Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

Slowing, he pulled to the verge. The child looked up, and Rutledge recognized Jem, her face wet with tears, and grubby now from her hands trying to wipe them away.

  She started up in alarm, then subsided as she saw the motorcar and then the man behind the wheel.

  “What’s happened?” he asked in concern, opening his door to get out.

  “I’ve lost the money my mother gave me to buy flour and things. I was kicking a stone, and I tripped. When I stood up again, I couldn’t find the shillings.” The last words came out in a wail.

  “Surely she’ll understand,” he said.

  “Sometimes there’s no money at all, and we make do. How can I tell her I lost what she gave me?”

  Heedless of his trousers, he sat down beside her. He saw then that one hand was scraped and one knee was bleeding a little through her hand-me-down coveralls. “Shall I help you look?”

  “It’s useless. I’ve spent hours searching. She’ll be wondering where I am, and I can’t go home.”

  He rose. “Show me exactly where you fell.”

  Jem got to her feet reluctantly. “Just there. My toe caught that rut.”

  He walked with her to the spot, then said, “I think you must have stubbed your toe on that stone. Do you see?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Stone or rut, the money is gone.”

  “Shall I make a loan of what you lost? Policemen do that sometimes.”

  “Not Constable Brewster,” she scoffed. “He would send me home with a flea in my ear.” She looked up at him, her face earnest. “And I can’t take your money. There’s no way to repay you. And debt is a bad thing. It leads to trouble.”

  Rutledge wondered if her mother or her father had taught her that. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “How many shillings did you lose?”

  “Two,” she said.

  “Let me fetch the torch in my boot,” he told her, and walked briskly back to the motorcar. While he was out of her line of sight, opening the boot, he felt in his pocket for coins, found two shillings, and closed his fingers over them. He went back to where she was standing, forlorn and anxious.

  “Here, cast about with the torch. It might reflect on the silver.”

  She began to search, her head bent, the torch barely bright enough on this cloudy day to do much good. He made a pretense of searching as well. And then he called, “Look here. I think I’ve found one.” He knelt by a rut, and as she came up, he pointed.

  “It must have rolled,” she exclaimed, her face wreathed in smiles. “Now let’s find the other.”

  With her standing so near him, he was hard-pressed to drop the second shilling, for fear it might bounce on his boot and give him away. Turning his back on her, he moved a little distance away and discovered the second shilling.

  She pounced on it with glee, and said, her eyes shining, “You must have very good eyesight.”

  “I’ve always been told so,” he agreed. “Now let me run you into the village before the shops close, and you can buy your flour. I’ll run you back to your lane, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “No, I mustn’t,” she said. “Someone will see me and tell my mother. I’m not—”

  “—to speak to strangers,” he said in unison with her. “What if I drop you where no one will notice? Will that do?”

  Torn, she considered his proposition. “Are you sure you’re a policeman?” she asked.

  He solemnly took out his identification and passed it to her.

  She bent her head to read it carefully, and he wondered how much schooling she might have had, taking her brothers’ places in the household as she had done. Then she gave it back to him.

  “Very well,” she said, echoing her mother’s voice, he thought, and walked back to the motorcar.

  Rutledge managed to get Jem to the village without being seen, and was waiting when she came back.

  “I thought you might have gone,” she said, putting several sacks on the floorboard as she climbed into her seat. “It took so very long.”

  “A promise is a promise,” he said lightly.

  “It’s quite far to drive,” she went on, eager and yet trying to be polite.

  “I’m on my way to call on Captain Standish. It’s no trouble.”

  “You won’t mention me to him?” she asked, alarmed. “He’ll surely tell my mother. He keeps an eye on us. My mother thinks he’s being kind, but I worry that we aren’t doing our bit and he’s waiting to catch us out.”

  Surprised at such adult wisdom, Rutledge said, “Is he not a kind master?”

  “Yes, but even I know we aren’t doing as well as we were when my brothers and my father were all working together on the farm. He’s not blind, you know.”

  He had no answer for that.

  They reached the lane where she’d got down before, and he pulled up to let her out. She had shut the door and was about to run down the track when she paused and said with a sweet smile, “Thank you. For finding the shillings too.”

  “Glad to be of assistance,” he told her, and watched her until she was out of sight.

  Surely there had been someone else to walk into the village for flour? But then he answered himself. There was only her mother, who had other work to do and couldn’t spare the time.

  But there was no way to help them without betraying Jem, and doing that would only cause more trouble for the family.

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  9

  He drove on to the Captain’s house and knocked at the door.

  This time Standish received him in the pretty room where Rutledge had watched him pace.

  “What brings you here? News, I hope? I could use a little good news,” the Captain said, gesturing to a chair.

  “I just had a few more questions,” Rutledge told him. “Have you been to see your motorcar?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Standish replied curtly. “Mr. Trotter hasn’t darkened my door.”

  “I’ll be happy to drive you to Trotter’s garage.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Very well. Do you know a man by the name of Grant, who lives in Burling Gap?”

  “Grant? No, I don’t. Who is he, and why do you think I might know him?”

  “He was found dead this afternoon. In the walled garden at Belle Tout. Not far, in fact, from where the accident occurred that killed the Rector. It’s possible that there’s a connection between Grant’s death and Wright’s, even though they occurred in two different places. On Friday night Wright was seen arguing with someone. It could have been Grant.”

  “You think this argument precipitated the borrowing of my motorcar? I don’t see how.”

  “Nor do I at the moment. But there’s no doubt that Grant is dead. And it’s possible that Wright was murdered.”

  “Good God,” Standish said blankly. “Two murders? Is that what you’re telling me? I can hardly remember when either village last saw one.”

  “Unfortunately, it could be true.”

  “But you told me that Grant’s body was found today. Wright couldn’t have had anything to do with his death.”

  “It appears he’d argued with his wife last Friday, and in a fit of temper, decided to leave her. That seemed to be a pattern in their marriage. Under the circumstances it was thought he’d simply gone missing, very likely with another woman. We can’t be sure when he died.”

  Standish got up and walked to the windows. “Is there no end to this business?” he asked, staring out. The afternoon light had nearly faded, leaving patches of darkness where the trees were closest together. There had been stress in his voice, though he tried to conceal it. He stood there for a moment, not speaking.

  Rutledge waited, letting him take his time.

  Finally the Captain turned. “I would not have had any of this happen. I wish to God it hadn’t. All right, I’ll take you up on your offer. Let me find a coat, and we’ll go to Trotter
’s garage.”

  He was back in a matter of minutes, and followed Rutledge out to the motorcar.

  “She’s a handsome lady,” he said, looking over Rutledge’s motorcar. “Quite like my own. I didn’t know policemen drove touring cars.”

  “As a rule they don’t. The Downs just here are not easy to get about in. As you know from your own situation.”

  “True. I’m buying a horse. It’s the only thing I can think of doing until I know how long it will take to repair my own motor or to buy another.”

  They drove in silence to the garage. At first it seemed that Trotter wasn’t in, but he finally came to the door and opened it. There was another vehicle in the interior now, sitting in the lamplight. Underneath it were a trolley and a torch, where Trotter had been working.

  “I wasn’t certain I’d heard your knock.” Turning from Rutledge to Standish, he said, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, but your motorcar has sustained quite a bit of damage.” As he talked, he led them toward the far side of the garage and lit another lamp so that the Captain could see what had happened to his vehicle.

  “My God,” he whispered, taking it in, walking around the outside, peering into the body and then under it. “How will it run, once you’ve done the necessary repairs?”

  “Well enough. I shall have to order two new wings, and part of the bonnet is beyond repair. The roof I can deal with. The motor is still sound, for a wonder. But some of the linkages and the lines will need checking to be certain they still work properly.” He went on describing the damage and what it would require to set the motorcar to rights again.

  Rutledge stood to one side, watching the Captain’s reaction. Ten minutes later, Standish thanked Trotter and gave him instructions. When he was finished making notes, Trotter started to hold out his greasy hand to seal the agreement, stopped, and said ruefully, “Well, better not to shake hands. But the Inspector here is our witness.”

  “Yes,” Standish said, suddenly eager to be away. “Thank you. Please keep me informed.” And he was out the door ahead of Rutledge.

  On the road back to the house, Standish said, his feeling suddenly overwhelming him, “This is the second motorcar smashed in a year’s time. It’s as if I’m cursed. Or unlucky.”

  “You’ve had a crash yourself?” Rutledge asked, surprised.

  “It’s not important,” Standish said, regretting his outburst. “Just—I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  But it was important, in Rutledge’s eyes.

  “Where and when was this crash?”

  “Not in Sussex. Last year. I have told you, it’s not important.”

  “Are you married?” Rutledge asked, willing to change the subject for the moment and taking advantage of an opportunity. He wondered if Standish would admit to having been engaged at one time.

  “No. No, I’m not.” It was final, closing the subject.

  “Then you have no one else to consider but yourself.”

  “What? Yes. True.”

  When they reached the house, Standish got out and said good evening, making it clear that he didn’t expect Rutledge to come in again.

  The door shut firmly behind the Captain, and Rutledge drove away.

  He’d told Standish more than he’d intended when he set out for Four Winds, but sometimes it was necessary. He was fairly sure that Standish didn’t know Grant, and it was likely that there were witnesses to his visit to Brighton, proving where the Captain was when Wright died. That could be established in the course of the inquiry, but for the moment, it was not as important as the reference to another crash.

  “Aye,” Hamish said from his accustomed place just behind Rutledge’s shoulder. “He didna’ wish to talk about it. No’ a good sign.”

  Just as Rutledge reached the main road, it was as if the sky opened up and the rain came down in heavy curtains, nearly blinding him. In the end, he had had to creep into East Dedham. The market stalls had been abandoned, goods hastily covered over while the sellers took shelter in the pub.

  It was busy and noisy when Rutledge walked in the door and took the steps to his room two at a time. The smoke from cigarettes seemed to wreathe around the ceiling, trails of it in the lamplight.

  He found two messages shoved under his door, both of them in sealed envelopes.

  The first was from Neville.

  The search party hadn’t turned up any sign of the Rector’s bicycle. The final sentence read, I can’t think where else to tell them to look.

  The second was from Dr. Hanby.

  His neck was indeed broken. Quite efficiently. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that whoever did this to Grant had also broken the Rector’s neck. Make of it what you will. There are indications that Grant was in an altercation with someone before his death. His nose was broken, and there was tissue damage consistent with bruising. More difficult to break the neck of a man who knows you’re there. Easier if he’s unconscious. Time of death? Stage of decomposition suggests Friday.

  Rutledge read both messages, then locked them in his valise.

  It was surprising that Neville’s search party hadn’t found the Rector’s bicycle.

  He could understand that Wright wouldn’t have left it where it might easily be found before he could return the motorcar or speak to Standish about borrowing it. Still, it should have turned up. The men set to searching knew this country.

  As for the doctor’s message, it was one more convolution in an already complex situation. Rutledge decided to ignore the death of Timothy Grant for the moment and give his attention to the Rector’s. Find the answer to that, and he might well have the answer to what happened at the lighthouse.

  The rain was still coming down hard when Rutledge went in to his dinner.

  He had the dining room to himself. It was too wretched a night for anyone to choose to dine out, and the bar was bursting with marketgoers caught by the rain and the stall owners who were still unable to do anything about their wares. He’d looked in, scanning the faces, hoping to find the woman who’d sold him the tray, but she wasn’t there.

  And then, as he was reading the menu, the dining room door opened and Barnes stood on the threshold, shaking his hat and removing his coat. Josie came in from the kitchen just at that moment and clucked her tongue at the resulting puddle, but said nothing as she showed the newcomer to a table.

  Apparently dinner at the rectory was so little to his liking that he was willing to wade through the rain.

  Rutledge felt a moment of sympathy for Mrs. Saunders.

  Barnes recognized the man from London and said, as soon as Josie had returned to the kitchen, “You haven’t returned any of the papers you took from Wright’s desk.”

  “There was nothing of interest in them. At least that’s how it appears at the moment. I’ll hang on to them for a little longer.”

  “My Bishop won’t approve,” Barnes responded. “Nor will he approve of the theft of Captain Standish’s motorcar. And the report I must send him on the state of affairs at the rectory will appall him.”

  Rutledge said curtly, “We don’t know why the motorcar was taken, or what Wright intended to do about borrowing it, if he’d lived.”

  “That’s splitting hairs,” Barnes said officiously.

  “And the rectory?”

  “The present housekeeper is sullen, and her cooking is not fit to eat.”

  “She’s grieving for a man she’d faithfully served for twelve years. And Wright never complained about her cooking.”

  “Are you sure of that? You’ve only just come to East Dedham.”

  Rutledge held on to his temper with both hands.

  “This isn’t London, Barnes. It’s a small village, and that makes a difference in how things are done.” He remembered the letters full of gratitude that had been sent to Wright. “I daresay the Rector cared more for his flock than he did for his dinner. His Bishop needs to take that into consideration as well.”

  “We shall see. But I would cou
nt it a favor if his papers are returned at your earliest convenience.”

  Rutledge rose. “That will wait for the police to finish their inquiry.” He walked out of the dining room, shutting the door carefully behind him when he’d have enjoyed slamming it.

  Fetching his coat and an umbrella, he walked out into the rain. It had not let up, and he was counting on the fact that it had kept Mrs. Saunders at her post, when usually by this time she would have left to stay with her sister.

  He was quite wet when he arrived on the rectory’s doorstep. Mrs. Saunders answered his knock with a sour expression, then it changed when she saw who was there.

  “I thought he’d forgot his key,” she said, opening the door wider so that Rutledge could step inside. “Oh, just look at you,” she added as he furled his umbrella and moved into the circle of light cast by the lamp on the table. “Come into the kitchen. It’s still warm, and you can dry your coat and hat a little.” She ushered him, unprotesting, to the kitchen, and pulled out a chair for him.

  He gave her his hat and coat, and she set the kettle on to boil. “You’ll need something hot to drink. Have you eaten? There’s Rector’s dinner still in the cupboard. His high-and-mightiness refused to have any part of it.”

  He laughed at her name for Barnes. “Is he quite so bad?” he asked.

  “He’s a prying man, looking into everything, wanting to know this or that. I can tell you Rector kept his accounts in order. He took pride in it.”

  “What is Barnes looking for? Wright is dead—I’m sorry, but it’s a fact. Why not simply bury him figuratively and literally, then get on with replacing him?”

  “A good question, Mr. Rutledge. I’ve wondered myself. He went through the drawers of the desk in the study, went through Rector’s bedchamber, and even took all the books out of the bookshelves. As if he’s afraid something might escape him, and the Bishop will be displeased.”

  But it sounded to Rutledge as if Barnes was expecting to find something. What was it? And then he thought he knew. Anything that might explain why Wright had been driving another man’s motorcar?

  Mrs. Saunders was saying, “Rector kept no secrets. He wasn’t that sort of man.”