Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

  “I don’t think so. She’s demanding that the police find her savings and return them to her. Delilah wouldn’t know anything about that, would she?”

  In the dim light of the entry, he wasn’t sure if he saw a calculating look on her face. If Mrs. Grant didn’t have that money . . .

  If the killer did . . .

  Rutledge reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay out of this. You and your daughter,” he warned a second time. “If you know anything that will help me find whoever killed Grant, tell me now. For your own good.”

  But she stepped back, brushing his hand away, then abruptly closed the door.

  Hamish said, as Rutledge turned toward East Dedham in the early winter darkness, “Ye ken, if it’s true that yon lass found the message on Thursday, it couldna’ have been left by yon Rector. And there’s only one person in East Dedham with access to a motorcar.”

  Trotter.

  Rutledge was uneasy. He debated turning back, making certain Delilah and her mother left Eastbourne. But even as he considered it, he knew it would be no use. Whatever promises they made to him would be worthless.

  But there was one question he hadn’t asked, and he took the next street that would lead him back to the terrace house.

  It was full dark when he got there.

  And so was the house. Those on either side had lamps lit in their front rooms, but there was no sign of life in number seventeen.

  He got out and went to the door, knocking several times. No one came.

  Rutledge tried the door, but it was locked.

  It took him a quarter of an hour to find the narrow alley that led behind the terrace houses and make his way on foot to the back garden of number seventeen. But there was no light to be seen here either. Using his torch sparingly, he found the gate and opened it, walking as quietly as he could up to the kitchen door. The garden was littered with bric-a-brac, and he nearly tripped over what appeared to be the stump of a broken birdbath. Muffling his curses, he made it safely to the door, and again tried the latch. But it too was locked.

  Either they’d taken his advice and left in a hurry, or they had gone to meet the person who might well have had killed Timothy Grant.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Retracing his steps, he drove to the Promenade along the water and went down it, then back up it, scanning the benches and the bandstand and any other place where three people might meet quietly.

  Where, indeed, Wright and Miss Wilding had met.

  It was hopeless. He even stopped at one point, leaving his motorcar in the road, and went to scan the strand below the Promenade. But there was no one. The strand stretched as far as he could see in both directions, and it was deserted. The cold wind off the incoming tide made the hardiest walker think twice about venturing out. Even the gulls had settled for the night.

  Had the two women gone in vain, to search for a man already dead?

  Or had they found their quarry, and trusted to sheer numbers, two women to one man, to keep them safe?

  He turned back, got into his motorcar, and left Eastbourne.

  There was nothing more he could do except pray that Delilah and her mother had had second thoughts and failed to keep whatever rendezvous they had arranged. That they’d returned to that dark, empty house and counted themselves lucky to reach it safely.

  Still, that sixth sense that had served him well more than once told him that they had found trouble.

  He was just passing the bandstand. He glanced up at it and saw a solitary figure there, and something about the way she stood told him that she was waiting for someone. At her feet, a golden-yellow dog lay, patient, on guard.

  It was Miss Wilding.

  He was about to stop, to speak to her and offer her what comfort he could. But he knew it wasn’t wanted.

  His last image of her was of dark skirts and bonnet ribbons blowing in the cold wind.

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  14

  There was a message waiting for him in his room at the pub. Rutledge opened it to find a query from Constable Neville.

  Mrs. Grant was that upset after you spoke with her. She wishes to know when she can bury her husband.

  It could wait until morning, when Dr. Hanby’s surgery opened at eight.

  Rutledge went to bed, slept without dreams, and as soon as he’d finished his breakfast, went to speak to the doctor. He would be able to arrange an inquest, adjourn it as murder by person or persons unknown, and release the body thereafter. There was no need, in his view, to hold it any longer.

  When Hanby’s assistant opened the door to him, she wore a long face as she informed him that Dr. Hanby had been called away to consult on an urgent matter. “If you don’t require immediate care, you’d best come back tomorrow.”

  He hadn’t met her before, he’d dealt with the doctor’s wife. Tall, thin, brown hair streaked with gray, a kind face.

  “When did he leave?” Rutledge asked. He’d seen lights on in the doctor’s house last evening as he made the turn toward The Sailor’s Friend.

  “Four o’clock this morning,” she told him. “It was very upsetting. There was a message from the doctor in Eastbourne.”

  Rutledge thanked her and was about to turn away. Instead he stopped her from shutting the door, saying, “Wait. Dr. Wilding?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir. It’s a medical matter.”

  He showed her his identification. “Scotland Yard. It might be important.”

  His mind was already racing. Delilah. She had met the man after all . . .

  Rutledge wanted to swear. It had been the height of foolishness. He’d done his best to stop her, but money to the poor was an escape from want or drudgery. It blinded one to danger, to any risk.

  “A suicide, sir. A young lady. Someone walking on the strand saw her in the water and pulled her out. Sadly, she’s not coming round as she should.”

  “A young lady?” he repeated. Who would describe Delilah in those terms?

  “Yes, sir, the doctor’s daughter. Very sad indeed.”

  Miss Wilding. He had seen her—debated stopping—and now wished he had.

  He thanked her, ran back to the pub, and got into his motorcar.

  Morning traffic was heavy on the outskirts of the town, and it took far longer than it should to reach Wilding’s surgery. But he changed his mind before he pulled up at the door and made his way instead to the terrace house where Delilah and her mother lived.

  He knocked, but no one came, even though he gave the Browns time to dress and answer the door. He knocked one last time, waited again, and left.

  Driving back to the Wilding surgery, Rutledge left his motorcar in front of the house and went up the path to knock at their door. He identified himself as Scotland Yard to the woman who answered, and when she tried to stop him, he gently set her aside and went into the waiting room. “Dr. Hanby?” he called. “Inspector Rutledge here.”

  “He’s not in the surgery,” the nurse informed him. “He’s still in the house.”

  “Then take me there. It’s urgent.”

  “Dr. Wilding canceled his morning surgery. He’s left orders he’s not to be disturbed. There has been a family—”

  She stopped in midsentence as he brushed past her a second time, found a likely door that led through to the house proper, and took the stairs two steps at a time.

  In the passage at the top of the first flight, he turned to the nurse pursuing him and said, “If you don’t want me to shout for Dr. Hanby, you’ll show me the way.”

  Out of breath and more than a little anxious, she said, “I don’t know why you insist on doing this.”

  “Because it could very well be a police matter.”

  “She tried to drown herself, poor child!” she exclaimed. “How can this be of i
nterest to the police?”

  But he had been over that in his own mind, from the time he’d driven across the headland in the direction of Eastbourne. His guilt at not stopping the night before was as strong as his anger at Dr. Wilding and his wife for not protecting their daughter when her need was greatest.

  And then he was struck by another thought.

  He’d driven the length of the Promenade, but there had been no one else about, only Elizabeth Wilding. Was it suicide? Or had she been mistaken for someone else? But that was not for anyone’s ears. Not yet.

  “That’s for me to judge. Now where do I find Dr. Hanby?”

  She took him down the passage to the third door on his left and knocked gently.

  It was Dr. Hanby himself who opened it a crack.

  “What is it, my dear?” he asked quietly, then saw Rutledge standing just behind the woman. “Rutledge? What the devil brings you here? What’s happened?”

  “Step outside, I need to speak to you.”

  “Can it wait?” He cast a glance over his shoulder. Rutledge could just see beyond him the quiet figure lying still in the bed with a pretty coverlet drawn up to her chest. On either side of her, her parents held her hands, bending low over her.

  “I don’t believe it can.”

  Hanby stepped out of the room and closed the door softly. With a nod he dismissed the woman who had brought Rutledge to the sickroom door, and they waited until her footsteps had gone down the stairs and across the entry.

  “Now, what is it that won’t keep?”

  “What happened to Miss Wilding?”

  “I don’t know that it’s any business of yours.”

  “You were called in.”

  “Yes, because her father was in a state, and she needed medical care at once. Now what’s this about?”

  “I need to know if it was suicide or something else.”

  “Great God, man, is everything murder to you?”

  “In this case, yes. Either tell me, or I’ll go in that room and ask her parents.”

  “She hasn’t regained her senses yet. Two women found her in the surf, and dragged her out. And none too soon. She was suffering from hypothermia and had nearly drowned before they reached her. One stayed with her, the other went at once to the hotel across the way and got help. The hotel called Dr. Wilding, and when he got there, he saw that the patient he’d been called in to attend was his daughter. He brought her home at once, and his wife sent for me.” He cleared his throat. “I’m told there was an unhappy love affair. It’s why her father was quite so upset. He blamed himself.”

  “Who was the man she was in love with?” Rutledge asked. While he himself knew, he wasn’t certain that Hanby had been told.

  “I don’t know. I felt it wasn’t my place to ask,” he replied coldly.

  “Did anyone think to take down the names of the two women who found her?”

  “I don’t know. Someone told me, but I don’t recall.”

  “Was it Brown, by any chance?”

  “I had other matters on my mind. I’m sorry. The hotel might be able to tell you, if it’s important. I’m sure Dr. Wilding would like to thank them properly as well.”

  “There’s more to this than an unhappy love affair. I need to speak to Miss Wilding as soon as she’s able to talk.”

  “I’ve sedated her. With any luck, she’ll sleep for a while. She was barely conscious when her father reached her, and she’s said nothing since then, to my knowledge. I shan’t allow you to go in there and upset her at this stage. Go back to East Dedham and mind your own affairs.”

  “This is very likely an important part of my work. I’ll stay downstairs for as long as it takes to speak with her. Get used to that.” And Rutledge turned on his heel and walked away.

  Dr. Hanby called to him, but he ignored the summons. By the time he’d started down the flight of steps, he heard the door to the sickroom close.

  The first door he opened led into a parlor facing the street. It was a handsome room, done up in creams and a deep rose. There was no fire on the hearth, and the room was quite cold. But one had been laid in the grate ready for use, and he found a match on the mantelpiece and bent over to touch it to the tinder.

  It was burning well when a maid came to the door, staring in horror at him as if he’d broken in somehow.

  “I’m waiting for Dr. Hanby. A . . . personal matter,” he told her.

  “Oh,” she said, digesting that. Then she crossed to the hearth to see if the fire was drawing properly. “Is there anything I can bring to you, sir?”

  “Tea,” he said pleasantly, smiling at her. “That would be very nice.”

  She colored a little, then bobbed a curtsy and left. A little later she came back with a tray that bore the tea things and a plate of sandwiches, another of small cakes.

  He thanked her and settled down once more to wait. Several times the same maid went up to the first floor, carrying trays and hot-water bottles, a Thermos of what must have been tea, or more coal for the fire.

  It was well after the dinner hour before Dr. Hanby came down the stairs. Rutledge had heard footsteps and was standing in the drawing room door, waiting for him.

  “I have persuaded Dr. Wilding and his wife to rest a little. Miss Wilding is awake and coherent, though very weak. If you give me your word that you won’t upset her, I’ll take you up to her room.”

  “I promise.”

  “Very well. This way.” And he led Rutledge up the stairs to the passage at the top of the flight.

  In the lamplight, Miss Wilding looked wan, as if she had been ill for a very long time and was just recovering. Her eyes, closed now, looked swollen. He thought she must have been crying.

  Rutledge walked across to the bed and spoke quietly to her.

  Her eyes flew open, terror in their depths, and then as she recognized him, she reached for his hand.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. The fingers were warm now, and they clung to his in a fierce grip.

  “I was hoping you would come,” she said, and glanced around the room to be sure no one else was there. When she saw Dr. Hanby, she raised her voice to say, “Would you ask Sally for a little more of that broth? Mr. Rutledge will sit with me while you’re gone.”

  Hanby hesitated, unwilling to leave her alone with the policeman. But Elizabeth Wilding said, “Please?” and in the end, he left, reluctantly shutting the door behind him.

  She turned back to Rutledge. “I don’t remember very much,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what I can. I often go to the bandstand now. I know he won’t come again, but it’s the only place I have to mourn. Ginger is my excuse; she needs more exercise than my father has time to give her, and there’s no one else to walk her. Sally can’t manage her. And she’s company, you know.” Her voice was not strong, and he reached for the carafe of water on the table by the bed and poured a glass for her, helping her to drink it.

  “I stood there for some time, pretending. And then Ginger was on her feet, staring out toward the strand. I was certain she’d spotted gulls sleeping down by the water’s edge, the way she was pulling at the lead, and then she began to bark. I thought she was about to dash down to the water, tearing the lead out of my hands. I didn’t want to have to pursue her, and so I wrapped it around the railing. The bark was changing to a deep growl, now, and she was baring her teeth.”

  Miss Wilding began to shiver. “I’d never been accosted there at the bandstand, but I was suddenly afraid. I knelt down, trying to untangle the lead, and Ginger was frantic to be free, which made it worse. There was a sound behind me, movement, but before I could turn, someone struck me hard across the head. The last thing I remember was Ginger’s bark becoming a whimper of pain, and there was nothing I could do. I awoke in my bed, very cold, and I thought it was all a dream until my mother was there beside me, crying, and my father was shouting at the maid to dress herself and come at once. He left for a time, and then he was there again, asking me to forg
ive him.”

  “They thought you’d tried to drown yourself.”

  “What?” She rose up against the pillows. “Suicide? But it wasn’t, I’m telling the truth,” she said earnestly. As his words sank in, she added, “In the water? Is that where I was found? I thought—but where is Ginger?” Anxious now, she caught his hand again. “What’s happened to my dog? Was she harmed too?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll go and have a look. But first I need to ask. Can you tell me anything about the person who struck you? Man? Woman?”

  “I never saw who it was. He—she—didn’t speak.”

  “Do you think he was down on the strand, walking there, at the beginning?”

  “Yes, very likely. That must have been what Ginger was on about, but I couldn’t see anything. I don’t know how someone got behind me. One minute I was fumbling with her lead, and the next I was here, in my bed, frightened by the suddenness of it all.”

  “I must find this person. Anything you can tell me will help.”

  Elizabeth Wilding closed her eyes. After a moment she opened them again. “No, I’m sorry. There was no time. Please, what’s become of Ginger?”

  “I don’t know, but I promise you I’ll find out.” He could hear someone at the door. Dr. Hanby was back. He asked quickly, for her ears alone, “On your honor, it wasn’t suicide? This matters, Elizabeth. You must tell me the truth, whatever you choose to tell your family.”

  “I swear it,” she answered in a whisper, her eyes on the opening door. “On Nathaniel’s memory.”

  And then Dr. Hanby was there, saying, “That’s enough, Rutledge.”

  He turned to leave, and Hanby followed him to the door, as if to be sure he didn’t hide himself behind the ornate French Provincial wardrobe or under the old-fashioned poster bed.

  At the door, Rutledge paused and asked, “The dog. What became of it?”

  “There was a dog?” He shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing about a dog.”

  Thanking him, Rutledge walked briskly down the passage and out to his motorcar.

  He drove the length of the Promenade, and then back again. There was no sign of Ginger. Unsatisfied, he got out at the bandstand and went to look there.