by Todd,Charles
He heard a whimper, and moving behind the grandstand, where it faced the sea, he saw the dog. Her lead had been snubbed up close to the wall, hardly giving her room to move. Shivering and hungry, she still growled ferociously at him, baring her teeth and trying to break free, even though a length of cloth had been tied around her muzzle.
Rutledge came round to kneel beside her, and by her paw was a broken bit of wood with blood and red dog hair embedded in the rough surface. Rutledge could see dried blood, a darker patch against the fur on the animal’s head. Whoever had attacked Elizabeth Wilding had had to stun the dog to tie it up. The leather lead had been wound around one of the thick footings that held up the stand above it. He turned to the dog, unknotted the cloth, and in one swift movement pulled it away. Then he worked at the lead, trying to free it.
Ginger was struggling to rise to her feet, barking madly now. But the footing that held the lead tight didn’t move. Rutledge stood back, kicking it, just as someone on the walk beside the Promenade called, “Here, what are you doing to that poor beast?”
It was a constable.
Rutledge said, thinking fast, “She was stolen. Someone tied her up here, where her mistress couldn’t find her. It’s Dr. Wilding’s dog.”
The burly constable came up to the bandstand and peered over the rail at the dog below. “Damn whoever did this,” he said under his breath, and came hurrying around to have a better look at the situation. “Is she badly hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” Rutledge replied, “not the way she’s behaving.” He stooped to work at unknotting the lead. But the dog was pulling too hard against it.
The constable reached out for her.
Ginger, having none of it, threatened to bite both of them. Rutledge managed to lay a gloved hand on her head, calling her by name.
“Ginger? Good dog. Easy, girl, we’re doing our best.”
After much coaxing, she subsided, cocking her head to one side, watching the two men work at the lead. It wasn’t about to budge. And neither man could unwind it.
“She wasn’t here the last two times I’ve made my rounds,” the constable informed Rutledge. “I’d swear to it.”
“She was muzzled. That length of cloth.”
Finally Rutledge took off the belt to his coat, tied it to the dog’s collar, found his pocketknife, and cut the lead. That took some doing, the constable holding the belt tightly as he watched the leather slowly shred and then break.
Ginger rose with a bark, nearly bowling over both Rutledge and the Constable. She was intent on running, and Rutledge scrambled to his feet, retrieving the bit of cloth and catching the other end of the belt just as it was snatched from the constable’s hand.
The dog was pulling hard at the makeshift lead, and Rutledge had no choice but to go after her. As he kept up with Ginger, he shouted to the constable, “Can you drive? That motorcar. It’s mine. Take it to Dr. Wilding’s surgery.” He added the address, but he wasn’t sure the constable heard him. And then he was forced into a run to keep pace with the dog.
They arrived breathless and panting at the door to the surgery, and Rutledge knocked while the dog scratched vigorously at the wood and whined. The younger maid opened the door, the one who had brought him sandwiches. Before she could move, Ginger broke free and dashed past her, coming to a sudden halt in the wide entry, sniffing the air. Then, with a bark, she was away up the stairs, dragging the belt to Rutledge’s coat behind her.
He went after her and managed to untie the belt as she danced anxiously outside the bedroom door. He could hear Elizabeth Wilding laughing and crying and calling the dog’s name. As soon as Rutledge opened the door, Ginger bolted into the room, leaping for the bed. He closed it again and went back downstairs, going out to the street in front of the house.
The constable was just arriving in his motorcar, clearly enjoying the opportunity to drive it. He pulled to the verge and grinned at Rutledge as he stepped out the driver’s door.
“Do your rounds usually take you by the bandstand this time of year?” Rutledge asked as the other man came round the bonnet.
“Not as often, no. But there was a suicide attempt last night. Girl found in the surf. Lucky she was seen in time.”
“Do you get many suicides?”
“A few round the holidays.”
“Who found her?”
“A mother and daughter, I’m told. They were out walking and saw something dark in the surf. Ran down and pulled her out.”
“Who were they?”
“According to the hotel staff, they didn’t stay around to be thanked. Well, they were wet to the skin themselves, I expect, and wanting to get home.”
He thanked the constable, and when the man walked on, Rutledge went to the hotel just up from the bandstand and spoke to the staff.
The man at the desk summoned the manager who had been on duty during the night.
“Are you a friend of the family?” He was thin, balding, and capable.
“Yes,” Rutledge said. “I’m trying to find out what happened to the young woman who nearly drowned.”
“There was a woman calling for help as she came through the door. The doorman tried to stop her, as she didn’t appear to be a guest. But she was frantic, shouting that she’d just helped pull someone out of the water and needed assistance. I’d come around the desk by then, and I could see she was telling the truth, for she was wet to the waist, dripping water everywhere. I sent two men out there straightaway, got blankets, and followed them. I thought the woman in the water was dead, to tell you the truth.” He shook his head. “I didn’t give her a chance of surviving. But the older woman, who’d tried to chafe her hands and face while waiting for us, told me there was a pulse, albeit quite faint. We wrapped her in the blankets and brought her here. I took her into the inner office, where there was a little more privacy, and sent one of the staff for hot-water bottles. One of the men went running for Dr. Wilding. He was the closest physician. By that time, I realized that the two women had gone. Good Samaritans,” he said approvingly, “not waiting to be thanked.”
“You never heard their names? The family will want to thank them.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Can you describe them?”
“They were not dressed like our guests. The younger woman was wearing red shoes.” He said it as if this indicated poor taste. “And their hats were not of the latest fashion.”
Delilah and her mother? Impossible to be sure.
He asked several more questions, but he heard nothing that would lead him to the Browns.
Thanking the manager, Rutledge left the hotel and drove to the Browns’ house. It was well after ten now, and he was tired.
There were no lamps showing in any of the windows. This time, he decided not to knock. Leaving the motorcar several streets away, he took out his torch and faced the cold wind blowing off the water as he retraced his steps. And this time, he went to the back of the house and found a window that was not properly latched. He opened it with care and climbed into the room.
The first thing he noticed was that the house was cold. There were no signs of cooking in the kitchen and the cooker itself had gone out.
He made his way through the ground floor and then went up the stairs.
The two bedrooms were in disarray. Drawers pulled out, wardrobe doors hanging open, and the beds looking as if something heavy had been dragged across them, leaving the coverlets half on the floor.
The drawers were nearly empty, the wardrobes as well, although there were a few things left behind. Hairbrushes, jewelry, shoes, hats, clothes, and lingerie were for the most part missing. As if someone had packed in a tearing hurry, taking only what was important and abandoning the rest. Face powder was spilled on the floor in the larger bedroom, shoes were left where they’d fallen, and someone had shoved the seat at the dressing table to one side. One of the shoes he saw was red, and water-stained.
He hoped the Browns, mother and daughter, had made it to Canterb
ury or some other place of safety.
Rutledge was halfway down the stairs when he froze at the sound of someone at the house door.
He went softly down the last half-dozen steps and crossed to the front room, where he could look out the windows there.
A woman in a heavy coat and hat was standing on the walk.
“Delilah?” she called, when there was no answer to her knocking. “Are you there? It’s been days now. I can’t cover for you any longer. Do you want to keep your position or not?” There was exasperation in the last words. “You must come to work, Delilah. Do you hear me?”
When her words were met with silence, she walked forward and banged on the door with her fist.
“Delilah? I know you’re in there. All right, I tried to be a friend and warn you. To hell with you, anyway.”
And she turned, walking away with an angry stride and disappearing from his sight.
None of the neighbors had opened their doors or shouted from windows.
He waited ten minutes, then searched the house again, this time looking for anything that might help him find the man Grant had had business dealings with. Either Grant hadn’t trusted Delilah with anything that might be used against him, or he was too smart, knowing he was about to come into large sums of money—however realistic that really was—and kept all the details to himself.
Rutledge climbed out of the rear window and pulled it down, as best he could. And then he made his way down the back garden, through the dark shadows of the alley, and out into the street again. If a neighbor had seen him, no alarm was raised.
Once more he arrived at the pub at a very late hour, climbing the stairs to his room. This time there was no Josie to offer to bring him sandwiches and tea. He went down, found someone in the nether regions, and asked for a pot. It was brought up, and as Rutledge was adding the warm milk to his cup, he remembered something.
Constable Neville and others had told him they were Chapel folk, and not Church of England. But where was the chapel they attended, and who was the cleric in charge?
It was far too late to ask anyone. The police station was closed, the shops were shut, and the pub appeared to be empty except for himself.
It could wait until morning, then.
He drank the tea, got ready for bed, and turned out the light. The old building creaked, the stairs and doors sounding as if there were an army of people slipping up in the dark.
He laughed at himself for being a fool, but he slept poorly all the same. Hamish, busy as soon as his eyes opened, was relentless.
After breakfast, he drove to Burling Gap and sought out Constable Neville.
He and a half-dozen other men were standing at the edge of the cliff that ran toward the Seven Sisters, staring down at the sea.
It was particularly rough this morning, ominous gray clouds on the horizon and the wind whipping the sea into a froth.
Rutledge came up to them and wished them a good morning. They looked up, and parted so he too could see what they were staring at.
A good five feet of cliff had fallen down into the sea during the early hours of the morning. Approaching the edge with care, Rutledge looked over. The chalk face was a brilliant white, even in this light. The tide was out, and he could see from this dizzying height that on the strand was a high pile of chalk, sod, and flint stones, marking where the new section of cliff had fallen.
Neville was looking back toward the straggle of cottages. “I can’t help but wonder,” he said, “where they’ll be in another twenty years.”
“I’m leaving,” one man said, “as soon as may be. As soon as I can find work elsewhere. I’m not waiting.”
“Aye, well, you’re nearest the sea,” another man said. “My wife won’t hear of leaving. She says we’ll be here fifty years from now.”
“Not if we have another winter like last,” a third man said gloomily, and turned to walk away.
The others soon followed. Rutledge and Neville made their way back to the police station and shut the door against the wind. The cooker was pouring out heat, and Neville set the kettle on.
“Any word on Timothy Grant’s body?” he asked.
“None,” Rutledge said. “Dr. Hanby was called away in the night. Last night,” he amended. “I’ve not had a chance to speak to him about Grant.”
“Mrs. Grant won’t be happy about that.”
“Where is an inquest usually held?”
Neville scratched his head. “We’ve not had one for some time. Not since before the war. I expect it will be in the pub. There’s a room in the back, if it’s still available. Could be a lumber room by now, filled with odd bits of furniture and dishes and the like.”
He sounded as gloomy as his companions out on the cliff’s edge.
“Worrying, falls of that size,” Rutledge commented.
“The war took most of the young people, one way or another. The older ones are starting to give up. There’s a better way of making a living than running sheep here on the Downs. Besides, no one has a large enough flock. They have to club together to sell the wool as it is, and never get the best price.”
When he brought in the tray with the teapot, Rutledge asked the question uppermost in his mind. “Where do you attend church services? There’s neither church nor chapel here in Burling, and only St. Simon’s in East Dedham.”
“We Chapel folk meet in houses. Once every two weeks, there’s a preacher from down Eastbourne way who comes to us.”
“Where do you bury your dead?”
Neville shrugged. “We buried them in St. Simon’s churchyard before we went to Chapel. And we still do. Our ancestors are there. The cliffs have always come down. No sense in burying anyone out there.”
It made sense of a sort.
“Have your people always lived here?”
“Aye, as fishermen and wreckers. There’s prehistoric ruins out on the cliffs. They might have been our folk. We like to think so, at any rate.” He stirred his tea. “East Dedham, now, only goes back to the Normans. Newcomers, aren’t they?”
There was both pride and bitterness in the words.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
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15
After drinking his tea, Rutledge said, “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Grant again. I’ve interviewed the woman in Eastbourne who she claims had stolen her husband’s affections. He was involved in something, and Miss Brown didn’t know what it was. But she was trying to find out, and I have the strongest feeling she knew how to contact the person Grant had worked with. Or he knew how to find her. It’s possible she was tempted to try a little blackmail of her own. At any rate, it’s likely she was frightened off when he attacked someone else by mistake. If Mrs. Grant knows more than she’s telling us, she could be in danger as well.”
“But what was going on with Grant?”
“My guess is he was blackmailing someone. Anyone in Burling Gap—or East Dedham, for that matter—who might kill to keep a secret safe?”
“If there was,” Neville replied, “I’d have some suspicion of it. That kind of secret changes a man. But, sir, look at this. Who better than a rag-and-bone man to stumble over something nasty while doing his rounds, and try to turn it to his advantage? It’s a rough living, what he does.”
It made sense. Miss Wilding had been attacked in Eastbourne, and Delilah worked at a pub there. It was where Grant plied his own trade.
When they made their way to Mrs. Grant’s cottage, they found Mrs. Mitchell at the door.
“She’s not answering,” the woman told them. “I’ve been twice this morning, once with her breakfast, and now to see if she’s taken ill from all the distress.”
“Let me try,” Neville said, and stepped up to pound on the door with his fist. “If she’s sleeping, she won’t miss that.”
They waited in silence for several minutes, listening for the sound of footsteps.
“She wouldn’t
do herself a harm over Grant’s death?” Neville asked.
Mrs. Mitchell gave them a disparaging look. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t much of a husband, Grant.”
But there was no accounting for affections, Rutledge thought. As a rule, people loved with their hearts and not their heads.
He said, “Try the door.”
“I don’t like—” Neville began, but one look at Rutledge’s face and he reached for the latch.
The door was not locked. Mrs. Mitchell pushed forward to be the first inside, but Rutledge barred her way. “Wait here,” he ordered, and she fell back.
He went in, followed by Neville. The cottage was dark, the fires out. Neville found a lamp and lit it. Rutledge had expected to find the room in chaos, but it was no more untidy than it had been on his first visit. The remnants of last night’s dinner sat on a small tray drawn up next to a chair, and the gray-and-white cat got up from the couch, stretching and yawning.
Carrying the lamp with them, they walked on into the bedroom. Nothing was disturbed there. But Mrs. Grant was not in her bed. The covers were tossed back, but the bed didn’t appear to have been slept in. Rutledge crossed the room to open the wardrobe and found it empty. The drawers in the small chest had been nearly emptied as well.
From the doorway, Mrs. Mitchell said, “There was a valise on top of the wardrobe. It’s gone.”
Irritated with the woman, Rutledge said, “I thought I’d told you to wait outside.”
“And much good that would do you. Didn’t know about yon valise, did you? And any woman would have noticed that her hairbrushes are gone, as well as her face powder.”
“Then she left of her own volition,” Neville said.
“But how did she leave?” Rutledge asked. “Carrying a valise on a bicycle is an awkward business.”
“She walked,” Neville suggested. “And took the omnibus.”
“With no word to anyone about the cat?” Mrs. Mitchell said scornfully. “She thought more of that cat than she did of Timothy.”
