by Charles Todd
They had convinced an elderly woman from the nearest village to cook for them and do their washing, closed their eyes to the minor pilfering that went with her, and dug through the ruins of a once-fine library to pass their evenings reading. It was the only time in all the war that Rutledge had been able to put aside what he had seen and done and felt. The certainty that the fighting would be over in the first year still blinded men, even when they began to realize it wasn’t true. And then came the Somme, and madness on a level that was intolerable.
Rutledge had always suspected that it was Max Hume’s guns that had fallen short and taken out his own salient the night that Hamish MacLeod had gone before the hastily collected firing squad. But he had never said anything about it when next they met. Hume, like Rutledge himself, was a changed man by that time, terse and fallible and near to breaking. Some things were better left unsaid.
And yet, he thought in some fashion that Max knew the truth, and that it was the last straw in what had been a fine career.
Setting the letter aside, Rutledge went to the cabinet beneath the other window and poured himself a drink. He silently toasted Hume, and then went to his bedroom to pack. Rosemary would need him now, and he had no choice but to go and do what he could.
“Aye.” Hamish was there in his mind, as he always was in times of upheaval or stress. “But will the lass want you there?”
The viewpoint was unexpected. Rutledge heard himself saying aloud, “I was Max’s friend. It’s the least I can do.”
“Aye. All the same, ye’ll remind her of the war. And she’ll no’ thank ye for that.”
Half an hour later, having told the Yard where to find him, he had set out for Gloucestershire and Hume’s home just over the border.
It was late when he got there, and he found lodging in the small hotel that stood on the main street of the town. He had hoped to arrive in time to speak to Rosemary that evening, but the drive had taken longer than he’d anticipated.
He had never been to Chaswell. It was a pretty little town, and Max had spoken of it often, but after the war neither man was fit for casual visits, although they had stayed in touch desultorily by letter.
The next morning, he went to Hume’s house. It was set back from the road, a low wall surrounding the front garden and two steps leading to the grassy walk up to the door.
Before he’d lifted the crepe-hung knocker, the door opened, and Rosemary Hume stood on the threshold, staring up at him with haunted eyes. Rutledge said, “I’ve come to do what I can.”
She flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder. It was the only time he was to see her cry. Pulling away at last, she wiped angrily at her tears before he could offer her his handkerchief. In the background he could hear voices, but she pulled the door closed behind her, to shut them away, and said, “He shot himself. He went to the far side of the churchyard, and shot himself, where I wouldn’t be the first to see him. And when they came to tell me that he was dead, I wanted to take up that revolver and shoot him again. The fool. The poor, wretched, damned fool.”
“He wrote to me. But by the time the letter came, it was too late.”
“He left only a brief message for me. He told me he loved me too much to drag me down into his despair, and he asked my forgiveness. That was all,” Rosemary told Rutledge. “After what we’d endured together, what we had tried to salvage out of his despondency, all he could leave me were a few dozen words. I deserved more, Ian, I deserved to know what he was planning and why. I could have accepted it then, hard as it would be, because I was included. But I was shut out.” She was a small, slim woman with fair hair and very dark blue eyes. There were heavy circles under them, now, with grim lines about her mouth.
Rutledge, who had broken such news to other people more often than he could count, said, “Rosemary. It’s natural to be angry with Max. All the same, I don’t think he could have borne telling you that he’d failed. That’s how he had seen it, his failure. And so it was a private matter because of that.”
“You’ve been a policeman too long, Ian,” she answered him coldly. “I was his wife, for God’s sake. What does it say in the Bible? Something about a man and a woman cleaving together? And in the marriage vows? Forsaking all others? I shall never forgive him. Until the day I die, I shall never forgive him.”
She swung the door open at that juncture, and led him inside.
Hamish reminded him, “Ye didna’ believe me . . .”
Rutledge tried to ignore him as he walked into the room where friends and family had gathered. There were twelve to fifteen people sitting and standing, talking together quietly. Rosemary made the introductions, although Rutledge knew several of the former Army officers. Her parents were there, but Max’s parents had died during the war, leaving only a distant cousin who had been gassed at Ypres. He was sitting in a chair by the double windows that led to the gardens, struggling to breathe and talk, finally falling silent, his face strained.
Rutledge hadn’t met Reginald Hume before this, and as they shook hands, he remembered Max saying something about his cousin having been schooled in England, although he’d returned to Scotland to live.
“Inherited the family pile on the Isle of Skye, filled it with books, and prefers them to people. That’s why he didn’t come south for my wedding. I shan’t be surprised if he misses my funeral as well.” It had been said in jest.
There were voices in the kitchen, where food was being collected as friends and neighbors brought dishes along with their sympathy.
The day dragged on, and at one point, Rutledge found himself speaking to the rector of St. Paul’s, Chaswell’s church.
“Scotland Yard, are you?” Mr. Gramling asked. When Rutledge nodded, he went on, “I understand you are here in your capacity as a friend, not as a policeman? Good. Then you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve determined that Captain Hume died while his mind was overcome by his suffering. Wounds take many forms,” he said to Rutledge with a perfectly straight face. “I see no reason why he may not be buried in holy ground.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Rutledge responded. It was something that had been on his mind most of the afternoon. There would of course be an inquest. Someone else had brought that up. But he had hoped for Rosemary’s sake that it would be reasonably considerate of her feelings. “I hope that I shan’t be required to give evidence.” Hume’s letter was still in his pocket. He had no intention of reading it aloud at an inquest.
“I see no reason to impose on your personal grief,” Mr. Gramling agreed, understanding Rutledge’s unspoken message. “He regularly attended services with his wife, even when he couldn’t hear what was being said. I could consider that a proof, if we need it, that he was sound of mind and spirit. Mr. Hume did not fail in his duty to the church, and the church will not fail in its duty to him.”
“I consider that very enlightened of you,” he said, and Gramling smiled.
He was a short, stout man with heavy shoulders. Just beginning to gray, he had deep-set dark eyes under thick eyebrows, lending him a sinister look until he smiled. “I don’t hold with judging my flock. I see no reason to usurp God’s right.” He paused, then added, “Max and I spoke from time to time. Often on a tablet of paper I kept in my desk. I burned the sheets afterward. I considered him a friend.”
They stood there talking about the war and the past, and then Rosemary called to Rutledge, asking him to help Reginald up the stairs to lie down for a while.
He was a pale shadow of his cousin. Thinner, fairer, his features less well defined because of his suffering. Each breath was a testament to his will to live. If asked, Rutledge would have thought that Reginald was the more likely of the two men to end his own life. But there was a tenacity in his face that gave it its intense character. He thanked Rutledge as he sank back against his pillows. “I came for Rosemary’s sake,” he managed to say. “Not for Max’s. He told me he would not expect to see me at his graveside.”
“Rosemary will need your s
trength.”
“I’ve loved her as long as I’ve known her,” Reginald said. “Max was aware of that. He knew I would have come for her sake if not his.”
“Rest, while you can,” Rutledge said. “I’ll see that she’s all right.”
He left the room, the sound of Reginald’s raucous breathing following him even after he had pulled the door closed behind him. On the stairs he found Rosemary sitting on one of the treads, out of sight on the landing. He thought she was crying, but she was simply sitting there, quietly staring into space. She turned as she heard his footsteps, and said, “Is he all right?”
“He’s resting. It’s for the best.”
She nodded. “He got a letter too.”
“Did he?” He had said as much, but Rutledge hadn’t asked him the contents.
“Everyone but me.”
She stood up resolutely and walked down the stairs without looking back.
The funeral the next day was well attended, although most of the people there had known Rosemary Hume most of her life, and Max Hume only for the past eight years, four of them interrupted by war. Rutledge was glad to see that she would have support after he had left. The service was simple, stressing the qualities of the man they were gathered to bury. And then it was time to follow the wooden coffin to its final resting place.
Rutledge watched it being lowered gently into the ground, and as he took up a handful of earth to cast into the grave in his turn, Hamish said, “It willna’ be you, lying here. It’s no’ the answer.”
But it had been in his mind, and Hamish knew it.
No. Not yet, he silently answered as the earth spilled from his fingers to land softly on the coffin lid. And then he was following Rosemary and Reginald Hume back through the churchyard, to where his motorcar was ready to carry them to the house.
A police constable stood by the bonnet, and he nodded to Rutledge as he came through the gates of the churchyard. Rosemary was settling Reginald in his seat, trying to save his energy for the meal already waiting at the house. She looked up to say something to Rutledge just as the constable stepped forward.
“Inspector Rutledge?”
“Yes, I’m Rutledge.”
“A message from Scotland Yard, sir. Will you proceed with haste to Sussex. The village of Eastfield, just above Hastings. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
Rutledge glanced at Rosemary Hume. “I’ll see my friends home first,” he said. The inquest was that afternoon. Rosemary had asked for it to wait until after the funeral. He knew she expected him to be present.
She said, tentatively, “Ian?”
“I’ll put in a call to the Yard. This may not be as urgent as it appears.”
She shook her head. “It’s better if you go.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “But I thought—” and broke off.
“I have my family now, and my friends. I don’t need Max any longer. I don’t need Max’s friends.”
He was on the point of arguing when he caught Reginald’s eye. There was a warning there.
After a moment Rutledge said, “Yes, I understand. But you know how to find me if you should change your mind.”
“I won’t,” she said with finality. And when he had delivered his passengers at the Hume house, Rosemary offered him her hand as he stood ready to help her out of the motorcar. “Thank you for coming, Ian. It was very kind of you. Maxwell loved you in his way. I think because you understood better than the rest of us. Thank you for that, as well.”
And she turned to offer her support to Reginald, her back to Rutledge.
Reginald’s face was expressionless. But as he shook Rutledge’s hand, he said, “I’m glad you were here. Keep in touch, will you? I have a feeling about things sometimes. I’d like to hear from you.”
Rosemary had gone ahead to open the house door and was out of earshot as Reginald spoke the last words. And then she was back, taking his arm as she steadied him on the short walk to the house.
Rutledge saw them inside, and then turned to drive to the police station.
But the constable—his name was Becker—had no more information than the brief message he had passed on to Rutledge.
“The hotel sent someone to find me,” he explained. “It was a Sergeant Gibson on the line. I asked him if there was any further information to pass on to you, but he said that someone in Eastfield would explain all you needed to know. I was to tell you privately that the Chief Superintendent had not been at the Yard when the message from Eastfield had come through. And it was too urgent to await his return.”
Rutledge said, “My things are at the hotel. I’ll be packed and ready to leave in ten minutes.”
“I’ve taken the liberty, sir, to ask Samantha if she will put up sandwiches for you. It’s a long way. There will be a bottle of cider as well.”
Rutledge thanked him. And in fewer than the ten minutes he was on his way, the sandwiches in a small basket beside him. It was necessary to drive past the Hume house on his way out of town. The windows were open to the summer heat, and through them he could see silhouettes of people moving back and forth inside.
He felt a surge of something, he couldn’t have said what, and then returned his attention to the road.
And all the long way, Hamish kept him company, his voice just audible above the rushing of the wind. But it was not a pleasant companionship. As often happened in times when Rutledge’s mind was occupied, the voice found the chinks in Rutledge’s armor and probed them with a sure knowledge of what Rutledge least wished to hear.
It dwelt for a time on Max’s life and then the manner of his death, moving on to the woman who swore she hated her husband, but who had wept, bereft, on Rutledge’s shoulder before she could get herself in hand.
At one point as he drove eastward, Rutledge had stopped along a road in Hampshire to offer a lift to a woman trudging back to her village with her marketing in a basket. He had needed to hear a human voice, someone who knew nothing of him or his past. She was grateful for his kindness, and he set her down in front of her cottage without telling her how she had briefly lightened the darkness in his mind.
It was as if Hume’s death by his own hand had foreshadowed his own.
5
Rutledge spent the night on the road, driving into Eastfield in the early hours of the next morning. A watery sun had risen, and he could see that there had been a heavy rain in the overnight hours. Puddles stood about in spots, and a pair of farmyard geese were noisily bathing in what appeared to be an old horse trough, filled now with rainwater.
He found the police station halfway down the high street, tucked into a small building between an ironmonger’s and a milliner’s shop. He left his motorcar on the street, and went inside.
The constable sitting at the desk across from the door looked up, his attention sharp and questioning, as if dreading to hear what this new arrival had to say.
The look of a man, Hamish was noting, who expected more trouble than he was prepared to deal with.
Rutledge gave his name and added, “Scotland Yard.” The constable’s expression changed to intense relief.
“Constable Walker, sir. I wasn’t expecting you, sir, not for another hour or more,” he responded, coming around the desk to meet him. “The Yard told us you were in Gloucestershire and hoped to leave shortly. You made good time.” A wry grin spread across the man’s plain face. “I’m more than happy to turn this inquiry over to you. In all my experience I’ve seen nothing like it. Nor has Inspector Norman, in Hastings, I’ll be bound. A shocking business. We never expected one murder, sir, much less three. Sergeant Gibson told us he was sending one of the Yard’s most experienced men. Whatever I can do to help, you can count on me, sir.”
Rutledge was surprised to hear Gibson singing his praises. He found himself wondering why. They had always had a guarded relationship, drawn together more because of their mutual dislike of Chief Superintendent Bowles than because of any friendship between them.
“Thank
you, Constable,” Rutledge began, hoping to cut short Walker’s effusive welcome, but the man was already moving past him to the door.
“If you’ll just follow me, sir? I promised to take you to Mr. Pierce as soon as you arrived. He’ll tell you what you need to know. His son was the third victim.”
“I don’t think it’s wise to speak to Mr. Pierce until you’ve given me a picture of what’s happened, why I’m here.” Rutledge followed him as far as his motorcar and stopped there, facing Walker.
The man turned to him, uncertain. “They didn’t tell you anything at the Yard? But I explained to the sergeant I spoke with—”
“That may well be. But as you say, I was in Gloucestershire, and I was ordered to come here directly.”
Walker stared at him. “I thought—” He recovered quickly and said, “It was Mr. Pierce who asked the Chief Constable if he would bring in the Yard. The Hastings police wanted to take over the inquiry, you see, and Mr. Pierce felt they wouldn’t address his son’s death as he would have wanted it done. It was cold-blooded murder, sir. It has turned Eastfield on its ear. Three men in nine days. All three of them garroted, and no sign of the murder weapon. William Jeffers, then Jimmy Roper three nights later, and three nights after that, Anthony Pierce. A farmer, a dairyman, the son of a brewer. One walking home, minding his own business and left dead in the road. One sitting with a sick cow in his own barn. And one at the brewery looking to repair a faulty gauge.” He went on earnestly, “Who is killing these men? How does he know where to find them alone? And why these three? Worst of all, who is next? Me? My neighbor’s son? The man who hires out for harvesting crops?”
