by Charles Todd
He took a cigar from the humidor, but before sitting down in the chair that faced the long windows, he unlocked and opened them wide. As he stood there a moment, he could hear a frog calling from a pond. He poured himself a small glass of Gilbert’s favorite brandy and put it on the table by the arm of the chair.
In a dressing gown that was too big for him, wrapped in shawls, and slumped in the chair, he tried to shrink into himself enough that he might pass as Gilbert sitting there. The masquerade wouldn’t have passed muster with the lamp on, but in the dark he hoped that it would appear to be natural enough.
It was a risk, waiting here when the danger could very well be upstairs, but he thought, on the whole, with the constable and a nurse guarding him, Gilbert was safe enough. And he had Gilbert’s revolver now.
He cut and lit the cigar, drawing on it until he could see the glowing tip. He held it between two fingers, keeping an eye on it.
An hour must have passed, and then two. The house was quiet, settling around him with the sounds of the day’s heat cooling off a little. A fox barked somewhere in the dark, and he refreshed the tip of the cigar for the tenth time. Rutledge had never been a smoker, but Gilbert was, and very likely he did most of it when there was no one about to tell him he couldn’t.
It must have been easy for Dobson, here and at Hadley’s farm, Rutledge thought, with windows open to catch the coolness of the night after a long hot day. He could have watched his victim for some time before stepping in and confronting him. It had been easy as well at the Tattersall house, using the unlocked kitchen door for access.
Just as another half an hour had ticked by, there was a sound. Barely on the threshold of Rutledge’s hearing, keen as it was, and he tensed. The revolver was by his right hand, under the blanket, and he closed his fingers around the grip.
Footsteps on the grassy lawn—or in the drying beds of delphiniums by the terrace?
Or had he imagined it, because he’d been listening so long for it?
He could feel the hair on his arms stir as he waited. Something was out there. Or someone.
Lifting the cigar to his lips again, he made the tip flare out. It cut into his night vision, but he could still judge that the terrace was empty.
He stared out into the night. And someone stared back at him.
Minutes passed.
And then as surely as the presence had come, it began to fade away. Going the opposite way around the house? Looking for the motorcar out of sight in the barn?
Flinging off the scarves and shawls, dropping the cigar into the ashtray, Rutledge was through the windows and after him.
But Dobson moved in the night with the swiftness and certainty of someone who knew the terrain, and Rutledge was hard-pressed to keep him in sight as he used every bit of shadow he could find.
Along the west side of the house, Rutledge began to gain ground. He saw his quarry turn the corner closest to the drive.
There was a soft clink. And Rutledge heard the pedals of a bicycle begin to turn. He ran flat out, narrowed the gap, snatched at the handlebars, almost had his man, and then felt rather than saw the foot lash out at him. It caught him on the flat of his knee, and he was forced to let go as pain shot through his leg.
Dobson had reached the harder earth of the drive now, beginning to make better time. Through the shadows of the trees, Rutledge could see that the gates stood open. A matter of seconds, and the man would be out of range. It would be too late. Rutledge still held the revolver. He swung it up, took careful aim, and fired.
The bicycle jiggled wildly, then steadied.
Rutledge whirled and raced toward the barn and his motorcar.
But he never found the cyclist again.
As soon as it was light enough to see, Rutledge went inch by inch down the drive to the spot where he’d seen the bicycle wobble, and searched for blood.
He found it, large drops that led almost to the gates of Swan Walk; and there they stopped.
He’d hit his mark in the night as the bicycle moved toward the uncertain patchy shadows beneath the trees that lined the drive. But just how badly was the man hurt?
It was impossible to tell whether the wound had simply clotted or Dobson had managed to wrap something around it before he betrayed which way he’d turned.
Rutledge searched the dusty road for fifty yards in either direction, without any luck.
Lights had gone on in the servants’ bedrooms at the sound of the shot, and the constable had come running, flinging open the house door, his truncheon at the ready. Rutledge had waved him back into the house as the motorcar sped down the drive. The study doors still stood wide, and Gilbert was still in danger.
But there had been no further excitement.
Over breakfast the constable had asked question after question, preparing his report, but Rutledge had had to shake his head in answer to most of them.
“No, I didn’t expect him to come. I did hope that he would. No, I never saw his face. I fired in the hope of stopping him. No, it’s not my revolver, it belongs to Mr. Gilbert. I tried to follow him, but it was useless. No, I don’t know how badly he might be wounded. Yes, I believe I can put a name to him. Henry Dobson. No, I can’t prove it. But who else would have come here, prowling about the house at that late hour? We’ll have to wait until Fillmore Gilbert is well enough to tell us what happened to him. That should help us explain the events of last night.”
“Will he come back, do you think? If he’s been here twice now, will he try a third time?”
“I don’t—” Rutledge broke off. “My good God,” he said, and pushing back from the breakfast table, he ran for the stairs.
Sending the protesting nurse out of the room, he shoved a chair closer to the bed and said, “Gilbert. You’ve got to talk to me. What does Claudia have to do with this? Does she know something about this trial? Are you afraid the man who did this to you discovered she does, and will go after her next because of it? Is she holding something for you that he wants?”
But Gilbert ignored him, turning his head away. His breakfast tray sat untouched on the table by the bed, as if the man had already left life behind but hadn’t yet found death.
“I know who we are dealing with. I know he’s Evan Dobson’s son. We’re going to find him, now that we have a name. But until we do, is Claudia safe? Should I warn her? Bring her here? Gilbert, for God’s sake, you have to tell me what it is you’re afraid of. He was back here again last night. Dobson. And he failed a second time to kill you. Damn it, man, speak to me.”
The man in the bed moved until he could look Rutledge in the eyes. His own were blazing, the only part of the shrunken figure that was alive.
“Damn you. Leave it alone.” His voice was rasping, as if his throat was parched. Rutledge reached for the glass of water, offering it to him, but Gilbert shoved it away with surprising strength.
“I can’t leave it alone,” Rutledge said. “You aren’t Henry Dobson’s only victim. There are at least two more out there who are in danger. And there’s Claudia, unaware of the danger she may be in. I’ve got to find him. And I can’t do it all on my own. What does Claudia know? What if he harms her sons?”
He waited, but Gilbert had nothing more to say.
After a moment Rutledge turned and walked out of the room, gesturing to the impatient nurse that she could return to her duty.
Why was Gilbert refusing to help?
Rutledge could think of several reasons. That what had happened to him was a shock. He’d been a barrister all his life, and a Crown prosecutor. He’d sent men to jail and to the gallows, and no one had ever touched him. The man he had been would have put up a stiff fight against Dobson, and possibly even won. This shrunken shell had been helpless, vulnerable. Already losing his grip on the mind that had made him famous, he was now beset with physical infirmities as well. Death had nearly snatched him away, and at the last moment, he’d been brought back to a world he didn’t want to face.
Was that it?
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br /> Or did Gilbert even know why he had nearly been murdered? Had Evan Dobson receded so far into the shadows of his memory that the appearance of the dead man’s son was confusing, inexplicable? Was he hiding from himself there in the darkness of his mind, because he had been helpless to understand, helpless to save himself by comprehending what Dobson wanted?
It was a shocking possibility.
Rutledge thought about his own father, who had still been vigorous and strong when he died. Cut off too soon, everyone had said. But perhaps the other way to see it was that he’d never had to grow old, ill, forgetful, and dependent.
He went down the stairs and out to the motorcar.
If Gilbert refused to tell him what he needed to know, perhaps Claudia could.
He stopped in Tonbridge long enough to speak to Inspector Williams, giving him the little information he had about Dobson.
“Wounded, you say? By whom?”
“I used the revolver belonging to the victim. I was interviewed by your man at the house, it’s all there in my statement. Dobson has killed several times over. We’re not convinced he won’t kill again. And so I fired.”
“Pity you didn’t bring him down,” Williams said harshly. “And saved the rest of us a good deal of trouble. All right, I’ll send out a request to report anyone coming in to hospital or a doctor’s surgery with anything that could be seen as a gunshot wound. Give me a description.”
Rutledge told him. “Others who have seen him,” he added, “have said that he was not the sort of young man anyone would expect to be violent.”
“If he’s what you claim he is, a man of little education, how has he been able to elude the police so long?”
“Because we didn’t know where to look. It’s as simple as that. No one connected the deaths, no one looked beyond them. It took time. Sadly, more time than we had. I don’t want to hear that someone else has died.”
“I’m glad my own patch is relatively quiet,” Williams said, shaking his head. “We haven’t had to deal with anything like this. But then ever since the Ripper case, we’ve known such a thing could happen. I’ll stay with simple lust, jealousy, and greed, thank you very much.” As Rutledge rose to leave, Williams added, “What’s the news in London? Any hope that the Belgians will hold?”
“They’re fighting hard, but they can’t possibly go on much longer. Outnumbered, and without the weaponry to match what’s being thrown against them? Still, long enough to get our men over there to back them up. I think that’s what Belgium is hoping for. I’ve heard that the French are ready. But once Belgium is finished, it will be Paris the Germans want.”
“For my part, they’re welcome to it. Never cared for the French. A stiff-necked people.”
Rutledge smiled. “You shouldn’t speak ill of our Allies. We may soon be standing shoulder to shoulder with them along the Marne.”
“I’ll leave the fighting to the young.” Williams pointed to his graying temples. “We’ll need someone left in England to keep the criminal class from taking over.”
From there Rutledge drove to Portsmouth.
Claudia Upchurch’s husband had a surgery in the town, but he’d chosen to live just outside, in a village where the house had a distant view down to the sea.
Rutledge found Claudia at home. He’d met her a number of times over the years, but she had been older and so he hadn’t known her well. She had always struck him as sensible and clearheaded, very like her father in his prime.
All the way to Portsmouth, he hoped he was right in his judgment of her. The last thing he needed was panic.
She walked into the room where he was waiting, and she looked harried. His first thought was that she must have heard the news about her father from someone else. Dr. Greening?
But her welcome was cheerful and warm, not fearful. “Ian? My goodness, it’s been a while. How are you?”
Claudia had inherited her mother’s auburn hair and her father’s features cast into a more feminine mold. Rather than pretty, she was striking, and she had the taste in clothing that emphasized this. Today she was wearing a soft sea green summer dress with white lace trim, and it gave the appearance of cool elegance.
“I’m well, Claudia. And Sidney, the boys?”
“The boys have been taken to the seashore today. It’s Sidney’s birthday, and I’ve arranged a small surprise party for a number of his friends. Trying to keep a secret from three active youngsters has been a nightmare. And I had to lie to Sidney these past several days because we’ve been cleaning and polishing everything in sight. Of course he would notice, just when one doesn’t want him to. You will stay, of course, and wish him many happy returns of the day?”
“As much as I’d enjoy staying, I’m afraid I can’t. Can you spare a few minutes? I need to talk to you.”
“It sounds serious,” she said, gesturing to a chair.
“Your father’s memory isn’t what it once was. I’m sure you’re aware of that. I’m curious about a trial in Bristol some years ago. You were a child, but I wonder if he ever spoke of it to you. One Evan Dobson was charged with the murder of a greengrocer by the name of Atkins.”
Frowning, she considered the question. “The name doesn’t mean anything to me, Ian. He talked to Mama about his briefs sometimes, but seldom to me. Did you know he started to write his memoirs? But I don’t think he actually got very far. I’ve wondered if that was an excuse to withdraw from London and his friends there, to hide the fact that his memory had started to fail.” She shook her head sadly. “That’s been a burden to him. The worst possible thing for a man who remembered everything.”
“Was there any trial that particularly worried him—that he seemed to wish had turned out differently?” Rutledge pursued.
She stared at him. “Are you asking me if he ever felt an innocent man was convicted?”
“I don’t think it’s that sort of thing.” He gestured ruefully. “I really don’t know what I’m looking for. Did he ever confide in you? Give you something to keep? Something he might have felt was safer in your care? Perhaps something in his files that he discovered or heard or learned too late to save a convicted man?”
Something in short that Dobson might think would exonerate his father?
“That doesn’t sound like Papa. He was a good judge of character, he said, and he was thorough. I know, because I asked him that very question once when I was sixteen and thought I knew everything.” She glanced toward the sitting room door. He could hear one of the maids calling to another. “I must be sure they have what they need. Is that all, Ian?”
“Not quite. Someone has attacked your father. No,” he added quickly as she turned to him in alarm, “he doesn’t want you to rush to Swan Walk and make a fuss. But we haven’t caught the man yet. And I’m concerned that he might be mad enough to come here, looking for you.”
“For me?” she said blankly.
“It has to do with the case I just asked you about. I may be wrong, but it’s foolish to take chances. Lock your windows and doors tonight. Don’t let anyone in after dark. I’ll ask for a constable to come and keep watch.”
Her eyes strayed to the sounds in the passage. “But the party—what am I to do about that? And the boys? What shall I tell them?”
“You know the people who have been invited. You’ll be safe enough. But let the constable walk with you through the house afterward, to make certain all is well. This is no idle threat, the man is dangerous. I’m sorry to worry you, Claudia, but I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t believed it was important.”
“But you’ll stay, won’t you? And explain all this to Sidney?”
“I can’t. There are others at risk, I must go. But don’t trust anyone you haven’t known for quite some time. This man has tricked his way into a number of homes, because he doesn’t look threatening. Remember that.” He carefully described Dobson. “He could even claim he has a message from your father, or that your father is dying and you’re to leave at once for Swan Walk. He might t
ell you someone has been badly hurt and Sidney is urgently needed, in order to get him out of the house. Don’t believe him.” He rose. “You’re needed elsewhere. Just promise me you won’t take this lightly. Even if Sidney thinks it’s a foolish precaution.”
“I promise,” she said uneasily, standing up and following him to the door. “I must say, you’ve frightened me more than a little.”
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand. “Keep your wits about you.”
She went with him to the door and stood outside in the warm sunlight, but she had wrapped her arms around her, as if she were cold. “You’re telling me the truth, Ian? That my father is all right?”
Not wanting to lie to her, he said, “He’s a stubborn old fool, and Dr. Greening is despairing of him.”
Claudia managed a smile. “Yes, that’s just like him. When you see him, give him my love.”
He bent to turn the crank. Claudia hurried back inside and closed the door firmly.
Rutledge took a deep breath.
Now to find the nearest police station.
It was in the village, and Rutledge had to use his authority as an Inspector at Scotland Yard to convince the constable on duty that the threat to the Upchurch family was real and immediate. To be on the safe side, he drove the man back to the house, to be sure he got there sooner rather than later.
Claudia’s relief at seeing him went a long way toward convincing the man that Rutledge had been right to take precautions.
In for a penny, in for a pound. He filled the motorcar with petrol, and turned toward Wells.
The solicitor, Simmons, was in, he was told.
The man looked up as Rutledge stepped into his office and said, “Oh God, what is it now?”
“A different matter from the Tattersall inquiry. At least I hope it is. Your father was a barrister, wasn’t he? It says ‘Simmons and Simmons’ on the door.”
“My father and I were solicitors. The barrister was his elder brother. My uncle. He had chambers in Bristol. When he died, most of his files came to us. Why?”
