren’t careful. As a matter of fact, I had prescribed laudanum for the maid Peggy. But it was a dilute solution and a small vial because she was so young. In the night, she might not count her drops properly. Or follow my instructions to call the housekeeper to help her. That’s trouble waiting to happen. Or perhaps she decides to rid herself of another maid who has made her life wretched? Young, impetuous, thoughtless.”
“You have an extraordinary interest in murder, for a healer.”
“Not murder. I’ve been a doctor long enough that nothing surprises me. Human nature being what it is. Medical training shows you the best and the worst of life. You don’t deal with only the nice people. There are drug addicts and botched backstreet abortions and abuses that turn your stomach. And attempted murder that winds up on a table in front of us and we have a matter of minutes to determine what we can do to save the poor victim. I’ve run across more than my share of laudanum cases. Best way to rid yourself of that elderly aunt sitting on all that money, or a clinging wife who has long since become a burden. Even an unwanted child. The list goes on.”
“How could someone kill a man with laudanum, without leaving any other trace of his presence in a house? As in Hadley’s case? If it wasn’t someone who lived there?”
“I’ve pondered that myself. No robbery, no rummaging through the house looking for private papers, no attempt to torture Hadley i
nto giving him whatever it was he wanted. And yet someone went down to the kitchen for that glass of milk. And someone had the laudanum to put into it. I did the post, you know. That’s what killed him.”
“Yes, I thought as much. Although it was essential to have that confirmed. Any possibility of an affair? Either partner might have reached a point where he or she wished to be free without the scandal of divorce.”
Wylie shook his head. “They were close, the Hadleys. And very happy.”
“No children?”
“Sadly, no. My wife tells me that’s why Mrs. Hadley does so much for the hop pickers and their families.”
“Any idea how the will stands?”
“I was one of the witnesses. There’s a Hadley cousin in Bristol, I think, but the property was Mrs. Hadley’s to begin with, and Jerome didn’t wish to leave it elsewhere. The cousin would have been an absentee landlord, and besides, apparently he’s doing too well in the shipping business to think of taking on a farm of this size.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Jerome spoke to him before drawing up the will. He wholeheartedly agreed.”
“Then what happens to the farm?”
“It goes to Mrs. Hadley, of course. And if she dies, it will be sold and the proceeds donated to various charities.”
“So the property isn’t at issue. Anything else that might be?”
“I was talking to my wife about that last night. Mrs. Hadley had inherited some rather nice pieces of jewelry, and her husband had given her other bits and bobs. But they were all there. She looked when she got home. That rules out theft. Unless of course the intruder, whoever he was, had no idea they existed. Apparently he never even looked. The bedroom hadn’t been touched, any more than the library had. Not so much as a drawer opened.”
“Interesting,” Rutledge said. “I’ve had two other cases closely resembling this one, each of them separated from the other by quite some distance. Wells in Somerset and Moresby in Yorkshire. And yet threads of both of them led back to Bristol. A shopkeeper, a man with a trust that enabled him to live a life of leisure. And now a farmer.”
“Were they the same age? Had they been to the same school?”
“The man with the trust was the eldest, the shopkeeper was some twenty years younger, and Hadley must have been ten to fifteen years younger still.”
“And they’re not related? Distant cousins, or even through marriage?”
“No relationship at all. Not that we’ve turned up.”
Wylie shook his head. “I can’t think what it might be that they shared. Hadley was to all intents and purposes a gentleman farmer, but he worked as hard as any man I know.”
“Anything else that you think might be useful? What about all those workers out from London?”
“If this had happened when they were here working, I’d say you must interview the lot. But they weren’t. Still, it’s possible that one of them held a grudge, it simmered, and we’ve seen the aftermath of it.”
“But that wouldn’t explain the shopkeeper and the man of leisure.”
“No. I doubt a farm laborer down from London would have any knowledge of the other two.” Wylie shrugged. “I know this village. There’s not a soul in it who would harm one of the Hadleys. And I can’t picture Jerome taking advantage of his wife’s absence in Canterbury to kill himself. I’d seen him just this past week, and he was cheerful, looking forward to her return, and even thinking about driving down to spend a day or two in Canterbury, then bring her home. Hardly the attitude of a man depressed enough to kill himself.”
“Unless he’d had bad news about the farm and felt he’d failed as its steward.”
“Not Hadley. He’d have faced it squarely and dealt with it.”
Rutledge thanked the doctor, got down, and drove back to the Hadley farm. He asked permission to look through Hadley’s desk in the small room where he kept the farm accounts. The local police had been there before him, but he spent three hours searching for anything that might explain Hadley’s death.
The accounts were in order, the farm was prospering, and the death duties for Mrs. Hadley’s father had been paid off long ago. Nothing to indicate that a man had felt it better to take his own life than to have to face his wife with dire news.
He thanked Mrs. Tolliver, left the farm, and instead of going to Maidstone to speak to Inspector Watson, he drove instead back to Melinda Crawford’s house.
She had paid to have a telephone installed as soon as it was possible to do so, and from there, he could call London.
10
Rutledge had tea on the terrace with his hostess, and then asked for the use of her telephone.
She grinned at him. “Is that why you came back? Why didn’t you say so straightaway instead of fidgeting for half an hour.”
“I didn’t fidget,” he answered her.
“Not literally, perhaps, but figuratively, definitely. Go on. Call Jean if you like.”
“Not Jean. The Yard. There’s something I need to know before I can go any further with this present inquiry.”
“By all means. And then come back and satisfy an old woman’s curiosity.”
He kissed her on the forehead as he passed her chair on the way to the telephone closet just off the main hall.
He was in luck. Sergeant Gibson was still at the Yard.
“Having any success there in Kent, sir?” the sergeant inquired when he was summoned to the telephone.
“I need information, Sergeant. And it’s rather urgent.”
He went on to explain what it was he was after. Had any of the other Inspectors on duty at the Yard recently handled a case where the outcome was uncertain, but the weapon of choice was laudanum in glasses of milk that the victim drank without a struggle.
“As to that, sir, I don’t know.”
“Look into it for me, will you? It’s important enough that I’ll wait by the telephone to hear from you.” He passed on Melinda’s number, thanked Gibson, and hung up.
As he walked back out onto the terrace, Melinda turned to study his face. “Your telephone call. It had a satisfactory conclusion? It must have done, for here you are, back again this quickly.”
She alone of all his family and friends had that uncanny way of seeing through him. Not that he had much to hide from her. But she seemed to read his moods and his distractions with ease, and sometimes it was trying to be so transparent.
He said, “I was looking into this case in Aylesbridge.” He proceeded to tell her about Hadley’s death. She was surprised.
“But I know him, Ian. Not well of course, but he and his lovely wife were often at county functions I bothered to attend.”
Melinda had created quite a stir when she had bought this house and staffed it with Indian servants she’d brought back from Delhi with her. Her Sikh chauffeur drove with skill and speed, frightening horses and small children. Her personal maid, a Hindu with what appeared to be an endless assortment of saris, had a reputation for being a shrewd businesswoman, making certain her mistress was never cheated by purveyors of goods to the household. Shanta also treated Rutledge as a favored member of the family, indulging him when his parents weren’t looking. He knew Melinda turned a blind eye, and so he’d enjoyed his popularity in the kitchen as well as the stables.
Melinda Crawford was nothing if not clever. She listened to his account of the inquiry in Moresby and again in Stoke Yarlington, then nodded as he finished and sat back.
She rang for more tea, then said, “This killer has a scheme, I should think. He’s not acting randomly. He’s selected his victims with care, always coming upon them when they’re alone. He’s studied them and knows when it’s safe to approach them. The question remains, what is that scheme?”
“I don’t know yet.” Rutledge got up to pace. “So far these have all been men.”
“Yes, that’s true. Which points to business affairs, I should think, rather than personal matters. Only they’ve never shared a business relationship
that you know of. The only link I can find, then, aside from the laudanum, is Bristol and its environs.”
“They were all reasonably successful men. Even Clayton had sold his shop for a goodly sum. It’s possible each of them refused to help someone desperately in need of money. And he’s taking his revenge. But why wait so long? Was this man in prison? Out of the country? Ill? Shut up in an institution?”
“A good question. The Army perhaps? Posted in the Empire somewhere and unable to return to England?” Melinda shrugged elegantly. “My dear boy, it could be any of these things. A veritable needle in a haystack. How do you propose to find that needle?”
“I don’t know yet. Much will depend on what Sergeant Gibson has to tell me. Surely if this killer has had other victims, he must have made a mistake, left a clue, or in some way tipped his hand.”
“We can only hope he has.”
But it was late when Sergeant Gibson returned Rutledge’s call. Well after ten.
They had just finished their Madeira and set their empty glasses on the drinks tray. Melinda was on the point of going up to bed when they heard the trill of the telephone from the hall.
“Ah,” she said. “That must be for you. Answer it, Ian.”
And so he had, not waiting for one of the staff to summon him.
It was Gibson, as he’d hoped.
“There’s been another such case, sir. Inspector Penvellyn in Northumberland.”
Rutledge remembered discussing that inquiry with Inspector Cummins, considering the possibility that the Cornish Inspector hadn’t dealt well with the people in the far north of the country.
“What about his successor? Martin, I think it was.”
“No luck there, either, although Inspector Martin was convinced the wife had killed her husband. She had had laudanum after her surgery to remove her gall bladder, and had even begged more from the local doctor. The problem was, there was no way to prove his suspicions.”
A frustration Rutledge recognized.
“Will you have a copy of that file on my desk? I’ll be back in London tomorrow morning to have a look at it.”
