A Fine Summer's Day

by Charles Todd

  “We’re thinking of adding a tea shop,” Chasten said as they crossed the street toward it. “That’s if we can convince the stationer to sell. We’ll see.”

  Instead of entering through the main door, as Rutledge had expected, Chasten led him down a narrow service alley that ran between the bakery and the bookshop. A door toward the rear opened into a room piled with sacks of flour and sugar and tins of lard. A stairway to one side led up to the first floor. “The previous owner lived above the shop. My brother uses the space for storage and an office. This way.”

  They climbed the steps and came out into a passage with several doors opening off of it. Rutledge could smell spices, and Chasten, looking over his shoulder, smiled. “I’m used to it, but I’m told my clothes reek of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. That room over there is where they’re stored. Ever since that business in Sarajevo, with the Archduke, I’ve doubled our orders of everything that has to come in by ship. The Germans have a sizable fleet of submarines. We’ll find ourselves blockaded soon enough, mark my words.”

  The room he called his office was small, littered with bills and ledgers and even possessed a typewriter.

  “I’ve taken over the bakery’s accounts. The baking I leave to my brother and his staff. Fred doesn’t have a good head for business, and retirement no longer suits me.”

  “You lived in Bristol before coming here?” Rutledge asked as he took the chair in front of the cluttered desk.

  “I did. I was made a good offer for my firm there, and it seemed foolish not to take it.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. I never really had time to find myself a wife.”

  “While you were living in Bristol, did you serve on a jury?”

  Chasten’s face closed. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. You needn’t be concerned. It isn’t the trial I’m interested in. However, it’s the trial where all this began. Were you aware that Evan Dobson had a young son at the time he was charged with murder?”

  “Dobson’s wife was in the gallery. I didn’t know that until when the verdict was read and she fainted. I wasn’t aware of a son.”

  “His mother died in June of this year. Since then Henry Dobson has disappeared. And that’s our problem. It appears that he’s trying to right what he perceives to be a wrong—or he may view it as simple revenge. If that’s true, you’re very likely the next person on this man’s list of victims. When he leaves your house, you’ll probably be dead by your own hand.”

  “You are worrying me, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “And so you should be.” Rutledge gave him a concise account of the other murders, holding very little back.

  Chasten listened without expression, then shook his head.

  “I have a difficult time believing that four able, intelligent men would calmly sit there and drink down a potion that they knew would kill them. There must have been something else to account for what they did. And you said yourself that in each case the Yard was prepared to accept another plausible explanation for what happened. Until, that is, you uncovered this connection to a trial.”

  Rutledge wondered then if Henry Dobson’s other victims would have told him the same thing. That a warning would have done little or no good. He persevered. “It’s an easier death than many choices a man might make. It’s also quieter, which I think is one of the reasons it was chosen.”

  “If he doesn’t believe his father was innocent, why does he want to kill the judge and jury? Besides, there was nothing about the trial that was unfair or questionable. The evidence, as I recall, was straightforward. We did question among ourselves what role the dead man’s son might have played. But he wasn’t the one who raised a fist to the older man.”

  “The son, Atkins, fell out of the loft of his barn directly onto a pitchfork. Coincidence? Or Dobson’s doing? Remember, no one ever paid for that bridle. And there must have been very little money for Mrs. Dobson and her son to live on after his father’s arrest. A child can grow up to hate when he watches his mother shunned and suffering.”

  “All right, he feels he must kill the greengrocer’s son. That makes a little more sense. But the jury? We didn’t ask to serve, after all.”

  “The logic of a man of business, who has never gone to bed hungry or done menial work to put food on his table or clothes on his back. That could be precisely what Dobson sees when he looks at the list of names. With the possible exception of the Alnwick schoolmaster, a good many of you went on to happy, uneventful lives.”

  “Well, I thank you for the warning, Mr. Rutledge. I will most certainly be on my guard.”

  “If I could find you so easily, Dobson will be able to do the same. He will come at night when he can be sure you’re alone. I expect he watches, and bides his time.”

  “I understand.”

  But Rutledge didn’t believe Chasten did. Chasten was arrogant. He’d built a company, sold it for a profit, and come to Torquay to lead a more leisurely life. Before very long he’d begun to take charge of his less successful brother’s bakery, as he himself had said, leaving the baking to the staff. Even setting up an office for himself in the unused rooms above. How long before his brother found himself managed into a position of having very little say about his own shop?

  There was nothing more he could do here. Rutledge rose, thanked Chasten for his time, and found his own way out.

  Walking back to where he’d left the motorcar, he asked himself what more he could have said to convince Chasten to pay attention to his warning.

  Exasperated with the man, Rutledge spent the next hour and a half driving the streets of Torquay. He’d seen Dobson walk, he’d seen him run. Broad shoulders, a slim build. Was he limping? Carrying his arm stiffly? Or already fully recovered from his gunshot wound?

  He got nowhere. In the end, he sought out the police station and described for the sergeant on duty a man that the Yard considered a person of interest.

  “If you find Dobson, he should be taken into custody at once, and Chief Inspector Cummins at the Yard should be notified. He’ll send someone down to question the man.”

  “What’s he done, then, that the Yard wants him?”

  “He’s a witness to murder,” Rutledge said. “We want him badly.”

  The sergeant looked at his notes, and said bluntly, “This could describe any number of men. I don’t hold out much hope.”

  “He has a Somerset accent. It’s likely he uses a bicycle to travel. And he suffered a gunshot wound fairly recently. That should help.”

  The sergeant looked up at that. “I’ll put out the word.”

  Rutledge went back to his motorcar and found a hotel where he could spend the night.

  He slept for an hour or two, then dressed and walked to the tree-lined street where Chasten lived. Solidly middle-class and comfortable, number 21 sat at the top of a half dozen steps. There were hydrangeas and smaller plantings on either side of the short walk to the door.

  Rutledge found a vantage point down the street from which he could watch the house, and settled himself as best he could. There was a sharp breeze off the sea that hadn’t dropped with sunset, and before long he felt its bite.

  He stayed there until an hour before sunrise, when it would soon be too light for someone to hide.

  And there was no sign of Dobson.

  It had been a long shot, he told himself as he headed back to the hotel. And yet all that previous afternoon he’d had a feeling that Dobson was here in Torquay.

  Was it possible he hadn’t found Chasten yet? Or was he still troubled by his wound? He couldn’t afford to be noticeably injured. Any sign of weakness and he couldn’t be sure his victim wouldn’t put up a very good fight.

  Rutledge slept for several hours, came down for a late breakfast, and saw the black headlines in the morning paper. They painted a dire picture of Belgium’s plight.

  The Army, pathetically small to begin with, still held out. But losses were heavy, and it was thought the
y would have to surrender soon or face utter annihilation.

  And there were reports of atrocities as the frustrated German Army turned on civilians. Refugees reported witnessing many horrors, but there was no independent confirmation. Still, posters were appearing that showed Belgium’s suffering, and this had increased enlistments. Meanwhile, a British Expeditionary Force was preparing to go to Belgium’s aid.

  Rutledge set the paper aside. He had visited Belgium and France a time or two while a student at Oxford. The place-names were familiar to him. He had been to Liège, to Bruges and Brussels. Had seen the fort where the worst of the fighting was taking place.

  It made the war personal.

  He waited two more days in Torquay, keeping watch at night, until he began to worry about Taylor, the policeman who had come with his men to take Evan Dobson into custody.

  Was he still in hospital? Or sent home?

  After some difficulty he found a telephone and put in a call to the Yard.

  Sergeant Gibson reported that Taylor’s pneumonia had begun to improve. But he was in hospital still, and very weak. There was talk of a convalescent home when he was finally released.

  What’s more, reports from the constable keeping watch on Fillmore Gilbert were not encouraging.

  “He’s eating, not with appetite, mind you. But eating. It’s a start.” Gibson’s voice had an echo of doubt in it.

  Rutledge remembered Gilbert pushing away even a glass of water.

  “A start,” he agreed. “But I want to know as soon as he is talking.”

  “There’s a new inquiry on your desk,” Gibson added.

  “Pray God, nothing to do with laudanum.”

  “A shotgun,” Gibson said. “Sir.”

  Rutledge thanked him and put up the receiver.

  Where the hell was Dobson? If he wasn’t in Torquay, and Taylor’s illness in Bristol presented a temporary obstruction, where was he?

  Rutledge wasn’t completely convinced that being hunted himself had deterred Dobson. He wouldn’t have come back to Swan Walk, if that were true. His wound, then? Or had he spotted Rutledge in Torquay and simply decided he could outwait Scotland Yard?

  In the end, Rutledge spoke to the local police again, asking for a watch to be set on Chasten’s house. The Torquay Inspector, whose wife bought her breads and cakes from the Chasten bakery, agreed to send a constable. “Or I’ll have nothing for my tea,” he said with a wry smile. “My wife has no time for baking. She’s on a War Committee, God help us all.”

  The plight of Belgium was the talk of the city when Rutledge reached London.

  Jean and her mother had joined a charity to help Belgian refugees, many of whom had escaped from the fighting through Le Havre. Some had decided to remain in France because they were French-speaking, while others, already in a state of shock at what was happening to their country, were unconvinced that France herself could hold.

  Rutledge had arrived just after six, and was dragooned into helping at one of the teas organized to raise money. And he listened to the speakers who had been invited to tell their stories.

  They were harrowing. Families separated, husbands at the Front, children without parents—it was enough to open the pocketbooks of those present, and afterward, Rutledge spoke to one of the men. He’d been a policeman in Liège, wounded in the fighting even though he wasn’t with the Army, and suspected of being a saboteur. And so he had left hastily, to avoid being taken by the Germans.

  “It’s an unfair fight,” he said in perfectly good English. “We have no artillery. Only machine guns. But we know the countryside, we know each other, and we know how to defend ourselves. Learning to use a rifle is not difficult. Learning to kill a man with it is harder. But the time comes when we must decide. Let them kill me—or kill them first and worry about my soul later.”

  When the evening was over, Jean had asked what Rutledge and the middle-aged Belgian had found to talk about.

  “Realities,” he said, and changed the subject.

  The next day when he went back to the Yard, he learned that Mrs. Hadley had given the policemen who had come to arrest Peggy Goode a very difficult time, and they had had to withdraw to lick their wounds.

  “She told them in no uncertain terms,” Cummins related to Rutledge, fighting to keep a straight face, “that if they took her maid into custody on such ridiculous charges, she would see to it that Inspector Watson was reduced to constable for his ineptness and his blind disregard of facts staring him in the face. As the Hadleys were on friendly terms with the Chief Constable and Mrs. Hadley has an uncle in the Home Office, Watson backed down, even apologized for disturbing her. He sent a telegram to the Chief Superintendent, but Mrs. Hadley’s connections put Bowles off as well. I advised him to let everyone cool down.”

  It was galling for Rutledge to admit to Cummins that he hadn’t brought in Dobson. Afterward he walked on to his own office and began to work his way through the files sitting on his desk before looking at his latest assignment.

  Jean would be pleased, he thought, that he would be in London for the near future. The inquiry was in Hampstead, a dispute over a will that had escalated into violence.

  “There’s so much happening, Ian,” she had told him just last night as he’d driven her home. “We’ve been working with the refugees as you know, and there’s another tea coming up. And a dinner party tomorrow night. Papa had promised to be here, but we aren’t quite sure where he is at the moment. He’s been out of touch, and Mama feels he’s already in France. There’s a charity auction next week, and we’ve been assured that a member of the Royal Family will attend. Mama is going to ask you to escort us.”

  In fairness to her, he had agreed to help in any way he could.

  That evening, after another charity event, she asked, when her mother had gone upstairs, giving them a few minutes alone, “Have you given any thought to being married in September? If Papa has leave, we could find a way to arrange it. I’ve had the last fitting for my gown. If we were married, surely the Yard would understand and not send you so far away.”

  He couldn’t tell her that the Yard cared little for the happiness of its men. Murder didn’t wait on the convenience of a policeman or the arrangements made by his wife. She would come to accept this, as most women did. Mrs. Cummins had a very active social life, a large group of friends. It occurred to him that he could ask Cummins for advice. He had met Mrs. Cummins, he thought she would be kind to Jean and help her.

  But he still had qualms, and he said then, “Jean, are you sure you’ll be happy as a policeman’s wife?”

  She laughed. “I’ve been a soldier’s daughter. Why should it be any different? And I love you, Ian, more than you know. We’ll be happy, I promise you.”

  Earlier, he’d found Frances at home, dressing to go out for the evening. She asked for his help doing up the buttons in the back of her gown, and reminded him that there was a cold chicken in the kitchen, if he had no other plans.

  “Who is the lucky fellow tonight?” He stood back to admire her in the dark blue gown. “You’ll break his heart.”

  “He hasn’t a heart to break. But he’s such fun, and I need to think about something other than the war. Those poor Belgians. We’re so lucky, Ian.” She shivered. “I want it to stay that way forever.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be late myself. I must drive Mrs. Gordon and Jean back home when the event is over.”

  But the event was marred by the news from France.

  Belgium had lost its fight with Germany. The German Army was now racing toward the French Frontier.

  19

  Through Cummins, Rutledge was able to stay in touch with Torquay, Tonbridge, and Bristol.

  Taylor was now in the convalescent home, still surrounded by nurses and patients and doctors. That was very good news.

  Chasten on the other hand had tired of the watch on his house and had asked that it be withdrawn. Torquay, also suffering from a shortage of men, was happy to agree. Rutledge
swore in frustration when he heard the news.

  Gilbert still refused to speak.

  Rutledge tried to understand his silence. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  In Kent, the inquest on the death of Jerome Hadley was to be recalled.

  Henry Dobson, meanwhile, appeared to have vanished. Cummins was of the opinion that this was good news. Rutledge, who had tracked him for weeks now, was convinced he was simply waiting.

  From Hampstead, Rutledge was sent to Carlisle and then on to Derby. He was grateful that all three inquiries had been straightforward, swiftly concluded. Each day that he was out of reach of London tested his patience.

  He took Melinda Crawford’s advice and wrote letters. To Jean, to Frances, and to Melinda, at one point asking a favor of her.

  He was just about to leave Derby when the telegram came from Cummins.

  Taylor was dead.

  There had been a setback, and he was too frail from the pneumonia to survive.

  That left Chasten. And Chasten had left himself vulnerable. But Dobson hadn’t taken advantage of that fact. What was he waiting for?

  It was almost the end of August when Rutledge arrived in London from Derby. Just as the first salvoes of the Battle of Mons began. On the Belgian side of the border with France, the capital of Hainaut Province, and a city of heavy industry based on its coal, Mons was strategic. The British Expeditionary Force had reached it two days before, in an effort to close the coast road to the Germans. The French Army was poised to stop them wherever they crossed the Frontier.

  At Mons the battle lasted two days, and then the outnumbered British were forced to retreat. But they managed to do it in an orderly fashion. They were professionals, and they knew what they were about, even against such odds.

  It was the beginning of a long, slow withdrawal toward the coast and the city of Ypres. Still in Belgium, but for how much longer? How soon would it be a French town that was besieged?