by Charles Todd
Essex was wide, as was England. Rutledge sighed. Whatever Markham would have to say about progress, this inquiry wouldn’t be closed very soon.
There was nothing more to be gained by staying here. The Yard was patient, it could wait until Lewis French surfaced. Markham permitting.
Still, there was one more thing Rutledge wanted to do before he left.
The local man. He hadn’t spoken to him, and it would be just as well to have eyes here after he’d returned to London.
He went back to St. Hilary and the narrow little building that housed the police station.
This time the door was open, and Rutledge walked from the sunshine into the dim interior, almost colliding with a man coming out.
The man apologized and went on his way. Behind him at an old wooden desk that must have served the first constable here in St. Hilary was a man in uniform. The small board in front of him read CONSTABLE BROOKS. It was neatly hand-lettered in black.
“Good morning, sir. How can I help you? Directions, most likely.”
He smiled, an affable man with a black patch over one eye.
Rutledge presented his credentials. “Not directions, precisely. Information.”
He went on to outline the circumstances that had brought him here. Brooks listened carefully until he’d finished.
“I can’t tell you much about Mr. French. He’s hardly been here often enough for me to get to know him. And then I was gone for most of the war. He was a man when I got back, and generally in London. A well-spoken gentleman, polite, his main interest his work. It seems to absorb him. Or else he finds London more to his liking than St. Hilary.”
“Yet he found time enough here to become engaged twice.”
Constable Brooks frowned. “He’d known Miss Whitman most of his life. I had the feeling that he wanted to marry her because everyone thought she was to marry Mr. Michael.”
“And what did Miss Whitman think about that?”
“Gossip didn’t say. Still, she accepted Mr. French’s proposal of marriage,” Brooks replied, his voice deliberately neutral. “She could have done better ten times over, in my view.”
“It was comfortable, what she knew,” Rutledge suggested.
“As to that, I’m not sure it wasn’t her old grandfather who encouraged her there. The French family could give her everything, couldn’t it?”
“And then she broke off the engagement.”
Brooks nodded curtly. “So they say. But in regard to Mr. French, if he’s not here and not in London, where is he?”
“Is there any place around St. Hilary—or even Dedham—where a motorcar could be concealed for a long period of time?”
“Not the River Stour—it’s too busy, is it? And we’ve no bogs where it could disappear, like. Nor old sheds, derelict buildings, or thick woods.”
The constable would know, Rutledge thought, glad to be spared a long, muddy tramp along the river’s banks or through fallow fields.
“No, if it’s anywhere, it’s with Mr. French.” Brooks nodded in agreement with himself when Rutledge didn’t respond at once.
“Will you keep a lookout for the man—and send word to London at once if he reappears? And search for that motorcar. You know your patch better than we do.”
“Yes, sir, that’s not a problem. But are you thinking Mr. French has killed this man you found in the road? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Or perhaps the man has killed French, to take his watch.”
“I’d sooner believe that, sir, not that I want to.”
“I’ve met Miss Townsend’s father. What would he think of a black sheep suddenly appearing in St. Hilary?”
“Black sheep? Whose, sir?”
“For the sake of argument, let’s say someone the French family would wish to keep out of the public eye.”
“Well, he’s rather a stickler, is Mr. Townsend. But I don’t see the French family having anything to hide. And Mr. Lewis is not a devious man. That I can be sure of. If he set out for London, then he set out, intending to go there.”
Rutledge left the Sun Inn an hour later, heading toward London.
He’d asked questions—and yet the answers he was looking for had eluded him. Because he’d asked the wrong questions? Or because he hadn’t recognized the right answers?
Hamish said, “Aye. It smacks of failure.”
And for the rest of the journey Hamish seemed to hover just behind his shoulder, commenting on everything that Rutledge preferred to set aside. He could not conquer the past, the war. He couldn’t put it out of his mind. He had forced himself to come to barely tolerable terms with it, and the way that he’d forged was littered with deep pits of despair.
Only now, the war over, he couldn’t pray for a German bullet to put an end to the misery.
Which was why he had kept his service revolver locked away, beyond reach when the darkness came down.
Chapter Eight
When Rutledge made his report to Chief Superintendent Markham, the Yorkshireman gave him his full attention, then nodded as he finished.
“He can’t disappear forever, can he now? Not with French, French and Traynor to run. It’s a grand business, it’s where most people purchasing Port wine and Madeira for their cellars go to buy it. Half London wouldn’t know what to do with themselves without it. What’s more, the firm has never been scandal prone until now. What’s changed?”
“A very good question,” Rutledge agreed. “His encounter with the dead man? So far that’s the only change in his routine. And he must have encountered him, there’s the watch. But was that meeting happenstance? Contrived? Related to business? To family matters? Did it have anything to do with the upcoming visit by the other partner, Traynor? We don’t even know enough to speculate. And who got the better of the encounter? So far, the man without a name is dead, but we can’t be certain French killed him. Or if he killed French, then was run down to silence him in turn.”
Markham frowned. “You make it far too complicated. Look closer to home, man. What about the woman? Miss Whitman? It would seem to me that she had the best reason to do away with Lewis. And for all we know, the poor bastard found in Chelsea had happened on the corpse and helped himself to yon watch. Or she hired him to kill for her, then ran him down before he could think about blackmail.”
“Then let’s consider that line of inquiry. What has she done with French’s motorcar? That too is missing.”
Markham waved a large hand. “That’s for the local police to discover. This Constable Brooks for one, in St. Hilary.”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “Indeed.”
“Then drive yourself back to Essex and see what you can learn about this young woman.”
“I should think it would also help to circulate a photograph of the dead man and see what comes of it.”
Markham peered at him. “Is she pretty, this Miss Whitman?”
Taken aback by the unexpected question, Rutledge said, “Miss Townsend is far prettier.”
“Ah, you’ve noticed, then, have you?” Markham sat back, his mouth smiling in satisfaction, but his eyes cold.
“I’m trained to observe,” Rutledge replied, only just preventing himself from snapping, feeling that he’d been trapped into an admission that suited Markham’s purpose.
“And being not as pretty could rankle. Are you certain she wasn’t jilted?”
Rutledge hadn’t told Markham that. The Acting Chief Superintendant had leapt to the conclusion.
“A man doesn’t leave the prettier girl for a less attractive one unless there’s more money to be had in the bargain. In fact, he did just the opposite, didn’t he? A prettier girl with greater social standing, a doctor’s daughter.”
Rutledge wanted to say that he couldn’t imagine Miss Townsend killing anyone, under her father’s thumb as she was. But that would leave Miss Whitman open to the obvious comparison. And it would feed Markham’s theory.
“I’d still like to circulate that photograph,” Rutl
edge answered, fighting a losing rearguard action. “Whether he has anything to do with Lewis French’s disappearance or not, he’s a victim. And if we can connect him to Miss Whitman, we could prove your theory. That he was hired to do the deed, turned greedy, and was killed.”
“Yes, yes, I take your point. Put Gibson onto it, then, or Constable Graham. They can sort through responses for you. Once we have a name and a place to begin, we’ll send someone to interview this fellow’s friends and family. The mystery now is what became of French, and what’s the connection with this young woman.”
Rutledge wasn’t particularly happy with the thought of another inspector muddling whatever links there might be between French and the victim. Or between the victim and Miss Whitman. Legwork, yes, that was always helpful. But if conclusions were to be drawn, he wanted to do interviews himself. To know what was said, and how and why.
Markham picked up a file, then set it down again, a preliminary to dismissal.
“You’ve finished your paperwork on the Devon inquiry?”
“It’s in the hands of Sergeant Griffin.”
“Good. Then there’s nothing to keep you in London.”
Rutledge went back to his flat, repacked his valise, and then set it aside.
Chief Superintendent Bowles had been a master at keeping Rutledge out of the way if there was a major inquiry beginning in London. Wherever undeserved credit could be garnered to himself, he preferred not to have Rutledge as a witness to it. And if Rutledge happened to finish a highly publicized case, Bowles barely offered grudging congratulations.
Markham had so far not shown himself to be in the same mold as the man he was temporarily replacing. But this latest meeting had raised alarms in Rutledge’s mind. First the query regarding the use of his motorcar rather than public transportation, and now this business with Miss Whitman. Markham was a hard man to read.
Sergeant Gibson had known Bowles for years before Rutledge joined the Yard, and Inspector Cummins among others had dealt with him as well. But Markham had been brought in from outside, no track record, no gossip to make it easier to penetrate his dour Yorkshire demeanor.
But there was nothing to be done. Even if Markham had been as easy to read as newspaper through a clear glass, it wouldn’t matter. His wishes were law and not to be argued with.
There was still the connection—if any—between Belford and the dead man. Why had Belford, even with his background in policing, offered his own view of the victim’s death? It had been unnecessary, with the Yard in charge. Was it a habit that even now he couldn’t break? Or had he wished to be sure the Yard saw the circumstances in the right light?
Leaving his valise where it was, Rutledge drove back to Chelsea.
Belford was at home, he was told, and after several minutes, the man walked into the sitting room, saying, “Good afternoon, Inspector.”
It was the opening that Rutledge had expected. Giving away nothing, waiting for the other person to lead the conversation.
“I’ve come to ask a few more questions about the body found in the street here.”
Belford gestured to chairs by the open window, and the two men sat down. Belford seemed to be at his ease, politely waiting for Rutledge to continue.
Smiling inwardly, Rutledge said, “I understand you were an officer in the Military Foot Police. I’d been curious to know why you so expertly set out the evidence for us. The three conclusions I might have drawn were an unusually keen eye, police experience, or an attempt to lead us up the garden path.”
The man betrayed himself with a tightening of the lips. Otherwise his face remained impassive. After a moment—to be sure he had himself under control?—he said, “I was not happy to see trouble on this street. I’ve lived quietly and comfortably here for some time. I didn’t wish that to change.”
Mr. Belford had enemies, then. And he had surveyed the scene to protect himself, and viewed the dead man’s face with the same concern in mind.
“I’ve come to ask what conclusions you drew. Other than those pointed out at the time.”
Surprised, Belford said, “Then you have not found out the identity of this man, nor have you learned where he came from and how he was left here. Certainly not where he died.”
“We’ve found out who he is not. There was a resemblance to a member of a merchant family in the city. But he was not that man. Even though he was carrying that man’s watch in his pocket.”
“Ah. The watch. Yes, I thought that might lead somewhere.”
“It was a family heirloom, traced easily enough.”
“Perhaps someone wished to have you believe that the dead man was the owner of the watch. To buy a little time.”
“To what end?”
“To see to it that any remaining evidence of the man’s true identity was successfully destroyed.”
“That’s possible. But how did he come by the watch to create the illusion that this was the owner?”
“A clever pickpocket could have done the trick.”
An interesting possibility. But pickpockets were ten a penny. It would be impossible to question a quarter of them.
“Is a young woman’s honor at stake?”
The question caught Rutledge off guard. “What makes you ask that?”
Belford shrugged. “Even a hundred years ago, an unwelcome suitor could end up in the river. The police are more thorough now. And so one must be more clever in making an unpleasant annoyance disappear. And better for him to disappear, you see, than to be found dead, questions asked, fingers pointed, and all that.”
In the circumstances, it was not a suggestion that Rutledge appreciated, but he had to accept the merits of it.
“The man the dead man was supposed to impersonate is missing. His motorcar with him.”
“Indeed.” Belford frowned. “That puts an entirely different complexion on the watch, doesn’t it?”
“In what way?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Was a mistake made in the first death?”
“Now there’s an interesting prospect.” Belford seemed suddenly keen, his mind already considering and rejecting possibilities.
Rutledge said, “What’s done in anger . . .”
“Yes, of course, it would have to be that, wouldn’t it? And when the head is cooler, one is faced with an extra corpse. But the watch—again, how did the killer come by it?”
“A family member. In this case a sister.” Rutledge thought that over, then shook his head. “Unless of course, all this preparation is to put blame on that sister and rid the killer of her as well as her brother.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
Rutledge rose. “This has been a very interesting conversation. It doesn’t mean that you’ve been struck off the list of suspects. You’re clever enough to have killed the man if in some way he threatened you.”
Belford stood as well. “Like you, I’ve seen a great deal of tragedy. It doesn’t mean that we have been corrupted by it. Good day, Mr. Rutledge.”
And he stayed where he was as Rutledge went to the door.
Driving to Essex, Rutledge mulled over what Belford had told him.
Speculations, all of them. Some of them he’d already considered as he’d driven back to London from Dedham to report to the Yard. But where was the evidence to link any one of the possibilities to the missing Lewis French or the dead man in London?
“Are ye certain of the identification?” Hamish asked. “It could be wrong.”
“My point,” Rutledge said aloud before he thought, “when I asked for the photograph to be sent round to local police stations. Someone ought to recognize him.”
“There’s Norfolk,” Hamish reminded him.
“I know. That’s where I’m going first. Norfolk. And if need be, we’ll look at Cornwall next. What was that man’s name? Fulton.”
The village of Moresley was in the middle of the county, small and ordinary, famous only for the twisted remains of a tree still standi
ng on the narrow green. It had sheltered Nelson on his way south to take up his first command. Whether that story was true or false, the locals had built a small wicker cage around the trunk to protect it from grazing cattle or sheep. The village shared a constable with its nearest neighbor, and Rutledge was fortunate to catch him in Moresley late that evening as he turned into the High Street.
The constable was just mounting his bicycle to finish his rounds. Rutledge pulled up beside him, identified himself, and said, “I’ve come about the missing man report. One Gerald Standish.”
“Mr. Standish, sir?” The constable considered that. “Is he a Yard matter after all? What’s become of him, then?”
“We don’t know. You reported him missing after we sent round a sheet describing a dead man in London.”
“Sir, there was no answer to my query. Inspector Johnson in Norfolk and I thought perhaps the dead man had already been identified.”
“There were several other avenues to explore before I could get here. Tell me a little about Standish.”
“His grandmother lived here. When her son died young, his widow married again, and she didn’t see much of the boy. Still, she left the cottage to him. He came to Moresley after he was demobbed in 1919. Quiet, kept to himself, no trouble. ’Twas his daily, sir, that came to me to say his bed hadn’t been slept in for three nights. She was worried. He hasn’t stayed away this long before. Usually just a day or two, and he comes back tired, confused.”
“Does he own a motorcar?”
“No, sir, he usually gets about by bicycle. But it’s still behind the cottage.”
“Then he can’t have gone too far. Do you know anything about Standish’s background before the war?”
“Just bits and bobs of conversation. He had a little money, and he was careful with it. Inherited from his father, he said, who was an estate manager in Worcestershire. I don’t think he cared much for his stepfather, not unusual in a boy who loses his own father young.”
