Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford

by Charles Todd

  “Have you dealt with murder before?”

  Not in England. But I’d seen it in India as a child, when we were living there. “No,” I answered, rather than explain. “But I deal with dying men and sometimes dying women. It won’t help to cry over her. I’d rather see her killer found.”

  “Very commendable,” he said dryly. “Do you ever cry?”

  I looked at him. “Often. But I don’t think that’s your business to ask.”

  “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  One of the constables came trotting back. “The earlier prints lead to the road. I couldn’t follow them there. But I did walk through the churchyard. There’s a bloody patch by one of the gravestones to the east of the church.”

  “Good work.” Robbins dusted the sand from his fingers.

  The doctor was just coming toward us, breathing hard as he made his way over the sandy beach. I could hear him click his tongue when he saw the girl. I understood when he said, “What a pity.”

  While he finished what he had to do, we stood and stared out to sea, Robbins and I. I could tell he was thinking. And so I stayed quiet.

  The other constable called to us. “I think I’ve found something, sir.”

  In the palm of his hand he had a small object that I quickly realized was a woman’s earring. “It was in the sand. It could belong to anyone but…”

  His voice trailed off. I looked at it with interest. An old fashioned piece. Gold, with a citrine in the bob. The part that hooked into the ear had been sprung, and it must have simply slipped out. I reached out to touch the girl’s hair. But there were gold studs in her ears, and both were there.

  Robbins examined the object. “Find the match and we’ll know whether it’s important or not,” he said, deflating the hopes of the sharp-eyed, elderly constable.

  “All right,” the doctor said, and Robbins signaled for a stretcher to be brought up. I stayed while they lifted her gently onto the canvas, and I saw in the sand under her body a small scrap of newspaper. Robbins had seen it too, picking it up and smoothing it out in his palm. There was part of an obituary on one side and on the other an advertisement for a companion.

  “A clue?” he asked, “or was it here before she put on the beach?”

  I had no answer there and he smiled.

  I said, “A nurse is trained to observe.”

  “So is a policeman, Miss Crawford,” he told me dryly. “And I don’t believe this will help us very much. Unless of course you’re looking to apply for a position as companion?”

  “Matron would have a few words to say about that,” I informed him.

  The stretcher was being taken away now, and I turned to follow it. Inspector Robbins spent a few minutes more looking around in the sand, and then caught me up just as we reached the road, where the ambulance was waiting. I watched the girl being put into it, a sheet over her face, and thought again how young she was—my age, perhaps, or a little younger. What had brought her to this place and her death? She was well enough dressed, and she didn’t appear to be starving.

  As if he’d read my thoughts, Inspector Robbins said, “Someone will look for her. She’s not the sort to go missing. There’s a family somewhere.”

  “It will depend on how far she’s come to take up that position as companion,” I said. “May I see that scrap of newspaper again?”

  He reluctantly passed it to me, and I studied both sides.

  “This obituary. It’s for a soldier. A Captain MacRae. You can trace him through the War Office, I should think. It would tell us what newspaper this came from.”

  “Would you like to do my work for me, Miss Crawford?”

  “No.” The ambulance was pulling away. “But I have a feeling she died because she was lured somewhere on purpose.”

  “And you can infer this from a bit of newspaper?” He smiled. “Come now!”

  I looked at him. “I’m sorry, Inspector. Not from the newspaper. I have parents, you see. They wouldn’t allow me go wandering about England on a whim. So hers must have thought there was a proper reason for that poor girl to leave home.”

  “And what if this bit of paper was blowing down the strand early this morning, and her killer never noticed it when he put her down?”

  “What if she held on to it as she died, and it slipped through her fingers as she was placed there?”

  We went to the churchyard to look at the blood the constable had discovered.

  “I think she may still have been alive here,” Inspector Robbins said. But there was little else to help him—or me—understand why this girl had to die.

  He gestured to the road. “Walk with me back to the station. I’ll need your statement.”

  I knew what was in his mind.

  “I didn’t kill her. I’ve never seen her before. But I’m her age. You aren’t.”

  He laughed, a deep chuckle that reminded me of the Colonel Sahib, my father. We called him that when he was pompous.

  We walked in silence past the houses that faced the water, and to where the shops began, heralding the center of Eastbury. The police station was only a stone’s throw from my hotel, a small hostelry that catered to off-season travelers like me.

  I wrote out my statement and signed it, then passed it to the constable set to watch over me. And then Inspector Robbins was back again. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Miss Crawford?”

  I thought he must have put in some telephone calls. His manner was very different. And I was as dry as the desert. So I accepted, to see what he was up to.

  We sat down in a corner of the little shop where one could choose from the scant array of baked goods and take tea with friends. I wasn’t sure Inspector Robbins was a friend. After he’d ordered jam-filled biscuits and tea, he turned back to me.

  “Captain MacRae died of his wounds in Surrey. He was buried there five days ago. Sarah Elizabeth MacRae, his daughter, is missing.”

  The coast of Sussex was not so very far from Surrey.

  “Why do they feel she’s missing?”

  “Because,” he said, “she eloped against her parents’ wishes. Her mother has sent for the police.”

  “Eloped?”

  He relished my surprise. “Yes, you didn’t foresee that, did you?”

  Frowning, I said, “She didn’t seem to be the sort…” I gave that some thought. “Was the Captain very rich, do you think?”

  “What does that have to do with—oh, I see. Was she an heiress, worth cultivating and marrying?”

  I said, “She looked so very young. Not just in age. Protected. Cosseted. Inexperienced.”

  “And you, of course, are elderly and wise?” He was making fun of me.

  “I’ve seen more dead bodies than you ever have, Inspector. I’ve seen wounds that would make you turn away. I’ve held men down while their limbs were cut off. It takes away a little of your youth and innocence.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said for the second time. And I thought he meant it. “It’s just that I’ve never shared an inquiry with a young woman before. Young women don’t belong in police work. It’s a sordid business.”

  I smiled. “And so you want to send me back to my parents and tell them not to let me involve myself in murder. But I already have. I found her.”

  “And if she eloped without her parents’ blessing and was cut off without a penny, perhaps the man who did this married her for her money, then killed her when he discovered he wouldn’t see the fortune he was expecting.”

  “She was stabbed in the back,” I said. “It could be that she’d already learned what an unscrupulous man he was. Possibly he was willing to wait a bit longer to see if her family changed their minds. But she was disillusioned, and wanted to go home. Annulments can be arranged.”

  “Hmmm. And I’ll give you odds the man isn’t local. I’ll give you odds he thought the sea would take the body, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “She was in dry sand. He should have put her where it was wet.” They had come wit
h our tea, and I was feeling cold now. I sipped mine, warming my hands around the cup.

  “I didn’t think to ask the man’s name. But that can be rectified. They would have been staying in a hotel. I’ll send my men out to ask about.”

  “I don’t think he—her killer—is still in Eastbury. Would you linger?” I asked Inspector Robbins. “And who was the woman who came down to the beach?”

  “Someone who doesn’t wish to be involved with the police.”

  “Or an accomplice, come to see if she was still there or not.” I finished my second biscuit before I knew it. “Or perhaps she killed Sarah out of jealousy.”

  “I thought we were agreed that the husband or whatever he calls himself had killed her?” His smile reached his blue eyes this time.

  “I’d question both of them, in your shoes.”

  He laughed again, that deep chuckle, so like my father’s. “Has anyone ever suggested that nursing wasn’t your true profession?”

  “My mother, on any number of occasions.”

  “She’s a wise woman, your mother.” Finishing his tea, he said, “Well, pleasant as this has been, I have work to do.”

  “You won’t leave me out of the picture here at the very end!” I demanded. “After I’ve been so much help to you.”

  He was standing now, and he hesitated. “Oh, very well. It won’t hurt to find out more about our mysterious suitor.”

  We went back to the police station, and he put in another telephone call to Surrey. His eyes on me as he spoke, he agreed with several things being said to him, and then was busy writing something on a thick pad of paper.

  I felt very out of place in this dingy room, down a dingier corridor from the main desk where a very grim old sergeant had glared at me for returning, as if once I’d given my statement, I was excess baggage to be collected only if the need arose.

  Inspector Robbins put up the phone and looked at me quizzically. “Sarah’s mother is coming to see if the body we found is indeed her daughter. I rather hope it isn’t.”

  “So do I, except that we’d be no farther along. And I’d rather see her taken back where she belongs. She looked so—lost there on the beach.”

  “Very sentimental of you.”

  I could feel myself blushing. “And the man?”

  “He and his sister—they tell me the woman is his sister—live in Hastings.”

  “Not very far from here,” I said. “There’s a much better strand there, but it’s very close to the net drying sheds and the fishing boats. Even if they don’t go out very often, it’s a busy place.”

  “Know it, do you?”

  “One of my flatmates has spent a summer there.” I hesitated. “I brought my motorcar down from London. It’s less noticeable than a police motorcar.”

  But he insisted that we use his transportation, and in the end, it was just as well.

  As we were walking out to it, the doctor caught us up and said, “I was just coming to find you. That poor girl was stabbed with a pair of scissors.”

  Inspector Robbins looked at me, and then said to the doctor, “A very timely bit of information, sir.”

  Thanks to the Hastings police, we found the house where one Martin Worrel lived. And he was not there. His sister, a tall woman with pretty brown hair, informed us that he was in Oxford, staying with friends. She denied all knowledge of Sarah MacRae’s whereabouts, saying that the girl had refused to go to Oxford with her brother, and the last they’d seen of her, Sarah MacRae was at the Hastings railway station, intent on returning home.

  Glancing at the open sewing basket on a small table beneath the parlor window, I said, “What is your brother’s birth date, Miss Worrel?”

  She stared at me as if I’d grown horns.

  “Miss Worrel?” Inspector Robbins had taken out his notebook and was referring to it as if the answer were written there.

  She turned then and ran, shoving me aside and reaching the door to the front steps when a waiting constable stopped her. Whipping around, she raced toward the kitchen passage, and we heard the banging of doors as she went. But Inspector Robbins was a careful man. Another constable was waiting for her there, having slipped down the narrow alley between her house and the next. She was brought back in his grip, her face flushed with anger and fright.

  She was taken into custody, to help with inquiries. The police in Oxford were searching for her brother. If that’s what he was. There was a smooth spot on her ring finger where a wedding band would fit very well.

  I had to leave for London the next morning, and I asked Inspector Robbins if he would keep me informed about the murder.

  He promised, and there was a letter from him waiting for me on my next leave.

  It said simply that Sarah and Martin had quarreled, presumably over the lost inheritance, and he’d stormed out, telling her to go home where she belonged. A lover’s quarrel that might have blown over. His “sister,” in fact his companion in crime, Lucy Edwards, had agreed to take Sarah MacRae to the railway station that evening. Instead, she’d stabbed her as she was packing her valise, driven the body to the churchyard in Eastbury, where she’d pulled on Martin’s boots and carried Sarah out to the strand. That explained why the footprints weren’t deeper—tall as she was, Lucy weighed far less than a man. She had been afraid that as lovers do, the two might make up. Sarah was very pretty for an heiress, and likely to be competition for Lucy. Inspector Robbins had also found the other earring. There was a strand of Sarah’s hair still caught in it. Lucy had intended to keep both as profit, but lost one while carrying the dead girl.

  And so Sarah had identified her murderer for us. That bit of paper—we never discovered how that followed her to the beach—and that earring had sealed Lucy Edwards’ fate.

  At the end of his letter, Inspector Robbins had written, “And how did you enjoy your role as a police consultant?”

  I returned a humorous reply. The truth was, I had felt a kinship with Sarah MacRae. She wasn’t just a girl dead on a beach and left for the tides to take her. Or an opportunity for me to play at policeman. Although I’d never known him, Captain MacRae had served in my father’s old regiment—it was in that scrap of obituary I’d read. And so I had felt strong ties to him and to his daughter.

  COLD COMFORT

  An Inspector Ian Rutledge Story

  IT WAS HOT this far down in the tunnel. Here, at the very end, there was only room for the three of them—Lieutenant Rutledge, the officer in charge; a private by the name of Williams at the left wall already passing over his bayonet in favor of a small knife as he scraped quietly at the chalk surface to enlarge the space; and Corporal MacLeod listening for sounds from the enemy burrowing their way toward the British lines in a counter tunnel, the stethoscope in his hand moving gently over the walls and ceiling. He glanced at Rutledge from time to time with a shake of his head.

  Nothing.

  It was an ominous silence.

  A runner had just brought Rutledge the news that a German prisoner had been interrogated and there was the very real possibility that the enemy was working on its own tunnel, and that it could in fact parallel their own. If he was farther ahead, if he’d already packed his charges in his forward chamber, similar to the one that Rutledge and his men were still enlarging at their end, then chances were that the enemy’s would go off first, burying the three of them alive.

  The Germans had already used tunneling to fearful advantage. It was very simple: dig a tunnel that burrowed deep below No Man’s Land to reach a spot beneath the British or French trenches opposite, then pack the final chamber with high explosives, set off the charges, and wreak shockingly effective havoc in the lines. And then launch an attack while one’s opponent was still reeling. It was a variation of one of the favorite ways of breaching castle walls, something medieval armies had excelled at. Only instead of blowing up a trench, it weakened and brought down enough of the massive fortifications to allow the attacking army to rush inside. Dangerous work then, dangerous work
now.

  The Allies had had no choice but to use the same strategy as the Germans—and they were still learning. A team of miners from South Wales had been brought in because they were experienced men, capable of digging as well as shoring up the tunnel as they went.

  The problem was, once the Welshmen were close enough to the German lines to be heard, picks and shovels had to be replaced by tedious, nearly silent scraping, inch by inch. Otherwise the enemy would hear them and take deadly countermeasures.

  Rutledge had been sent down to relieve the officer in charge of the chamber, standing his eight-hour watch with his own corporal, Hamish MacLeod, whose hearing was particularly keen. And in place of the Welsh coal miners, Private Williams had been given the task of carrying on as quickly as he could without making a sound. He was a slate miner from North Wales, and it was clear several of the Welshmen from the South had resented the choice. He had been what was called a rock man, who drilled and set the explosives to bring down the great slabs of slate, and his touch was delicate. Fair for a Welshman, nearly as tall as Rutledge and MacLeod, he was a quiet man who kept to himself.

  The knife picked away gently at the surface, filling the pail with surprising speed without a sound. The larger the chamber at the end of the tunnel, the more explosives that could be packed into it.

  Two feet still to go, before the Royal Engineer overseeing the work would be satisfied.

  All at once Hamish MacLeod held up a hand. Rutledge touched Williams’ shoulder in the same instant. The Welsh private stopped, knife in midair, hardly breathing. Rutledge waited.

  MacLeod took out a bit of paper, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Rutledge.

  Not digging, it read. Packing.

  The Germans must be worried that the prisoner had talked, and taking no chances, they were preparing to blow up their own tunnel as soon as possible, which meant they were already under the British lines. What MacLeod had heard was the soft footfalls of men carrying charges forward to stow in the already completed chamber.