Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

  No one, not even Mrs. Saunders, had mentioned a new woman in Wright’s life. They had spoken of the London girl who hadn’t wanted to be a country rector’s wife, but nothing had been said about anyone else. Had he kept it secret, so that he could conduct his courtship quietly, without anyone the wiser if it came to nothing?

  Hamish, stirring in the back of his mind, said, “Has anyone told the lass that he’s deid?”

  “Do you know her name?” Rutledge asked. “Perhaps there’s something I could do.”

  She considered him, doubt in her eyes. “You won’t upset her, will you? You won’t talk about suicide?”

  He promised.

  “It’s Elizabeth Wilding. Her father’s a doctor. They have a house in the side street running down past the Grand Hotel. It’s number seven.”

  He thanked her and left, but Mrs. Sedley stood in the doorway watching him go.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  10

  Rutledge had no trouble finding Dr. Wilding’s surgery.

  It was in one of the tall white houses that reflected Eastbourne’s popularity with more affluent visitors to the seaside. And here, close by one of the finest hotels on the Promenade, a doctor’s surgery meant a prosperous practice.

  He drove past the house and found a place to leave his motorcar. Walking back, he wondered what sort of woman Elizabeth Wilding might be. Wright had not spoken of her to anyone in East Dedham, nor had he brought her there to meet any of his flock. Had he been afraid she might find it too provincial, as his first fiancée had done?

  Or was Wright still deciding whether he was willing to allow himself to care for someone else again? Rutledge himself had learned that painful lesson. He understood the care with which Wright had managed this friendship. The question was, how many other secrets had the Rector kept?

  He went up to the dark blue door and lifted the brass knocker. A young maid in a starched black uniform answered the summons.

  “Miss Wilding, please.”

  “She’s not in at present,” the maid informed him.

  “I’ve come down from London, and I’d like to speak to her. Do you know where I might find her?”

  “She’s walking on the Promenade,” he was told. “She’s got her dog with her.”

  Rutledge thanked her and continued to the Promenade. It wasn’t far, but as he came out of the protection of the hotels facing the water, he felt the temperature drop. The wind was even colder here, coming in off the sea and blowing inland. It might as well, he thought, have been blowing across the arctic ice floes.

  Hardly a place to choose for a pleasant stroll, this time of year.

  He decided to start to his left, and walked briskly along the wide, handsome Promenade, with its arches and benches where summer visitors could sit and look at the sea without having to walk out onto the strand. He could see a bandstand ahead, and there appeared to be someone sitting in it.

  As he drew closer, a large golden retriever half hidden by a woman’s skirts raised its ears.

  The dog growled as Rutledge approached the graceful white bandstand, and rose with head lowered and tail still.

  The young woman had looked up, her face alight with surprise, and then, when she saw that it wasn’t the person she’d expected, she rose, gathering the dog’s lead, preparing to leave.

  Rutledge took off his hat, and the wind ruffled his dark hair. Smiling, he said, “Miss Wilding? Your housemaid told me I might find you here.”

  “And you are . . . ?” she asked, a hand on the dog’s head, the other holding a white fur muff. Mrs. Sedley had called her pretty, for she was fair and had green eyes. But her face was rather plain until it had lit with hope and joy, and then he would have called her pretty as well.

  “My name is Rutledge. I’m down from London. I understand you’re a friend of Nathaniel Wright’s.”

  “He told you about me?” she asked, surprised. Then alarm replaced her amazement. “But he said—we promised we’d tell no one! Not yet.”

  “He kept his promise,” he assured her. “Would you prefer to walk, or sit here in the bandstand, out of the wind?”

  Uncertain, she hesitated. And then curiosity got the better of her. Drawing the dog closer to her skirts, she sat down. “It is cold,” she agreed politely. “But Ginger here likes to chase the gulls, and so I bring her out for a run.” She patted the dog’s head again, then looked straight at him and said, “How do you know Nathaniel? And who told you about me?”

  Rutledge turned slightly so that he could see the sea beyond the grandstand and not look directly into her face.

  “I found out about you in rather a roundabout way,” he said, choosing his words with care. “A shopkeeper here in Eastbourne saw the two of you dining together on several occasions. She spoke of it to me.”

  “But who is she? I’ve no idea why you should be gossiping about us with a shopkeeper.” She was tense again, as if preparing to leave in a hurry.

  He could postpone his news no longer.

  “She often sets up a stall on market day in East Dedham. And Wright always made a point of speaking to the people who come there for it. A kind man, is the way she described him.”

  “Yes. He is very kind. But how is this woman connected to you?”

  He said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “I’m from Scotland Yard, Miss Wilding, and I’ve been sent to Burling Gap to look into an incident there.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, rising. “Get to the point, please, Inspector, or whoever you are.” A thought struck her. “Did my father send you to spy on me? On us? Is that what this is about?”

  “I traveled to East Sussex because there has been a motorcar crash, and the driver was killed.”

  “And the passengers?” Her voice rose with her anxiety. “Was Nathaniel one of the passengers?” She was leaning forward, staring into his face. “How badly is he hurt?”

  “There were no other passengers, Miss Wilding. Mr. Wright was driving.”

  “But—I don’t understand,” she said again. “Nathaniel doesn’t own a motorcar. He—” The sense of what he said reached her. “This is impossible. There has been a dreadful mistake.”

  “Mr. Wright is dead.”

  She sat down, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions. Disbelief, fear, uncertainty—and finally acceptance. She hadn’t looked away, and he watched her eyes darken in what appeared to be a profound despair.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head violently. “This is some trick of my sister’s. I won’t have it.” She got to her feet, unwittingly jerking at the lead, and the dog scrambled up as well. “It won’t do.” But before she turned away, he saw the tears in her eyes.

  Rising as well, he put out a hand, taking her arm in a firm grip. “Scotland Yard doesn’t lie about such matters,” he said gently. “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  She stood there, the ends of her scarf lifting in the wind, and tendrils of fair hair blew across her cheek, catching in her eyelashes. “Dear God,” she whispered, and for a moment he thought she was about to faint because all color drained from her cheeks and she swayed. She was crying now.

  And then, remembering where she was—in this very public place—she made an effort to control her grief. Lifting her chin, squaring her shoulders, she said, “Take me home, please.” But her voice was ragged, and then it failed her altogether as she whispered, “I can’t go home. They don’t know, they won’t—what am I to do?”

  Rutledge did what he could to comfort her, and in the end simply held her in his arms until the worst of her sobbing became a soft keening. At length she raised her head from his chest and said, “I’m so sorry, please forgive me,” and moved away.

  He handed her his handkerchief, but she refused it. “When?” she asked.

  “This past Saturday evening—into Sunday morning. In that storm. He went off the road. A farmer found him the next morning.
Dr. Hanby believes he was struck by the door of the motorcar as it swung back toward him when he was thrown from the vehicle. Death was immediate. He probably never realized what happened.”

  “I can’t . . .” She swallowed hard. “I can’t believe it’s true. I want to see him.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  Anger flared. “Someone is always telling me what to do.” She walked to the steps, then thought of something. “Was he coming to see me? The night of the storm?”

  “He was returning to East Dedham. We don’t know where he’d been before that.”

  He hesitated. “Why do you think your sister had something to do with the news of Nathaniel Wright’s death?”

  “Because she doesn’t want me to become involved with him. Her word, involved. Neither does my father. I can do so much better than a country parson. Margaret has. But I think she regrets her fine marriage now. She never seems quite happy.”

  It was an odd echo of what had gone wrong with Wright’s first love.

  As if she’d heard the thought, Miss Wilding lifted her hand in a gesture of despair. “My sister was engaged to Nathaniel, and she broke it off to marry someone else. I was only sixteen at the time, but I couldn’t understand how she could have done such a thing. I thought he was wonderful.”

  Rutledge said nothing, and she went on, almost as if he weren’t there.

  “I met him here in Eastbourne, quite by accident. That was last summer. We’ve been seeing each other quite regularly since then. Always going to places where my parents weren’t likely to find us. I was going to marry him.” Tears filled her eyes again. “I don’t want to believe it.”

  “Does anyone in your family drive? Do they possibly own a dark green motorcar?”

  “Of course they drive,” she said, taken aback at what she considered a trivial question. “And yes, both my father’s motorcar and the one belonging to my sister’s husband are a dark green. How can it matter at a time like this?”

  “Does your sister live in Portsmouth, by any chance?”

  “No, she lives in London. She has a large house there, and social position.” Her voice was suddenly bitter. “That’s all my mother talks about, how grand her house is, and who comes there to dine.”

  “I’ll walk with you as far as the surgery,” he said as she prepared to go.

  “It isn’t necessary.”

  “You’ve had a shock. I’d rather be sure you got there safely.”

  “I’ve no place to grieve.” She turned to look at the cold waters of the sea, waves running in to crash on the strand, then hissing as they were sucked out again. “You can’t stand guard over me every day, can you?”

  “I don’t think this is what Nathaniel Wright would want for you.”

  “Yes, he believed in an afterlife, didn’t he? Now I’m not so sure I do. His God wouldn’t have been so cruel. So perhaps He was only in Nathaniel’s head, and not very real.”

  And she set out at a brisk pace, not waiting for him. He caught her up and walked beside her. “Would you like me to speak to your father?”

  Hamish said, “It wouldna’ do any good to speak to her father. He’d see yon Rector’s death as a fine thing.”

  “No. It wouldn’t make any difference,” she told him, echoing Hamish’s words.

  When she went into the house and shut the door behind her, Rutledge turned away, but he was concerned for her.

  He walked to the head of the street, where he could watch the house for a time, ignoring the cold wind that buffeted his shoulders. But Miss Wilding didn’t come out again. And in the end he went back to his motorcar and turned toward East Dedham.

  Wright had had everything to live for. Or so it would seem. No reason, clearly, for suicide. What, then, had gone wrong in his life? Had he killed Grant? He’d most certainly taken a motorcar without permission—and he hadn’t borrowed it to call on Miss Wilding. Something had changed him. And not for the better.

  By the time he reached East Dedham, the streets were empty and the village appeared to be deserted. Only the lamplight visible through curtained windows gave any hint that people lived in the cottages and houses.

  His mind was still on Miss Wilding as he made the turn toward the pub.

  Had Wright really cared for her as much as she seemed to care for him? Or did he see their relationship as a way of getting back at the family that had rejected him years ago? Would he have married her out of spite, or out of love?

  There was no way to know now. The man was dead, and what he felt had died with him. Still, however this inquiry ended, Rutledge hoped that Miss Wilding would never doubt Wright.

  Tired, he drove into the yard by the pub and went up to his room.

  No one was ever what he or she appeared to be, he thought as he climbed the stairs. Everyone had secrets—even he had them, hiding his shell shock from friends and enemies alike, from his sister as well.

  Standish had them. And Wright. Grant too. But whether murder was among them, only time would tell.

  He found a note pushed under his door, picked it up, and tossed it on the table by the bed. Going to stand by the window, he looked out. He could just see the churchyard from here, and a corner of the rectory. Even as he watched, Mrs. Saunders came into view, a basket over her arm and one hand keeping the hat on her head from the prying fingers of the wind. Her skirts blowing behind her, she stumbled once as the wind caught her, then recovered.

  Rutledge was still wearing his coat. Retrieving his hat from the bed, he walked quickly to the door and went down the steps and outside in time to catch Mrs. Saunders up as she walked past the pub.

  “Inspector,” she said, surprised to see him.

  “On your way to your sister’s?” he inquired.

  “Yes.” She indicated the basket over her arm. “Mr. Barnes didn’t care for my cooking again. If he stays on, I’ll be let go as housekeeper. I can see that coming.”

  “If he has anything to say to it, he’ll not stay.”

  “That’s what keeps me from walking out now.”

  He let a silence fall between them before saying, “How often did the Rector go into Eastbourne?”

  “Whenever he wasn’t needed. It was good for him, I think. He always seemed to be happier when he came back.”

  “Do you know the names of anyone he may have called on there?”

  She looked up at him. “He never said. And I didn’t care to pry. It was his free time, you see. I thought perhaps someone he’d known in the war lived there. Or it was nothing more than getting away from East Dedham for a bit.”

  “Never a young woman?”

  She smiled. “Heavens, no. I never had any notion he was seeing someone.”

  Wright had kept his promise, then. He’d said nothing, even to his housekeeper.

  “How well did he know Timothy Grant?” Rutledge asked then.

  “The one found dead up by the light? I shouldn’t think he knew him very well at all. The Grants are Chapel folk.”

  Rutledge remembered something that Mrs. Grant had said. That his work often took Grant to Eastbourne and beyond.

  Had he seen the Rector with Miss Wilding? And had Grant threatened to make what he’d seen public? He owed no loyalty to the Rector. A spot of blackmail might have seemed tempting to a man who scraped a living picking up rags and bones and the unwanted scraps from the houses of those better off than he was.

  “If that was the ragman having words with the Rector,” Hamish said, his voice clear in spite of the wind, “it doesna’ bode well.”

  But Mrs. Saunders was saying, “Here we are at my sister’s. Good evening, sir.”

  He realized she’d stopped in front of a tidy cottage on the far side of the green.

  He wished her a good evening, tipped his hat, and walked on.

  There were sandwiches for dinner that night, for the kitchen staff had Sunday evening off. Josie brought them up when she heard him climbing the stairs, a cloth over them, and a Thermos of tea in the other hand.


  “You weren’t here to pick what you’d like,” she said in apology. “But there’s egg and pickle, gammon and cheese, and a bit of chicken as well. A sponge for after.”

  He assured her that the selection was fine, and took the tray and the tea from her.

  It was then he remembered the message he’d found under his door.

  Opening the envelope, he took out the single sheet and unfolded it.

  It was from Trotter.

  I came home to find someone had been in my garage, poking about. I think you should know.

  The sandwiches forgotten, Rutledge pulled on his coat, took up his hat, and went down to the yard, where he’d left his motorcar.

  When he reached the garage, he drove slowly into the bare ground in front of it, looking around. But there was no sign of anyone about.

  Getting out, he walked to the large door.

  Hamish said, “’Ware!”

  Instead of knocking, he called, “Trotter? Are you there? It’s Rutledge.”

  He was beginning to think this might be a trap, and he stepped to one side, in the shadows near the rear of the motorcar.

  After a moment the door opened slowly. There was only darkness inside, but the brightness of the headlamps picked out the steel barrel of a shotgun.

  “Stand in the light, where I can see you,” Trotter ordered, and Rutledge did as he was told.

  “All right, you can come in, then.”

  The shotgun’s barrel vanished, and a lamp was lit, casting heavy shadows around the inner room. “Come in. Took you long enough to get here.”

  “I was in Eastbourne much of the day,” Rutledge answered, stepping through the door. Trotter closed it behind him and barred it, then went to light another lamp. “How did you discover that someone had been here?”