by Todd,Charles
Somehow in the years since he deserted, this man had remade himself. But why had he chosen the church?
Rutledge had almost reached the door of the pub when he heard a horse coming fast down the street of the quiet village. The rider turned into the pub yard.
“Mr. Rutledge? Sir? I recognized you from the night of the fire. The Captain sent me. Mrs. Meadows has recovered a little, but I’m to bring the doctor back with me. She’s in a state over her daughter.”
“We’re searching for the child now,” he said, catching the gray’s bridle. “Has she told the Captain anything that might help us?”
“She’s not very lucid, given all she’s been through. But she told us that Jem had been at home when they heard the last shots, and the girl was fearful that something had happened. Her mother tried to stop her, but she said she had to go, that a friend was in trouble. And then she came back, flying into the house, telling Mrs. Meadows to run, that someone was after her. Mrs. Meadows stood her ground, thinking Jem was overly excited, and then this man came through the open door. He struck her down without a word. She didn’t know what had happened to Jem. It was the first thing she wanted to hear as soon as she regained her senses.”
Rutledge said with more confidence than he felt, “Tell her I don’t think this man will hurt Jem. He’s hidden her away, and we should find her very soon now.” Lies, all of them, but necessary.
The horseman looked down at him anxiously. “Is that true? What I’m to tell her?”
“It’s what we know now. If it changes, I’ll send word.”
“Thank you, sir.” He gathered the horse under him as Rutledge stepped back, and set out at a fast trot for Dr. Hanby’s surgery.
Rutledge stood there, watching him go.
The motorcar was still in the shed. Barnes was out searching with the rest of the men from two villages. The man felt safe. Only Jem had really seen his face in the dark at Standish’s house. And if she was never found, he would stay safe.
Time passed with agonizing slowness. Mrs. Saunders sat with Rutledge for a while, then went to organize the women of East Dedham to prepare tea and food for the searchers as they came straggling in.
And he was left alone with his thoughts.
He’d said nothing to her about Barnes, for her own protection.
When he’d returned from the rectory, she’d asked if anything was wrong, and he’d forced a smile and said all was well, that one of Standish’s men had come into the village to fetch Dr. Hanby to Mrs. Meadows.
“A precaution. She’s anxious for her daughter, and that’s not good after a blow to the head.”
“He’s not there to sedate her, if the searchers find the girl’s body?”
“I hope not. It wasn’t the intent in sending for Hanby.”
Satisfied, she talked about the Rector for a little while longer, and then went to make herself useful preparing for the cold, tired men who would soon be coming back.
“Pray God . . .” she said as he helped her on with her coat and she tied her bonnet closely against the cold air. “Pray God she’s found and soon.”
Unable to endure the wait, Rutledge found pen and paper in his room and sat down at a table in one corner of the bar, using his notes to write down everything he’d discovered, learned, or suspected. Some of it repeated earlier reports for the Yard, but he wanted to be thorough, to leave nothing out. He enclosed the negatives and gave the address of Mrs. Russell, the owner of the actual photographs in Rye. He included the addresses of Standish, Holt, Brothers, and Taylor.
Reading it over, he decided it was as complete as he could make it. He’d found an envelope as well, and he put the pages inside and sealed it, writing his name across the flap, to ensure that no one tampered with it.
The village women arrived, carrying baskets and hurrying into the pub kitchen. He could hear them talking in somber tones as they worked.
By the time the first of the search parties came in, weary, cold, with nothing but acute disappointment to show for their hours of tramping across the Downs, trays of food and large kettles of hot water were waiting.
Gathering around Rutledge, they told him precisely what ground they’d covered, and he wrote it down.
A second party came in a quarter of an hour later, and he sat with them as well, drawing them out, hoping they would remember a place they hadn’t looked. Even as he did, he knew it was useless, that they had been thorough. Many of them must have children of their own, for there was a tension in them as they reported, and a sense of failure.
As one man put it, “We’ll go again at first light. We’re bound to see more then.”
Barnes was with the third party. Hamish had warned him as the Bishop’s man came through the door, and Rutledge found a reason to turn away before Barnes could read his eyes and learn that he had been found out.
This group had searched the coast from where the Iron Age habitation had been excavated by archaeologists almost to Beachy Head.
“Nothing,” said their leader, whom Rutledge had recognized as the butcher, shaking his head, a worried frown between his eyes. “Of course there was no way to see anything down on the shingle, you were right about that. That’ull have to wait till morning. A few hours’ sleep, and at first light, we’ll have another look.” He was a big man, broad-shouldered, his sandy hair streaked with gray. “If she’s down there,” he added grimly, “there’ull be no need for haste.”
“No,” Rutledge agreed, and let them go to the fire to warm themselves and partake of the food and tea.
Barnes lingered, giving Rutledge a chance to single him out, but Rutledge ignored him, his eyes on his notes, marking search areas on a rough map someone had just handed him.
Barnes left. Rutledge let him have a head start and then slipped out the kitchen door to follow him. But he went up to the rectory, and once he was inside, lamps bloomed in the passage by the stairs and then again in one of the bedrooms on the next floor.
Rutledge had hoped that the man might lead him to Jem. And he hadn’t. Unless she was in the rectory, and it would be damning evidence if searchers found her there.
He was sorely tempted to make his way into the house and take Barnes into custody there and then, but the man couldn’t be made to tell him where the child was.
It was dark, cold, and she must have been quite frightened by now. He refused to think about the possibility that she’d been hurt. Barnes would have had to keep her quiet, wherever he took her, and Jem would have fought hard.
Another search party was coming in, and he hurried back to the pub to speak with them. But they could only shake their heads, asking for news themselves.
He sent them to the kitchen for food and something to drink to warm them.
On the heels of their departure, he heard someone at the outer door and turned to see Constable Brewster walking into the pub, holding something in his hand. Rutledge could feel hope surging, praying for word, anything that would tell them where to look.
But Brewster dashed that, saying, “There’s a telegram for you, sir. Just brought to the station.”
Gibson? Rutledge thanked the constable and took the telegram from him, tearing it open straightaway.
But it wasn’t from the Yard. As he looked first at the name below, he realized that it was from Brothers.
Wish you good hunting. Discovered Taylor is on the telephone and decided to put call through to him. Reluctant to speak to me until informed Holt killed. He and Holt came back on same ferry Calais to Dover, and talked. Both had difficulties on that road, not same as mine. Taylor had brake problem, discovered just before descent to Nice, thank God. At last hotel stop Holt told someone spotted attempting to meddle with motorcar. Gendarme gave chase. No damage then, but vehicle in mist tried to send him over, until it lost a tire and pulled back. Taylor hasn’t seen Russell since Nice. Passed warning to him.
Brewster, hovering, asked, “Good news?”
“In a way, yes. But no help in finding Jem Meadows.”<
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“Too bad. I’ll go back to the station and wait there.”
When Brewster had gone, Rutledge went to sit in a dark corner of the room, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. There was no prospect of sleeping. He could think of nothing but Jem in the hands of a murderer, and how helpless he was to do anything about it.
Josie came in and said, “Sir? This will help a little.”
He opened his eyes to see her holding a pillow from somewhere, a fresh pillow slip on it. He thanked her and took it, grateful for her thoughtfulness.
“They tell me in the kitchen that there’s been no news.”
“No.”
“I know who Jem is. I’ve seen her coming to the shops on errands for her mother. I wish there was something I could do besides make tea and cut the bread for sandwiches.”
“The men appreciate it,” he said. “It helps them keep up their spirits.”
She sat down, wanting to talk, and he listened to her chatter for a time, half his mind out on the Downs with the searchers.
And then something she was saying registered, distracted as he was.
“What did you just say?”
She’d been telling him about the pub. Apparently her mother had worked there before her, and her grandmother before that. “‘Only I’d married the owner’?”
“No, before that.”
“Oh. About the Reverend Mr. Dolby. He was pastor here over two hundred years ago. We learned about him in school. All those shipwrecks along the Gap coast horrified him. Villagers did what they could to save people on board, but Mr. Dolby had to bury too many of them, and felt he must do something to warn ships off the rocks. They can see the white chalk cliffs, of course, even at night, but if they venture in too close, they wreck.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. You said he was the sailor’s friend. I’ve seen his grave in the churchyard.”
She nodded. “We take care of it. We always have.”
“I could tell. Now, explain to me again why he’s the sailor’s friend?” He was intent, leaning forward, all his attention centered on Josie.
That rattled her. “There was talk about putting a light here. Well before Belle Tout. But nothing came of it.”
Rutledge smiled encouragingly. “And after that? I’m not sure I understood what you were describing.”
“I expect I didn’t explain it well. I’ve never seen it, you see. He dug a tunnel. All he had was a chisel and an ax. And he went right down through the chalk, following a fissure, until he came out right above the sea. Then at night he set lamps in the opening, to warn ships away. It was an amazing feat, and nearly as successful as a lighthouse.”
He could hear the echoes of a classroom lesson as she told him the story.
“Is it still there? Dolby’s tunnel?”
“Oh yes. It’s not safe any longer. The chalk has crumbled. But my father has a photograph of himself as a lad, standing in the opening. I’ll bring it in tomorrow to show you, if you like.”
But he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. “Come and point out on the map where this excavation into the chalk began.”
“I think it’s been closed up, to keep the sheep from falling down and breaking a leg. We were always warned away as children.” But she followed him over to the table and studied the rough map. Running her finger across it, she moved to the lighthouse and then a little to the side of it. “It should be here. Close by, at any rate.”
But Rutledge thought it must be a bit farther away, because he hadn’t noticed it when he’d been at Belle Tout with Neville.
“Fascinating story,” he told her. “Thank you. I’d asked Constable Neville about The Sailor’s Friend, but he didn’t think to tell me the whole of it. Now, if you’d do me a favor? I must go out for a little while. Will you wait here and see to any of the search parties? Show them the map and ask them to mark where they’ve been. I wouldn’t bother to mention the cave. The team from that area has already come in.” He pointed out the marks on the map.
Happy to be helpful, she agreed, and he set out for the butcher’s shop.
The man was heavily asleep, and his wife had difficulty waking him. He came down in his nightclothes to where Rutledge was standing at the foot of the stairs, and said, “What’s this about? Have they found her?” His hair was tousled, and he looked like he had been up all night, deep bruises under his eyes.
“Sadly, no. I have to ask. Did you search Parson Dolby’s cavern?”
“We never called it that when I was growing up,” he said, clearly thinking Rutledge had awakened him for nothing. “It was Parson’s Hole. The lads preferred it. And yes, we searched. What do you take me for? Barnes volunteered to go down. Nothing there.”
Rutledge felt cold. “Thanks,” he said, and was out the door and into his motorcar before the butcher finished what he had to say, that Rutledge would be better off in bed himself, not waking people who had just managed to fall asleep.
He drove for the headland, Hamish busy in the back of his mind, warning him it was a foolish thing he was attempting to do alone.
“Yon lass said it was crumbling. Wait for help. Or find yon constable at the Gap.”
But there was no time. He wanted to be there and back before Barnes got wind of what he was about. Josie might hold her tongue—and might not.
Rutledge drove as close to Belle Tout as he could, then got out of the motorcar, leaving his hat but taking his torch and the rope he’d used to lash Wright’s bicycle to the boot. Days ago, it seemed now. But far longer than that to a child in such a place.
He walked up the sloping ground, casting about until he saw what he was looking for.
There was an iron grille over the hole, grass and wildflowers growing in and around it. He thought at first that it was going to be too heavy to lift.
Hamish said, “If yon parson came every night to light his lamp, it couldna’ be beyond the strength of one man.”
And the searchers had lifted it before him—Barnes as well.
Reaching through the grille, he gripped the cold bars with his gloved hands and heaved to one side.
The grille moved, but not far enough. A second try, and his torch showed him a black pit below his feet.
But the parson had had a good grasp of engineering. Chalk steps led into a sloping tunnel, and as each level dropped, more steps led down to it.
He stood there for a moment, listening to the sea rolling in. The night was still black, and there were no stars, only heavy clouds.
Then he knelt and shouted down into the tunnel, calling Jem’s name, listening for any response, all his faculties alert. He waited, but there was no sound from the darkness. He tried to tell himself she might be too afraid to answer, unable to recognize his voice.
Still, the silence was ominous.
He rose to his feet, turned on his torch, and started down into a black void.
The steps had eroded with time, and he had to be very careful not to miss his footing. He moved slowly, keeping his light shielded, glancing from time to time back the way he’d come. At least the roof of the tunnel was still high enough that he could manage, tall as he was. And that gave him hope—a man could carry a slight girl’s body down here more or less easily. But how had Barnes discovered this place? Had someone told him? Or had he stumbled across it at some point when he was out in the night?
Rutledge was reminded of the body found in the lighthouse back garden. Barnes—and Grant. Where had they encountered each other? Not in France. Eastbourne? Had Grant, the rag man no one noticed, seen something he thought might be used to blackmail a stranger? But what?
If Barnes had killed Grant, why not drop his body down here? Perhaps he hadn’t known just where the opening under the grille went. Not then.
His foot slipped on the next set of chalk steps, and he nearly went down. Barnes, he thought grimly, must have worked in the tunnels in France, if he’d brought Jem down here. No one else would have dared venture so far.
Goin
g still deeper into the chalk, he began to feel claustrophobic, his breathing roughening, and his sense of being caught where there was no air, where the walls seemed to be closing in, raised the specter of being entombed here forever. The wild urge to retreat while he could consumed him. It was willpower alone that kept him going, and the thought of Jem.
Another level down. Surely he must be near the sea by now?
But he knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t hear it yet. He still had a long way to go.
Down again, the ground slippery underfoot where the chalk was damp. And the roof over his head had begun to sink a little with every yard, choking him with a desperate need to get out of there.
Two more levels. Dolby must have been mad to try this, he thought. Had the spirits of so many dead sailors watched him as he worked, one man determined to prevent the next wreck? And yet the people living here had benefited from the wrecks, the silks and tobacco and wine and brandy and whatever else the ships carried. Gunpowder? Muskets? The Gap dwellers would have been grateful for such gifts, meager as their incomes must have been.
He had to stand for a moment to catch his breath. There seemed to be no way forward, no way back. Rutledge fought the horror of being buried alive again, only this time in a world of white, not the smothering black earth of Flanders. But it was the same, taking away his air, making his heart thunder in his chest, the hand holding the torch wet with perspiration, his coat seeming to weigh him down, and his body feeling trapped.
Clenching his teeth, he moved down another level—and this time he was rewarded with the distant sound of the sea.
Just ahead, the tunnel turned slightly, which was ingenious on Dolby’s part because it would stop the sea from pouring in here during storms, tearing at his precious efforts. But where was Jem?
