Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

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

  22

  Rutledge reached out to pick the sheet up, as if half fearful it would vanish before his eyes. It had had no meaning the first time he saw it. Now? Knowing what he did?

  It was the notice from Hastings about the body they had found and failed to identify.

  Hamish, in the back of his mind, warned, “It’s no’ a certainty. For all you know, they could ha’ put a name to the dead man by now.”

  Still. Rutledge read the description again. Older man, possibly in his fifties . . .

  He shoved his arms into his coat, reached for his hat, and was out the door on the run, not bothering with his motorcar.

  Reaching the rectory out of breath, his heart pounding, he knocked at the door, praying that Mrs. Saunders was there and not at her sister’s.

  She came at last, looking up at him with alarm. “He’s not escaped, has he? Barnes?”

  “No.” He willed himself to speak calmly. “Could we step inside, out of the wind?”

  “I’m so sorry. Do come in.” She led him to the parlor and offered him a chair. He sat, and asked her to do the same. Then he asked the question that had brought him here.

  “I wonder. Do you know this man?”

  It was cruel, he knew, to hand her the sheet from Hastings without any warning, any preparation for the shock it could cause. But he dared not prompt her.

  She looked at the drawing, frowned, and said, “I don’t know . . .” Reading the description and looking again at the sheet, she put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. “Oh, please. Is this why you brought it to me? Tell me I’m wrong. This isn’t Mr. Ferris? Surely it isn’t.”

  “I’m afraid it could be.”

  “What a loss he will be to the Bishop. Oh, my dear, I don’t think I can stand many more such shocks.”

  “Did he come often to the rectory?”

  “From time to time, of course. On church business. More often once Rector went to France, to make certain all was well.”

  “And he stayed here?”

  “Yes, and it was always a pleasure to look after him.”

  “Do you possibly recall what sort of valise he carried?”

  “Just an ordinary brown calf. Like Rector’s own.”

  The valise that Neville had seen, tossing in the surf? After Barnes had removed the clerical garb that he wanted?

  “Do you recall Rector ever having a photograph taken with Mr. Ferris?”

  “Rector never did, no. But I do believe there’s one that Mr. Stapleton took with Mr. Ferris and sent to Rector in France. To show him all was well.”

  “Do you think the Rector kept that photograph? Brought it home again with him?”

  “I should think he did,” she said doubtfully, looking around the room as if it were hiding there. “Why would he not?” Then she brightened. “Of course, it would be in his trunk. Where he kept his uniforms and the like.”

  She led him to the attic, musty and dim in spite of the lamp he carried up with him, and the trunk was at the top of the narrow steps, well within reach. Mrs. Saunders opened it reluctantly, still viewing the trunk as the Rector’s belongings, which she would never have searched in his lifetime. It was Rutledge who took over and delved into the contents. Here were the chaplain’s uniforms, folded away in tissue paper, along with a tattered Bible, a camera, and a box. He offered it to her to open, but she shook her head. It held souvenirs, among them a brass rifle-cartridge casing engraved with a cross and a regimental badge, a silk handkerchief made from a flare’s parachute and embroidered with a scene from a village, and beneath those, a chocolate tin. Again he offered it to Mrs. Saunders, and this time she attempted to open it, but it had rusted a little. She handed it to Rutledge.

  It took him a minute or two to coax it apart, but the lid finally rested in his hand.

  Mrs. Saunders leaned forward to see what was inside.

  There were a dozen or so photographs, and Rutledge took them out to sort through them. One of a British biplane sitting in a field, another of a tank burning near a trench, and quite a few of men, labeled on the back with their names. Among them, Rutledge found what he was after.

  He recognized Stapleton first, bearing less of a resemblance to an apostle here, and with him a graying man smiling at the camera. Mrs. Saunders, at his shoulder, said, “Mr. Ferris.”

  “I should like to keep this for a few days. Would you mind? I’ll give you a receipt for it.”

  “No, just bring it back, if you please. I don’t think Rector would mind my having it.”

  “No.” He took out his wallet and carefully set the photograph inside.

  They closed the trunk, and as they descended the stairs, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Saunders. I’m so sorry to have brought more bad news. But I have a feeling that Barnes waylaid Ferris and killed him, in order to take his place.”

  “But why did he do such a mad thing? A man of the church?”

  Because Barnes was arrogant; because Standish was more of a hermit than a man, and harder to kill. Once he’d learned that Wright and not Standish had been driving that motorcar, he’d had to find another way of reaching the Captain.

  Rutledge said only, “I think he was eager to find someone who lived here. And it seemed to be a safe enough place to hide while he was searching.”

  “But he went often to report to his Bishop. He said.”

  “That’s what he told you. But not what he did.”

  Rutledge stayed longer than he’d intended, out of concern for Mrs. Saunders, but as soon as he could decently leave, he went back to the motorcar and set out for Hastings.

  He’d been there before, on another inquiry. He knew the town well. Going directly to the police station, he asked to speak to the officer in charge of the drowning described in the notice that had been circulated around Sussex and Kent.

  After a moment, someone came out to meet him, and Rutledge was relieved to see that the man was new to him.

  “Inspector Gage. You’re Rutledge? Scotland Yard?”

  “I am. I’ve come from East Dedham, where I’m currently investigating a motorcar crash. The Rector, Nathaniel Wright, died in it.”

  Gage nodded. “I’ve heard about that. What brings you to Hastings? Do you know who our dead man is? I can’t believe he has anything to do with your inquiry.”

  Rutledge smiled, trying not to lose hope. “Then you’ve identified him?”

  Gage reluctantly shook his head. “Sorry. No.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Come into my office. We can talk there.”

  It was cluttered, smelled heavily of cigar smoke, and boasted only a pair of chairs. Rutledge took one and waited.

  “Odd case. A man was fished out of the surf early one morning. It appeared that he’d drowned, but the doctor reported a broken neck. And no water in his lungs. The doctor also told us there was no chance our body was a suicide off the headland, not enough damage to support the possibility. I don’t much care for suicides, too damned much work. That left us with murder. We’d sent round a query trying to identify the man, hoping any next of kin could help us, but so far no one has come in to claim him.”

  “Go on,” Rutledge said.

  Gage smiled. It was more a grimace. “The query did bring us one lead. A constable over to Pevensey thought he could place our body. He’d seen someone he believed was the dead man, talking to another man outside the shops. Our body was wearing a clerical collar, and he got into a dark green motorcar with the other man. They drove away together. We asked around Kent if anyone had lost a clergyman, but no one had.”

  “Did you send round again to Sussex as well?”

  “Sussex?” he asked, as if Rutledge had said Calcutta instead of the next county. “Of course we did, but no flock without its pastor there either.”

  “Why was this clergyman in Pevensey? Any word on that?”

  “That’s where it gets murky. A constable in a village outside Canterbu
ry reported that a priest who fit the description had been visiting at the home of the late Sir Wilfred Marshall. He was a family friend, there to arrange the marriage of Lady Kathleen Marshall, and he left two days before our body came ashore. We wrote to his Bishop, but had to scratch his name from our list.”

  “What was his name? This visitor to the Marshall house?”

  “Farrier?” Gage dug around in the papers on his desk, then shrugged. “It hardly matters anyway. According to the Bishop, Farrier is alive and well and attending to church business.”

  “How was the body clothed, when you found it?”

  “A shirt and trousers. No shoes or coat. Good quality. Not shoddy. No indication he was in holy orders.”

  “How did the clothes fit him?”

  Gage considered Rutledge before answering. “Well enough. A tad tight in the waist, as if he’d gained a stone of late. He was a bit on the paunchy side.”

  “When the priest met with another man driving a dark green motorcar, were they quarreling?”

  “Quarreling? I doubt it. The priest got into the motorcar, didn’t he? In fact, the constable was of the opinion they knew each other, and the priest was surprised to see the other man.”

  I’ll just wager the priest was surprised, Rutledge thought to himself. He wasn’t expecting to find Barnes in Pevensey. And Barnes must have got the shock of his life when the priest told him that Wright had been killed, not Standish, and he, Ferris, had been sent to deal with St. Simon’s Church until a replacement for Wright could be found.

  Gage was watching him. “Any of this make sense to you?”

  “I’m not sure. Can you confirm the name?” He had to be certain.

  “Look, the Bishop in Sussex told us he’s alive and well. Farrier.”

  Rutledge had a feeling Gage was being obstructive on purpose. He considered showing him the photograph from Wright’s trunk, and decided against it. A waste of time. Gage had already made up his mind.

  But Gage had seen the body. He brought out the photograph and held it out.

  “Did your body look like either of these men?”

  Gage barely glanced at it. “No.”

  “Take a closer look.”

  He studied it for a moment. “All right, yes, the younger one.” Then his gaze shifted to Rutledge’s face. “Now, where did you find that?”

  “In an Army officer’s trunk.” He could tell Gage didn’t believe him. But he knew now that Gage had recognized Ferris. His eyes betrayed him.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ferris.”

  “Who is he, when he’s at home?”

  “A missing priest. What’s the name of the constable in Pevensey?”

  “Arnold. If you can shed any light on our dead man, I’d be grateful.” The words were polite, but Gage’s eyes were dark with suspicion now.

  “Believe me, I’ll be happy to share whatever I learn with you,” Rutledge said, rising and taking his leave.

  Pevensey wasn’t far. It too was on the sea, a wide sweep where it was likely that William of Normandy had come ashore to face Harold of England in 1066. Rutledge stopped for petrol, then drove on. His body was demanding sleep, but his mind was racing with possibilities and refused to pay it any heed. He ignored everything but finding the police station in Pevensey.

  Constable Arnold, he was told, could be found along the High, making his daily rounds, and Rutledge went in search of him.

  He spotted the man, gray-haired and sturdy, standing outside an ironmonger’s shop at the foot of the High, talking with a young woman who was pushing a pram.

  Rutledge found a place to leave his motorcar and walked back. The woman had gone into one of the shops, leaving the pram on the street, and Arnold was keeping an eye on it.

  He watched Rutledge approach, recognizing someone with a purpose, and a stranger at that. When Rutledge was near enough to speak to, Arnold said, “Looking for something, sir?”

  Rutledge smiled. “If you’re Constable Arnold, I’ve found what I was after.” He took out his identification. “I’ve come to ask you for more information about the priest you saw some days ago, getting into a dark green motorcar with another man.”

  Arnold took a deep breath. “I had a feeling there was something odd about that. But no one would listen. Not even the inspector in Hastings.”

  “What was odd?” Rutledge asked.

  “I don’t think the priest liked the other man, sir. They were polite, speaking to each other. But there wasn’t what you might describe as warmth between them.”

  “And yet the priest got into the motorcar with him. How long did they talk before this happened?”

  “A good ten minutes or so, sir. I was standing there watching them. The priest had just stepped out of the tobacco shop but didn’t walk on. I thought he might be uncertain which way to go, and so I crossed the street intending to speak to him, seeing that he was a stranger. There’s an omnibus that runs between Hastings and Eastbourne, but it doesn’t stop just there. Before I got near enough to speak, a motorcar came down the street, slowed, and then stopped. He stared at the driver, and the driver stared at him, got out, and said something to him. The priest replied, and they spoke for a bit. While the driver of the motorcar tried not to show it, he got a shock, speaking to the priest. It was then he must have offered the man a lift, because the priest wasn’t agreeable at first. They discussed that too.”

  “Did the priest have a valise with him?”

  “That’s why I thought he must be waiting for the Eastbourne omnibus. A brown one. Leather, rather smart.”

  “If you saw him again, could you identify the man who gave the priest a lift?”

  Constable Arnold considered the question. “I can,” he said finally.

  It occurred to Rutledge that Arnold was of the same generation as Neville in Burling Gap. A man who knew his patch with a thoroughness that came from years of keeping an eye on everyone in it.

  The woman stepped out of the shop just then and thanked the constable, walking on with her pram.

  Rutledge brought out his wallet and showed the photograph to Arnold. “Could the priest you saw be either of these men?”

  Arnold studied it. “Not the older one.”

  “That would be Stapleton.”

  “But this one could very well have been him.” He was pointing to Ferris.

  “Will you come with me to East Dedham? There’s someone I want you to take a look at.”

  “What’s this about, then?”

  “I’d rather wait until you’ve seen this man.”

  Arnold took out his watch. “I’m finished at five o’clock. Will that do?”

  And Rutledge had to be satisfied with that.

  He found a place along the shore where he could look out across the water toward Pevensey, and slept for several hours. It helped. And then he went back to retrieve Constable Arnold.

  They rode in silence for the most part, the headlamps picking out the road. As they neared the Gap, Arnold said, “This man I’m to see. Is he alive or dead?”

  “Very much alive.”

  When they reached the police station in East Dedham, Rutledge left his motorcar in the road and took Constable Arnold inside, introducing him to Brewster, who was just finishing the last of his tea.

  “There’s a man in the cell, at the end of the passage,” Rutledge said then. “I’d like you to take a look at him. If you know him, I’m interested in what you have to say. If you don’t, I’d want you to tell me that too.”

  “A cell? What’s he taken up for?” Arnold asked.

  “For one thing, we believe it’s a matter of mistaken identity.”

  Arnold nodded and walked on. Rutledge and Brewster, listening, heard his footsteps recede down the passage and then come to a halt in front of the cell where Barnes was being held. Several minutes passed, but neither the Pevensey constable nor the prisoner spoke. Then the footsteps returned.

  “That’s the owner of the green motorcar, sir. I’
d take my oath on it.”

  “And you saw him drive away with the priest?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  Rutledge felt a swelling sense of satisfaction.

  “He isn’t the priest, by any chance?”

  “No, sir. I’m quite sure of that. The priest was older than the driver. Graying and a little stooped. Your photograph matches him, although I’d guess he was a bit younger when that was taken.”

  “Will you give me a statement, setting out all you’ve told me? Identifying the man in the cell and the priest in this photograph?”

  For answer, Arnold sat down at Brewster’s desk and took out a pen. Brewster handed him paper, and then said quietly to Rutledge as the constable began his statement, “That’s Mr. Ferris in the photograph. And Mr. Stapleton.”

  “Yes, and I shall want a statement from you, describing what was done here tonight.”

  “I’ll be happy to, sir. But I’d like to know the point.”

  Rutledge took him outside, out of Arnold’s hearing, and explained what he’d learned.

  Brewster’s broad face changed as he listened. “Then you’ve got proof, now,” he said when Rutledge had finished.

  “For one death. Yes,” Rutledge agreed.

  He drove Arnold to Hastings, and presented his evidence to Inspector Gage.

  “And the Bishop never knew there had been a switch in the two men?” he asked.

  “He had every reason to believe Ferris was at St. Simon’s. And Mrs. Saunders, the housekeeper, believed that Ferris must have been unavailable. She took Barnes at his word.”

  “It was a dangerous game he played.”

  “I don’t think he expected to find himself in East Dedham that long. The Bishop will have to send someone here to make a formal identification of your body.”

  “Aren’t you the clever one?” Gage said, and then added, “It makes my life easier, all the same.” It was the nearest he could come to gratitude.

  Rutledge returned Constable Arnold to Pevensey, thanking him for his good eye.

  “It’s odd, you know. There’s something that isn’t quite right, but you can’t put your finger on what it might be. And it sticks in your mind afterward. That’s why I recalled the incident so clearly. And the men.”