by Charles Todd
But when Strange came in at last, he was clearly preoccupied, and he frowned when he saw Rutledge rising from a chair, prepared to follow the solicitor to his room. After a moment he said, “I thought this was merely a review.”
“So it is,” Rutledge said affably, concealing his own mood. “But even reviews sometimes require explanations beyond what someone saw fit to include in a report at the time.”
Strange’s attention sharpened. “All right. Come back.”
Rutledge kept pace with Strange as he strode down the passage. The man was clearly irritated but trying to conceal it in his turn. But he failed signally. Taking his chair behind his desk, he said, “Very well. What is it this time?”
“Who does the hiring for the house staff and the outside help on Barrington’s estates, in his absence?”
Strange blinked, taken off guard. “What? Who hires the staff? Why should it matter?”
“Just being thorough.”
Strange took out his watch and looked at it. “I am conferring with a barrister in fifteen minutes and I need to review a file. Can this wait?”
“It will take you only five minutes to answer my question.”
“The Barringtons generally hire staff locally. Except for the senior staff—the housekeeper, the butler, the lady’s maid, the valet, and now the chauffeur. We use a firm, the names and backgrounds of possible candidates are sent to us, we interview them if we’re satisfied, then the family interviews the three best choices and makes a decision. This isn’t an unusual procedure, as you probably know. It was my cousin who hired the last senior staff. I believe they’re still there, except of course for the lady’s maid and the valet. The Barringtons didn’t have a chauffeur, just the family’s coachman. The steward deals with the outside staff, and the butler and housekeeper the inside. There you have it. I should think the Yard would know how these matters are arranged.” He considered Rutledge. “You should certainly know.”
“Then for the most part, the entire household was there in Barrington’s father’s day, and he chose to keep them on when he inherited.”
“That’s right. His mother was already dead, the lady’s maid had been let go. Alan let the coachman retire. He preferred to drive himself. Oh, and the old steward, Hathaway, retired, and Alan promoted the man who had been assisting him. Now what does this have to do with the search for Alan Barrington?”
“What can you tell me about the steward? How long have you known him?”
“We were all at university at the same time. In fact, that’s where we met. Thorne, Livingston, Alan, and I shared a tutor. I’d known who Alan was, of course, but I’d only seen him occasionally when I was a child, hardly the basis of friendship.”
“To be clear. The four of you were strangers—aside from your own occasional encounters with Barrington as a child—until university.”
“That’s right. The senior partner here was Mr. Broadhurst, my mother’s cousin, and he included me on some occasions. It pleased her. We became friends at Oxford. Sadly, only Livingston and I are left.”
“Did any of you know Fletcher-Munro at that time?”
“No. He was already a financial wizard in the City. Hardly likely to be acquainted with schoolboys.” His voice was bitter. “Mark met him much later, at a dinner in London for some charity or other. A stroke of bad luck, that, as it turned out.” He frowned. “I thought you were here to ask about staff?”
“Was I?” Rutledge rose. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to your review of the upcoming case.”
Strange got to his feet, opened his mouth—and snapped it shut again. He followed Rutledge out and bade him a good morning.
Outside in the street, Rutledge stood there, staring at the crank for several seconds before bending down to turn it. He was considering Strange’s claim that he had a meeting—was it an excuse not to talk to Scotland Yard? Or was something else happening?
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he could ha’ heard from Barrington.”
Rutledge said, “He wasn’t anxious enough to be hiding that secret. But it could be that he didn’t want me to see his next client.”
He got into the motorcar and drove on down the short street. There was a builder’s van standing at the corner, and he pulled over in front of it, where his motorcar couldn’t be seen from the windows of Strange’s chambers. Getting out, he crossed the street and walked back to a building well within sight of Strange’s. The board by the door indicated that it belonged to another firm of solicitors. He stepped inside. When the clerk came from an inner office to ask if he had an appointment, Rutledge was standing by the front window, where he had an excellent view of Strange’s doorway.
The clerk, a portly, balding man, said, “May I help you, sir?”
Without turning, Rutledge replied, “Scotland Yard. You haven’t seen me here watching for someone to walk down this street. Is that understood?” He reached in his pocket and held out his identification.
The clerk crossed the room and examined it. Then he stepped back, and with a nod, left Rutledge to it.
He stood there by the window for half an hour, ignoring the clients who came and went in the room behind him. And then he was rewarded. A man was coming down the street from the main road, striding briskly, as if late for an appointment.
Livingston? Rutledge recognized the man with the shotgun.
He waited there by the window, to be sure. Livingston came to the solicitor’s, and without pausing, opened the door and stepped inside, closing it after him. As if expected.
Hamish said quietly, “It was no’ Barrington after all.”
Rutledge stayed by the window for a few minutes longer, then left and walked back to his motorcar.
What had brought Livingston to London?
The newspaper woman?
Had Livingston come to see Strange because he needed the advice of a solicitor? Or had he come to ask advice about what to do with her and anything he thought she might have discovered?
Rutledge went to the Yard and ran down Sergeant Gibson, who was working with Inspector Kendall on papers spread out all over Kendall’s desk.
He tapped at the open door, and when Gibson looked up, Rutledge said, “Can you spare a moment?”
“Is it important, sir? I’ll be finished within the hour.”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
Kendall said, “Go on. I need to stretch my legs anyway. We’ve been at this for two hours.” He nodded to Rutledge and stepped out of the office.
Rutledge described the red-haired woman he’d encountered in the inn in Melton Rush, and asked Sergeant Gibson if he could put a name to her.
“Woman journalist? I’ve dealt with a few of them. But no one with red hair. She could be with one of the papers outside London, sir. I hear they’ve expanded with the war. Manchester for one. York.” He scratched his chin. “There’s Jimsy Poole, sir. You might ask him.”
Poole was famous. He’d covered the war until late 1918, when a bit of shrapnel took off his leg. He’d covered the peace negotiations at Versailles in a wheeled chair pushed by his wife, but he’d retired after the celebrations following the signing of the treaty.
“Where can I find him?” Rutledge asked.
“He lives in Hampstead, sir. I’m not sure where. Near the Heath, or so I’ve heard.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
Hampstead was best known for its Heath, parkland spread along a ridge northwest of London, although it was barely five miles from the City. The view toward London was famous. Keats had lived here, there had been a popular spa here in the past, and it had become a magnet for artists and writers.
Leaving his motorcar just off the High Street, he looked around. There was no way a former journalist, however prestigious his covering of the war had been, could afford a residence here. Then where to look?
His gaze stopped at the pub across from him.
That would make sense. Hampstead’s pubs were nearly as famous as its Heath. Some of them had bee
n here since Dick Turpin’s highwayman days. One could make a living downstairs and live upstairs. And in between enjoy the conversation of the local residents who stopped in.
Rutledge began walking up the High. The pubs he found as he searched were old and well established. He passed them by. He was nearly back to where he’d left his motorcar when he noticed next to a stationer’s shop across the road a newly painted sign swinging slightly in the wind that had come up.
THE FLEET. And instead of a painting of sailing ships, there was an old printing press.
Fleet Street had been home to newspapers and publishing for centuries.
Rutledge crossed the road and opened the door.
“Closed,” the man behind the bar said mildly, glancing his way before returning to polishing glasses. He was of medium height, his black hair streaked with gray, and he had a strong nose, arched at the bridge. Not a face easily forgotten.
“I’m not here to drink,” Rutledge replied. “I’m looking for a man by the name of Poole.”
The man put down the glass and the cloth. Resting his hands on the top of the bar, he said, “In the war, were you?”
“The Somme.”
“I don’t recall you.”
“I don’t believe we ever met. But I know you by reputation.”
Poole studied him for a moment. “Then what brings you here, if not the war?”
“My name is Rutledge. I’m looking for a young woman, a journalist. I don’t know what newspaper she works for. She has red hair and a temper.”
The man said, “Why not speak to the newspapers, if you’re looking to find her.”
“I happened to be staying in the same inn one night. I was stopping there on my way back to London. She thought I was a journalist, poaching on a matter she was looking into. I wasn’t, of course, but she wouldn’t listen. She was angry enough to do something rash. I don’t want to cause problems for her by asking around and betraying whatever it was she wanted to keep secret. Still, I worried that she might be in trouble.”
“Why should you care?”
Rutledge said, “It isn’t a question of whether I care or not. I hardly know her. It’s rather a matter of principle.”
The man walked out from behind the bar. Before he reached the corner, Rutledge knew for certain that he’d found his man. There was the hollow thump of a wooden leg.
“I’m Poole,” he said, gesturing to a chair at one of the tables. Awkwardly sitting down across from Rutledge, he went on. “How old was she?”
“Young. Late twenties. Early thirties.”
“That would be Millie, I expect. She doesn’t use that name. It’s M. R. Hill. She’s in Oxford.” He smiled a little at a memory. “I knew her father. One of the best there was. He was killed at the start of the war. He wanted her to be a teacher. She wanted to be a journalist like him.”
Oxford. That explained her interest—and her newspaper’s interest—in Barrington. He’d been at university there . . .
“She’s all right then?”
The smile vanished. “I don’t know. There’s been a rumor making the rounds. That she was taken into custody by a village Constable, and the local doctor had to be called in to take the birdshot out of her back. She denies it, of course. I heard she claims it was a tale made up to discredit her. Why are you so certain there was trouble?”
Rutledge had to improvise. “Because after I arrived at the inn, I went for a walk to stretch my legs. I got as far as the village church, then saw open gates leading up a drive. I walked through them, hoping to catch a glimpse of the house behind the trees. A man appeared with a shotgun over his arm, making it clear I wasn’t wanted there.” It was the truth so far. Then he lied. “When I came back through the village later on, it was clear that something was wrong. From what I could gather, they’d had some trouble, and the incident was recent enough that they were on edge. Serious trespass or the like. I remembered the young woman and the shotgun.”
Poole shook his head. “There must be something to the rumor, then. It’s a small world, ours. But if she’s involved, she’s not going to admit to it.” The journalist in him considered Rutledge. “You aren’t with a newspaper, you say? What do you do?”
“My sister was recently married,” he replied blandly. “I went to visit her.”
“Yes, yes, but that’s not how you make your living.”
“I don’t. I have private means.” Partly true. In the back of his mind, Hamish was urging him to leave.
“Any idea who this property belonged to?” And that was curiosity . . .
Rutledge shrugged. “I’d never been through that particular village before, but I walked a little way up the drive because my godfather is an architect, and I have an appreciation for the subject. What I could see of the house was interesting.” He looked around at the dark beams overhead, the snug by the hearth, and the polished wood of the tables set around the U-shaped bar. On the walls were framed front pages from various newspapers. “Was this a pub, when you bought it?”
“It was. The owner was killed at Ypres, and his widow put it on the market. I made some improvements, gave it a new name.” Poole was losing interest. He stood up with a minimum of fuss, using his arms and shoulders to help him rise. “Yes, well, your concern does you credit. Now if you’ll forgive me, I need to finish those glasses before we open.”
Rutledge thanked him, and left. Outside in the street, he took a deep breath. Poole, he thought, was not a man to play cards with.
When he’d turned the crank and got into the motorcar, he noticed Poole standing in the shadows by the window, much as he’d done at the solicitors across from Strange’s door.
Hamish said, “Ye should ha’ left well enough alone.”
Too late for that.
The question was, would Poole mention his visit to Millie Hill?
And he answered it himself. Poole would, if he wanted to find out what it was she was looking for.
Once a journalist, always a journalist.
There lay the danger.
Hamish was right, he shouldn’t have come.
But if it wasn’t something to do with Miss Hill that had brought Livingston to London to call on Strange by appointment, what was it?
9
Back in his London flat, Rutledge took out his notebook and drew out the torn photograph. Why had Blanche kept this? And in the North, not in her parents’ home near St. Albans?
Jane Warden was an honorable woman, she would never pry into her friend’s belongings. Her conscience had troubled her enough for allowing Rutledge to search Blanche’s room. It was only because her friend was dead, and that death ten years past, that she had agreed to let a policeman do it. Blanche could have kept a hundred secrets there, and Miss Warden would have been none the wiser.
If Thorne’s sister was right, and Blanche was mercenary, why had she chosen Thorne in the first place? Barrington was far wealthier, and while he had no hereditary title, his properties were the equal to those possessed by many aristocratic families. Fletcher-Munro had money, but not Barrington’s place in society.
Miss Warden had considered the marriage a love match. Then why marry the man that whispers claimed had ruined Thorne?
He put the photograph away. Where the hell was Barrington?
Not in the mood to make his own dinner, Rutledge decided to dine out. But where could he go, to avoid running into Frances and Peter? He intended to work tonight, and dining with his sister would mean a long evening of catching up.
He heard Hamish scoff as he let himself out the door.
Simpson’s then.
Rather than drive tonight, Rutledge walked to the end of his street and flagged down an empty cab. He was glad he had. Traffic was heavy, and by the time he reached The Strand, there was nowhere to leave the motorcar. It was still The Season, and diners in evening dress were just coming from the theaters for a late dinner. He caught their high spirits as he walked in and gave his name, glad that he’d come. He’d been too lon
g alone with the ghost of Alan Barrington. If ghost he was.
The maître d’ knew Rutledge and found a small table for him in a corner. Leading him there, he commented that he hadn’t seen the Inspector for some weeks.
Rutledge was about to answer when he saw who was sitting at the table just in front of him.
It was Kate Gordon. And her mother.
He hadn’t seen either of them since that disastrous Christmas party.
Kate, looking up, saw him at the same moment, glanced quickly at her mother, and then smiled ruefully.
“Ian,” she said. “Good evening.”
“Hello, Kate. Mrs. Gordon.”
She turned to look at him, a smile frozen on her face. “Good evening, Inspector.”
He had saved her daughter’s life, once. But this woman was also Jean’s aunt and knew too much. About his releasing Jean from her engagement to him. The fact that he’d been too shattered by the war and shell shock to allow Jean to tie herself to what he saw as a broken man. For that matter, she had been all too happy to be set free.
These thoughts were flitting through his mind as Mrs. Gordon said, “I’m sorry we can’t ask you to join us. We’re just finishing.”
He could see that they were just starting their dessert.
He found his voice and summoned a matching smile. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Gordon, but I have another engagement shortly, and must rush through my meal.”
Kate glared at her mother, then started to speak. But with a nod, Rutledge was moving on, following the maître d’.
He chose the chair with its back to the Gordon table and tried to concentrate on the menu. He couldn’t have said with any certainty what he’d ordered. Anger was coursing through him. How had such a woman as Mrs. Gordon had someone like Kate for a daughter? Her husband was a high-ranking officer in the Army, from a family of high-ranking officers, well-to-do, but without a title. Melinda Crawford had said of her, “She could put a Maharani to shame, with her airs.”
