by Charles Todd
London talked of nothing else. The call for volunteers had gone out afresh, and it was a race against time to train the new Army and get it into the field before the British Regulars had to be reinforced.
Jean, greeting Rutledge when he stopped by the Gordon house on his way home, asked if he had changed his mind about volunteering.
“There will be general conscription soon—it’s almost certain. You won’t wait for that, surely not. They are saying we need every man. That it’s only a matter of time before the tide is turned. Don’t you want to be a part of this brave undertaking?”
He’d seen the bands in the streets, stirring up enthusiasm as men marched behind them in growing numbers on their way to enlist. Firms urged their young men to go, and the poor and unemployed were pressed to sign their names.
“I have a duty, Jean. To a man facing trial in Moresby. To others whose lives have been cut short. To myself, as a sworn officer of the law.” Yet he knew men who had left the Yard to fight. It had added immensely to the work those who remained had to deal with. There had been talk about calling men out of retirement, if the drain on resources went on.
“Yes, yes, I see that, of course I do. But you will consider it, won’t you? As soon as you’ve finished what you must do?”
“Yes, all right, I promise.”
When he reached the Yard, he sought out Cummins to ask for news.
Cummins shut his office door and lowered his voice. “Taylor died of natural causes. I made certain I was kept informed. That leaves Chasten. Why hasn’t Dobson tried to reach him? Is it possible that Chasten sided with Evan Dobson?”
“He seemed to view the trial as a matter of duty. Unpleasant but necessary. Unlike Benjamin Clayton, who appeared to be disturbed by his part in it. Certainly not the sort of man Mrs. Dobson would have any reason to feel sympathetic toward.” Rutledge took a deep breath. “Even if we’ve stopped the killing, there are the dead Dobson has left behind. It isn’t over.”
“I’ve wondered about that, Ian. He’d had everything his own way, until Swan Walk. He’d seemed invincible. You’ve shown him he wasn’t.”
“If I were Terrence Chasten, I wouldn’t wager my life on it. Why won’t Gilbert talk to me? I’m beginning to wonder if his mind has been damaged to the point that he can’t tell us what happened that night. It’s a bitter thought.”
“Did you know the constable was recalled from Swan Walk? And from Mrs. Upchurch? The local constabularies are as shorthanded as we are.”
“Where do we stand with the Hadleys’ housemaid, Peggy Goode?”
Cummins smiled but he was watching Rutledge’s face. “The inquest was reconvened, and the evidence against Miss Goode was presented. Mrs. Hadley was asked if she had gone to Canterbury because she was on bad terms with her husband and suspected him of straying. That was a mistake. Mrs. Hadley challenged everyone in that room to speak up at once if they possessed any knowledge of her husband’s philandering. And when no one came forward, she went on to say a good bit more about the evidence in hand. She was quite knowledgeable about some matters, mentioning the fact that the police were refusing to look at other deaths too similar to her husband’s to be ignored, and until they did, any verdict calling her husband’s honor into question would result in dire consequences. What’s more, the housekeeper and the rest of the staff backed up Mrs. Hadley, saying that they felt the police had leapt to conclusions without evidence to support them. I wonder how Mrs. Hadley came by such detailed information. You haven’t been to see her, have you, Ian?”
“No, sir, I have not.” The answer was firm, unequivocal.
“Did you write to her?”
“No, sir, I did not.” But he had written to Melinda, whose slight acquaintance with the Hadleys provided the opportunity for a condolence call.
“Yes, well. However you managed it, Mrs. Hadley’s speech left everyone stunned.”
“What did the inquest say to that?”
“They’re back to person or persons unknown.”
Rutledge smiled for the first time. “Can we work a similar magic in Moresby? Although I’m afraid we have no Mrs. Hadley there to speak for Kingston. Just the opposite, in fact. What did the Chief Superintendent have to say when word got back to him about the outcome?”
“The worst of it was, the Home Office wanted to know what it was all about, and what this further evidence might be that was brought up in the inquest. Mrs. Hadley does indeed have friends in high places. An uncle, in fact.” Cummins hesitated, then said what was on his mind. “Regarding Bowles. You do know that very likely you’ve made an enemy for life, there?”
“I didn’t set out to do that.”
“I’m quite sure you didn’t. He always weighs the main chance, Ian. He doesn’t want to bring a case to trial and have it fall apart in the Crown’s face. Sadly, he doesn’t possess the imagination that will let him judge the difference.”
Rutledge said ruefully, “I shall have to learn a better way to deal with him.”
“He holds the keys to the Yard, Ian. And so, yes, you will. You can run rings around him. But he must never know that. Or even guess it. On to other business, I’ve arranged for you to give testimony in the Moresby trial.”
“That’s very good news. Thank you. Inspector Farraday won’t care for it, but I’ll do my best to put a spoke in his wheel.”
Cummins reached into his drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’ve been saving this for you. It came yesterday from Tonbridge. It might be worth looking into, although strictly speaking it isn’t a Yard matter.”
Rutledge took the sheet from him and scanned it, then looked up at Cummins. “It appears to be a missing person inquiry.”
“Yes, Tonbridge forwarded it because it had to do with a wounded man. I happen to know there’s nothing else on your desk at the moment. And you have a motorcar, which makes the distance to Tonbridge negligible.”
Nodding, he said, “We asked for doctors and hospitals to report gunshot wounds—without any luck.”
“Indeed.”
Rutledge was on his feet, his mind already busy. “I’m on my way.”
Rutledge stopped at home and encountered Frances on the stairs as he was going up them.
“There you are,” he said. “I’m on my way to Kent. I’ll take you as far as Melinda’s, if you like.”
“Thank you, Ian,” she said, holding up her face for his kiss. “But I have engagements here. This new Army needs everything. And until the manufacturers catch up, there’s much we can do. The weather is changing. Soldiers will soon be asking for warm stockings and sweaters and gloves. I’m working with a group of women who are willing to knit these things, but someone has to supply the patterns and the wool. And it must be khaki wool, not colors. I’m told the enemy would only be too glad to see our men decked out in blues and reds and greens. It makes sense.”
She was so earnest. It was a new Frances, and he was surprised by her dedication and enthusiasm. What’s more it suited her, and he told her so.
“By the way, there’s a letter for you in Papa’s study. It’s from Ross Trevor. If your letter is like mine, he’s telling us he’s joining the Royal Navy. He always did like the sea.”
“What a shock that must have been for his father.”
“Yes, I think it must have been.”
“I’ll pick it up on my way out.”
When he came downstairs again, he paused briefly to look at the post lying on the desk. And stopped, staring at the unfamiliar handwriting on another envelope bearing an address he knew.
Terrence Chasten. Torquay. Rutledge shoved it into his pocket along with Ross Trevor’s letter, wondering briefly how Chasten had discovered this address rather than writing to him in care of the Yard. If it was a personal plea to withdraw police protection, it could wait.
It was raining by the time he reached Kent, dark clouds foretelling heavier weather before nightfall.
The farm he sought was south of Tonbridge and well off the main
road. Even with directions, he missed the turning he was after.
The house was set back from the road, Victorian and plain, but like the barn and the outbuildings, sturdy and in good order.
The woman who answered his knock looked up at the stranger on her doorstep and said hopefully, “Are you from Tonbridge? Have you found him then?” She was middle-aged, her fair hair already tending to gray, her face lined from work and the sun. Tall and strongly built, she looked like the farmer’s wife he’d been told she was.
“I’m from the police, Mrs. Abbot. I’ve come about your missing farm worker.”
“Step in, then. I’m just washing up from our dinner.”
He followed her down the passage into the kitchen, ducking under the low lintel.
It was a bright room, four square but large enough to feed a family at the table at the center. Three girls, stair steps in age, were sitting at the table, and they stared up at him with curiosity bright in their faces.
“This is Mr. Rutledge, girls, and he’s come to speak to your mama. Go and see to your chores, and then I’ll read to you before bedtime.” They rose reluctantly and went out the kitchen door into the yard. Mrs. Abbot watched them for a moment and then turned back to Rutledge. “The kettle’s on. Would you care for tea, then?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She busied herself with the tea things, her back to him. She said, as if it didn’t matter, which told him it mattered a great deal, “Have you found Tommy, then?”
“Not yet. I’m afraid we don’t have enough information to be going on with. Could you tell me more about Tommy?”
“Not really.” She seemed wary, concentrating on measuring out tea into the pot. Then as if making up her mind, she turned to face him. “I found him on the road, bleeding from a gash in his leg, and his bicycle in the ditch. I’d been to market in Tonbridge, and I was too tired to take him back there. And so I loaded him and his bicycle into my cart and came home. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Weren’t you worried that you were taking a risk, that he was in trouble of some sort?”
“It was a nasty injury, going right through his calf. I hadn’t noticed that on the road, not how bad it was, because he’d wrapped it in his shirt. He was on his way home, he told me, and someone had tried to steal his bicycle. There was a long scrape on the metal bit that holds the front wheel in place. I could see it for myself. And so I believed him.”
Like so many others?
“Go on.”
“He was feverish for days. I didn’t have the money for the doctor and nor had he, but I’d doctored the livestock, I told myself it was no different. But it took a good bit of my time, what with the girls and the farm. I’m a widow, and I thought, when he was well again, he might repay me for what I did and help out here. And so he did. Not that he could do much at first, he couldn’t hardly walk for days, but he made himself a crutch and he did what he could. I told him I’d pay him, if he’d stay on. He was good with the girls too. Judith is six and he taught her how to feed the hens. She’d been afraid of the cock before. That meant Nan, who is eight, could deal with the cows, and Bethy, who is ten, could help me with the mucking out. That left time to work in the vegetable garden of an evening, while the girls washed up after dinner. As he got stronger, he took on the milk cow, and he did the heavy work, said it helped his leg.”
“What happened to him?”
“It’s been a week now. One morning Tommy told me he thought he’d seen someone walking around outside and peering in the windows. He said he was afraid of this man, and didn’t want him harming us. I wondered then if he owed money to this man, if taking the bicycle was just a means to collect. Before I got around to asking him, Tommy left in the night. He’d taken the clothes I’d given him and his bicycle, and a little food. That was all. He didn’t touch the butter and eggs money.”
“So it wasn’t a question of theft?”
“I’m afraid something has happened to him. He hasn’t come back, although I thought he might. Then, when I went in to market two days ago, I reported him to the police as missing. I told them about the leg, and how that man had worried him. And I said to tell him I wanted him back, if they found him. I can’t help but wonder if he was afraid for us, and went home, out of that man’s reach. Tommy was from Somerset. It’s a long way to go on a bicycle. I wonder if his leg is up to it.”
But Tommy would find it easy enough to beg a lift. He’d managed to find help even in this farmhouse.
Was it Dobson? If it was, then there was nothing for him in Somerset. He’d be heading for Torquay.
Rutledge asked Mrs. Abbot to tell him what Tommy looked like, and her description seemed to fit. As did the wound. It also could explain where Dobson had been hiding.
The youngest daughter, Judith, was peering in the kitchen window, her nose flattened again the glass. He smiled at her, and she grinned back at him, a gap where her two front teeth belonged.
“I’ll do what I can,” he promised Mrs. Abbot. “But I wouldn’t hold out much hope. I expect Tommy needed to put space between himself and Kent. As for the man he saw outside, I wouldn’t worry there. He could have been anxious enough to imagine him.”
She brought him his cup of tea. “I wondered about that too. Except that he did watch the road. As if someone would come down it one day.” She stirred her tea and said philosophically, “He did us no harm, but I’d like to have him back all the same.”
“How strong was he, by the time he left?”
“Middling strong, I’d say.” She looked squarely at Rutledge. “You’re not telling me he tried to go after this man? To protect us. So he wouldn’t come here?”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, that’s a relief, anyway. He used to listen as I read to the children of an evening. He said his mother had always been too tired to read to him. She was a widow too, poor woman. I’ve managed to keep the farm going, for the sake of the girls. But it’s trying.”
He’d finished his tea and asked to see Tommy’s room. But when Mrs. Abbot had taken him upstairs to the small bedroom under the eaves, there was nothing to tell him who the occupant had been.
The trouble was, he wanted it to be Dobson in the worst possible way.
But the burning question now was, where had he gone from here?
Rutledge stopped in Tonbridge for a brief report to Inspector Williams, then drove on to Swan Walk. He didn’t allow himself to hope. It was a formality only.
The rain had stopped, but not for long.
The crepe had been removed from the gates, and there were no longer any flowers there. He continued up to the house, to find that the crepe had also been removed from the door. The housekeeper’s doing?
The constable was gone as well, but he knew that, although he was surprised to find the nurse had left too. What’s more, Gilbert was now sitting downstairs in his usual chair overlooking the terrace.
He was thinner, if that were possible, and he looked a good ten years older, with deep lines in his face and haggard eyes. As Rutledge walked into the room and greeted him, he said, “Sit down.”
Rutledge brought another chair to put next to Gilbert’s, remembering how he’d sat here in this room himself, covered in shawls and blankets, while Dobson watched warily from the flower beds. He glanced out at the delphiniums, and saw that they were no longer blooming in profusion. It wouldn’t be long before they would be faced with colder weather, even the first frost.
Gilbert said, “The French brandy is on the tray. Glasses, too.”
“So they are.” He went to pour the silky golden liquid into two of them, and brought one back to Gilbert, as he’d done once before. It seemed like years ago, not a matter of weeks.
“War’s not going well,” Gilbert said, taking his first sip and then setting the glass to one side.
As he did, Rutledge glimpsed the dark metal of Gilbert’s revolver hidden in the shawls that kept him warm.
Gilbert saw his glance. “I won’t be ta
ken by surprise ever again,” he said grimly.
“You can’t shoot him. You know that.”
“But I can. They won’t hang me for it. Even if they try, I’ll have had the satisfaction of it.”
“You shouldn’t be telling an Inspector at Scotland Yard such things.”
“It doesn’t matter. You want the bastard as much as I do. I heard the constable telling Greening that you’d shot at him yourself.”
Rutledge couldn’t think of a suitable reply.
Gilbert sipped his brandy for a time, and then he said, “I can talk about it now. I couldn’t before. I thought it was the laudanum and nearly dying. Whatever, it left me confused, unable to be sure what was real and what was not. Do you know what it’s like to doubt your own mind? To wonder if you’ve run mad? No, of course you don’t. Not at your age. But I’ve sat here and pieced it together again. A bit at a time. It took me days. Weeks, for all I know.”
Rutledge waited.
“He came through that window, Ian. Bold as brass, and wished me a good evening. I had no idea who he was. He was dressed neatly, but in work clothes. I thought perhaps he was about to ask me for money. Instead, he asked if he might sit down. He’d come a long way, he said. I’ll admit, I was intrigued. I wondered just what it was he wanted. And after a while, he told me.”
There was a long silence. Once more Rutledge waited. The afternoon was far gone. There would be no sunset, with the heavy clouds in the west. It would be dark soon.
“He was Evan Dobson’s son. I had no idea who Evan Dobson was and told him so. He seemed surprised, as if he expected me to remember. Then he explained that I’d been the Crown prosecutor in his father’s trial. His father was convicted, he said, and on the twenty-eighth of June, he was hanged. It had been scheduled at dawn, that hanging, but had been moved up to noon. His mother wasn’t allowed to see him or even claim his body. And so she had sat in her cottage with her son by her side and watched the hands of the clock move inexorably to noon. She had cried out then, like someone in torment. He hadn’t understood why. He knew his father had been taken away and couldn’t come back. That’s all. When he was older, his mother told him why.”
