by Todd,Charles
“We can’t ignore the possibility. It was his motorcar, after all.”
He thanked Neville and drove back to East Dedham. He found the greengrocer’s shop easily enough. To one side of it was a door with a brass nameplate beside it announcing EDGECOMBE & EDGECOMBE, SOLICITORS. He opened the door to find a staircase leading up to the first floor, where there was a small antechamber. It was tastefully furnished, the wallpaper a hunting print and the carpet on the floor a dark green that matched the wallpaper’s background. Two windows looked out onto the street, and there were several chairs as well as two small tables.
To his surprise, the clerk who poked a head around the door to greet him was an older woman. She was slim and dressed in black, complementing her dark hair.
She smiled at his reaction. “Mr. Edgecombe’s clerk is unwell, and I’ve stepped in while he’s recovering. How may I assist you?”
He gave her his name and told her that he’d come about the accident to Captain Standish’s motorcar.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Edgecombe will be with you shortly.”
And she was gone. In a few minutes, a man leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane opened the inner door and said, “Hallo. I’m Edgecombe the younger. Won’t you come back?”
Rutledge followed him down a short passage to a large room with glass-fronted wooden cabinets and bookcases almost cheek by jowl around the walls. There was a hearth at one end with several chairs before it, and at the other an oak partner desk that looked to be very old.
Edgecombe gestured to the chair in front of the desk and then sat down behind it. “You’ve met my mother. Henderson—my father’s clerk for many years—has had a stroke, and we failed wretchedly at finding even a temporary replacement. She insisted that she could do at least as well as the most likely candidate, and by God, so she has.”
“It doesn’t shock your clients?”
“Good Lord, no, they’ve all known her socially for years. No surprise to find her helping out in here.” He cleared his throat, indicating that he was shifting subjects. “We’re in shock over the Rector’s death. A real tragedy for East Dedham. I am his executor, and I’ll be seeing to his services when the body is released. Is that why you’ve come?”
“The body is still in Dr. Hanby’s charge. I’d like to know how the Rector’s will stands.”
“As a matter of fact, it’s very simple. The greater part of his estate has been left to St. Simon’s, in trust to be used as deemed necessary by the Vestry for the maintenance and upkeep of the fabric of the church.” Edgecombe smiled. “He was in a position to know the need for such sums. Who better? He also has left bequests to Mrs. Saunders for her many years of dedicated service, to the sexton, and to the Lifeboat station.”
Very simple, indeed.
“Has he made any major changes in the past five years?” It was an arbitrary number.
“Actually, this will was drawn up in 1910. Two years after he came to St. Simon’s. When he informed me he was enlisting, I asked if he wished to make any changes, but he told me he was satisfied with it as it stood.”
“And there is no one who might challenge his dispositions?”
“Not to my knowledge.” The solicitor regarded him. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s not unusual for distant relatives to appear after a death, challenging a will when the chief beneficiary is a church or some charity or other.”
“I don’t know that there are any relatives, distant or otherwise. The Rector never spoke of his family. And as far as I know, no one has come to visit him.” He stared out the window for a moment, listening to a dog barking somewhere nearby. “There was a rumor—oh, some years ago—that he was engaged, but the young woman wanted no part of such an isolated church and he chose to remain at St. Simon’s. I have no idea how reliable that rumor may be. I pass it on for what it’s worth.”
“His must have been a rather lonely life,” Rutledge commented.
“As to that, I think he found the church to be his family. I do know that St. Simon’s was his first church, and he was well liked from the start.”
Rutledge recalled Neville’s comment—that Wright was running from something.
“Where did he live before he came here?”
Edgecombe was at a loss. “I don’t believe I ever knew. That’s to say, I don’t recall the Rector ever reminiscing about his childhood. Or his family. Nothing like ‘I remember as a boy,’ or even ‘my father and I used to do this or that.’ I never thought twice about it, assuming he’d grown up in a city. London, perhaps. One’s childhood there wouldn’t be the same as mine, here in the country. I expect we were all surprised when Wright decided to enlist. It seemed so out of character—he appeared to be dedicated to St. Simon’s. Of course he was young enough to feel the call to arms quite strongly. So many of us did. Myself included.”
There was an undercurrent of regret in his voice.
How many of the young men who rushed to enlist had felt the same way? And yet without them, Germany might have succeeded in overrunning France . . .
Rutledge brought his attention back to Edgecombe, who was saying, “Is there anything else, Inspector? I’m at your service.”
“There are some irregularities in the crash that killed Wright. The police would be remiss if we didn’t consider every possibility. For instance, why he borrowed the Standish motorcar without permission.”
Edgecombe shook his head. “I have no idea what happened there. I can only speculate that it was an emergency, and Wright did what he had to do at the time.”
“But what sort of emergency would have required a motorcar? His parish was within walking distance, or within range of the rector’s bicycle, for the outlying farms. Did he rush someone to hospital? Or was it a personal matter that took him elsewhere?”
“I—if he took anyone to hospital, I have yet to hear of it.”
Hamish said, “He didna’ ask what irregularities were discovered.”
Rutledge moved in his chair but said as calmly as he could, “What if Captain Standish had been driving? Who would have inherited his estate?”
Surprised, Edgecombe said, “You know I can’t tell you that. You must speak to the Captain.”
“Did he draw up his own will before enlisting?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. I recommended it and so did the Army. But as it happened, he survived the fighting.” He adjusted the edge of a folder on the dark green blotter.
“Since his return from France, has he spoken to you about reviewing the provisions or even making changes to them?”
“He has not.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
There appeared to be no problem with Standish’s will. What about his war?
It had ended two years ago. But a wounded man with vengeance on his mind might have only just left hospital. There might have been difficulty tracing Standish. There might not have been an opportunity to act until now.
There was one way to learn about Captain Standish’s four years in the trenches. Whether he’d served on a court-martial or had reported one of his men or was himself disciplined. Anything that might have followed him into civilian life. Rutledge had connections in the War Department, but it would take time to sift through mountains of files, and he needed an answer sooner rather than later, if he was to eliminate Standish from consideration.
And that was the difficulty—time.
Aside from anything lurking in Standish’s past, it had been quite dark that Saturday night, a stiff wind blowing heavy rain. Wright was wearing his hat and an outer coat, very likely with the collar turned up against the cold. While an onlooker might have recognized the Standish motorcar, it would have been nearly impossible to be sure who was at the wheel. Still, a very natural assumption would be that it was the Captain himself. After all, the residents of East Dedham could have sworn that they had never seen anyone else driving it.
Returning to his room at the pub, Rutledge sat down in the only chair and read throug
h the Rector’s diary.
It covered the year 1920, for the most part listing various duties, meetings, and events. Marriages were noted, and births, christenings, deaths, illnesses, and troubled hearts. An accounting was given of each Sunday’s collection as well as contents of the poor box. Reading through what had been recorded each day, Rutledge could see that the rector of St. Simon’s was a conscientious shepherd to his flock. There was very little about the shepherd himself, except for a brief entry on 20 September of a headache after Evensong, and the comment, I had hoped to be done with them.
There was an odd comment on 26 September. I wish—but there is no turning back.
Rutledge made a note of both dates. Setting the diary aside, he turned to the packet of letters.
An invitation for the Rector to attend a chaplains’ reunion in London. A letter from a woman thanking Wright for his care of her mother during her last days. Three other letters in a similar vein, gratitude for his care of the living and the service he’d conducted for the dead. And an envelope with no return address, only a postmark from Portsmouth. There was no letter inside. Rutledge looked among the other correspondence, hoping to find it. He was nearly certain that he hadn’t overlooked it in the Rector’s desk. He even went back to the other four envelopes to see if the missing letter had been misplaced, without any luck.
Why had Wright kept the envelope but not the letter?
The date of the postmark was 19 September. Was there a connection with the Rector’s comments about his headache and the remark about wishing for something?
“Ye’re leaping to conclusions,” Hamish said, startling him.
“True,” he replied aloud. “There’s the chance that it was the Portsmouth address he wanted to remember—perhaps a reminder not to open another letter from there.”
The remainder of the letters offered no further insight into Wright beyond indisputable proof that he cared for his flock and was loved in return.
When Rutledge had finished, he carefully recorded in his notebook the dates of importance in the diary, and slipped the empty envelope in the notebook as well. Then he put the diary and the other letters in the drawer of the desk, wishing for a key to lock it. Changing his mind, he took them out again and stowed them in his valise.
Wishing as well for a key to what might have decided Wright to take the Captain’s motorcar without leave.
He went to find Constable Brewster, who had just stepped into the police station after his rounds.
“Hallo, sir,” he said as Rutledge came to the door. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Do you remember any strangers in East Dedham since—let’s say the end of August? Not holidaymakers or travelers. Someone who stood out in any way? Who might have asked directions to St. Simon’s?”
“Easy enough to see St. Simon’s without asking. But come to think of it, there was a man who came into town late one afternoon. Military carriage. Walked with a limp. Drove a motorcar, and left it by the pub. But he never stayed the night there nor et his dinner there. When next I walked past on my rounds, he had gone. Where he might have been between his arrival and his departure I can’t say.”
Another question for Mrs. Saunders, but not today, not with Barnes poking about. He had seen the man prowling through the churchyard early this morning, as if it was his duty to separate the damned from the saved. Wearing a black coat that flapped about his legs, hands behind his back, head thrust forward, Barnes reminded Rutledge of an egret stalking frogs in the shallows of a river.
As if he’d heard the thought, Brewster said, “There was a clergyman outside the rectory today. Stiffish-looking man, not like Mr. Wright at all. Do you think he’s to stay until the church finds a replacement for Rector?”
“I’m afraid he is. I was there speaking to Mrs. Saunders when he came to the door.”
“Ah,” Brewster said, but Rutledge was almost certain he’d broached the subject because he’d seen the man from London go up to the rectory shortly before the Bishop’s man arrived.
“Barnes is his name. I don’t think Mrs. Saunders is very happy about it.”
“No, poor soul, she’s hardly taken in Rector’s death. And a stranger to do for, one with different tastes and wishes, that will be hard to face.”
Rutledge agreed but he said only, “Can you think of anyone else who might have been here in the past few months or so? Someone out of place?”
But Brewster shook his head. “A few ex-soldiers—or so they claimed—looking for work. A tinker, sent about his business before he could set up. A girl looking to be taken on as a housemaid, but she had a sly look about her, and I asked the constable in Newhaven if he’d seen her. He told me she’d got off the train there, claiming she was looking for her sister. The greengrocer’s van was setting out for Eastbourne, and I sent her on her way.”
Constables were very good at knowing their turf, who was to be trusted and who wasn’t, who was likely to make trouble and who was not. In most cases they could spot the miscreant better than someone coming into the village from the Yard or the nearest large city. And strangers would be noted, their comings and goings watched until they either were explained away or left without causing problems.
And yet, Hamish was pointing out, Brewster had not known the name of the woman who had dined at the pub, even though she had very likely come to market day several times, according to Josie.
He left the police station and walked on, thinking. He needed to speak to Mrs. Saunders again, but not in Barnes’s presence. Short of lying in wait for her to leave the rectory to go to market, there was no way to encounter her by accident or design.
Curse the man for coming today.
He reached the outskirts of the village and turned back. Just as he came within view of the pub from the main road, Barnes appeared and walked briskly up the steps, disappearing inside. Lengthening his stride, Rutledge walked past the hotel and made his way up to the rectory. He had no idea how long he might have, and so he went not to the front of the house but to the back.
A startled face looked out at him from a kitchen window, and then Mrs. Saunders opened the door to him. “What are you doing out there, sir?”
“I didn’t want to encounter Barnes. I have several more questions for you. Do you remember if the Rector received any letters from Portsmouth?”
“No, sir, but I didn’t always collect the post before he did.”
Had Wright been expecting such a letter?
“And you’re sure no stranger came to the rectory looking for the Rector?”
She frowned. “No one, sir. That’s to say, if you don’t count a man come to the door about the church organ. He wanted to have a look at it. It’s not all that grand, but he asked if Rector could tell him about it. He thought his grandfather had built it.”
“And they went over to the church?”
“I think Rector was reluctant, but yes, he walked over with him.”
“How long did they stay in the church?”
“I don’t know, sir. It couldn’t have been very long, for I went into the parlor to water the sansevieria, and I saw Rector standing alone in the churchyard. I remember thinking he looked like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and then he turned and walked toward the road. I don’t know where he might have gone from there.”
“When he returned to the rectory, did he mention the man? Or have anything to say about the organ—how fine the man thought it was—whether it needed work?”
“No, sir, he went directly to the study and shut the door. I always knew if the door was closed, he wasn’t to be disturbed unless there was someone in desperate need of him. And so I left him to himself.”
The front door of the rectory opened and closed again. They stood there listening, and heard footsteps climbing the stairs.
Mrs. Saunders said in a whisper, “He didn’t fancy what I was preparing for dinner. He went to ask what the pub was serving tonight.”
“He’s in the guest ro
om?” Rutledge asked. She nodded. “Does the guest room look down on the back of the house or the front?”
“The front, sir.”
“Then I’ll go the way I came. Thank you, Mrs. Saunders.”
“He’ll do,” she said in an attempt to convince herself more than to persuade Rutledge. “It will just take time, won’t it?”
Walking as far as the pub, he considered what Mrs. Saunders had said about the visitor interested in the organ. Was it a very clever way to get Wright out of the rectory, where they might be overheard? He would have given much to know what the two men had talked about.
It was quite late, after midnight, when Rutledge heard voices raised in anger. Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, he realized that they were outside in the street, not in the passage beyond his door. He got up and went to the window. At first he couldn’t see them, and then he caught a brief movement to his left. They were standing in the shadows there.
He could just pick out Constable Brewster’s tall helmet. He was speaking to someone whose back was turned toward Rutledge, but the other voice was unmistakably a woman’s. Even as he watched, she walked away a few steps, then turned back toward the constable. He could see her now, clutching her coat about her. The weather had changed with sunset and a cold wind was blowing out of the northeast.
She shouted something at the constable, and then walked on, her shoulders hunched. Brewster stared after her, then set out for the police station.
Rutledge stood at the window for several more minutes before going back to his bed.
As he was coming down to breakfast the next morning, someone stepped through the hotel doorway, and before he could close it again, the cold wind seemed to sweep through Reception in a gust. The newcomer looked up, saw Rutledge on the stairs, and shook his head. “Not a fit morning for man nor beast.”
Rutledge smiled. “It’s been long in coming.”
“Indeed. I came from Portsmouth last night, and the motorcar’s heater was all but useless. Damned near froze.”
“From Portsmouth, did you say?”
“Aye.” He was taking off his hat and coat, preparing to walk on toward the dining room.
