by Charles Todd
He stopped and saluted. “Good evening, sir. How may I be of assistance?”
Rutledge considered him. Medium height, trim, with clear blue eyes that regarded him steadily, waiting for him to answer. He rapidly reassessed his approach.
“We’ve had word of a possible disturbance in front of Number Eleven. I drove past the house, but it seems quiet enough now. Before I knock on doors and upset the staff, I wanted to hear what you’ve seen.”
Surprised, the Constable said, “I’ve seen nothing, sir.” He peered in the direction Rutledge was indicating. “That’s Mr. Fletcher-Munro, a longtime resident. I can tell you it’s not a house given to large parties, sir. Nor many small ones, for that matter. The gentleman goes to his club on Thursdays, and dines out every Saturday. Regular as clockwork.”
“And the staff?”
“Been with him for years, sir. I don’t recall the staff even mentioning there was a change.”
“Devoted to him, are they?”
The Constable cleared his throat. “As to that, sir, I’ve heard he’s not the best of employers. His injuries are severe, and he’d not found it easy to learn to cope with them. I understand he was quite an active man before he was hurt. I myself would not like to be in his shoes, being one who enjoys sports.”
“Has there been no improvement at all? It’s been a good many years since the accident.”
“I wasn’t here before the war, sir. I can’t speak to the early years. I have noticed that it seems easier for him to climb the two steps to his front door, and it’s not so difficult getting in and out of the motorcar, although the chauffeur’s always ready to help him there. But small advances, I’d say, sir. Overall.”
Rutledge thanked him. “Still, keep an eye on the house tonight, if you will. Better to be safe than sorry.”
“I will that, sir.”
The Constable walked on as Rutledge got back behind the wheel.
Because of his injuries, everyone had overlooked Fletcher-Munro—a victim twice over, having lost his wife as well. People had pitied him, talked about his courage during his long recovery. When the police had finally been able to question him, he’d claimed he remembered a sudden loss of control, then the terrible realization that they were going into the trees by the side of the road, in spite of everything he could do. His feeling of helplessness and horror before the blackness came down. The motorcar had been taken apart, looking for a reason behind the crash. The man who regularly maintained the vehicle, who had seen it only days before, had been concerned about the brakes, claiming he couldn’t swear to it under oath, but his considered opinion was that they’d been tampered with. And the only time the motorcar had been taken out since maintenance was to travel to Ascot. Mr. Fletcher-Munro had intended to drive himself . . .
And Barrington had been seen near the motorcar that afternoon, behaving suspiciously.
What was it Constable Grant had said? The policeman who had been there as Blanche Fletcher-Munro died. Her last words had been, Forgive me, Mark.
She hadn’t asked about the man thrown into the road from the impact . . .
Rutledge had been about to pull away from the corner, but he stopped short.
Everyone had assumed that Fletcher-Munro had been thrown into the road by the impact of the crash. But what if he’d actually been trying to escape the motorcar in the last seconds, to avoid being killed along with his wife? And misjudged his timing?
How ironical that would be—the man sustaining life-changing injuries while trying to save himself?
Rutledge drove after the Constable, stopping short beside him.
“What do you know about the staff in Number Eleven?”
Surprised, the Constable came over to the motorcar. “As I’ve said, they’ve been with Mr. Fletcher-Munro for many years.”
“Who has been there the longest? Do you know?”
The Constable answered readily, “The cook, sir. Mrs. Shaw. She’s talking about retiring to a small cottage in the Cotswolds, where her sister lives. She’s been with the household for forty years, she says. She came when Mr. Fletcher-Munro’s parents were alive.”
Hardly a likely coconspirator.
“Who else?”
“The chauffeur, at a guess. He’d worked for the firm that maintains Mr. Fletcher-Munro’s motorcars, then was hired as personal driver when Mr. Fletcher-Munro came home from hospital. That’s what Mrs. Shaw says. A quiet man, has little to do with the other staff. He lives in the mews, above the motorcar.”
“You don’t happen to know his name, do you?
“I do, sir. It’s Franklin. I’ve spoken to him a time or two when he was waiting for Mr. Fletcher-Munro to come out. Nice enough chap.”
Franklin. Who had given evidence about the motorcar at the inquest . . .
“Thank you, Constable. Good evening.”
The man stepped back, nodding as Rutledge drove away.
Rutledge drove to his flat and left his motorcar there. He didn’t go inside, he refused to be distracted by his demons. Instead, he walked some distance before taking an omnibus into the city. He changed to another going to Oxford Street. Walking another short distance, he sought out a stationer’s shop, and bought several items. Notepaper, envelopes, black ink, and a pen with a thick nib, along with a case to carry them.
At a small, private table in the nearest hotel lobby, he took out his purchases and lined them up before him. It took several tries to get the message right. It didn’t help that he was wearing his driving gloves. Finally satisfied, he put the note into one of the envelopes, addressed it, then collected everything before walking to the desk.
“I require a messenger service,” he said, when the clerk turned to him.
“Certainly, sir.”
“I’d like a letter delivered to the address shown. This evening if possible. No reply is expected.”
The hand that passed the envelope to the clerk also held something else, and the clerk accepted it discreetly and pocketed the sum with practiced ease.
“I’ll see to it at once, sir.”
Rutledge thanked him and left the hotel.
He dropped what was left of his purchases in a shopkeeper’s dustbin several streets away. Then he flagged down a cabbie to take him back to his flat for his motorcar.
There was no sign of the Constable on the street where Fletcher-Munro lived. But Rutledge left his motorcar in front of a house on the far side of the little square, one in which no light was showing. He kept to the shadows, walking as silently as possible so that his footsteps didn’t echo in the silence as he crossed to the small garden in the square, vaulting the decorative fencing that kept nonresidents out.
He’d already determined that the decorative trees, bare of leaves, and the two benches that faced each other on opposite sides of the small fountain, failed to offer much cover. But at the base of the winter-dry fountain were small evergreen shrubs, circling it.
He pulled a last purchase out of his coat pocket, and spread it on the ground between the shrubs and the fountain. Tall as he was, it was an uncomfortable fit, but he managed to ease himself into the space in such a way that he could see the front of Fletcher-Munro’s house. Blessing the early winter darkness, he waited.
An hour later, the messenger arrived on a bicycle and knocked at the door. There was a short wait, and someone answered. Rutledge could just see the outline of a woman in the dark uniform of a housekeeper. She asked something of the messenger, and he shook his head. She accepted the envelope he held out, and shut the door.
The messenger got back on his bicycle and pedaled away.
It was another two hours before a motorcar pulled up in front of the house. Rutledge thought it had come from the nearby mews. The driver got out, went up to the door, and lifted the brass knocker. Rutledge could hear the sound as it struck the plate. Someone opened the door and the driver disappeared inside.
By now, Rutledge was cold and stiff. He eased himself up, gave his numbed feet a moment for the bl
ood to circulate again, picked up the heavy bit of canvas he’d found in a shop specializing in climbing in Scotland and Wales, and folded it as he made his way across the street to his own motorcar.
He was behind the wheel, the motor running, when the driver returned, stepping out of the house and then turning to help a man, moving awkwardly, but using his crippled foot, into the rear of the motorcar, closing the door and turning back toward the house. The housekeeper handed him a valise, which he stored in the boot, and the house door closed as the driver went to turn the crank. Settling himself behind the wheel, he began to drive out of the square.
Rutledge was already ahead of the vehicle, driving out of the square and turning toward the Thames. He’d pulled over to the verge and watched as Franklin reached the head of the street and also turned toward the river. As expected . . .
He gave it a head start and followed it.
To his surprise, it didn’t continue in the direction Rutledge anticipated. Instead, it changed course and made its way to the street where he lived. Drawing up in front of his flat, the driver got down and walked to the door.
Rutledge watched him knock, wait for several minutes, and then return to the motorcar.
Rutledge mentally reviewed the message he’d put in the envelope. Why had it brought Fletcher-Munro here, of all places? His own flat?
Hamish was already telling him he’d misjudged the man.
When the motorcar moved on, Rutledge was prepared for it to turn toward the river once more, crossing it and finally picking up the Dover road. Instead it began to thread its way through London, passing Buckingham Palace and heading west in the direction of Windsor.
Where the devil was he going?
Hamish was saying, “He didna’ read in yon message what ye expected him to see.”
But it had been clear enough.
I’m waiting. Time to finish it.
Was Fletcher-Munro now on his way to the Barrington house in Melton Rush?
That was a complication that Rutledge hadn’t counted on.
But before half an hour had passed, Rutledge watched the motorcar in the distance turn away from Melton Rush.
What did Fletcher-Munro know that Rutledge didn’t?
He continued to follow, keeping his distance, sometimes turning off his headlamps in the long straight stretches where they might be noticed, keeping pace. But in the twisting, narrow lanes, he had all he could do to keep from coming up on the other vehicle without warning, and had to depend on his headlamps to prevent a crash.
At a crossroads the moon came out from behind the heavy scudding clouds, and he could just make out the finger board pointing to his left—and then he knew. He should have known all along.
Franklin was driving far faster than he should now, heading toward the village where Blanche had been buried.
Fifteen minutes later, there was no doubt about that. Rutledge found himself recognizing all the roads that had brought him here the first time.
He slowed before he reached the village, dropping well back. By the time he came to the inn where he’d had lunch and spoken to the woman who had waited on him, he decided to stop and leave his motorcar in the inn’s yard.
Going on foot the rest of the way, he approached the churchyard obliquely, coming at it from what must be the Rectory, on the north side of the church itself.
He was careful going over the churchyard wall, for some of the stones were loose just where he needed to climb it. When he was standing in the high winter grass by the wall, he crouched, waiting for his eyes to fully adjust to the darkness under the trees. The moon had long since vanished, and even the ambient starlight was obscured.
But there was no sign of Fletcher-Munro, and coming from this direction, Rutledge had no way of knowing where he’d left his motorcar. Out of sight? Or advertising to Alan Barrington that he too had come to finish what was begun so long ago?
Making his silent approach to the church wall, watching for traps for an unwary step, Rutledge remembered the bench where the woman had been sitting, letting the winter sun warm her before walking home.
Was that where Fletcher-Munro was waiting? Or inside the church itself, where two men could confront each other privately?
He’d expected Fletcher-Munro to drive to Sandwich, and instead he’d come here, and that still didn’t make sense. Unless—unless sometime in the past the two men had met here. But the only time Fletcher-Munro had come to this village was for the announcement of his engagement to Blanche.
Had Barrington met him in this churchyard during the weekend’s festivities and tried to stop the engagement? Threatened him, even?
Rutledge moved slowly now, even more cautiously, taking his time. And he was just about to round the tower, close by the Richmond graves, when a small movement caught his eye.
Stopping, he held his breath, afraid he’d betrayed himself. Then he leaned forward carefully, intending to peer around the corner again.
Hamish spoke softly, to Rutledge’s ears seeming to shatter the stillness of the churchyard.
“’Ware!”
He stopped.
What was there that Hamish had seen—or suspected?
Rutledge waited, then edged once more toward the corner. At first he thought he was wrong, that the tiny movement he’d seen before was a scavenging mouse or night bird.
The moon broke through for a single, bright moment, changing the scene before him from murky shadow to a momentarily sharp contrast between shadow and light. And it reflected for an instant on gunmetal before vanishing.
It brought back the war—another churchyard, this one in Flanders, and a German machine-gun nest hidden among the gravestones. From their position, the land sloped downhill toward a road, giving the waiting enemy a perfect field of fire across the open space up which a column of British troops would be marching in the next few minutes.
Only this wasn’t a German machine-gun nest but a single man, lying prone, a shotgun in his hands and a perfect view toward anyone coming up the walk from the gate to the church door.
The problem was, Alan Barrington didn’t know about this meeting. No one did, except Fletcher-Munro and Rutledge. And the driver, Franklin. But Fletcher-Munro had come here to kill someone.
Without any warning, a cat fight—as fierce as it was brief—erupted among the gravestones on the far side of the path, and the loser, abruptly breaking off hostilities, raced toward where Fletcher-Munro was hidden by Blanche Richmond’s simple but elegant stone. It swerved as it saw him there and dashed off down the path.
Fletcher-Munro must have already been tense from waiting, and the cats had startled him badly. His finger on the trigger jerked, and the shotgun fired, deafening in the stillness, the sound echoing and ricocheting off the stone wall of the church tower as shot peppered the path.
Rutledge heard him swear, his voice rising to a shriek of impotence and anger.
And then he was awkwardly scrambling to his feet, the barrel of the shotgun ringing as it struck one of the stones. Rutledge peered around the corner to watch Fletcher-Munro, his lips drawn back in a grimace, pointing the shotgun first this way and that as he stumbled and wove like a damaged crab, trying to reach the path to the gate. Once he fell heavily, tripping over something in the grass, and he fought to get back on his feet. But he didn’t fire again.
Instead, he was intent on escape, as if he thought Barrington was somewhere close by and had him in his own sights.
Lights had come on in the houses around the churchyard, and someone called from a doorway, asking what was amiss.
The fleeing man kept to the path the rest of the way to the gate, and went through it, leaving it standing wide. The motorcar, without lights, seemed to come out of nowhere, drawing up to the gate. Fletcher-Munro opened the rear door, set the shotgun inside, and made his way after it in an ugly scramble. The motorcar sped away almost before the rear door was closed.
Just then several men were coming toward the churchyard with torches shining th
is way and that through the shadows, highlighting a tombstone here and another there.
Rutledge didn’t wait. He was back over the far wall before they rounded the church tower in their search, and crouching there, he listened as they cast about for the source of the shot. He could hear them talking but not what they were saying.
It was some time before he could leave, although he changed positions twice. There he could just see the path to the church door. Other men had arrived, and they stood about, talking, conferring, for twenty minutes or more. Someone had spotted the shotgun pellets, and a Constable was squatting in the light of a torch, appearing to poke around looking for more.
In the end, they all went home. But Rutledge stayed where he was for another several minutes before walking back to his motorcar and getting out of the village as quickly as he could.
Fletcher-Munro had a long head start. But it didn’t matter.
An innocent man didn’t lie in wait with a shotgun.
It was well after dawn before Rutledge reached his flat. He slept deeply at first, then without warning came awake with a start, crying out as the flash from the shotgun briefly illuminated a tombstone in brightness.
He sat up in bed, bathed in a cold sweat.
In the churchyard he’d been intent on watching Fletcher-Munro beat his awkward and hasty retreat out of what he must have perceived as sudden danger.
But the dream had triggered a memory.
At his door, a bright flash, almost in his face. Did he actually remember that? Before the darkness came down? He couldn’t separate the flash from the pain or the darkness.
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture that moment between sleeping and waking that had shown him—what?
Rutledge struggled to bring it back.
The door—why was he standing in the open door? For all the world to see?
The revolver had fired at nearly point-blank range, the muzzle flash in his eyes and the shot grazing his head almost simultaneously, the two so close together that they had seemed one to him. It could only have been in his hand, lifted to his temple.
