by Charles Todd
He ignored my questions. “Will they take the gloves?” he pressed.
“No. The gloves will be yours.”
“For always?” That sly look was there again. This time I recognized it for what it was, the craftiness of a man who had lived by his wits for so long he was forever looking to find an advantage. Someone who would give him coins, as Davis Merrit had done, who would promise him a watch in return for a lie, or offer him a pair of gloves in return for the truth. His only loyalty was to opportunity.
“For always,” I promised.
He considered the bribe and finally said, “My hands are cold. Bring me the gloves, and I’ll tell you what I saw.”
There was a dry goods shop near the greengrocer’s. They were just closing, but I went in to look at men’s gloves, resenting the wasted time. But it was necessary, and I waited my turn with the clerk, counting the seconds as she finished wrapping a scarf for the woman ahead of me, assuring her that it was pure Welsh wool and would last a lifetime.
I bought the gloves and asked that a scarf be added to my purchase, then hurried back to the street to find Willy.
But he’d vanished, just as Sophie had done.
Chapter Eighteen
I hurried back toward the inn with my purchases and met Simon coming to find me.
“No one seems to know the name Halloran. He’s changed it. He must have done.”
I told him about my conversation with Willy. “He knows something. He must. He wanders through the village at will, and people are so accustomed to seeing him that they almost overlook him. Or else he’s our killer.”
“Keep looking. I’ll go with you. Mrs. Ellis is exhausted. I asked the rector to take her home with him.”
“He’s been so clever thus far, Simon. Why take Sophie? What earthly good will it do him?”
“Something frightened him. And there was no time to plan.”
The rector’s motorcar was passing us, on the way to the Rectory. I smiled at Mrs. Ellis and waved.
“Simon. Remember the night when Willy came into the inn yard to inspect your motorcar?”
“I do.”
“You’re Army. One has only to look at you. Is that why Willy was anxious to find out about you? Was he once Army too?”
“There’s Margaret’s husband. And that Major of yours.”
“Henry is artillery. So, come to think of it, was the Major. And he isn’t mine.”
Just ahead of me I could see Constable Bates coming out of the inn. I called to him and hurried to catch him up.
“We’re looking for Willy, Constable. Have you seen him?”
“I have not, Sister. Is it important? I’ll carry a message for you.”
“Just tell him that I need urgently to speak to him. Thank you, Constable.”
As he walked off, I said, “Did you search everywhere, Simon?”
“As well as I could. Ellis told me what to look for.”
We began again, knocking on every door, taking people from their dinners, rattling the doors of closed shops until someone came to let us in.
No one had seen Willy.
“Where does he sleep?” I asked.
But no one knew.
When anyone asked, I told them I’d bought gloves and a scarf for him.
“You’ll spoil him,” the baker’s wife told me flatly. “I don’t hold with beggars.”
Willy’s wet gloves were still dripping on the bush where he’d hung them. He hadn’t come for them when my back was turned.
When we asked the stationer where Willy slept, he replied, “In the old livery stable, that’s now a garage. There’s a shed out back he’s allowed to use. Keeps him out of doorways. Not good for business, having to step over a beggar on the stoop.”
The livery stable cum garage was close by the railway station, where the carriage was kept. I thanked him as Simon touched my arm and said, “We’ll drive. It saves time.”
His motorcar was still in the inn yard. In the glow of the headlamps as we drove to the station, I saw a hare zigzagging across in front of us before darting into the dry brush at the side of the road.
A little farther on, Constable Bates was coming toward us, and Simon pulled over. “Any word?” he asked.
“No, sir. I was just coming from the station. He sometimes sleeps in the ticket office.”
And we went on our way, the livery stable already clear in our headlamps. As we neared, I could hear the stamp of horses’ hooves, and once the sound of one blowing. Simon and I left the motorcar ticking over and went around back to where the shed stood at the end of the yard, ramshackle and bare of paint, the boards a silvery gray in Simon’s torchlight. The door hinges were rusty and squeaked loudly as he dragged the door open.
I shone the torch into the black interior, glad of the shelter of the door as the wind blew hard across the bare fields beyond.
The shed was barely large enough to hold the battered old mattress on the floor. A peg for clothing was on one side, and on the other, a spirit lamp for making tea. A tin stood on the shelf above, and a cracked jar that held a little honey.
And it was only marginally warmer than the outside. I shivered at the thought of living here through the winter.
“No wonder the man begs,” I said.
Shutting the door again, we turned back toward the motorcar. In the darkness I tripped over something underfoot, nearly sprawling on my face in the torn grass of the yard.
Simon put his torch on whatever it was, saying, “Careful. These old stables are a minefield. Horseshoes, wire—” He broke off as the light caught the side of a torn shoe, and then came back again to pin it squarely in its beam.
“Willy was wearing that shoe when I met him. Just over an hour ago.”
“No one said anything about the man sleeping in the railway station. Except Constable Bates.”
He flashed the light around, but there were no other signs that anyone had been here before us. Then he walked to the barn where the carriage horses were kept, shifting the door to walk inside. “Stay here,” he said to me, and I stopped in the doorway. He disappeared for a minute or more, then came back to where I was standing. “One of the horses is sweating. Someone rode him recently.”
“And there’s no train at this hour of the night.” I could just see his face in the faint light of the stars as we made our way back to the motorcar. “What’s more, I don’t remember the carriage in Hartfield. Not tonight.”
“No. But there must be a way to reach the heath without going through the village, if you are leading a horse. I think we’ve found our killer.”
“Constable Bates?” I felt a surge of relief that it wasn’t anyone from Vixen Hill. “Do you think he’s Sergeant Halloran? Yes, it would explain— Simon, I told him I was searching for Willy. I’m responsible.”
“You had no way of guessing.”
As we drove back to Hartfield, I said, “It was Constable Bates who found the tracks where George Hughes and Davis Merrit met and then walked on together. Inspector Rother praised him for that bit of excellent police work. But he must have been following Merrit and saw them together. He was already suspicious of Merrit, surely. Who did he kill first, do you think? George or Davis Merrit?”
“Merrit. Before he could ride back to Hartfield. And then Hughes.”
“Yes, of course. He could have hidden Merrit’s body until George was dead, then arranged his supposed suicide. Simon, he was right under our noses. At the heart of the inquiry. Able to cover his tracks. But why take Sophie? I can understand about Willy. I’d wanted to question him, and that was too dangerous. Men like Willy can remember, sometimes.”
We had reached Hartfield, and I scanned every face, searching for Constable Bates. Instead I saw Roger Ellis, just pulling into the inn yard as we came up. In the glare from his headlamps, his face looked haggard.
“Anything?” he asked, hailing us as we slowed.
I said quickly, “We’ve been searching for Willy. He’s missing— I think we’ve just found his shoe.�
�� I was about to add that we feared that Constable Bates was involved, but for some reason I stopped myself. This was hardly the place. . . .
“Good God—why Willy?”
“It’s possible he saw who took Sophie.”
Just then Lydia and Gran drove up. Gran’s face told me that they’d had no more luck than Roger had. Her usually stiff back was hunched with fatigue.
“Any news?” Lydia asked quickly. But I shook my head.
“Lydia, why don’t you take your grandmother home?” I asked. “Henry would be glad to take her place, I’m sure.”
Gran protested, but Roger said to her, “No, really, you must rest a little.”
Lydia was saying, “I won’t stop searching.” Anxiety was plain in her voice. “And there’s the old mill. We haven’t gotten there yet. And I must ask the hotel for the use of a blanket. I don’t know if whoever took Sophie thought about wrapping her well.”
Roger hesitated, then said, “I’ll take Gran home. Lydia, go with Bess. I’ll bring Henry back with me.”
“I thought you were to look at the windmill?” Simon asked, turning to him.
Lydia said, “He asked me to. He was going to The Pitch. Where Davis Merrit’s body was found. But I stopped at Vixen Hill for a blanket for Gran’s knees, and it wasn’t until we left there that Gran said we should have taken another for Sophie.” She shivered. “They used to claim the mill was haunted. Some tragedy or other, years ago. And it’s hardly more than a ruin. I thought it was a waste of time.”
Simon glanced at Roger. “Is that true?”
“True enough. I haven’t been there in three years.”
I said, “Still—it’s the only place we haven’t looked. Simon—we ought to hurry.”
Lydia said, “Wait for me!” Leaving the motorcar by the inn, she came quickly over to ours.
Roger, visibly torn between going with us and his concern for his grandmother, said, “I’ll follow as quickly as I can.”
“Search the grounds at Vixen Hill. It’s where the doctor’s body was left,” Simon told him, and then we were away, keeping to a steady pace through the rest of Hartfield, and then driving fast as we reached the heath, holding the heavy motorcar on the track.
I said to Simon, “It’s possible we will find both of them there. If he’s hurt that child—!”
“I don’t know why he took her,” he said grimly. “He has nothing to gain by harming her.”
“Don’t even think it,” Lydia said from the rear seat, her voice frightened.
“Tell us where to find the turning,” I said to her over my shoulder. “I can’t be sure I’ll recognize it in the dark.”
“And I don’t understand why anyone would want to harm Willy. He’s not very bright, and he muddles things. Whoever is doing this must be mad.”
The motorcar rocked, as if shaken by a giant hand, then steadied as we bounced high over a deeper rut. I could see sheep, ghostly white, staring at us as we passed, as if we were the ones who were mad.
“We think it must be Constable Bates.” I explained to her what had happened. “I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was searching for Willy. Constable Bates must have gone to look for him straightaway.”
“But where is Willy now? Surely not the mill—how would Bates get him there?”
Simon told her about the horse. “And I saw him earlier, before all this began, driving the Inspector’s motorcar.”
She leaned forward. “He’s the one who always frightened me. The one with the cold eyes. But he’s a policeman. Why would he murder someone? I know, I know. The court-martial. Still, this man Halloran could be someone else, quietly living in another part of the Forest.”
“There’s that,” Simon agreed, but I could tell he didn’t believe it.
“Has he lived here for very long? Does his family come from here?” I asked.
“I know almost nothing about him. Constable Austin could probably tell you more. I think something was said about Constable Bates coming from Cornwall, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. At a guess, he’s been here two years? I know Constable Freeman died of cancer the first year of the war, and it was hard to find a replacement. Oh—there’s the turning!”
We nearly missed it. Simon stopped as quickly as he could, then reversed. I could see as the headlamps swept it that our way was going to be much rougher here. A horse made sense.
About three miles down the track we were now traveling, I thought I could see the windmill ahead against the night sky, blotting out the stars. The top was misshapen, as if it had rotted through, and the arms were mere skeletons. I pointed it out to Simon.
“That’s it,” Lydia said, from just behind my shoulder. “I don’t think it’s been used since Roger’s grandfather’s day. There’s a new mill on the road to Groombridge.”
Simon switched off the headlamps, pulling over to the edge of the track.
“We ought to walk from here,” he said quietly. “Sounds carry in the night.”
He got out, and I followed him, asking Lydia to wait in the motorcar.
“I’d rather come with you,” she said in a small voice, and I remembered that she had not cared for the heath at night.
“You’ll be all right. Use the horn if anyone comes near you. Anyone. We dare not leave the motorcar empty.”
“Yes, all right,” she said, climbing into the driver’s seat. I saw her rest her hand on the horn.
And then Simon and I were off across the heath. It was rough going, although the stark black shapes of the wind-twisted heather and gorse were easy enough to see. It was the roots sprawling out between them that caught at our feet. Simon had taken my hand to guide me, and together we made fairly good time.
The windmill grew larger. Bare of sails, it looked ominous against the night sky. The black weathered wood looked as if it had come from the gorse under our feet.
“There must be an opening,” I said and nearly went flat on my face as the toe of my shoe snagged a root.
“The other side.”
We reached the mill, and it was easier going, a cleared space around it not yet swallowed up by the heath. There was a window higher up, but I didn’t think anyone was there. Still, we were more easily spotted than someone inside the shadowed interior.
“He’s not here.”
Simon leaned over to whisper against my hair. “Don’t be too sure. There must be another way in.”
Making our way silently around the rough wooden sides, we found a door. It was merely a blacker rectangle, standing half open, as if it had been left that way so long ago that the door had petrified in that position. A torch gave too much light. I reached into my pocket for matches, and pressed several into Simon’s palm.
It was then I heard the whimpering, like a puppy left alone in the dark.
I would have dashed inside without thinking but for Simon’s hand clamping down on my shoulder. I winced and stood still.
We waited, straining to hear the smallest sounds from inside. But there was nothing, not even the scurrying of a rat.
Simon struck a match and held it just inside.
Shadows danced about the walls, but we could see very little. Part of the upper floor had come down, half filling the ground floor.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go first.” And lighting a second match, he stepped inside as quickly as if he were entering the tent of a suspected tribesman. I tried to see around him, but he was blocking my view. A third match, and then he said, “All clear. Watch out. There are timbers everywhere, and Willy’s body is just beyond the door.”
“And Sophie?”
“She’s on the stone. I think she’s well enough. I could see eyes peering at me.”
He flicked on his torch, the light blinding both of us, and we had to stand still until our eyes adjusted to it. As soon as I could pick out her shape, I walked over to Sophie. She opened her arms to me, and I picked her up.
“I don’t like it,” she said to me in French. “Dark.”
He was bending over the man. “There’s blood on the back of his head. But he’s still breathing.”
“There’s the scarf in the motorcar. I meant it for him. We can bind his head with that. But how do we get him there?”
Simon was rummaging around now and discovered some sacks in a corner, but they were filthy and rotting.
“Lydia can take Sophie, and then I’ll be free to help you.” I stepped outside and called to her.
She refused to come at first, then stepped down from the motorcar and whimpering almost in imitation of Sophie, she made her way through the dark. When she finally reached me, she gripped my arm with anxious fingers. “Why would anyone do this to a child? I find it hard to believe.” Taking Sophie from me, she shivered as she looked down at Willy. “How did anyone manage to bring him here?”
“The station carriage horses, at a guess,” Simon answered her. “Or the motorcar.”
She started back the way she’d come, picking her footing carefully.
I watched until she reached the motorcar, and then went back to Simon. I found that he’d brought Willy around. The man was sitting up, holding his head, moaning.
“Can you walk, if we help you?” Simon asked him.
“Dizzy,” Willy said. “Sick.”
Shining Simon’s torch on the back of Willy’s head, I could see bone shining through the bloody tear in his scalp, pinkish white in the light.
“Gently. His skull may be fractured,” I warned Simon, and then bent to take Willy’s arm. “Will you try?” I asked him.
He smelled. And I wondered if there might be lice in the folds of his clothing as we supported him between us.
It took us nearly ten minutes to persuade him that he could walk. Even so, he gagged twice as we got him to his feet.
“Close your eyes,” I told him. “Let us guide you.”
And so we got him moving, slowly taking him through the gorse, stumbling and begging us to stop, once falling to his knees and refusing to stand again.
When we reached the motorcar, he put out a hand to touch it, as if uncertain that it was really there. Then he half stepped, half relapsed into the rear seat.
