by Charles Todd
“Build? How?”
“Take time off, rest, let your mind heal. And then see what it might have been trying to tell you. And what you can do about it.”
Struck by Fleming’s quiet assertion that his world hadn’t completely ended, Rutledge tried to read the man’s eyes. But there was only concern there, and compassion.
“You saved me once. I didn’t thank you for it.”
Fleming laughed. “You tried to throttle me.” He reached out to put a hand on Rutledge’s shoulder. “The man lying in this bed at this moment is not suicidal. He’s frightened, I think. He’s worried, I see that too. But I don’t see you rushing home the instant you’re released, and trying again. Pure blind faith on my part, of course. You could prove me wrong. But somehow I don’t believe you will.”
He got up from his chair, turned it around, and set it aside. “Ian. This will rule you—or you will rule it. That’s in your hands. My door is always open. Come see me.”
With a nod he turned and walked to the door. But before opening it, he said, looking back over his shoulder, “Men like you don’t shoot themselves at their front door for all the world to see. It’s not natural. It’s not how they want to die. Keep that in mind, will you?”
And he was gone, leaving Rutledge drained, leaning back against his pillows.
There was to be a final ordeal.
Frances was in tears when she strode into his room. Her eyes were red from crying. She was alone.
“I told Peter I had to see you first. Alone. Darling, what happened? Why would you do such a thing as this?”
“I don’t remember shooting myself,” he said as she leaned forward to kiss him awkwardly on the cheek, beneath the heavy bandaging.
He reached out and stopped her from moving away, his hands on her arms, keeping her close. “Frances. I have no memory of what I did. Am said to have done. I don’t know why I did it. Will you believe that?”
“Yes, darling Ian, of course I will.”
“No, you aren’t listening. I was not intending to kill myself. That’s why I missed.”
She leaned back in his grip, watching his face. But it was the only lie he could think of that would satisfy her and take the terror out of her eyes.
“Truly?” she asked, as she’d so often done as a child. “Are you telling me the absolute truth, Ian?”
“Do you see me lying here, raving?”
“Well, no.” She blinked away tears. “You look rather awful, but you seem—you’re very much my brother. Still.”
“And so I am. Dr. Fleming told me it was exhaustion. Overwork. I’m to take a brief leave, and rest. I’ll hate every minute of it, but it will do me good.”
She smiled and pulled free. “Come to us,” she said enthusiastically. “We’ll keep you busy and happy, and see that you rest.”
“Good God, Frances, I can’t think of anything more exhausting than keeping up with you and Peter.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. “But—”
“No, I’ve got to find a quiet place where I can walk and sleep and let the cobwebs out. And that’s not going to be in London.”
“Melinda, then. She’s here, you know. In London. I telephoned her straightaway, and she came at once. She’s been a rock, and—what’s wrong?”
“Melinda will coddle me as well. I need time to find myself again.” It was all he could think to say.
“But off among strangers—Ian is that really what you want?” She was worried now.
“No. I want to get out of here and return to the Yard. I’m involved in an inquiry that needs my attention. But the doctors insist on leave. So I’ll take that leave, deal with it as quickly as I can, and go back to the Yard.”
That reassured her more than his promises. “Yes, I thought it would grate, to take leave. You’re always busy. Peter and I have seen almost nothing of you. That’s the trouble, Ian, you’re so involved in the Yard. I don’t think that’s good for you.”
“Clearly not.”
“I promised Matron I wouldn’t tire you. Are you all right, Ian?” She came closer to the bedside to take his hand. “Really and truly? You aren’t just trying to make me believe all is well?”
“Cross my heart.”
She leaned forward and kissed him again. But before she pulled away, she whispered fiercely, “I won’t lose you too, do you hear me? I refuse to.”
And she was gone in a flurry of perfume and fashionable clothes, not looking back, not letting him see her face.
Exhausted, he stared at the door.
Running through his mind, over and over again, was a single bitter thought. Mrs. Gordon was right when she’d told him her daughter Kate could do better than a policeman. His attempt at suicide would put a seal on that.
It was a very long time before he finally drifted into a restless and unpleasant sleep.
15
Two days later, Rutledge was released from hospital.
He walked out the door with a sticking plaster across his forehead, a white bar between his eyebrows and his hair. There for all to see, like an accusation. He also carried with him a headache that still dogged his waking moments.
Expecting to find a cabbie, he started down the steps to the street, just as a long Rolls drew up with a flourish. A dark man in turban and uniform stepped out to open the rear door, and Melinda Crawford appeared in the opening.
She was wearing a confection of white wool, trimmed in what appeared to be silver tassels, and the muff in her hands matched the deep blue of her very becoming hat.
He smiled in spite of himself.
But who had told her when he was leaving? Frances, of course. Or Fleming. But then Melinda had her own sources. For all he knew, she’d had tea with Matron and learned every detail of his file.
He cringed at the thought.
Melinda called to him, and he had no choice but to walk on to the motorcar, putting the best face on it that he could manage.
“Ian. I’m on my way to Bath to visit friends and attend a concert. I hope you don’t mind, but I shan’t be home for a fortnight. Still, you know the staff, you know the house. It’s yours.”
“I wasn’t intending to come to Kent.”
“The grounds are patrolled, my dear. No one to disturb you. I think you might like that.”
To keep him in—or intruders out? he wondered bitterly. Then realized that he was being churlish while she was being kind. The house with the uncounted and uncountable weapons. Had Fleming mentioned that as well?
“I haven’t decided where I’ll take my leave,” he told her then. “But thank you. I’ll consider it, I promise you.”
He had reached the motorcar, saw Shanta in the far seat, and nodded.
Melinda stepped out, holding out her hand for him to help her down.
“Walk with me a little way.”
He led her to the edge of the road, and they walked, while Ram closed the door and went back to his place behind the wheel. The vehicle began to move slowly in their wake.
“Whatever happened is your business, Ian, and I shan’t ask questions. Frances tells me you were overwhelmed at the Yard and short of sleep. I will accept that. But it is no shame to want to stop the pain for a while. I watched my husband drink himself into oblivion night after night when he’d lost a patrol to savages who mutilated his men. It was six weeks before he got over it enough to stop the drinking and return to my bed. The healing began that night. It still took years to wipe out those memories. I’m not sure he ever did, to be honest. Whatever happened in your house that morning, you will put it behind you. You have that sort of strength. So did your father. And my husband. Sometimes we must recognize the fact that we aren’t more than human, that we need the ordinary things of life as much as we need the excitement and the duty and the honor. You’ve lost nothing but a few days. Remember that.”
She was holding his arm and for a moment her hand closed over the muscle there. “Now give me a kiss and put me back in the Rolls before I ruin a
perfectly good pair of suede boots.”
He laughed, as she’d expected him to do—her boots were the least of Melinda Crawford’s concerns. Bending his head, he kissed her lightly on the cheek, handed her back into the Rolls, and watched it draw out into the midday traffic again before he turned away.
The first thing he did when he reached his doorway was look down for the blood. Head wounds tended to bleed profusely. But someone had come and washed away any trace of what had happened. He wondered if it had been Melinda. It was the sort of thing she’d think of.
Rutledge unlocked his door, stepped into the dark and silent house, for the sun was directly overhead now and not shining through any of the curtains.
He listened for a moment, then before he took off his coat, he went straight for the bedroom and knelt by the bed. Reaching under it, he pulled out his military chest and found the key on his ring that unlocked it.
Pausing to take a deep breath before he lifted the lid, he counted to ten. Then he raised it and took out the low tray that was on top.
Underneath, with his dress uniform and other items, was a wooden box with a brass plaque on the top. He unlocked that as well, and looked inside.
The Smith & Wesson was still there. Well oiled, clean, darkly beautiful in the nest of black silk. A presentation piece from Ross Trevor, David’s son and like a brother to Rutledge. Ross’s initials were on the inside brass plate under the lid.
Rutledge didn’t touch it. Rocking back on his heels, he looked at it. And then he shut the box, locked it, put it precisely in the place made for it, and restored the tray to the trunk.
Closing that and locking it again, he shoved it far under the bed, to where he had found it.
Rising, he took off his coat, tossed it to a chair, and went to the front room to where he kept the whisky decanter. They had told him not to drink. Not until his headaches had stopped.
But he poured himself a small amount of the amber liquid and drank it down.
Then he sat down in the nearest chair and lowered his head to his hands.
It was dark when he looked up finally and fumbled for the matches to light the lamps.
He wasn’t sure why he decided on Kent. For one thing, he didn’t have to find an alternative. It would take more energy than he possessed just now to search out a town where he’d never dealt with an inquiry, an inn that wouldn’t bring back memories of any kind, people who wouldn’t ask questions if he didn’t want to talk. If he went to Kent, he had only to pack a valise, his notebooks, and himself into the motorcar and drive. The doctors hadn’t forbidden driving. That wasn’t hindering him . . .
Writing a note to the Yard requesting a leave of absence, he dropped it into the nearest post box on his way out of town.
He’d debated whether to send a note to Frances as well. But on consideration, he realized she might run down there to be sure he was all right. It could wait.
He still wasn’t sure whether he’d stay there. A few days, at the most.
It was full dark and very windy when he reached the house set in the midst of gardens, bare now, but beautifully scrolled up the drive and around the circle before the house.
Lamps were lit outside, as if expecting him, but he knew from experience that it was Melinda’s usual arrangement, not something intended as a welcome. Before he’d reached the heavyset door, it swung open and a man he recognized stepped out to take his valise.
“Good evening, sir,” Jason said, nodding as if Rutledge’s appearance was nothing more than his return from a short journey. His eyes didn’t even take in the sticking plaster, white in the lamplight just under Rutledge’s hat. “Dinner is at seven. If you choose to have it in your room, that is easily arranged.”
And Jason preceded him into the house and disappeared up the stairs.
Rutledge moved to the smaller drawing room where he and Melinda often sat when he was calling, leaving his hat and coat in the foyer.
A fire was burning on the long hearth. Melinda, who missed the tropics, had fires even in summer. A tray with glasses and whisky and water was on the small table between the windows. A chair waited to one side, slightly away from the heat. The way he preferred it.
He sat down in the chair and looked up at the framed pictures set among the pretty bits of porcelain on the mantel board. His parents stared back at him, and Frances, and Richard Crawford and his wife and daughter. His own face, when he’d come down from Oxford. Those Melinda loved.
He was still sitting there when Jason announced that dinner was served.
The headaches were better the next morning. The sun was shining, and his breakfast was just as he’d always liked it when staying with Melinda.
Finishing his tea, he said, “I’ll be in the study. I’d rather not be disturbed.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The room was lovely, filled with treasures from Melinda’s travels, her books, her journals, her wide-ranging taste in whatever caught her fancy. Elephants in gold and encrusted with jewels stood by Hindu gods in sandalwood and a Japanese tray in the shape of a fish, lavish with color. Exotic birds, Dresden shepherdesses, harlequins and coaches filled the cabinets. There was a sedan chair in polished silver, and a Chinese junk in some dark wood.
But he’d seen all these before and he moved to the broad desk, the top empty and spotless save for a blotter and a tray of pens and bottles of ink.
Sitting down there, he opened his notebook, intending to read the last entries, but instead he found himself seeing the revolver lying in its dark silk bedding.
Where had the other service revolver come from? He couldn’t remember having kept the Army issue, it was something that one didn’t do.
And what had Fleming meant when he’d said, “Men like you don’t shoot themselves at their front door for all the world to see. It’s not natural. It’s not how they want to die. Keep that in mind, will you?”
Rutledge waited, waited for Hamish to say something. But Hamish had no answers to give him.
After a while, he turned back to the notebook, took some sheets of paper out of the desk’s left-hand drawer, and began to make sense of his notes.
There was only one way back to the Yard. He saw that now. Whatever had happened on his doorstep, he had to leave it there. He would not survive without the Yard. He knew that with a certainty that had taken him to his first inquiry in Warwickshire two years ago in June: without the Yard he would be lost.
Barrington brought in to stand trial would go far to mitigate the stigma of attempted suicide. Jameson could hardly rid himself of the man who had found Barrington. He could try, he probably would. But it would be difficult, and Chief Superintendent Jameson always avoided the difficult.
This was no longer a review of an important past unsolved case.
It was a matter of survival. His. Not Barrington’s.
He put off lunch to three o’clock, working steadily. By the time he’d closed his notebook and put a clip on the sheets he’d written, he had distilled everything he’d learned about Alan Barrington, Clive Maitland, and the possibility that the man he was after was still in England. As he was on leave, Rutledge couldn’t call on Gibson or Jameson or anyone else at the Yard. By extension, he didn’t have to report his movements to the Yard.
He was his own man.
The only problem now was where he must look. Where was left to look?
If Barrington couldn’t approach his house in the country, couldn’t use his house in the city, was denied the folly at Belmont Hall, where would he fashion himself another bolt-hole?
Hamish spoke for the first time since Rutledge had awakened in the night in the hospital after he was shot.
There was almost a physical shock of relief at the sound of the missing voice. Rutledge swallowed hard.
“He’s got money, ye ken. He can go anywhere.”
“Everywhere he goes, he’s a stranger.”
“No’ everywhere. Do ye no’ ken he comes and goes as he pleases?”
H
ow many times had Barrington come and gone from England over the past ten years? There was no way of knowing. But Rutledge couldn’t see him putting up in a London hotel, where he might still be recognized, couldn’t imagine him buying property that would require a legal sale complete with solicitor and bank managers. Even if the money he used came from a source that had no traceable connection to Alan Barrington or his family. Clive Maitland’s inheritance?
It was an interesting proposition.
If I wanted to disappear, Rutledge thought, working it out, where would I start?
He would have to create another identity. Which Barrington appeared to have done.
Where would Clive Maitland choose to live? Not London—Barrington lived there. Not in Bramley, where people might recall the real Clive Maitland and wonder about the man now calling himself that, right in their midst.
That left one hell of a lot of countryside to choose from. Cities. Towns. Villages. Hamlets. No, hamlets were too small. People watched and gossiped. They knew one’s comings and goings, and the daily knew what was in the house or cottage where one lived. If she was nosy as well, she knew far more than she should.
He was still working it out through his dinner, almost not tasting the soup he was served, unaware of the wine poured, or the fish that followed.
And then he remembered a conversation with Jonathan Strange in the solicitor’s office in London.
What had Strange said? That he’d been by his sister’s side in Sandwich during a difficult delivery, and could prove his whereabouts.
Sandwich. A medieval town on a tidal river that had eventually sunk into the mud of history. One of the ancient Cinque Ports of England’s southeast coastline, with easy connections to France not only by ferry from Dover but by small, private boat.
Small. Forgotten. A backwater. But not too small.
No better place to hide.
And Jonathan Strange, Barrington’s family solicitor, had known that all along.
Rutledge was willing to wager his life on that.
Kent was two counties in one. The Men of Kent lived east of the Medway, which divided the county. The Kentish Men lived to the west of the river. It had been financed by wool and iron, it had suffered Viking incursions, but it had kept them out. It had assimilated the Normans into its Saxon core, and finally rid itself of the weavers from Flanders. It was the road between France and London. It was rural and quiet and lovely in the spring when the fruit trees bloomed in clouds.
