Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

“He’s American, you know, although he was brought up in Yorkshire by his aunt after his parents went through a particularly nasty divorce. His father was one of the railroad barons, but his mother was left nothing when his father died, the family was so vindictive. And he’s had to make his own way. That’s very commendable, you know. I can’t hold it against him. Even after those horrible death duties, Kathleen is quite wealthy, and he was worried about the differences in their incomes. He suggested a legal agreement limiting his access to any funds or inheritance she might have. Of course Kathleen wouldn’t hear of it. She has given her whole heart to Michael.”

  He said nothing, neither defending nor damning the man he’d taken into custody. But he had a feeling that the marriage, only weeks away, had made it imperative for Barnes to silence the men who remembered him and his wine in a barn somewhere in France.

  After a time, she added, “You’re quite certain, are you not, that you have the right man? I wonder why.”

  He remembered Jem bound and rolled in a rug, left to die. And Miss Wilding, possibly mistaken in the dark for Delilah, fished out of the sea. Whatever lay between Barnes and the five men who ran their motorcars to Nice, a woman and a child were not party to that. Mrs. Grant might well be added to the list, if her body was under the cliff fall. Timothy Grant, Wright, Holt—they too must belong on that list.

  “Because,” he said finally, “I have seen the bodies.”

  She glanced across at him, then fell silent.

  They arrived in East Dedham in a wintry rain, cold and dreary. At the police station he helped his passenger down and escorted her into Constable Brewster’s world. He thought she had never set foot in a police station, much less a cell.

  “We have kept the prisoner here because there isn’t a cell in the hamlet of Burling Gap,” he explained after presenting the constable to her. Brewster, overawed, had little to say as he handed Rutledge the key to the single cell and watched them walk down the short passage and open the door.

  Barnes was on his feet; had risen, Rutledge thought, as soon as he had heard the door begin to open. And then he stood there, stunned, as Lady Marshall followed Rutledge inside the cramped space of his cell.

  He recovered quickly. “I am so sorry,” he said to her, “that you should be drawn into this. I’ve tried to tell this man I’m not at all the person he’s after. But he refuses to hear me. I think he’s desperate, and I’m the stranger in the village—I have no one to speak up for me.”

  Rutledge could see the pity on Lady Marshall’s face. “My dear,” she began, then faltered.

  He left them then, and went to ask Brewster to fetch Mrs. Saunders. He waited until she came, breathless, at the constable’s heels, her black umbrella running with rain.

  “Will you make an identification for me?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have brought you out if I didn’t feel it mattered. And then Constable Brewster here will take your statement about the day Mr. Barnes arrived at the rectory door.”

  She gave him an uncertain smile. “I’ll do my best. I’ve had such a fright, knowing that that man had been in the same house with me. I never liked him, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, and gave her his arm to lead her back to the cell.

  She was taken aback to find an elegant woman standing there when she stepped into the small space. She curtsied, then looked to Rutledge for guidance.

  “This is Mrs. Saunders. Housekeeper to Mr. Wright, the late Rector of St. Simon’s. The man you know as Michael Reston came to her door shortly after the Rector’s death.”

  Mrs. Saunders needed no prodding. “He said he had been sent by the Bishop. That he’d come to take over until such time as the Bishop could send us a new Rector. He called himself Barnes.”

  “There’s no truth to that,” Barnes exclaimed.

  “Then why are your belongings in a wardrobe in the second-best bedroom in the rectory?” she retorted. “It’s a house of mourning. We don’t take in paying guests. You can come and see for yourself, my lady. I don’t tell lies.”

  Lady Marshall turned to Barnes. Her face was pale, but her spine was straight and her voice level as she said, “I have to believe her, Michael.”

  “I will take you to the child he attempted to silence. She can tell you her own experiences,” Rutledge offered. “Or to Captain Standish.”

  “That isn’t necessary. I’d like to go home now. I shall have to explain this matter to my daughter-in-law. And I don’t know how to begin.” She turned and walked out into the passage, never looking back at Barnes.

  “It’s all lies,” he shouted after her. “Why won’t you believe me?”

  Rutledge turned to usher Mrs. Saunders out, but she said, looking the man in the cell straight in the eye, “You’re evil. Rector preached forgiveness, but you’ll find none from me. Nor from her.” She marched out with the righteousness of a woman whose good nature had been taken advantage of.

  Behind them, as Rutledge shut the door, they could hear Barnes shouting, cursing Rutledge until he was out of breath.

  Rutledge asked Brewster to see Mrs. Saunders to the rectory and to take her statement there. Then he went out to the motorcar. Lady Marshall was already sitting in her seat, her expression inviting no conversation. He turned the crank, then got in beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, you’re not. You wanted to see that man humiliated.”

  “I wanted to see justice done. Will you come to the inquest?”

  “I shall not. I believe there’s a train in Eastbourne. If you could drive me to the station, I’d be grateful. I don’t think I can manage returning to Canterbury in your company.”

  He reversed the motorcar and started back the way he’d come. “You will understand later that I had very little choice in the matter. There is still another murder, possibly two, that I must lay at that man’s door. And another count of attempted murder. He was making certain that when he came to live in Kent, there was no one alive who could point him out as a sergeant they had met in a barn in France.”

  “Surely there were dozens of men who served with him.”

  “Would you believe them, if they came to your door? Five officers would have been a different matter. Especially since one of them had actually seen Barnes with your daughter-in-law.”

  “I wanted her to find happiness again. This will break her heart.”

  He had no argument to counter that, except to say, “I can’t prove it. Not yet. I’ve just learned his name. But I have been told he murdered his first wife. Lady Kathleen is well out of this engagement.”

  He saw Lady Marshall to her train and safely aboard. But standing there by her carriage, she said, “I will not have my daughter-in-law testify in court.”

  He watched other passengers stepping aboard. “It could be necessary.”

  “Then I shall speak to my solicitor about finding someone we know to defend Michael.”

  “That’s your choice to make,” he replied coldly, but he thought it was her shock and anger speaking after such a betrayal, and her anxiety over how she was to explain this sudden turn of events to her daughter-in-law or call off a wedding whose invitations had most certainly already gone out. On reflection, she would do her best to keep the family name out of the whole sordid business, and leave Barnes to his fate.

  She went aboard and he made sure her valise was stored away and that she had the quieter window seat.

  He watched the train, wreathed in smoke, pull out of the station, then went to send a telegram to the Bishop, asking him to come to East Dedham. And he sent another to Gibson, asking him to set in motion a search for Mrs. Grant, late of Burling Gap.

  When it was finished, he went to stand along the Promenade, watching the sea roll in across the shingle.

  Hamish, speaking over the sound of the waves, said, “She was verra’ upset. Yon lady.”

  “She had to see for herself. And I needed to be sure. He’s used so many different names. God knows, we may not be at the
end of his killings. But I think eventually he would have killed Kathleen Marshall for her money.”

  Rutledge had one more stop to make, the house where Delilah and her mother lived.

  To his astonishment, Delilah herself opened her door the barest inch, until she saw who it was standing on her step.

  She flushed, stared at him for a moment, glanced over her shoulder, and then said, “Come in, then.”

  Rutledge walked into her front room. Her mother was there, as he’d expected, but the other woman, sitting in one of the comfortable chairs as if perfectly at home there, was Mrs. Grant.

  Mrs. Grant rose, her face turning as red as Delilah’s, and she began before he could speak, “We were just talking about you. It’s like you were conjured up by what we were saying.”

  “And what was that?” he asked, appropriating the only other chair in the room, leaving Delilah to join the cat on the couch.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Grant, casting glances at the other two women. “I came to Eastbourne to find Ivy, here. And it took time, mind you. She and her mother had gone to stay with a cousin over on the next street, afraid for their lives. I was after finding out if she’d killed my Timothy for rejecting her for me. But I discovered he was cheating on both of us with another woman, and you could have blown me over with a feather when Ivy and her mother were strolling down the Promenade one evening, and they saw a man trying to drown the hussy. Ivy knew him by sight from The Jolly Sailor, but I didn’t know who he was, and she didn’t know his name. We’re of the opinion that he must have killed Timothy.”

  Blackmail hadn’t been mentioned.

  “You didn’t go to the local police?” Rutledge demanded. “Why not?”

  “We didn’t think they’d believe us,” Mrs. Brown retorted. “But what if it was the same man my Timothy had quarreled with out by Belle Tout? What if we were next?”

  He turned to Delilah. “You were meeting that man to blackmail him. You lied to me when I was last here.”

  Mrs. Brown spoke up. “We thought we’d have a look, see if he came to the bandstand. I don’t know if she was also thinking about extorting a bit of money, but when we saw him knock her down and carry her to the water, we waited until he left and went to find her. But she was unconscious. We took her to the hotel, and they wouldn’t give us the time of day when we came back two days later to find out who she was.”

  “She was an innocent bystander,” Rutledge said coldly. “She had nothing to do with Grant or this man. And he left her dog tied up there. God knows how, but he must have mistaken her for Delilah.”

  Ivy exclaimed, “I don’t believe you. We were afraid to go back that night, but we went to the bandstand the next morning, and the dog wasn’t there.”

  “And both of you, and Mrs. Grant here, have been wondering how you could find out who he was.” He was angry and disgusted. “And then blackmail him for trying to kill the young woman.”

  They denied it vociferously, but he knew they were lying. He stood up, cutting their protests short.

  “Get your hats and coats. You’re coming with me.”

  It was several minutes before he could convince them that he wasn’t taking them to the police station in Eastbourne. In the end, they did as they were told, and with some trepidation, they followed him out to the motorcar.

  They were silent all the way to East Dedham, growing more and more apprehensive as time went by. He had nothing to say to them until they reached the police station.

  “I want to know if you recognize the man I’m about to show you. I want no lies, or you’ll be back in Eastbourne gaol before I’m finished with you.”

  He didn’t wait for them after stopping the motorcar and leaving it by the door. They trooped after him. Mrs. Grant, who knew Constable Brewster, glanced away from him as they passed.

  Rutledge opened the inner door and stepped to one side.

  “Is this the man you intended to blackmail?”

  They crowded into the small space and stared at the man who had risen to stare back at them.

  “It’s the new Rector,” Mrs. Grant said in astonishment. “What’s he doing behind bars?”

  “He’s the man from the pub,” Delilah added.

  “And from the bandstand,” Mrs. Brown answered. “I’d swear to it.”

  Barnes stood there, staring them down, saying nothing.

  “Will you give Constable Brewster statements to confirm what you’ve said?”

  It would mean the end of their schemes. But a cell was a sobering place, and he rather thought that face-to-face with Barnes, they might well be having second thoughts about blackmail and the man glaring back at them. They nodded vigorously, their winter hats bobbing in unison.

  “But what’s he here for?” Mrs. Brown asked.

  “You’ll find out after you’ve given your statements.” He ushered them out of the room, and then turned toward Barnes. “It’s over.”

  “I won’t hang. They’ll set me free. You’ll see. And when they do, I’ll come for you,” Barnes said in a low voice that wouldn’t carry.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Rutledge told him grimly. “It would give me the greatest pleasure. Whether you are alive or dead.”

  And then he went out to make certain the three women had kept their word this time.

  Standish came to speak to Rutledge shortly after he’d returned the Browns and Mrs. Grant to Eastbourne with a flea in their ears for dabbling in blackmail.

  He said after greeting Rutledge, “I went to see Jem. To thank her, and to be sure she and her mother are all right. I’m hiring someone to help them with the tenant farm.”

  “That’s good news. You might even consider giving her a bicycle for finding Wright’s. She’s earned it.”

  “You were right about this hand. I’ve used it as an excuse long enough. Maybe something good has come out of evil. At least in my case. There are fences that need mending. And they aren’t all on the land.”

  Rutledge wondered if that might mean Emily Stuart—an unlikely fence, perhaps, but decidedly in need of mending.

  “Do you think there’s strong enough evidence to hang Barnes? We need to be sure of him, Rutledge. He can’t get off. Not after what he’s done.”

  Rutledge considered the question, his face grim. “Honestly? There’s no unbreakable link between Barnes and Wright—or even proof that he killed Holt. For one thing, his motorcar has front-end damage now, and even if we located the mechanics who had repaired it after earlier attempts, it’s circumstantial. There’s Grant. Barnes knew about Delilah, one of the man’s dalliances, which tells me he’d used Grant, but we can’t be sure he killed the ragman. I expect Barnes encountered him in Eastbourne and discovered where he was from. East Dedham is too small to walk into the village and begin asking questions. Very likely he paid Grant for information about the village and Standish. But when Grant tried to blackmail him, Barnes got rid of him. Or he may have intended to kill him anyway. An experienced barrister will call these charges speculation.”

  He remembered Lady Marshall’s threat to hire a barrister, without regard to what this man had done. She would have regretted her words, after sober reflection. She was too intelligent not to. There would be sympathy for her daughter-in-law, deceived by lies and false promises, but none for the family’s continued support of the man who had made them. Still, as the arresting officer, he would have to take that threat into account, however unlikely he believed it was.

  “But there’s Jem,” Standish pointed out.

  “She’ll do very well as a witness. But she’s eleven, and she can be confused by clever questioning. What’s more, her mother didn’t see Barnes and can’t confirm her daughter’s identification. We have the butcher and the men in his search party who can confirm that Barnes claimed he searched the Hole, but he can swear he didn’t go far enough. There’s a woman in Eastbourne whom Barnes attempted to kill. She didn’t see his face. The two women who rescued her did. It forms a pattern, although attempted murder isn’t
a hanging offense. We can show that Barnes lied to Mrs. Saunders and the people of East Dedham about who he was, but not why he had lied. The inquest won’t be a problem. The question is, can we convince a jury that he has killed without conscience?”

  “There’s his military career—his desertion.”

  “Unsavory, yes, but it won’t hang him. Not two years after the end of the war. There must be some evidence that he killed his first wife and her lover. I intend to find out. But I rather think he covered his tracks there as well. He’s a clever bastard.”

  “Damn it, you’re Scotland Yard. Make certain he can’t wriggle out of this. I don’t care how clever he’s been, surely you can be even more clever. It’s your duty.”

  Rutledge stood there, accepting the rebuke. But he knew, better than Standish ever could, that evidence was elusive, proof not always certain. There had to be another way. He’d grappled with it in the night, and driving, and looking in his mirror shaving. As far as he could see, he’d exhausted every avenue.

  They’d been talking in Brewster’s police station, Standish by the table that served as Brewster’s desk and Rutledge with one foot on the rung of the constable’s chair. As Standish turned to leave, his frustration apparent, his bad arm knocked against the desk and sent a pile of papers to the floor. They drifted like snow, settling in an untidy heap. Standish swore. “Clumsy!” he said, but it was Rutledge who bent to retrieve them and return them to the desk.

  “How did you come into the village? I’ll gladly take you back to the house.”

  “No, I brought the horse. But I’ve told Trotter to hurry with the repairs of the motorcar. I’d stopped driving. I should start again. I’m told it can be done, even with one hand. I spelled you, coming back from Sevenoaks, without running us into a ditch.”

  And he was gone. Rutledge, reaching for his coat, hung over the back of Constable Brewster’s chair, happened to see the topmost sheet on the pile he’d put back on the desk.

  It stopped him in his tracks.

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