by Charles Todd
Dragging himself out of the mood that was enveloping him, he sat back in the cab and closed his eyes.
Had he seen Barrington tonight?
A niggling doubt set in on the heels of a long, wearing night.
Had he wanted to see Barrington tonight, and convinced himself that a similarity was an identification?
It had taken his mind off what had happened in Simpson’s.
Rutledge drew a deep breath.
He’d been a policeman too long to be wrong.
Rutledge slept for a few hours, and rose with the sun a little before eight.
Hunting for Barrington in London would be madness. For one thing, he couldn’t count on being lucky twice, and Barrington hadn’t come home, indicating he was probably on the move again.
Instead, over his breakfast, he tried to put himself in the man’s shoes.
If Barrington hadn’t drawn money from his London banks over the past ten years, how had he lived? Was that why Livingston had come to call on Strange, to take out sums for his employer through some improvised estate need?
Without any expectation of getting at the truth, Rutledge went back to speak to the solicitor.
Once seated across the desk from Strange, Rutledge said, “It’s come to my attention that the steward for Alan Barrington came to call on you shortly after I left you. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming up to London? I’d have liked to interview him.”
Surprised, Strange asked, “How did you come to know about that? Here, are you having me watched?”
“Why was Livingston here?”
“He’s often in touch about estate affairs. Nothing unusual in that, is there?” he countered.
“Did he require a large sum from you?”
“Look here, if you think either he or I have conspired to support Alan, a man accused of murder, you need to remember who you’re talking about. Livingston’s been steward there for years, he takes his position seriously, and he has had no contact with Alan. Nor have I.”
“Then you won’t mind telling me why he came to see you.”
Strange shook his head. “If you must know, it was a personal matter. Livingston has had problems with intruders, mostly members of the press, for years. There was a recent trespass, and he went after the person, fired his shotgun several times in the general direction of the idiot, and finally succeeded in handing the trespasser over to the local police. He wanted to know if there was any legal liability for his actions. I told him there was none.”
Rutledge listened to Strange carefully avoiding mentioning the fact that the trespasser was a woman. Miss Hill.
“It’s not something he wished to discuss by writing to me.” He picked up a handsome fountain pen, turned it a time or two, and then set it down. “I can understand why you are persistent, Rutledge. But the newspapers have been there before you. Everything that could be learned about Barrington has been dug up and pored over by men who make their living hunting for stories that sell papers. I ask you. Would the Yard waste an Inspector’s time reviewing a file if the miscreant in question was a shoemaker or a farm laborer? Or if the victim was a milkmaid in Kent or a housemaid in Dorset? The Yard is interested in Barrington for two reasons. He slipped through their fingers, and the press has been particularly assiduous in reminding them that he got away.”
“A very persuasive case for minding my own business.” He rose. “Perhaps I’ll take your advice.”
With a nod, he left Strange sitting there at his desk. Frowning.
Back at his flat, he packed a valise and half an hour later was on his way out of London, on his way to Oxford.
It was teatime when he arrived there and found a room at the Randolph Hotel.
Rutledge had an old friend in the Oxford police—now retired. In fact, his father had asked Inspector Putnam to dissuade his only son from considering the police as his occupation. Both his father and David Trevor, his godfather, had expected him either to follow the law or join Trevor in his architectural firm. The decision was left to Rutledge, and both were considered to be proper choices.
Putnam had seen something in the young man that he liked, and instead of persuading Rutledge to reconsider, he had given him the benefit of his training and experience.
“If you’re going in this direction, my lad, you’d better know what you’re on about. It’s not a career I’d wish on my only son, because it will burn you out, if you give it the chance. You’ll see the worst in men and women, rarely the best. You’ll see sights that will haunt you, and there will be cases that keep you awake at night, wondering if you’d got the right man. It’s long hours and little joy. And the young ladies don’t see a policeman’s uniform in the same light as the Army or Navy. God forbid that they bring a policeman home to their fathers.”
He’d thought Putnam was wrong, but everything he’d said was true, and Rutledge had learned that on his first day as Constable, when he’d found a dead child.
After a cup of tea in the lounge, he went to call on Putnam. The house was set back from the road, red brick with white stone trim, and a low hedge around the front garden. It was as tidy as always, and the brass knocker on the door, in the shape of a sea serpent, looked to be recently polished, it was so bright.
Putnam’s youngest daughter opened the door. She was barely twenty and as pretty as her mother. She turned pink with surprise and delight, then caught Rutledge’s arm and pulled him into the entry. “Ian? I can’t believe my eyes.” She reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then called, “Papa? You’ll never guess—”
Rutledge was greeted warmly by Putnam and his wife, urged to stay for dinner, and they kept him talking about London and the Yard and Frances’s wedding for over an hour.
It wasn’t until after dinner, when Sally and her mother reluctantly let Putnam carry him off to the room he called his study but was really a small library with chairs and a desk squeezed into the space all the bookshelves left vacant. Most of the books had belonged to Putnam’s father, but he himself had always been a great reader.
Settling back into his chair as Rutledge made himself comfortable too, Putnam said, “Well, then. You didn’t come all this way for Marion’s cooking, good as it may be. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you looking well. A hard war, was it?”
“Very.”
He nodded. “Many of the lads from the police didn’t come back. Those who did weren’t the same. Thank you for your letters. I’ve kept them, you know. I reread them sometimes. And that book of poems you sent me has become a favorite of mine. Still have your own copy?”
“Wings of Fire? Yes, I still have it.”
Something in the way he said it made Putnam look sharply at him, but he didn’t pursue it.
“What’s on your mind, Ian?”
“This is confidential. I’m looking into the file on Alan Barrington.”
“Ah. A review? Or is there some new information?”
Rutledge told him.
When he’d finished an account of what he’d been doing, Putnam whistled softly. “That man Wade was telling the truth, then.”
“I can’t prove it. But I’m not willing to put it down to coincidence either.”
“No, you always did have a sharp eye. If you think you saw Barrington, then you did. What do you need from me?”
“They’d left Oxford by the time I arrived here. Barrington, Strange, Thorne, and Livingston. Was there ever any trouble with the police that you recall? Not just high spirits but something more worrying?”
Putnam leaned his head against the back of his chair. In the lamplight, Rutledge could see clearly how his friend and mentor had changed. His hair was grayer, the lines more pronounced in his face, his shoulders no longer as hard and broad as they once were. It hadn’t been as noticeable when the family had been present, everyone smiling and laughing. Rutledge wondered what had brought these changes. He couldn’t put them down just to aging. Leaving work that he cared deeply about? And missed with every breath?
&nb
sp; Rutledge felt cold inside. Would this be him, in twenty years? Thirty?
“You know how it is, you were a student here.” Putnam smiled briefly. “And no angel, as I remember. Constables do their best to distinguish between high spirits and trouble. And that’s not always easy. Pranks have a way of getting out of hand, too much drink blurs the line between youthful exuberance and something that will do actual harm. It’s then the police must step in for the safety of the public or the students themselves.” He leaned forward and picked up the poker, shaking out the ashes and settling the coal more firmly within reach of the blaze. “The four you’ve named never crossed that line. No files on them, although a time or two they came damned close.”
Rutledge waited. Putnam had set the scene the way he might have done under questions by the Crown. He himself had done that too many times not to recognize the direction Putnam was taking.
After a moment he went on. “I don’t suppose you ever met Blanche Richmond? No, I thought not. She was a pretty girl, you know. Not beautiful, certainly not sensual. My wife met her before I did, at some function or other at the Randolph. She was staying with the Ramseys, who were close friends with the Richmonds, and they had a daughter about her age. The two were at school together. Blanche must have been twelve then. I don’t know how often she came to visit after that, but the next time I heard of her, Louise had got engaged, and Blanche had come for a party the Ramseys were giving for the young couple.”
“This was before Blanche had met Thorne?”
“The truth is, I don’t know which of the four she met first. Or when. But before very long the four of them were mad about her. Vying with each other for her attention. There were a few escapades, nothing that got them hauled up before the magistrates. Then one of my Constables heard there was to be a duel fought at dawn over her, and when we got to the meadow where this was to take place, I discovered that Barrington had brought a case of dueling pistols that had belonged to his great-great-grandfather. They’d arranged it meticulously, with the seconds, the surgeon, and so on. Only there was no shot in the pistols. It was an elaborate farce. They’d even brought fake blood. And more than a little medicinal brandy,” he ended dryly.
“Who were the principals?”
“That was the odd thing. All four of them took turnabout being seconds and principals. We examined the pistols and then let them have their fun, with an eye to getting it over with under supervision. I don’t think at that point they were serious about Blanche Richmond, but all at once that changed. I’d kept an eye on the lads, not knowing what they might decide to do next. And I heard a story I wasn’t sure I believed. They drew straws to see who would propose to her.”
“Drew straws?” Rutledge repeated.
“That’s the story I heard.” Putnam got up and walked to the mantelpiece, resting both hands on it and leaning over to stare into the heart of the fire. “I’m not sure I believed it then, and I don’t know that I believe it now.” He straightened up and turned to face Rutledge. “Not a very gallant thing to do, is it? If that’s what happened.”
“It might not have worked out the way they’d expected it to. She might have preferred Thorne, after all.”
“Thorne didn’t win the short straw.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Then who did?”
“Barrington. That’s what I heard. The fact that she married Thorne more or less puts paid to that rumor. Still . . .” He shook his head. “When I saw that Thorne had killed himself, I remembered that story about the straws. I wondered if there was more to his decision than financial problems. Blanche had money, they weren’t going to be put out in the street.”
Rutledge remembered what Thorne’s sister had told him. This was the second mention of Blanche’s money . . . He hadn’t got the impression, there at her grave, that the family had been more than comfortable.
“Where did her fortune come from?”
“My wife told me that Mrs. Ramsey mentioned it was from her aunt.”
Thorne might not have wished to live on his wife’s money—he might have wanted to improve his own financial situation and taken foolish risks—but he had not left her destitute. How did that reinforce the verdict of suicide?
“I expect I ought to speak to the Ramseys. Or to Louise.”
“She’s a Villiers, now, married to Donald Villiers.”
Rutledge said, “Villiers? I knew him. In France. A good man.”
“Her parents are dead. Influenza. She’s a widow. Donald was killed in the war. She still lives in Oxford. I can give you her direction.”
But when Rutledge called on Louise Villiers, he learned very little.
“That was so long ago,” she told him. Fair and slim and attractive, she still wore the black of mourning. He remembered a line of verse, looking at her. Alone and palely loitering. It had been written about a knight, but it suited her too. “I was just engaged that summer, and I was hardly aware of anything else.” Smiling faintly, she added, “It was a love match. I couldn’t believe anyone could be that happy. But I was. My parents approved of Donald, and his parents approved of me. All I could think about was the wedding. Blanche came to help me choose my gown. My mother liked her, and it was she who suggested I ask her to spend some weeks with me.”
“She attracted the attentions of several young men while she was in Oxford. Did you like them?”
“They came to call. Or to ask permission to take Blanche out. My mother must have approved of them, because she didn’t put up a fuss. I do remember one. I think his name was Livingston? Something like that. He was so intense. It rather frightened me. I think he would have proposed to Blanche, given half a chance. But he didn’t have a great deal of money.”
“Did you approve of her choice? Mark Thorne?”
“Her parents thought he was quite nice. I think they were pleased with the match. I liked him too. But you know, I hadn’t expected her to become engaged at all. She’d come to Oxford to support me, you see, not to find a husband herself.” There was an undercurrent of displeasure still, after all the years that had passed. Louise had resented the shifting of attention to her attendant.
“Did Barrington or Strange propose before Thorne did? And were refused?”
“I’m sure Blanche would have told me if they had.” As if Blanche would have been eager to boast about her conquests.
Remembering the torn photograph, he asked, “What sort of man was Alan Barrington?”
“Why are you asking all these questions? Blanche has been dead for years, and Alan was accused of murdering her.”
He smiled. “The police often review files that haven’t been closed. I wasn’t at the Yard in 1910. And so I’m rather at a disadvantage. I came to Oxford to speak to the people who knew her before her marriage. While she was still Blanche Richmond.”
“I don’t see how that helps you find her killer.” She smoothed her skirts, not looking at him.
“I’m not sure it does. It might help me understand why Barrington killed her.”
“Well, I can tell you why. They quarreled shortly before Blanche became engaged. They’d taken a picnic and gone boating. She came back early, in tears, shut herself up in her room and didn’t come down to dinner. She told my mother she had a headache from the heat that day, then she cried all night. I could hear her because her room was next to mine. I suspected it was because she couldn’t twist him around her little finger, like the others. He was a Barrington, after all. And he could look higher than a Richmond.”
“Did he come to call after that?”
“I don’t remember if he did or not.”
“Did she know about the duel?”
“What duel?”
“Just a rumor. Probably no more than that.”
“Well, I never knew about any duel. So it must be only talk.”
He thanked her for speaking to him, and she rang for her maid to see him out. But as he reached the door of the sitting room, she said, “Mr. Rutledge? If Mark killed himself, it wa
s because she drove him to it.”
He turned. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. I just felt at the time that she must have done it.”
She wasn’t the most observant of women, Rutledge thought as he thanked her again and left. She’d seen the world through the haze of her own happiness, just as she said, and it hadn’t occurred to her to ask her friend why she’d been so unhappy. Instead she’d been jealous of her.
Had Blanche Richmond realized that, before she left Oxford? And had that hurt her?
As far as he knew, she hadn’t come back to Oxford after that. And Louise Villiers hadn’t been in Blanche’s wedding party, according to the description of the event in the Society pages of London newspapers that had been included in the files.
But Strange and Barrington had stood up for Thorne. Livingston hadn’t been included.
Rutledge left Oxford the next morning. He hadn’t expected to find Barrington here. For one thing, as a student Barrington had been well known to the police, and some of them, like Putnam, had a long memory. He hadn’t known about Barrington’s quarrel with Blanche Richmond, as she was then. But it couldn’t have been a memory Barrington would have wanted to revisit years later.
And yet it was possible that Barrington had visited Blanche’s grave. Someone had been there recently. Had they made up that quarrel, then or later?
Memory—
A flash of insight so strong that it made Rutledge swerve across the road came out of nowhere.
We went there once as children. To see the lighthouse in the sea.
Thorne’s sister had made that comment when he’d asked her if she knew why her brother had chosen Beachy Head as a place to die.
There had been nothing in the files that explained Thorne’s decision to go there. It wasn’t a connection any Yard Inspector could have made. Too personal, too far in the distant past. Something that only a family member might have remembered but not thought to mention in the shock of a death.
