by Charles Todd
“You’d better be damned certain of your information, sir. The Chief Superintendent will have our heads if you’re wrong,” Gibson warned, still unsettled. “This man has connections.”
“It’s too late for them to help him now.” Rutledge had brought the motorcar to a halt two houses above Fletcher-Munro’s, and was preparing to descend. Gibson followed reluctantly, his gaze going from the house just ahead to Rutledge’s face and back again.
“Stay outside, Sergeant. In the event he tries to leave. If all goes well, I’ll bring him out. All the evidence I’ve collected is on the rear seat of the motorcar.”
Gibson said nothing, matching his stride to Rutledge’s, his mouth a thin line of disapproval and uncertainty.
Rutledge smiled. “Trust me, Sergeant. This once.”
He left the Sergeant in the road and walked up to the house door. There was no sign of Miss Mills. Lifting the knocker, he waited for the housekeeper to answer.
When she did, her face was drawn with fright, and she let him in without a word, scuttling away toward the servants’ door without looking back.
He knew then that the Morrows had believed Williams, not him, and she had succeeded in warning her sister Lizzie. Or perhaps Mrs. Morrow’s need to have her hair done had triumphed after all.
But that meant that Fletcher-Munro had been warned as well . . . As a precaution, Rutledge left the outer door ajar.
Where was Fletcher-Munro? At the head of the stairs, shotgun ready? Waiting behind one of the closed doors facing the passage? Somewhere else, where shooting Rutledge wouldn’t leave a mess to be cleaned up?
Prepared for anything, he stood there for a moment in the entrance, undecided whether to call out—or act. Drawing in a breath to ease the tension in his shoulders, Rutledge chose the first door on his right.
He pushed it wide, then caught himself as he was about to step inside. But the dining room was empty, the long polished table reflecting the ornate silver candlesticks and Meissen centerpiece. In the mirror at the far end, he could see himself. And no one else. He closed the door gently, walked across the hall, and opened the first door on his left.
As the door swung inward, he stayed where he was, inches from the threshold.
The shot came before the door had finished its arc, so loud in his ears that he didn’t hear the bullet strike the door’s paneling and send splinters flying. It had come from the wall inside the drawing room, just beside him, and he realized that it would have struck him before he knew what had happened to him.
Opening the door to his flat, a blinding light, then pain and darkness—
But there was no time to think about that. Gibson was bursting through the outer door, drawn by the sound of the shot, just as Fletcher-Munro stepped from the wall where he’d been concealed and raised his revolver again, pointing it straight at Rutledge’s chest.
He had no weapon. But he was still wearing his hat, for the housekeeper had been in too much of a hurry to ask for it. He swept it off his head and whipped it in a circle that brought it hard across Fletcher-Munro’s angry face. The next shot went wild, Gibson swearing as it narrowly missed him. Rutledge launched himself at Fletcher-Munro, bringing him down on the floor of the room with a grunt of pain. One hand still held the revolver, struggling to bring it to bear. The other was clawing at Rutledge’s face, as the man fought with ferocity and determination.
A third shot shattered a pretty vase on a stand, and the fourth found the ornate ceiling as Fletcher-Munro fought with the strength of his fury. And then Gibson was in the room with the two struggling men, and he brought his booted foot down hard on Fletcher-Munro’s wrist, before reaching for the revolver and securing it.
Rutledge had him pinned now, both men breathing fast, but Fletcher-Munro wouldn’t give in. And Rutledge hit him. He went limp, and Rutledge got to his knees and then his feet.
Gibson was staring at the man on the floor. “He fought like a tiger.” Looking up, he added, “He must have learned we were coming.”
“Yes. Damn Williams and the Morrows. Fools, all of them.” Still breathing hard, Rutledge reached out to take the revolver from Gibson.
The Sergeant leaned out the door to look for anyone else mad enough to take on the Yard, but the house was silent around them.
“You’d think the staff would come running, with shots fired.”
“The housekeeper knew what was about to happen. They’re all cowering in the servants’ hall. Except for the chauffeur. He’s in the mews. You’ll want to have a talk with him.”
“And she didn’t warn you? We’ll be having a word with her as well. Good thing he was such a poor shot,” Gibson added.
“He wasn’t in the war.” And then as the memory came rushing back, he said, “He shot me at my flat, Gibson. Using the same trick. I opened my door, and he was standing to the side, revolver raised. He fired directly at me. I didn’t even know he was there.”
“You’re saying—are you certain?”
“Dr. Fleming was right. If I’d wanted to kill myself, I’d have done it in the flat—or the back garden. Not on my doorstep.” He looked at the weapon in his hand. “A service revolver. But not mine. I wonder where he got it?”
“Easy enough to lay hands on, after the war.”
Fletcher-Munro was coming round, as the outer door swung open again and Miss Mills peered into the hall, her eyes wide with fright, her face determined.
Rutledge could just see her from where he was standing.
“What happened?” she asked, in a low voice, staring at the man on the floor, his nose bloody and his clothes disheveled. Pointing, she said, “That’s not Alan Barrington.”
Rutledge went out to intercept her. “Scotland Yard has just taken into custody the man who killed Blanche Thorne Fletcher-Munro. It was her husband. We hope to clear Alan Barrington’s name as soon as possible,” he said quietly. And he shut the door in her face, leaving her on the doorstep.
Gibson was helping Fletcher-Munro to stand, his handcuffs already out. And he was regarding him with interest. “That knee’s awkward. The other hip as well. But there’s nothing wrong with his fists.”
“Unless he wants you to think there is. He put on a damned good performance for me, on my first visit.”
“Who was at the door?”
“A woman. She heard the shots,” Rutledge replied absently, as if she was of no moment.
“Brave of her to come in.”
“Yes, I thought so myself.”
Between them they got Fletcher-Munro out to Rutledge’s motorcar and into the rear seat, although he fought every inch of the way. A small crowd had collected in the street in front of the house, and Rutledge saw Miss Mills interviewing a woman dressed in the black uniform of a housemaid, shivering in the cold afternoon wind. She turned quickly to watch them take their prisoner to the motorcar, but didn’t come forward.
Gibson, about to shut the door on Fletcher-Munro, said, “That woman. The one in the center with the black beret. She wrote that article about Barrington. What the hell is she doing here?”
Rutledge, more worried about Hamish crowded into the rear seat, said blandly, “Do you think so? You’ll have to stay here, Gibson, until I send reinforcements.”
Torn, Gibson said, “I don’t think that’s wise, sir. He’s still in a state.”
“We don’t have much choice.” And he went to turn the crank. Hearing a whistle being blown with some force, he looked up to see a Constable running toward them from the end of the street. Rutledge felt the motor catch, folded the crank, and turned to Gibson. “Ah, reinforcements sooner than we thought. You’re in luck, Sergeant.” Then he called, “Constable? Stand guard at the door, just there. The Fletcher-Munro house. Don’t let anyone in or out. A team from the Yard will be here shortly. And send those gawkers about their business, if you please.”
Slowing, the Constable peered into the motorcar, then watched Gibson climbing in.
“That’s Fletcher-Munro you’ve got in the
re.”
“Keep it to yourself, Constable.”
The man hurried forward, already calling to the onlookers to be off. As Rutledge looked back, he saw Miss Mills abandon the person she’d been interviewing and head for the luckless Constable.
22
Fletcher-Munro made the unfortunate decision to shout at Chief Superintendent Jameson, protesting his innocence and threatening the Yorkshireman with his solicitors.
Jameson looked him up and down, then turned to Rutledge. “This isn’t Alan Barrington.”
“He tried to kill the Inspector,” Gibson put in. “Harold Fletcher-Munro. Here’s the file. I’ll put him in a room for questioning.”
But Fletcher-Munro wasn’t finished. As Gibson took him away, he was still shouting at Jameson, telling him a grievous mistake was being made, and calling him a right fool for not listening to his betters.
“In my office,” Jameson said to Rutledge, and stalked off.
He kept Rutledge and Gibson for an hour as he read through the file. “You promised me Alan Barrington,” he said grimly, closing it with a snap.
“I believe I told you I was bringing in the killer of Blanche Fletcher-Munro.”
“This child. He was too young to recognize what he saw. And he’s blind, now, you say. It won’t stand up in court, Rutledge.”
“With the other evidence I’ve collected, I believe it will. The Fletcher-Munro housekeeper will have to be questioned. And I expect the letters Williams wrote to her will be found in Mr. Fletcher-Munro’s possession rather than Lizzie’s. What’s more, if he spoke to Alfred Morrow when he attacked him in Dover, his voice will be recognizable. Morrow is very aware of the world around him. The man who gave perjured evidence at the inquest about the brakes on the crashed motorcar is now the Fletcher-Munro chauffeur. He took part in a shotgun shooting in the churchyard where Mrs. Fletcher-Munro is buried. I think you’ll find he also took his master to Dover the night Morrow disappeared. His loyalty might not extend to being tried as an accessory to attempted murder.”
“And Alan Barrington? Where is he? Where has he been?”
“I don’t know. In England somewhere, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I don’t like this, Rutledge.”
“To your credit, sir, you allowed the inquiry to be reopened. And it has resulted in new facts being brought to light. If these facts cleared one man and stand to convict another, I see no difficulty.”
Jameson glanced at Sergeant Gibson. “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll have a word with Mr. Rutledge alone, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.” Happy to be dismissed, Gibson rose and walked to the door. “I doubt it’s in the file, sir. But the trick Mr. Fletcher-Munro used today? Standing against the wall, and firing as the Inspector stepped into the room? He’s tried it before, I should think. Something to consider.”
And then he was gone.
“I’ll save you the trouble of asking, sir,” Rutledge said as the door shut behind Gibson. “The forty-eight hours aren’t up. You’ll have my letter of resignation when they are. In the event you have other questions meanwhile.”
“Thank you, Rutledge.” It was curt.
He rose and left.
There wasn’t much in his cubby of an office that was personal. He’d never brought in photographs or anything else that might define him. But he stood in the doorway now, and looked at the winter-dirty window, where rain often lashed the glass and sometimes high winds rattled the frame. On the desk, where he’d sat for a year and a half, writing reports and sifting through information, there were no files or reports waiting. There hadn’t been for some time. After all, he’d been on assignment. And then on leave.
It had never really felt like his, this office, although his name was on the door. And yet he had found sanctuary from madness here, and he’d liked what he did here. He didn’t want to think about a future that didn’t include coming back here.
Turning away, he shut the door, and walked out of Scotland Yard.
He tried not to think that it was for the last time as Inspector.
The Globe was the talk of London the next morning. On the front page was a photograph of Fletcher-Munro, taken at a charity function he’d attended some years before. A photograph of his wife in a riding habit. And the bold headline, MURDERER APPREHENDED. While in smaller font, below it was innocent man exonerated.
By noon the other papers had put out special editions covering the story and whatever speculation they’d drawn from the scant facts. But the Yard had so far made no announcements or addressed the members of the press clamoring on the steps outside.
The Fletcher-Munro house had already been visited by a team of Constables under an experienced Sergeant, and the letters from Williams, detailing the family life of the Morrows, had been found in a locked drawer in the study desk. The housekeeper was being questioned.
As was the chauffeur, Franklin.
By all accounts, Chief Superintendent Jameson was livid, demanding to know how the press had got on to the story quite so quickly. Fletcher-Munro’s solicitor had already arrived to demand his client’s immediate release, and Jonathan Strange had appeared, demanding in his turn to know if Barrington had been cleared.
These details he learned after the fact. Rutledge remained in his flat, out of sight, until it was time to take his letter of resignation to Jameson. Chief Inspector Telford had been assigned to the Fletcher-Munro inquiry, and Melinda Crawford had already telephoned Rutledge to say that an Inspector was on his way to speak to Alfred Morrow.
He understood. It was necessary to double-check every detail, to speak to Livingston and Strange.
There were some details not in the report. While Rutledge had included his interview with Mark Thorne’s sister, he had said nothing about Miss Belmont or the Danish coin he’d found in the tree house. Nor was there anything in the report about Clive Maitland. How Alan Barrington had survived was not essential to the guilt of Harold Fletcher-Munro.
At three o’clock he drove to the Yard, walked up the stairs, and knocked lightly on Chief Superintendent Jameson’s door.
“Come.”
Rutledge stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Crossing to the desk, he presented the envelope with his resignation, and Jameson took it with a look of distaste.
“We have found three people who saw Fletcher-Munro on the street near your flat the day you were shot. A neighbor across the way noticed the awkward walk but didn’t see where he was going. A man carrying out dustbins saw the motorcar, which he remembered because he fancies a motor of his own someday. And a woman saw the suspect leaving in the motorcar and says he was not driving.”
“It’s a relief to know this. Thank you,” he said, but wanted to ask why this same thoroughness hadn’t been undertaken when he was accused of trying to kill himself. Why Frances had had to hear it, and everyone at the Yard had been told.
“We spoke to the attending physician. A Dr. Fleming. He told us that you were not suicidal when he evaluated you.”
“He told me the same thing when he signed my release from care.”
“Did he? He had no business doing that.” Jameson looked up at the tall man standing before him. “Sit down, for God’s sake, Rutledge. I’m getting a stiff neck.”
Rutledge sat.
“What am I to do with you?” He didn’t open the envelope. But he picked it up and tapped the corner against the blotter.
“I believe you were intending to accept my resignation.”
“It would hardly be suitable, under the circumstances,” he said, suppressed anger in his voice. “But I shall keep this in my desk, all the same. You disobeyed a direct order, to step away from the Barrington inquiry.”
“As I would have done, if I hadn’t encountered Alfred Morrow. I thought it was my duty to pursue the matter.”
“You should have contacted the Yard instead. A lapse in judgment. We have rules for a reason, Rutledge. And you would do well to remember that in future.” Jameson opened
a drawer and dropped the letter of resignation into it. “I will reserve judgment for the present. Good day to you.”
“Thank you, sir.” It was all he could do to keep his voice civil, but he knew he had no alternative. He left the office and went to his own, sat down in his chair, and reached up to touch the red line across his forehead. It wouldn’t leave a permanent scar, the nurse had told him as he was being released from hospital. But he knew it had left a deeper one that would always be there.
Three weeks later to the day, Rutledge came home to find a letter with a foreign stamp and postmark.
He stared at it for some time. There was no return address.
Hamish said, “It willna’ bite.”
“No.”
Picking up the letter opener from his desk, he slit the top of the envelope and pulled out the single sheet inside.
There was no letterhead.
And no salutation.
It read simply, Thank you.
But it was signed Clive Maitland.
Rutledge looked again at the stamp. Iceland. Which had until recently still been part of Denmark. He remembered suddenly the books on folklore that Alan’s mother had read to him. Had no one thought to look at Iceland, over the ten years of hunting Alan Barrington? It was not mentioned in any of those reports.
He left the letter on his desk for the rest of the evening, and then, before he went to bed, he dropped it into the fire on his bedroom hearth, watching the edges turn bright red and then black as they curled and burned.
Alan Barrington had officially been cleared of all suspicion in the death of Blanche Fletcher-Munro. But no one had seen or heard from him.
After being a hunted man for more than ten years, he wasn’t ready to trust . . .
The next morning, however, there was a message on Rutledge’s doorstep.
It hadn’t come through the post. It had been hand-delivered.
