by Todd,Charles
He had finished his gammon steak and was drinking the last of his tea when his neighbor summoned Josie and asked for her bill. She had only toyed with her food, pushing it about her plate in a pretense of eating, and now abandoned it entirely.
“No pudding, miss?” Josie asked. “There’s a nice treacle tart and an apple crumble with custard.” She received only a shake of the head in reply.
Rutledge had already settled his account and left the dining room before the woman, waiting impatiently, had dealt with her own.
Not ready to go upstairs, he opened the pub’s outer door and stared up at the blackness of the night. The clouds had moved on, and in their place, the stars were sharp pinpoints of light arcing over his head. How many times had he stood watch in the trenches before a dawn attack and watched these same stars cross the sky? With the thought he felt Hamish stir, and he moved quickly away from the memory and the door, nearly colliding with the woman from the dining room, who had come up behind him.
“My apologies,” he said, stepping aside.
She gave him an absent smile, then stood in the doorway herself, as if uncertain what to do next.
A man dressed in the uniform of a coachman came out of the darkness, startling her. “The carriage is this way, miss,” he said with a little nod of his head. And still she seemed to hesitate. Then, as if coming to a decision at last, she stepped briskly out into the night, following the coachman.
Intrigued, Rutledge watched her go. Who had she been expecting?
Hamish answered him. “Rector? Or yon Captain?”
Rutledge remembered something Constable Neville had said. That the Captain had ridden to Brighton with a friend in her carriage.
He turned and went back to the dining room, catching Josie just by the kitchen door as she was carrying his dishes away.
“Could you tell me the name of the woman sitting just across from me?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m sure we met the last time I was in East Dedham,” he added. “I think it must have been at the rectory. But for the life of me, I can’t recall her name. Embarrassing, really.”
Surprised, Josie set her tray on the tall stand by the door, uncertain how to answer him. “I don’t know her, sir,” she said. “She doesn’t live in the village. I’m sorry.”
He thought she was telling him the truth. “She doesn’t come here often?”
“No, sir, I don’t believe she’s dined here before. I’d remember.” She smiled deprecatingly. “I do think I’ve seen her a time or two on market day. She dresses so lovely.”
She picked up the tray and disappeared into the kitchen beyond, leaving him standing there.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
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6
Later that night, Rutledge lay awake for some time, his thoughts too busy to settle into sleep. And Hamish was awake as well, but silent. Waiting. It was always a bad sign.
Rutledge reached for the glass carafe on the table by his bed and drank. The water was tepid, with the flat taste often found in country wells. Setting it back in its place, he went over his conversation with Stapleton.
After dinner, too restless to go up to his room, he had fetched his coat and gone out to walk. St. Simon’s rectory was dark, as were many of the houses he passed, but there was a light on in the police station. He decided to speak to Constable Brewster rather than wait for morning and Constable Neville.
Brewster was surprised to see him. “Inspector. Is anything wrong?”
“I was walking off my dinner,” he said, giving no particular importance to his question, “and as I passed the rectory, I found myself wondering who had taken over for Mr. Wright while he was in France.”
Brewster tried to hide his relief that the question didn’t demand immediate action. He said readily enough, “That would be Mr. Stapleton, sir. He had the living in a church in Seaford before he retired, and he was willing to fill in for Mr. Wright.”
“Then he doesn’t live in the village?”
“No, sir, he has a cottage on the road just outside of the next village over. He’s a gardener, is Mr. Stapleton. The finest peonies you ever saw. Bred them himself. He gave my wife a few cuttings one year, and I was amazed when they bloomed. A red dark as blood. I’d never seen anything quite like it.” He paused, his enthusiasm fading. “Are you thinking of going there tonight?”
It wasn’t very late. Rutledge was already considering the possibility of calling on Stapleton, but he had no desire to take Brewster with him.
“I’m sure it’s well past his bedtime. Tomorrow, perhaps. Thank you, Constable. Good night.”
He left the police station and walked briskly back to the pub. Turning the crank of his motorcar, he listened to Hamish, an undercurrent in his mind, and tried to ignore the persistent, deep Scots voice.
Driving out of East Dedham, he found the next village, and just beyond the last cottage he saw a small sign posted at the head of a winding lane.
PEONY LODGE
That must be it, he thought, and turned down the lane.
The cottage was larger than most, just missing being described as a bungalow. There were flower beds—dormant now—leading up the path to the door, and more under the cottage windows.
Peonies, surely, Rutledge thought, as the beds had been mounded over and the summer’s growth long since relegated to the compost heap. It was obvious how Stapleton spent most of his time, for the beds weren’t small.
There was a light showing in the pair of windows to his left.
Leaving the motorcar on the lane, Rutledge got out and went to knock on the door. The man who opened it was nearly as tall as he was, his hair a thick, snowy white worn a little long, as if he had no time for barbers. He could, Rutledge thought, pose for a portrait of one of the apostles, with his strong nose and chin. But his blue eyes were still sharp, and he examined his visitor briefly before inviting him inside, after Rutledge had given his name and identified himself as Scotland Yard.
The front room of the cottage was large and comfortable, with old, well-polished furniture and a worn Turkey carpet on the floor, where the original rich dark reds and blues lingered in patches. A fire burned on the hearth, and a wooden tray standing on sturdy feet held the remains of Stapleton’s dinner.
“Come in. I was just about to pour myself a small sherry. Will you join me?” He led the way to the pair of chairs by the fire.
“Thank you, I will,” Rutledge replied, although he’d have preferred a whisky from the decanter on the tall bookshelf by an inner door. “I’ve come about Mr. Wright, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. You have heard about the accident with the motorcar?”
“Yes, sadly, I have. Let me find a second glass, and I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.” He collected his dishes and carried them into the kitchen.
Rutledge listened to the sounds as the dishes were set into the sink, then of a cupboard door being opened and after a moment closed again. He found himself wondering if Stapleton had suggested a drink in order to collect himself and decide how to answer whatever questions this man from London might ask.
He rose and went to the doorway leading into the tiny kitchen. Stapleton was just wiping a crystal glass.
“I understand you served at St. Simon’s while Wright was in France.”
Stapleton didn’t look up. “Yes, I’d retired some years before, but when he came to tell me he felt he was needed in the trenches more than he was needed here, I agreed to take over St. Simon’s for the duration.”
“What sort of man was Wright?”
“Young. More than a little idealistic. I think that’s why he was drawn to serving in the Army. Unfortunately, his wasn’t a very pleasant war—he spent a good bit of it in a base hospital, attending the wounded and dying. And then he volunteered to go forward. I was never sure why. A testing of himself? Or a need to reach those in direst peril? He told me later that if he’d known what was in store, he’
d never have left St. Simon’s. Certainly he came back a chastened man, but in many ways a better priest. I was glad to turn the church over to him once more.”
Stapleton set the glass on a silver tray, then led the way back to the chairs by the fire, where he took a second slim decanter from the bookshelf and poured each of them a generous sherry. He handed Rutledge his and left the decanter on the tray, an invitation for a second glass. Settling himself, he turned to his guest.
“No one expected the war to last four years. I’d found it arduous, the last year or so. Never did take to the bicycle. And the influenza epidemic was more demanding than I had the stamina for.” Stapleton smiled wryly. “Emotionally and physically. It was as if the plague had returned, killing everything it touched. Man, woman, and child. I did what I could, I gave comfort to the dying and to the living, and returned the next day to find that the living had become the new patients, and it was all to do over again. The sexton was cut down in the first month, and we were hard-pressed to bury our dead. I fell into my bed at night, weary to the bone and knowing that I’d be summoned before the dawn to watch more of my parish sicken and die. The miracle was, I never caught the infection myself. I often wondered why.”
“Do you think Wright was suicidal? That his experiences in the war weighed too heavily on him?” Rutledge asked as the man across from him sipped his sherry.
Stapleton addressed the question seriously, gazing into the heart of the blaze before responding slowly, “I don’t believe he was. Deeply wounded, perhaps, but not suicidal.” He turned back to Rutledge. “In some way I can’t explain, the war had honed him, made him tougher and thinner and far less idealistic. I felt it, you know, the minute he came through the rectory door. I hadn’t seen him in four years, and I hardly recognized him. And if he’d wanted to kill himself, there are other, less dramatic ways of doing it. Wright was not the flamboyant sort.”
“Why do you think he was driving a motorcar that wasn’t his?”
“I don’t have an answer to that. But if someone had needed him, he’d have found a way to reach that person. If Captain Standish wasn’t there to give him permission to take the motorcar, he’d have taken it and offered his explanation later.”
“The staff was there.” Only Mrs. Donaldson, but Rutledge didn’t clarify his comment.
“Perhaps he saw that as a waste of time. If it were an emergency.”
“What do you know about Captain Standish? Would he at some time in the past have given permission for Wright to borrow his motorcar for church matters?”
“I doubt it. The Captain seldom came to Sunday services if he could avoid it—or to any others, for that matter. I daresay he and Wright were hardly more than acquaintances. And of course he was in France during my tenure at St. Simon’s.” He frowned. “I don’t care to pass on gossip. As a rule, I would say nothing. But in the circumstances . . .” He looked away for a moment, then turned back to Rutledge. “Rumor has it that Standish’s war was no different from that of most officers at the Front. He returned to England tired and dispirited, but soon recovered enough that he went out and bought himself a motorcar. He even took it to France with him on a visit about a year ago. When he came back from Paris, he was a very different man. It wasn’t well known, but he seldom drove anywhere after that. If he couldn’t walk to his destination, he stayed at home, or someone came to fetch him. I’m aware of it only because he was asked to chair a charity event in which I was also involved, and he agreed only if a motorcar or carriage was sent to collect him.”
“I’m told he was in Brighton when the motorcar was taken. He traveled in a carriage belonging to someone else. A woman. Do you by chance know who she is?”
“I’m afraid not.” He shrugged wryly. “Gossip hasn’t come my way on that subject.”
“Tonight I encountered a young woman in a pub in East Dedham. Attractive. Fashionably dressed. Dark hair, blue eyes. She’d come in for dinner, and it was clear she was expecting to meet someone—or was looking for someone she thought might possibly be there. Whoever it was, he or she never arrived. She left in a carriage. Could it be the same woman? Or is there someone else in this part of the Downs who might fit her description?”
“I can think of a number of young women. But I have never heard their names linked with that of Captain Standish.”
Rutledge leaned forward and set his glass on the tray. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Certainly the Rector died as a result of the crash. That’s not in dispute. What we have reason to suspect is that he was deliberately run off the road, with the intent to kill the driver. As a result, this has become a murder investigation.”
Stapleton stared at him. “I was beginning to wonder at the direction of your questions. And I can tell you that Wright didn’t drink more than the occasional whisky. I’m sure Mrs. Saunders can confirm that. If it wasn’t drink, and it wasn’t the storm—and it wasn’t suicide—the alternative must be murder.” He shook his head. “That’s a very unpleasant thought to live with. Wright didn’t deserve to die that way. In spite of the difference in our ages, I counted him as a friend.”
“Nevertheless. Who might want to kill Mr. Wright? Or was he not the intended target?”
The blue eyes were fixed on Rutledge’s face, and for a moment Stapleton said nothing. Then he answered slowly, “I don’t know. I might surmise. What could have happened here, in East Dedham, after he came home from France in the spring of 1919, that might lead to murder? I can think of nothing—what I know from four years of ministering to the parishioners of St. Simon’s tells me that the cause must lie elsewhere.” He moved in his chair so that the firelight caught his profile, emphasizing the resemblance to an apostle. “Men in great pain, men in fear of dying, often try to clear their consciences by confessing. Setting the record straight as a final bid for God’s mercy, fearing that they’ll be facing him soon enough. As chaplain, Wright must have been privy to many last words. And sometimes a man who thought he was at death’s door survives. What if he realizes that Wright could expose him?”
That made a certain kind of sense. If Wright had borrowed the motorcar to go quite a distance—as far as Hastings or Rye in one direction and Newhaven or Arundel in the other, to name towns along the coast without even considering those inland—he would surely have needed a motorcar.
But what had precipitated that need to travel? Had someone contacted Wright? Or had he somehow heard a name he recognized? Even made a decision at last to act on what he’d learned?
Rutledge said, “If someone contacted him, there might still be some record of it. I’ll go to the rectory tomorrow and search Wright’s papers.”
“I should like to hear what you discover. For my own peace of mind, to be sure it isn’t someone I know. I shouldn’t care to think it is.”
Rutledge took his leave shortly thereafter, thanking Stapleton for the sherry and his help.
As for himself, he had come away from Peony Lodge with very little. Except for the information about Standish. And the possibility that Wright’s death was connected in some way to his war.
Had Wright somehow learned that Standish didn’t drive now? Was that why he was so certain that he could borrow the motorcar and return it without anyone being the wiser? It was an interesting point. The inhabitants of a village the size of East Dedham generally knew their neighbors’ business. Had that included what went on in the Captain’s household? Had Wright turned that knowledge to his own advantage?
Rutledge drove back to the pub, dodging a flock of sheep grazing along the road. They were slow to respond to his presence or his horn, standing there gazing at him, their eyes bright in his headlamps, before ambling out of his path, some of them choosing the opposite way from the one he’d expected, as if secure in the belief that he wouldn’t run them down whatever they did. It occurred to him that sheep also grazed on the headland where Wright had come to grief. Had they somehow played a role in the motorcar’s crash? Had the Rector found himself with another motorcar
behind him, relentlessly pressing him, and a farmer’s flock of sheep searching for shelter in front of him? It could have happened that way. It might even explain why the accident was so deadly. There might have been no room to do more than swerve off the road, only adding to Wright’s chances of losing control.
The outer door of the pub was still unlocked, and he climbed the long flight of stairs to his room. As soon as he shut the door, he found it stuffy in spite of the chill night, and somehow claustrophobic. But it was late now and there was nothing more he could do until the morning. And so he undressed and got into bed, only to find his mind refusing to rest.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and recognized the voices of the two commercial travelers as they said good night and went into their rooms. He hadn’t realized that they were staying at the pub, and he stared at the ceiling until the small hours of the morning, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream, afraid to wake up screaming.
Instead, he turned down the lamp and lay there listening to the voice in his head, the voice of Hamish MacLeod, until he got up and crossed the cold floor to sit by the window, watching a cat hunting for mice in the kitchen garden. When at last it too gave up and trotted away, Rutledge felt a surge of loneliness so strong he turned from the window and went back to bed. But not to sleep.
Hamish was still waiting for him, there in the darkness. As he so often was.
Although Rutledge described the woman he’d spoken with last night, the local man, Constable Brewster shook his head.
“Doesn’t ring a bell, sir.” Rutledge had caught him in the middle of a very substantial breakfast, and Brewster looked longingly at his meal, clearly hoping the man from London would be brief and finish while the eggs and sausages were still hot.
