by Todd,Charles
“Josie, at the pub, tells me she sometimes comes in on market day.”
“Before the war, now, I could put a name to everyone who lived five miles in any direction. But it’s not the same, is it? People come and go, even on the farms, and then there are the day-trippers, come to see the Beachy Head light or to picnic along the cliffs.”
Even on the farms . . .
Rutledge took the opportunity offered to ask, “Can you give me the names of the tenants living on the Standish property? They should be asked if they saw anything the night the motorcar was taken.”
“There are three families, sir. The Tomlinsons, the Meadowses, and the Fieldings.”
“What else can you tell me about them?” he asked, ignoring the longing glance Brewster cast toward his breakfast.
“The Tomlinsons are older, two grown daughters, one helping on the farm, the other married and living near Petworth. Lost their son in the war. Mrs. Meadows’s husband died of his heart, then her two boys were killed in the same tunnel explosion as young Tomlinson. There’s only her youngest left to help her. As for the Fieldings, they have three sons, ages fourteen, sixteen, and seventeen. Just missed the war. A bit of luck there.”
Men from the same village often enlisted and served together—and died together. Witness the Tomlinson and Meadows sons. The Fieldings were indeed lucky.
He wanted to ask how old Jem was, but there was no reason he could think of to put the question to Brewster. And then he saw an opening.
“Mrs. Meadows has only her youngest son to help her? How does she manage? I should think Standish would have no choice but to hire farm laborers to help her.”
“He hasn’t so far. Jem’s a little girl. And a handful, from what I hear.”
“In what way?”
“Stays away from school to help her ma, and then sometimes disappears for hours on end. Mrs. Meadows claims she’s still grieving for her brothers. In my view, her mother’s too busy to keep a proper eye on her.”
“How old is this child?”
“Going on twelve.”
He thanked Brewster and left him to his breakfast.
From the police station, he walked to the rectory. Pausing outside the churchyard, he looked up at the board, where black crepe had been draped.
ST. SIMON’S CHURCH
NATHANIEL B. WRIGHT, RECTOR
He wondered if the members of the Vestry had seen to that, or the housekeeper.
Mrs. Saunders, a scarf over her hair and a feather duster in hand, opened the door to his knock. He recognized her from Constable Neville’s description. Removing his hat, he gave her his name and held out his identification. She barely glanced at it.
“My sister heard you’d come,” she said, looking straight at him. “But I don’t see how Rector’s death should warrant sending for the Yard.”
Keeping his voice kind, he said, “He was in a borrowed motorcar. Naturally Constable Neville felt he needed a senior officer to sort out what had taken Mr. Wright away in such weather. There appears to be—um—a jurisdictional problem.”
She stood aside to allow him to step in. “Constable Brewster couldn’t manage to thread a needle without help,” she said, “although Rector would tell me not to speak ill of him or anyone else. Still . . .” She left the sentence unfinished and showed him into the parlor.
Whereas Constable Neville had been taken to the kitchen, Scotland Yard, he realized, counted as a guest. Or else, uncertain of his status, she had decided to be safe.
He stopped her at the door. “Perhaps I should step into Mr. Wright’s study instead. I don’t think he’d mind our borrowing it. After all, that must be where he spent most of his time.”
“It’s just as he left it,” she said, defensive. “I’m not sure he’d care to have someone poking about in there.”
“I didn’t know him. The study will help me understand the man.”
She turned, reluctant still, and led him down the passage to a large, bright room overlooking the churchyard. There was a massive Victorian desk set against one wall, low bookshelves on either side, within reach, and by the hearth stood several chairs where Wright would have counseled or comforted parishioners. Ignoring the desk, Rutledge took one of the chairs and asked her to take the other, but she shook her head, remaining standing.
“I’ve hardly been able to do my work,” she said, putting the duster to one side. “People coming to offer condolences or bring food or even asking who should take the calls from the parish. I’ve written a letter to the Bishop. He’ll be sending someone. But he hasn’t told me when to expect him or if he’d be staying here. I’ve laundered the sheets and remade Rector’s bed, but I’d rather whoever it is would take a guest room. I’m not ready to watch someone step into Rector’s shoes.”
He could understand how she felt.
“Tell me about Mr. Wright. Why did he feel his place was at the Front, and not here in his parish?”
“So many young men were rushing off to enlist. And then the casualty lists came in, and it was enough to make the angels weep. Rector read the accounts in all the papers, and it kept him awake at night. He told me he was praying over what to do, but sometimes his bed wasn’t slept in, and I think he paced the floor more often than not. Then one morning, when he came down to breakfast, he told me he’d made up his mind and was going to ask someone to take over St. Simon’s until he came home again. I was that shocked, I can tell you.”
Stapleton had called Wright idealistic, and Mrs. Saunders had confirmed that.
“What did his Bishop have to say to his decision?”
“I don’t think there was much he could say. War fever had the country in its grip, and everyone was rushing about wanting to do their bit. And of course there was someone willing to step in.”
“It’s part of police procedure. I have to ask: Did Mr. Wright have any enemies?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice.
“I understand,” he answered gently. “Did the Rector have any enemies?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said stoutly, defending him.
“Perhaps I should ask instead if there was anything that worried the Rector? Anyone he was concerned about. Anyone who took a dislike to him?”
She considered the question. Then she said, “I spoke to Constable Neville. I told him what I know. Surely you’ve asked him?”
“I have, but Constable Neville is a Chapel man. You knew the Rector as well as anyone in East Dedham. I can count on you to tell me the truth.”
That worried her, his suggestion that there might be whispers neither she nor her sister had heard. As he’d hoped it might.
“How well did Mr. Wright know Captain Standish?”
“By sight, of course. Everyone knows who he is. But the Captain seldom came to services after his mother died, and then only out of a sense of duty.”
“They weren’t friends, they never got together from time to time to remember France? I’ve been told that many soldiers find it easier to talk about the war with each other, rather than to families or friends who weren’t out there.”
“Rector never spoke of his time in France to anyone, that I know of. I can’t say for certain that they never met for a pint or two, but I’d be hard-pressed to remember an occasion when they might’ve. Rector had many calls on his time; he seldom enjoyed the freedom of doing something for himself.”
A man who buried himself in his work, to forget? Stapleton had brought that up.
“What did he do, when he needed to renew his own reserves?” When she looked blank, he added, “Did he collect stamps? Grow roses? Tramp the district looking for rare birds?”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Rector wasn’t a frivolous man. When he had an evening to himself, he read.” She gestured to the books on the shelves behind him. “He was a great reader. It showed in his sermons. They were very uplifting.”
He tried another direction. “
Was there anyone he counted as a friend? A confidant? A woman, perhaps, he felt close to?”
Her lips thinned with disapproval at the question. “St. Simon’s was Rector’s life. He wasn’t one to have friends calling in every other week, distracting him. And if there was ever any gossip about Rector and a woman, I never heard it.”
It was clear to him that Mrs. Saunders considered Wright something of a paragon of all virtues. In Rutledge’s experience, this was often the way housekeepers viewed their unmarried charges. She took pride in what must have actually been his loneliness, because he was there to serve and not to live like ordinary men. She was the gatekeeper, the protector of his privacy, and as such, it must have given the Mrs. Saunderses of the world a status of their own.
Changing the subject, he said, “Did you cook dinner for the Rector?”
“I did. Even on my day off, that’s to say Thursdays, I’d leave something for his dinner.”
“Did he sometimes choose to dine at the pub, instead?”
Yesterday was Thursday, and the young woman who’d come to the pub was expecting someone to arrive . . .
“Not often. It wasn’t a regular thing.”
Then perhaps Wright was not the man the woman had come to see after all.
“Was there anyone else who seemed to seek out Mr. Wright, someone who perhaps upset him?”
“Now that you mention it, there was a man some months ago who came to the door asking for a handout. I was in the kitchen garden, fetching vegetables for dinner. I didn’t know Rector had come in, and he went to the door himself before I could get there. I couldn’t hear what was said, but as he was shutting the door, I asked, ‘A summons?’ Thinking I’d be holding his dinner for him. And he said no, just a poor ex-soldier needing a little money. But he looked ill, and I asked if he was all right. He said that it hurt him to see men who’d fought for England reduced to begging. And he went into his study, shutting the door.”
“Did you see this ex-soldier?”
“No, but Rector has—had—a soft heart when it came to ex-soldiers.”
“Had he reacted like this before, when someone came begging to the door?”
“I usually answer the knocker. I try—tried to take some of the burden from Rector.” Suddenly, she turned away from him and bit her lip. “I don’t quite know—I can’t seem to come to grips about it. That he’s gone. Or what’s to happen next. No one’s come to tell me. Still, I go about my duties as I always did. Rector would want that.”
“I’m sure he would,” Rutledge replied gently. He was about to ask her for permission to go through the Rector’s desk, looking for anything that might be useful. But before he could begin, there was a loud knock at the door.
Mrs. Saunders looked at him almost in a panic. Then she stood up and walked resolutely out to the passage. Rutledge followed, standing in the shadows by the study as she opened the door.
There was a man in a clerical collar on the walk, his hat in his hand, his suit of clothes well made and well pressed. She stepped back as if he’d struck her.
“I’m Jonathan Barnes; I’ve been sent by the Bishop to take over Mr. Wright’s work while decisions are made as to the future of St. Simon’s.” He looked at the small square of paper in his other hand. “Mrs. Saunders, I expect? The rectory housekeeper?”
“Yes. Won’t you come in?” As he stepped past her, she remembered Rutledge, and in that same instant, Barnes saw the other man standing in the shadows. He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know someone else was here.” He came forward, not waiting for her to answer, and held out his hand. “Barnes’s the name. And you are?”
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’m looking into the events surrounding Mr. Wright’s death.”
Barnes frowned. “Yes, very unfortunate. I understand the Rector had not been given permission to take out the Captain’s motorcar.”
“That’s the general assumption. We haven’t determined whether that’s true or not.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Saunders standing stoically by the open door, the cold wind moving her skirts slightly as she suddenly remembered the scarf over her hair and reached up to remove it, smoothing the strands that were out of place.
Barnes said, “The Bishop is of course very much interested in the outcome of your inquiry.”
“I’m sure the Yard will see to it that he has a full report.”
Barnes tugged at the lobe of his left ear. It was not the answer he’d expected.
Rutledge had taken a dislike to him. The man had shown the housekeeper no courtesy, expressed no sympathy for the loss of the man she had served faithfully. Instead, he’d walked in as if the rectory was now his and changes were in the wind. His fair hair, smooth as a cap on his head, looked as if he’d used macassar oil to keep it rigorously in place. His eyes, a dull gray, held no warmth, only a sense of his own importance.
Rutledge said, “I was just in the Rector’s study, about to ask permission to look through his desk. I’m sure Mrs. Saunders will be happy to see you to the guest room.”
She opened her mouth as if to object on two counts, then she must have decided that if anyone was to go through the Rector’s desk, it was better for the man from London than this interloper.
“This way, sir,” she said to Barnes, and started toward the stairs.
Barnes said, “I think I should be present while Mr. Wright’s desk is opened.”
Mrs. Saunders turned to Rutledge, panic in her gaze.
He smiled. It was cold. “This is a police matter, I’m afraid. If there is anything of importance, you will of course be informed.”
It was Barnes’s turn to object, but he thought better of it and with a curt nod followed the housekeeper up the stairs.
Rutledge took that as permission and returned to the study. He looked at the Rector’s diary first, for it sat on the blotter, where he must have left it.
Going back several weeks, Rutledge looked for any reference to Standish.
Nothing. But he put the diary into his pocket and moved on to the main drawer of the desk. He found a ledger, a number of accounts, and a few letters from friends. He pocketed the latter as well. The other drawers offered little of importance until he reached into the back of the last one on the left. His fingers closed around a bundle wrapped in a soft felt, and he knew at once what it was, before he had drawn it out.
A service revolver. He debated unwrapping it, and decided against it, restoring it to the drawer.
He himself had kept his own revolver. It was his, after all, not Army issue. And it was there for the day—or night—when his own war was more than he could cope with.
Had Wright felt the same way? Or was the revolver only a souvenir? Had Wright ever used it in anger? Or need?
Rutledge could hear footsteps on the stairs, and he shut the drawer, rose, and was moving toward the door when Barnes came into the study, Mrs. Saunders at his heels.
“Any luck?” the man asked, and there was an avidity in the question, as if he’d hoped for a yes that would resolve the little matter of taking a motorcar without permission.
“Only what one might expect to find in the desk of a busy man of the cloth.” He nodded to Mrs. Saunders. “Thank you for your patience with my questions.”
She stammered a “yes, sir” and followed him to the door. Barnes remained in the study, clearly eager to perform his own search.
At the door, Mrs. Saunders glanced quickly over her shoulder. “Was it helpful to you?” she asked softly.
“If you are asking if there was something Barnes shouldn’t have seen, I don’t believe there is. Mr. Wright either kept no secrets or kept them elsewhere.”
She nodded, then quickly shut the door as if afraid Barnes might overhear their brief conversation.
He walked down the path, his mind on the revolver.
Hamish said, “He died in a crash, no’ by his sidearm.”
And yet . . .
Had Wright kept his for the same reason Rutledge had?
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HarperCollinsPublishers
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7
Neville was in, his own breakfast finished hours before. There was a woman with him, a kerchief over her fair hair, work-reddened hands holding a battered box.
“He broke it open and took my savings. Every bit that I’d put aside for three years. Then he walked out. He said he was going to London. But I don’t think he did, I think he’s in Eastbourne. I want you to find him and I want him taken up for what he’s done.”
He nodded curtly as Rutledge stepped through the station doorway, then his attention returned to the woman in the chair in front of his desk.
“Why do you think he’s in Eastbourne, Mrs. Grant?”
“Because there’s a woman. I know there must be. And he’s with her.” There was venom in her voice. “She put him up to this. I know she did. Find her and you’ll find him. And maybe what’s left of my money.”
It took Neville several minutes to convince Mrs. Grant that he would pursue her husband and the unknown woman. He walked with her to the station door and saw her out. Then he turned to Rutledge.
“I don’t doubt she took a hammer to that box herself. There’s always another woman, in her view.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how Grant puts up with her. Well, to be fair, I expect she would say the same about him.”
Rutledge took the chair Mrs. Grant had just vacated and said, “How large is Standish’s property?”
“Sizable, sir. And he has three tenant farms as well.”
“If anything happened to Standish, who is his heir?”
“I don’t know. He must have drawn up a will when he enlisted.”
“Who is his solicitor, do you know?”
“I expect it would be Edgecombe and Edgecombe. They handle most of the village business, including Rector’s.”
“Where can I find them?”
“On the other side of the greengrocer’s.” Neville hesitated. “Are you thinking that whoever ran Rector off the road thought it was the Captain who was driving?”
