by Charles Todd
In winter it was brown and bare and damp.
Rutledge drove to Sandwich very early in the morning. He’d chafed at waiting, but arriving in the small walled town would go more smoothly if he controlled his own fierce impatience.
Halfway there he decided on a detour.
In the men’s clothing shops of Canterbury, he found much of what he wanted.
Back in the motorcar, he pulled off the sticking plaster and looked at the raw red groove across his forehead. It was like a brand, he thought, staring at it in the tiny mirror. There for all to see.
A bare inch. That was the difference between his scar and death.
If he had shot himself, why had he missed at the last possible second?
The thought of Frances? Hamish’s voice? His own hand refusing to carry out his mind’s decision?
He moved away from the mirror. Looked down the street at people hurrying about their own business. If he was going to find Barrington, he’d have to stop thinking about his doorstep and concentrate instead on his pursuit of what might possibly be a ghost, a man already dead.
The analogy made him smile grimly.
When he drove out of the Cathedral city, he had a larger valise and a very different wardrobe from the dark suit of clothes favored by the men in the city of London as well as many of the younger Inspectors at Scotland Yard.
He hadn’t been able to find everything he had been intent on purchasing, but he could now walk the narrow streets of Sandwich without being conspicuous. Jonathan Strange knew Rutledge—not well, of course, but he was an intelligent and careful man who might quickly spot the presence of someone from London lingering too long in hotel foyers and restaurants, walking the streets at all hours, and appearing too frequently in certain parts of the town.
Satisfied, Rutledge headed toward the northern coast.
Officially he could have asked the local police for the information he needed. But this was no longer official business. And Rutledge was not about to lose the only opportunity he might have to search out Barrington by bringing the Yard into the picture to remind him he was on leave.
Hamish was of a different mind. “Ye canna’ be certain how deeply yon solicitor is into the plot.”
“True. But Barrington had to trust someone. I’m more than a little surprised it was Strange. Miss Belmont I understand. Still, needs must, as they say.”
He made his way into the town and searched for a small inn on a side street that might offer a shed or a disused barn in their yard where he could leave the motorcar for the duration of his visit. On his second try he found what he wanted, although the rooms on offer left much to be desired—dark, cramped, winter-musty. Resigned, he accepted the larger of the two, which happened to look out onto the street below.
He told the inquisitive woman from the bar who had shown him the shed and the rooms that he’d come down after a quarrel with his father, to let matters settle at home a bit, and added ruefully that he’d have to make amends soon enough for his mother’s sake. She kept staring at his forehead as he spoke, and he realized she must imagine that his father had struck him.
She made comforting comments about a mother’s lot to stand between father and son, then left him to himself, curiosity satisfied.
Changing to dark corduroy trousers, a heavy black fisherman’s jumper, a rough coat, and a flat cap, he slipped down the stairs and out the door without being seen.
The tide was out, the miasma of mud and salt, mixed with dead reeds and rotting fish, rose in the damp air. Walking slowly along the river, he counted nine boats stranded in the mud, then sat on a wooden bollard for a time, boots dangling, while he observed them. Overhead gulls wheeled hopefully then gave up on him. There was only one craft suitable for crossing to France, a small fishing boat that had been overhauled in the last four or five years. He decided it could be handled by one person, and even sleep one person if docked for a short time across the water in Calais to wait for a passenger. The other craft appeared to belong to people locally, with no aspirations to sea travel.
Loitering longer than he cared for, it took a quarter of an hour to read the lettering on the boat. Flaking black paint and splatters of thick mud covered the letters, but he finally made out The Saucy Belle.
As he walked on he was certain he could recognize her silhouette even in the dark, and that he knew her neighbors well enough to judge when or if they were moved.
Only twice, he noted, did a Constable walk down along the river, a portly man with a red face who glanced at Rutledge and passed on. That told him that someone could leave, if the tide was full, without drawing attention to himself.
A drunk lay in the water stairs down to the larger rowing boat, snoring loudly. Rutledge stopped long enough to make sure he was all right. Dressed much as he was himself, the man appeared to be warm enough, unless it began to rain.
He ate his lunch in a workingman’s café near the water, listening to snatches of the conversations around him. They mostly had to do with complaints about the weather and the cost of food, and one man was concerned about a child with mumps.
Satisfied with his afternoon, Rutledge left the river, returning to the town through the tall, handsome Barbican, once the gateway to Sandwich for anyone arriving by sea. He found a small family-owned restaurant called The Hop Garden where he ate his dinner, choosing a table that faced away from the other patrons. Then he walked through the quiet streets to the inn, making his way up the stairs under the cover of laughter from the bar.
The next morning, a little better dressed, he began walking the narrow medieval streets in a precise pattern.
He started by making the two-mile circuit of the medieval walls, where cows grazed in the moat that protected one side of the town. From there he could look out across the town and get his bearings with the Barbican and the towers of the three churches as compass points.
He couldn’t have said what he was looking for as he familiarized himself with the streets. Certainly not to meet Barrington face-to-face on one of them, or even Jonathan Strange for that matter. But something he hoped he’d recognize when he saw it.
There were the three well-known medieval churches: St. Peter’s crowded by the houses around it, St. Clement’s with its squat tower, and tiny St. Mary’s. A town hall, a customs house, the Fish Market and Cattle Market. Market Street, with its shop windows—including, Rutledge saw, a jeweler’s by the name of Strange and Sons. The Strand with every variety of medieval house. High Street with its grand brick-fronted Georgian houses. All spreading out from the core of the town by the Barbican that led to the river. As he walked, he realized that someone who had known Sandwich centuries ago when it was a thriving port, would recognize much of it today. Even with the jutting medieval upper stories bricked and plastered over or removed altogether.
He was suddenly grateful to his godfather, the architect David Trevor, for instilling in him an interest in buildings and their history.
He soon found himself in the less prosperous streets. And he realized that coming and going in the poorer sections, where children played in the streets and women gossiped on doorsteps, would surely attract attention. Barrington wouldn’t risk talk that might reach a Constable’s ears. In the same way, a larger house standing empty in a more affluent part of town would be noticed when staff suddenly appeared and there was the bustle of preparation.
Staff . . . That had to be considered. Not someone young who might take it into his head to find out more about the man who came and went as he pleased. A retired couple then, late of the Army or home from foreign postings, who would attract little attention living out their lives in modest comfort. Even pensioned-off servants would be happy to keep their mouths shut about the owner and his appearances.
But not someone who knew Barrington. Someone who would accept whatever story Clive Maitland spun for them. Whatever story would attract the least curiosity about the man himself.
Hamish said, “Ye canna’ be certain he’s using that name h
ere.”
Which was another problem. So far, Barrington had managed to block off great chunks of his life. How many identities might he have after ten years?
As he passed Constables walking their patch, Rutledge realized how much he missed the authority that would have allowed him to stop one of them and ask about people on a street. How much time it would have saved.
He managed to keep an eye on the jewelers, Strange and Sons. The scroll above the doorway with the name of the firm and the date in gold letters was 1847, although the building was far older. It had had several reincarnations, he thought, including adding a large bow window with small, square panes that showed off the shop’s wares. He had been able to see a man of medium height, graying hair, and a pince-nez behind the counter. But he hadn’t seen him clearly enough to judge whether he was a clerk or related to the family. When the man closed the shop at midday and walked home for his lunch hour, Rutledge followed from a distance. He went into a house on one of the handsome Georgian streets, opening the door without using a key.
The house held Rutledge’s interest.
It was late medieval, he thought, several stories, and there was a rubble wall that had once been faced with stone connecting a smaller house to the main dwelling. A wooden door let into the wall, and he thought there must be a garden there—he could see two trees that might be spring flowering rising above it.
Hamish reminded him, “There’s a sister.”
Walking on before he himself attracted attention, Rutledge went down the next street, then made his way back to where he could see the house from the corner below it.
The man walked back to the jeweler’s shop five minutes before one thirty, reaching the door in time to open it at precisely the appointed hour. A man of habit, then.
Rutledge had just made up his mind to step inside on the excuse that his watch was not keeping good time, when he looked up the street.
Three people were coming toward him. He recognized the man at once—Jonathan Strange—and thought the younger woman he was arm in arm with might be his sister. The child by her side was a girl, and Rutledge put her age in the one swift glance her way as nine or ten.
By that time he’d turned away, was walking briskly well ahead of them, turning the first corner he came to. Halfway down that street, he stepped into a stationer’s shop, apparently looking at wares in the window. Then he saw Strange and his companions cross the road he’d just turned down. They were laughing together, and Strange never looked Rutledge’s way, indicating that he hadn’t recognized him.
Watching them out of sight, Rutledge wondered what had brought Jonathan Strange to Sandwich, this day of all days. Family matters? Or was that merely the excuse that he’d given in order to leave London?
“May I help you, sir?” The man at his elbow was the shop clerk.
Rutledge bought a pocket diary for the new year of 1921, thanked him, and left.
He needed to be circumspect now. It was one thing to wander the streets as he chose, knowing that he was invisible because there was no one who could put a name to him, and quite another to walk into Strange unexpectedly.
But from the stationer’s shop he made his way to the River Stour, where the tide was on the turn.
The Saucy Belle was still there, water whirling around her bottom. By the time it was dark, here along the coast, she would be afloat.
The drunk was gone. As was the larger rowing boat that had been under the water stairs where he lay.
Rutledge kept to the side streets on his way back to the inn where he was staying.
When had Strange come down to Sandwich? The chances were he’d only just arrived. Very likely he’d had lunch with his father and his sister, and when the father had returned to the shop, he and his sister had gone out together. Assuming the jeweler was related to him.
Chafing at being all but blind, unable to speak to the police here in Sandwich, unable to question anyone in an official capacity, Rutledge cast about for a way to find out information.
In the end, he decided he had to risk it. Or continue to search blindly.
Changing into clothes more suitable to what he was about to do, he went to find the Vicar of the parish church.
Oliver Ranson was the name on the board, along with directions to the Vicarage. But Rutledge spotted him just coming out of the church and making his way toward him.
Picking up his own pace, Rutledge succeeded in cutting him off before he reached the house.
“Vicar?” Rutledge called, and the man turned.
Rutledge stared. There was a long diagonal scar across the Vicar’s face, twisting his features a little and giving him a sinister look.
But the voice that answered was pleasant and well educated.
“Hallo,” he responded, wheeling to look toward the man approaching him out of a gray and damp dusk. Peering at Rutledge, Ranson said, “How can I help you?” His gaze took in the raw red line on the other man’s forehead, but he was too well-trained to stare or ask questions.
“Could I have a few minutes of your time, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, come into my study, and I’ll give you all the time you need.”
“I’d prefer to walk, if we may?” Rutledge smiled. “It’s rather confidential, I’m afraid. And I’d rather not be overheard.”
Ranson hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.” He came forward to meet Rutledge on the path and offered his hand. “Oliver Ranson, as you appear to know. And you are?”
“My name is Rutledge. I’ve come from London, and I’m here about a family residing in Sandwich. I can’t tell you the particulars that brought me here, but I can show you my credentials at the Yard.”
Ranson stopped. “Scotland Yard?”
“Yes.” Rutledge passed him his identification.
“Dear me. I’ve never had occasion to speak to the Yard before. Is this an inquiry? Is it one of my parish you’re after?” After a close look, he passed the card back to Rutledge.
“Indirectly. But before we approach this person to ask for his assistance in a rather sensitive matter, I must be sure I can trust him. This is in the strictest confidence, you understand. It isn’t something you will be able to speak to him about now or in future.”
“I’m not sure I see—?”
The two men fell into step.
“Jonathan Strange is a solicitor in London. I believe his family is from Sandwich.”
“Strange? Yes, yes, I know the family well. The father is a jeweler with an impeccable reputation, like his father before him. There’s a daughter—Julia—who married a local solicitor by the name of Gardener. They have one child.”
“And the son? Jonathan?”
“He joined a large firm in the City—London. Some years ago—before the war?—he was made a junior partner. But you must know that.”
“How would you judge him? Steady? A man I could depend on. A strong sense of right and wrong?”
“I’ve not spoken with him all that often, now that he’s in London. But yes. He’s close to his family, I can tell you that. A devoted son. He comes to visit when he can.”
“Is he married? A family of his own?”
Ranson frowned. “There was someone, a young woman who died. I remember his mother talking about the fact that she was afraid Jonathan might have a breakdown. He took it that hard. She told me not very long ago that they were afraid he’d never marry now and give them an heir. Of course Jonathan’s father had wanted him to come into the firm, but Jonathan was set on the law.”
“What does he do when he comes to Sandwich to visit?”
“How do you mean, what does he do? He takes his sister and niece to the shops, he brings his mother to services here. He will spend time in the shop with his father. I’ve told you. A devoted son.”
“He must have friends here. Men his own age.”
“I don’t know that any of them have kept up the acquaintance. They’ve married, have families of their own.”
“Does Jonathan o
wn property here? I should think his family might like to see roots here.”
“There’s a house he bought one street over from where his parents live. Delft Street. Number 27. But of course he’s never lived there. Still, it was a fine investment. Although in the normal course of events he’ll inherit his parents’ house.”
“When did he purchase it?”
“In 1910, as I recall. He kept on the staff, a Mr. and Mrs. Billingsley.”
“Does he stay there when he’s in Sandwich?”
“I don’t know that he ever has. Although I think he’s let friends from London borrow it a time or two.”
“Have you met any of these friends?”
“Not that I know of.” Ranson stopped. “This interrogation is taking a rather odd turn. What is it you really want to know?”
Ignoring the question, Rutledge asked, “Does Strange keep a boat?”
“I don’t know. Look, what is this in aid of?”
Rutledge regarded him blandly. “We have stumbled on a small ring of smugglers along the coast. We need a base of operations, and a place for one of our people to stay without attracting attention. The house Strange owns would be ideal. We needed to know if we could approach him about using it.”
“Smuggling?” Ranson smiled. “It’s been going on since time began. You’ll never stamp it out completely, you know. The coastline is ideal for it. What is it, this time? It used to be brandy and tobacco, French silks, anything where the excise was high.”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I can tell you that Jonathan Strange is above reproach. If you require the use of his house, he’ll be happy to help you.”
“Thank you. I’ll report this to the Yard, and leave them to make the necessary contacts. And it would be best if you didn’t mention my visit to your wife or anyone else. It could jeopardize whatever the Yard decides to do.”
