“Yes, well, if wishes were horses…”
They were silent again for several miles.
“I’ll drop you at The Oaks. Keating may not be up. I’ll be sure you’re safely inside before I go on.”
“Thank you.”
They reached the turning to Dudlington sooner than they had expected. The inn was dark, and the headlamps were the only illumination to guide Rutledge as the road began to curve and run down into the village.
He had just made the turn toward Holly Street and the circular drive that led to the front of The Oaks, when something caught his eye.
Hamish shouted, “There. Left!”
A succession of thoughts ran through Rutledge’s mind…
Someone saying that cows were kept in the barns this time of year.
And his own voice making a remark about camouflage.
“Hold on!” He twisted the steering wheel hard, and the tires skidded before leaving the road. In the same moment he cut the headlamps.
Mrs. Channing cried out as the motorcar went careening out into the meadow, bouncing wildly over the uneven ground into darkness, swaying and lurching as it went.
Rutledge fought the wheel and brought the heavy vehicle under control, then to a wrenching halt.
He was out of his door almost before the recoil of the sudden stop had settled, racing back to the cow lying in the grass, for all the world chewing its cud.
She turned her head toward him as he got nearer, her white and black hide giving her the look of a harlequin, half invisible. He could just see the whites of her eyes.
He realized, in that moment, that she was real—and pegged to the ground so that she wouldn’t wander off.
It hadn’t been a trap, with a marksman under the hide, but a ruse, and he had fallen for it.
He swore and went to pull up the pegs. The cow scrambled to her feet and shook herself. Then she turned and began to amble away, as if she knew where to find her barn.
He caught the rope around her neck and soothed her.
Mrs. Channing, opening her door, called, “Inspector?”
Leading the cow with him, he went back to the car. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m sorry, there was no time to warn you.”
“A few bruises, nothing serious. What’s this?”
“I expect he felt I’d drive straight over it, thinking he was under the hide and preparing to fire. Thank God I didn’t, I’d have killed Bessy here, and probably myself as well, when the motorcar turned over on me.”
She reached out a gloved hand toward the cow, then thought better of it. “Poor thing, she’s probably frightened to death.”
“Here, let me walk you as far as the inn, then I’ll take her home. Before she wanders out into the road and someone else does hit her.”
“No, I’m all right. I’ll see myself to the inn.”
But he wouldn’t let her. He walked her as far as the stairs and gave her his torch to find her way up them.
Satisfied that she was safe, he turned back to the motorcar, and then untied the cow from the frame.
At first the animal was determined to go her own path, but soon enough she stopped pulling against the rope and followed him meekly down Holly Street. Her hoofs clattered on the cobblestones, and she walked with that swaying motion that made cows seem so slow and bucolic. But he could still see the whites of her eyes, telling him that she was anxious.
He led her down Whitby Lane and then along Church Street, toward the Baylor house.
Leaving her in the yard, he went to bang on the door. In a few minutes, Ted Baylor flung open the door, his braces down and his hair awry, as if he’d been asleep in his chair. “What is it—” he began, and then over Rutledge’s shoulder he saw the cow.
“My good God! What’s she doing out there!”
“I’d like an answer to that myself. Is she yours?”
Baylor reached behind him for a coat, pulling it on as he closed the door. “Yes, I recognize her. How many others are missing?”
He hurried around the house toward the distant barns. Rutledge, still leading the cow, fell behind as he matched his pace to hers. But she began to trot as she crossed the yard. Baylor had the great door open, the dark interior yawning behind him, by the time Rutledge got there. He was lighting a lamp and then holding it high as he walked down the barn, looking at the rows of cattle drowsing on their beds of straw. Rutledge followed him. A miasma of fresh straw, steaming animals, and manure filled the air.
“Here,” Baylor said, pointing to a half stall that was empty. “This appears to be the only one, thank God.”
Rutledge brought the cow up and handed him the rope. “Do you lock the barn?” he asked.
“Why should we? The cows don’t try to leave. Where the hell did you find her?”
“Near The Oaks. I almost ran her down.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Why should I lie about it? Besides,” he retorted, “I have a witness.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Baylor was examining the cow, running his hand over her sides and flanks. “She’s mine, all right. As far as I can tell, she’s not hurt. I don’t like the look of this. Who would want to harm one of my beasts?”
“Where was your brother tonight?”
“In his bed. Where I’d have been if I hadn’t fallen asleep while reading.”
“Can you be sure where he was? You weren’t awake.”
“Yes, by God.” He stamped his feet, warming them. “He’s not likely to be out in the damp night air. Not with his lungs.”
“Then why didn’t your dog bark, if a stranger meddled with the barn?”
Baylor said, “I was thinking of the cow—where is that bloody dog?”
The cow was settling in at last, going down to her knees and then her belly. With an almost human sigh, she lay there, quiet as a statue except for her regular breathing.
“We’d better have a look for him,” Rutledge answered.
They searched the yard and Baylor went to the kitchen door to shout for the dog in the house. But it was nowhere to be found.
“Where did you say the cow was? By the road? We’d best look there for the dog as well.”
Rutledge said, “She’d been pegged down by the road, but there couldn’t have been a dog up there. I’d have seen it, even if it didn’t bark. Would Bossy allow anyone to approach her and lead her away, without a fuss? If she didn’t know him?”
“Depends on whether or not the man knows cattle, doesn’t it?”
Baylor went to the barn again, made a swift search, and came back to the door where Rutledge was waiting.
“He doesn’t wander off, that dog. I don’t like this.”
“Nor I.” Rutledge stood there in the night air, thinking. “Can you whistle him up? Give him instructions to bring in the herd?”
“Oh, yes.” Baylor gave the signal, a series of low-and high-pitched whistles. They would carry for some distance—had to carry, when herdsman and dog were separated.
When there was no response, he repeated it.
Hamish said, “Listen!”
There was a sound, muffled and far off, that could have been an animal in distress.
Baylor cocked his head. “On the other side of the rectory, I think.” And he set off at a trot in that direction.
Rutledge followed the bobbing lantern, but when they reached the far side of the rectory, there was no sign of the dog.
“Whistle again.”
Baylor did, and the muffled sounds were louder, a strange whine, hollow and well above their heads.
Baylor held up the lantern, looking around, scanning the roofline of the rectory.
Rutledge, more accustomed to tracing sounds, said, “The church. The tower room, I’d say.”
As they reached the tower door, Rutledge put out his hand for the lantern. “Let me go in first.” For all he knew, it was a trap.
He pulled the door open and stepped inside.
The dog had been tied
to one of the handles of the sanctuary door and muzzled with a length of dark cloth. He growled at the sight of Rutledge, visible mainly as a hulking shadow in the doorway as the lantern cast his silhouette against the wall.
There was no one else in the tower entrance or on the stairs.
“Baylor?”
Ted Baylor came in and spoke to the dog, reducing it to whines and wriggles of ecstasy. He took away the muzzle, and the dog began to bark in short, staccato yelps. Baylor soothed him as he untied the rope.
“I’d have killed him, if he’d harmed the dog,” he said through clenched teeth. “Tell me who?”
“I wish I knew.” Rutledge had opened the sanctuary door and lifted the lantern high, but there were too many places to hide. “Bring the dog here.”
“He can’t go in there.”
“Not in there. To the door.”
But the dog sniffed briefly at the air of the nave, then turned back to Baylor.
“There’s no one in the church,” Baylor said.
“You’re right, I think.”
“What’s all this in aid of?” Baylor asked, nodding toward the north and Frith’s Wood. “Is it to do with the bones they’ve found? Were they the girl’s? That’s the whisper going about.”
“I don’t know. I can tell you the bones don’t belong to Emma Mason. You can scotch that rumor, if you would. There’s no point in upsetting her grandmother, if it can be helped.”
“And who’s to gossip to the grandmother, I ask you!” Baylor said sourly. “She all but accused my brother Rob of attempted rape, a few years ago. There’s no love lost there. But yes, I’d not want to learn bad news that way.”
He turned to go, taking the dog with him. “What you’ve done. It’s appreciated,” he said over his shoulder, his voice gruff.
And he was gone into the night, his lantern bobbing as he crossed the churchyard, the dog’s wagging tail flicking in and out of the yellow glow.
Rutledge walked back through the quiet streets to the motorcar, where it sat in the field. He was about to crank it when a thought struck him.
What if someone had meddled with it in his absence?
“First the kirk, and now the motorcar. Ye’re edgy, man!”
Still, without his torch or a lamp, there was no way he could be sure that all was well.
In the end he walked to Hensley’s house and went in, to find Frank Keating pacing the floor, waiting for him.
“Where the hell have you been?” Keating demanded. “I’ve been here for close on two hours.”
“I had other business to see to.” He fought to keep weariness out of his voice.
“The bones?”
“Yes. Apparently word of them is all over Dudlington.”
“A man from Letherington came into the bar tonight. I heard him tell his mates about digging in the wood, and finding bones. I shut the bar then, and came to look for you.”
There was something in his eyes that Rutledge couldn’t judge. Fear, he thought, and a resistance, almost as if he had come here against his better judgment.
“Was it the girl?” he asked, finally, when Rutledge stood there, silent. “For God’s sake, tell me who it was you found? Bloody hell, man, tell me!”
“It wasn’t Emma Mason. In fact, it wasn’t a woman’s body at all.”
Keating seemed to collapse into himself with relief.
“That’s all, then,” he said, brushing past Rutledge on his way to the door.
Rutledge put out a hand to stop him. Keating jerked his arm clear. “Don’t put your hands on me!”
“Why should you care whether the bones belonged to the girl or not?”
“I told you. I’ve seen her about the village. Too pretty for her own good, and all the men leering at her. I hear how they talk in the bar, mind you. Foul-mouthed bastards! Hensley worst of all. I threw him out, told him not to come to The Oaks again.”
“Do you think what he said was bragging, or the truth.”
“If it’ud been the truth, I’d have choked the life out of him.”
Rutledge said again, “Why do you care about Emma Mason?”
“Why do you think? I lost my own daughter and I’ll never have another. The hurt doesn’t go away, no matter what you tell yourself. It’s there day and night. I’d have killed any man who touched her. Why should I stand for such talk about another man’s child, if I wouldn’t have stood for it about my own?”
With that he was out the door, slamming it behind him.
Hamish said, “It may be that yon constable lied to keep you from speaking to him.”
“That he wasn’t Sandridge? I’d considered that. I wonder how much he was paid to set the fire—and if it was enough to make it possible for him to purchase The Oaks.”
In the early-morning light Rutledge examined the motorcar carefully, but no one had touched it as far as he could tell.
He drove it without incident back to the house and put it away.
The time had come to speak to Mrs. Ellison.
He waited until it was nearly ten o’clock, and then walked across the street and knocked at her door.
It was some time before she answered. Her face was lined, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept well.
“Come in, Inspector,” she said, and this time led him to the parlor, indicating that he should sit down. “I’ve seen all the activity at your door. Something has happened, hasn’t it? You’ve—found Emma.”
Her voice almost broke on the last word.
He said gently, “We didn’t find her in the wood, Mrs. Ellison. I told you the truth, earlier. I’m sorry if you were still worried.”
She almost fell apart, then drew herself together again, and faced him with no sign of pain. It was an act of courage, and he had to admire it.
“Thank you.” She stood, the lady of the manor dismissing the policeman. “I didn’t like to ask, you know. I didn’t wish to break down in front of someone.”
He sat where he was. Reaching into his pocket, he held the toothpick out to her.
She looked at it, then lifted her eyes to his face. “Am I meant to know what that is?”
“It was, I understand, a gift from your daughter, Beatrice, to her father. Christmas 1881. The date is engraved on it.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Inspector. It’s not the sort of thing a girl like Beatrice would give her father on any occasion.” Her expression was slightly puzzled, and she raised her brows, as if seeking an explanation.
“There are those who tell me otherwise.”
“Yes, I’m sure there must be people eager to tell you what they want you to believe. But that doesn’t make it true, does it? Good day, Inspector.”
She walked to the door and stood there, waiting for him to leave.
“You’ve never seen this object before in your life?”
“No. I can’t speak any plainer than that.”
Hamish said, as they reached the street again, “She willna’ break. And ye have only the word of the lass with the roses.”
Hearsay. Hardly evidence that would stand up in a courtroom against the patrician calm of a Mrs. Ellison. The jury might not like her, but they would believe her.
“There’s the nonexistent grave in Highgate cemetery, in London.”
“You canna’ be sure it isna’ there. If she planned so carefully, she wouldna’ leave that to chance.”
But it was hard to believe that Mrs. Ellison had gone to so much trouble and expense, to bury an empty casket.
He drove to Letherington, to see if there was any news. When he rang up the Yard, he found himself talking to Inspector Mickelson, his voice cold and distant over the line. Rutledge asked for Sergeant Gibson and was told he was out.
Rutledge rang off.
His second call was to Inspector Kelmore in Northampton, who, after speaking with several other people, informed Rutledge that they hadn’t any information on a Harkness of the age he described.
“We’ll need more
details before we can pursue it. Although Sergeant Thompson tells me there was a Harkness who lived here at the turn of the century. She died in the same year as the Old Queen, he says. It was a sad story, which is why he remembers it. Her maid claimed she was poisoned, but no one believed her. She died soon after herself, and that was the end of it.”
“Was she a wealthy woman, this Miss Harkness?”
He could hear Kelmore in the distance, repeating the question. Then he came back on the line. “Thompson says she’d been very wealthy at one time but outlived her money, except of course for the house. That went to a family connection, who sold it shortly afterward to pay for the funeral.”
“How did the maid die?” Rutledge asked.
There was further consultation. “In a fall down the back stairs, Thompson thinks. But send us more information about the woman you’re after, and we’ll be happy to run her down.”
Rutledge thanked him.
He thought very likely he’d found the right cousin after all.
From the hotel he went to see Inspector Cain and discovered that he too had been called away.
Reluctantly, Rutledge drove back to Dudlington, feeling as if his hands were tied.
What he needed was a warrant to search the Ellison house, but he was inclined to believe that Inspector Cain would refuse to ask for it on such slim evidence. After all, Mrs. Ellison had connections. And Cain was ambitious. Rutledge had learned to be wary of ambitious men.
31
Rutledge found Mrs. Channing sitting in the small parlor at The Oaks, writing a letter.
She looked up as he came in. “I never heard the end of the story about the cow.”
“She’d been taken from one of the barns past the church. Her owner was glad to have her back unharmed.”
“I’m sure he was…” She put her hand into the portable correspondence box she’d brought with her from her room and held out his torch. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
After a moment he added, “I need a favor.”
“What is it?”
“I’d like you to invite someone from Dudlington to have dinner with you in Letherington. Mrs. Ellison. I want her out of her house for several hours.”
Charles Todd_Ian Rutledge 08 Page 27
