by Charles Todd
“He’s told us he doesn’t want her here.”
“Nevertheless, she ought to be at her father’s side. I expect he will find it easier to accept living, if she’s here to support him. How would you feel if you couldn’t remember the last inquiry you handled? If the names of a suspect and the evidence were muddled? He refused to let me tell his daughter anything about his loss of memory. He would put off her visits, to keep her in the dark. Of course he doesn’t want her here now to see him as a failed suicide.”
But Gilbert had left Rutledge with the impression that she was busy with her children and her husband’s career.
“Set your watch. The nurse should wait until he’s more stable before sending for Claudia. Look at him. Seeing him in this state will only distress her. Have you considered that in his drugged, confused mind, he thinks she may have tried to kill him?”
“Claudia? Good God, man, you can’t believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I won’t, until he’s fully awake and coherent.”
He left the doctor with his patient and ran lightly down the stairs, walking on to the door that led to the kitchens.
He found the servants standing in their hall, whispering together, as if speaking in a normal tone of voice might reach the man in the bed upstairs. They broke apart as soon as they saw him coming through the doorway.
The housekeeper stepped forward and asked, “Is there any news?” Her eyes were dark-circled from lack of sleep. “Dr. Greening wouldn’t tell us anything except that Mr. Gilbert needed rest.”
Rutledge had dealt with Mrs. Thompson when he spent the night in this house. He had found her capable and very concerned about her employer.
He said, “It’s true, I just saw him. The quieter he is, the sooner he’ll recover. There are to be no visitors. The only people allowed in this house will be Dr. Greening and the nurse he’s sending for to attend his patient.”
The housekeeper exchanged glances with a heavyset woman wearing an apron. The cook, he thought. Then she turned back to Rutledge. “Are they saying he tried to kill himself? I won’t believe it. Not Mr. Gilbert.”
“He isn’t able to tell us what happened. Which of you brought him a warm glass of milk the night he was taken ill? Do you remember?” His gaze met that of each member of the staff in turn.
There was a general shaking of heads. The housekeeper said, “I can’t think that he came down for it himself. But then if it was late and we were asleep, he might have tried. He isn’t an invalid, you know. Walking is painful and difficult, with that toe. The night you stayed here at Swan Walk, you saw how he needed help to manage those stairs. Still, if he was determined enough, he might’ve. If it had been his French brandy now, I’d believe it. I can’t think why he should want milk. He generally took his drops in water.”
“There’s another question I must put to you. Have any of you seen a stranger hanging about? Coming to the door to ask directions or to speak to anyone in this house?”
“There’s been no one,” the housekeeper told him. “We don’t see many people. You yourself were our only guest for months now—since Miss Claudia was last here in the early spring.”
“I don’t mean a policeman or a guest. I’m talking about a laborer, a peddler, a mender of pots and pans—anyone who isn’t a member of the staff or who wasn’t sent out by the greengrocer or the miller with your orders—not someone you know well by sight because he comes regularly?”
But they couldn’t think of anyone. Scanning their faces, he wondered if they were telling the absolute truth. Or if one of them had seen someone and was afraid to mention it. He waited for several seconds, to give everyone a chance to speak. But no one did.
There was the footprint in the earth by the delphiniums. Perhaps Dobson hadn’t come to the door because he’d already spotted his quarry in the sitting room.
Still, how could the killer be sure that this thin, stooped man was once the robust figure of one of the old Queen’s finest barristers? The doctor was right, Gilbert had changed.
But if Dobson had never seen him at the height of his career, he would have no means for comparison.
What’s more, Swan Walk hadn’t changed. It had been in Gilbert’s family for centuries. His own home from childhood. Perhaps that was all his killer needed to know.
And yet it was the weak voice of the old man lying in the great bed that haunted Rutledge all the way to his motorcar.
Gilbert was intent on finishing what he’d begun. Driven to finish it.
That sounded more like suicide than murder. And it might well be Rutledge himself who was trying to make this man into another of Dobson’s victims.
15
Rutledge drove to the little village of Swan Walk, clustered less than half a mile from the gates to the house. It had a dozen or so shops, a tobacconist, a church that had been built by an ancestor of the Gilbert family, and a post office that served the estate and the surrounding farms and smaller manor houses.
Sandwiched between a shop that sold a variety of goods, from thread and needles to brooms and buckets, and the ironmonger’s shop, the post office itself was so narrow that Rutledge felt that if he put out his arms, he could touch both walls at the same time. It was an illusion created by the fact that the space was far deeper than it was wide.
The man behind the brass grille looked up. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for Swan Walk House,” he said. “Mr. Gilbert’s residence.”
“The gates are on the far side of the village, sir. You haven’t gone far enough.”
“Thank you.” He turned as if to go, and then swung around. “I sent one of my people here last week with a parcel for him. I expect he was lost as well.”
“A parcel? I don’t remember one, sir. A young man did come in asking directions as you’ve done. But he said he was to fetch a horse that was sold to a party in Tonbridge.”
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t ask. The buyer’s groom, he said. Mr. Gilbert doesn’t drive out any longer, and I expect he sees no need to keep so many horses these days.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“A groom,” the postmaster said, frowning. “Young, polite, I’d say shorter than you. They can probably give you his name at the house, if it’s important.”
Rutledge thanked him and left without telling him that the groom had never appeared at Swan Walk, because no one on the staff had seen him.
The pattern held. A simple query that elicited the right information, without drawing attention to the questioner. And a footprint in the earth by the terrace windows, where Gilbert so often sat of an evening. A glass of milk instead of brandy.
Only Gilbert hadn’t died, and if he survived, as Dr. Greening believed he would, then he was a witness who could not only identify the killer but also tell the police what had transpired as victim and murderer came face-to-face.
The niggling fear at the back of Rutledge’s mind was that his brush with death had hastened Gilbert’s decline. Why else would he feel he’d not completed what he’d set out to do? Why would he seem to feel he’d botched his own death?
Had the encounter been wiped from his memory, save for that single moment when he’d drunk the drug-laced milk?
Scotland Yard desperately needed Gilbert’s evidence. Not to mention Kingston, awaiting trial in Moresby.
And what would the killer do, when he learned he himself had botched his latest murder?
Rutledge drove directly to the Tonbridge police station, where he asked an Inspector by the name of Williams to send a constable to Swan Walk, to keep an eye on Gilbert.
Williams said, “I heard he tried to top himself.”
“I don’t buy it. We’re working on a similar inquiry where the cause of death was murder. This may well be another such case. If Gilbert is this man’s victim, he could well decide to come back to Swan Walk and make certain Gilbert doesn’t talk.”
“Look, two of my constable
s are going on about enlisting. I’ve been told Chatham dockyard was overrun with enlistees. The world’s gone mad. I’m not sure I can spare anyone for more than a day or two.”
“That’s a start. Dr. Greening is bringing in a nurse. But a constable on Gilbert’s door throughout the night would be best. I think he’s safe enough during the day.”
“You’re quite serious about this.”
“Never more so. If I’m right, Gilbert is the only one of this man’s victims to survive. And he’s the only one who can identify him. Or testify in court against him.”
“What’s this man got against Gilbert?” Williams asked, his dark eyes sharp with curiosity and speculation. “And why weren’t we informed here in Tonbridge that this killer was hanging about?”
“We didn’t expect him to strike in Kent a second time. It appears that a man in Aylesbridge was a victim as well.”
“I heard about that inquiry. Good God, you mean whoever killed Hadley is the man who tried to kill Gilbert?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“That’s a different story,” Williams said. “I’ll have a constable out there straightaway. He can enlist next week. The war can wait.”
Rutledge thanked him and left, returning to Swan Walk to find Dr. Greening pacing anxiously in the passage outside Gilbert’s door.
He stopped when he saw Rutledge coming up the stairs and said, “He’s half mad, he’s shouting at me to let him die. I can’t make head nor tails of it.”
Rutledge walked into the bedroom.
Gilbert was lying propped up by half a dozen pillows. He looked ghastly.
Dr. Greening, coming in behind Rutledge, said quietly, “He needs a sedative. But I can’t give him one this soon. It could stop his heart.”
Gilbert, hearing the doctor’s voice, jerked his head around so that he could see them. “Damn you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I meant to die. And you’ve prevented me. If I had the strength to get out of my bed, I’d find that shotgun in the estate room. Ian? What are you doing here? Make this fool see some sense.”
“A doctor can’t be a party to your death, sir. He’d hang for it.”
“Then bring me that gun. I can still load it myself.”
“I can’t. I’d be taken up as an accomplice, and tried. I’m to be married soon. It’s not on.”
“By God you will find a way to help me! Or I’ll know the reason why.”
Rutledge moved closer to the bed. Gilbert was not raving. He was racked with fear. There was sweat on his brow and his hands were shaking.
“What are you afraid of?” Rutledge asked softly, for his ears alone.
“I keep telling you—I want to die. My life is over, finished, an empty shell. I’m sick of it. Let me go in peace.”
Dr. Greening started to speak, but Rutledge held up his hand to stop him.
“Will it do,” he asked the man in bed, choosing his words with care, “if we put black crepe on the door knocker and tell the staff and even the village that the effects of the laudanum are irreversible, and you’re dying? That it’s only a matter of time?”
Greening stared from Rutledge to his patient and back again. “You’re both mad,” he said.
“No, not mad at all,” Gilbert said at once. “For God’s sake, do it. Quickly!”
Rutledge turned and left the room.
He sought out the housekeeper, asked her to find black crepe for the door knocker, and inform the staff that Mr. Gilbert had taken a turn for the worse. “There will be a nurse in his room at all times, to care for him until the end. The staff will not dust or mop the passage outside his door until further notice. Will you see to it?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “The poor man. But shouldn’t we wait until the end? Crepe is for the dead. And there’s his family to think of.”
“That’s been taken care of. I’ll contact his solicitor when I’m back in London to see about a notice in the Times. And the nurse will take her meals in that room. I’m putting a constable on the door to see that Mr. Gilbert is not disturbed.”
“A constable? I don’t understand.”
“A precaution. Mr. Gilbert might become violent before it’s over. Please see to the crepe at once.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed, although Rutledge could tell she was mystified. Before Mrs. Thompson could ask more questions, he left her there in her sitting room.
His next stop was the village. He told the postmaster and the vicar that Mr. Gilbert was dying, having failed to regain his senses. “He’s physically strong,” he said, using the doctor’s words. “It could be today or next week. But the accidental overdose of his nightly drops has undermined his health to such a degree that it’s only a matter of time.”
The postmaster sympathized and promised to pass the word that Gilbert’s death was imminent.
The vicar wanted to call.
Rutledge told him that Mr. Gilbert was no longer able to respond. The vicar took some convincing. But in the end, he understood that the dying man had seen a priest at the hospital and his soul had already passed into God’s hands.
By the time he got back to Swan Walk, there were already two or three small bunches of flowers left by the gate. Rutledge glanced at them grimly, and made certain he closed the gates behind him, then sat there in the motorcar.
How long could they keep up this charade?
With any luck, until he himself got to the bottom of whatever was happening.
Making himself useful—and keeping the curious away from Gilbert’s room—Rutledge went up to the maids’ section of the servants’ floor to help bring down a cot for the nurse. She was expected momentarily, for Dr. Greening had gone to fetch her himself.
The cot’s mattress hadn’t been used in some years and was deemed unsuitable. While the housekeeper and one of the maids went in search of another one, Rutledge stood at the window in the room where he’d slept during the night of the storm and looked out over the sunny countryside.
He could just see the church tower from here, fields of sheep, and to his surprise, from this angle, the gates to the drive were just visible. He was idly staring down at them, his mind on London and the Gordon household. He’d promised to be there to help Mrs. Gordon and her daughter. Instead, there was no way he could get a message to Jean, explaining the delay.
His attention sharpened as a man pedaled into view from the direction of the village. He slowed, then stopped, looking at the gates.
The door to the house, hidden behind the rows of trees, wasn’t visible from where the man stood. But he studied the little bundles of flowers wilting in the sun.
From the other direction another man on a bicycle pedaled up the slight rise, and Rutledge saw him first. He caught the glint of the sun on the badge on the rider’s helmet, and realized it was the constable from Tonbridge.
Rutledge’s hand clenched on the window ledge. The two men were going to meet.
The first cyclist, dressed as a groom, mounted and prepared to move on as he heard someone coming toward him, then paused when he saw who it was.
Rutledge watched the constable nod to the cyclist, then open the gates and push his bicycle through before closing them again. He then headed up the drive, vanishing from Rutledge’s line of sight among the trees.
The other man stared after him, then moved on, heading in the direction of Tonbridge.
Rutledge was already out the door of the bedroom and racing toward the stairs, shouting for Mrs. Thompson.
She came out of another room, alarm in her face. “Mr. Rutledge—what is it?”
“Leave the cot for now. Take more of that black crepe down to the gates. Straightaway.”
“But it’s too soon. I can’t feel that it’s right.”
“Just do as I say. Now. I’ll explain later.”
He took the stairs at speed, sprinted for the door, and reached it just as the constable rang the bell.
Rutledge flung open the door, ushered him in and to the stairs. Speaking r
apidly, he said, “I’m from Scotland Yard. I want you to stand guard on Mr. Gilbert’s door and let no one—no one—in or out except for Dr. Greening and the nurse he’s bringing. Do you know Dr. Greening?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then follow me. Quickly. I have to leave.”
He took the constable as far as Gilbert’s room. “They’ll be bringing down a cot for the nurse. Leave it in the hall until I get back. And ask Mrs. Thompson to find a chair for you.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
But Rutledge was already on his way back down the stairs. He cranked the motorcar, blessed it again for being there when it was needed, and set out for the gates. It took a moment to open and close them, and then he was off, speeding after the man on the bicycle. He’d had a head start, but the motorcar was faster.
Rutledge had no reason to think that the man was Dobson. But something in the way he’d stopped by the gates and stared at the flowers had indicated more than mere curiosity. He’d been weighing what they meant. Deciding what to do.
As he drove, he tried to tell himself that the man might have worked for Gilbert on the estate, or remembered him from some chance encounter, but his intuition was shouting at him that Dobson had discovered that Gilbert was still alive. And so he’d broken his rule of vanishing into thin air once he was certain his victim was dead.
But this time he couldn’t have been certain, could he? Gilbert had taken a long time to die, and dawn came early in the summertime. Dobson dared not linger.
“Damn it,” Rutledge said aloud as the realization struck him, “no one had sent for the undertaker. Instead, it was an ambulance.”
He sped down a long hill to a sharp left-hand bend in the road, leading to the gates of Penshurst Place before it turned sharply right again, to continue straight on to Tonbridge.
He’d overtaken no one on the road, and there had been no turning that the cyclist could have taken. But here in tiny Leicester Square just outside the gates to the great house, part of the village of Penshurst, there were dozens of places where a man could disappear. Even into the churchyard of St. John the Baptist, enclosed by the cottages and tall houses of the Square.
