A Lonely Death

by Charles Todd

“There was nothing between the two men that might make your brother uncomfortable, encountering him again after all this time?”

  She considered that as Rutledge opened the door of the tea shop for them. Silence fell in the busy room, and every eye turned their way.

  Mrs. Winslow hesitated, as if she’d been caught fraternizing with the enemy, her face turning pink.

  Rutledge took her gently by the arm and said in a voice intended to carry but apparently for her ears alone, “I think a cup of tea will make you feel much better.” He summoned the woman waiting on tables, and asked for tea and a selection of pastries. Then he guided Mrs. Winslow to a seat by the window. She turned to him with anxious eyes, and he said only, “The rector will never forgive me if I don’t keep my promise. You shouldn’t have had to make such a visit alone.”

  “My husband—” she began.

  “Yes, it would have been difficult for him. But a friend, perhaps?”

  He could see from her expression that she had few friends. He could understand why.

  Their tea came, and the pastries. She let him pour her cup, and pass her the pastries, and as the occupants of the shop realized that there was to be no arrest or harsh interrogation to report to their friends, they lost interest. Mrs. Winslow nibbled a pastry, and then shyly reached for another. He realized it was a treat for her, that such outings had stopped long ago.

  It was not until they had left the shop and he was walking toward her home that she answered the question he’d asked earlier.

  “Daniel and Theo had a falling-out. Oh, it was years ago, Theo couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. Daniel was seven at the most. I don’t know what they fought about, but it couldn’t have been very serious, at that age, could it? Still, Theo gave Daniel a bloody nose, and afterward he came home terrified that the police would be sent for and take him up, that Tyrell Pierce would see that he was sent to Borstal. But nothing came of it, and Anthony told Theo later that Daniel claimed he’d fallen off Will Jeffers’s stallion, trying to ride him bareback.” She smiled at the memory. “I expect he was ashamed of being bested by Theo, but he was only seven, after all.”

  “When was the last time your brother saw Daniel?”

  “It was before the war. I’m sure of it. That fortnight when Daniel came back from France, Theo was still in hospital.”

  “Did you see Daniel then?”

  “Only once, and not to speak to.” She hesitated. “He’d just left the Misses Tate School, and it appeared that someone had hit him in the face, because there was a big red mark on his cheekbone. And he was angry. I did wonder how he came by it.”

  They were at the corner of her street now, and she put out a hand. “If you won’t mind, I’d rather go the rest of the way alone. My husband keeps watch—”

  He stopped, and she thanked him profusely for the tea and the pastries, then hurried on toward her door, as if acutely aware of how long she’d been away from home.

  Hamish said, “A bluidy nose doesna’ lead to murder.”

  “No,” Rutledge answered him silently. “If that was all there was to it. Theo Hartle may not have told his little sister the whole story.”

  Still, it lent credence to the possibility that someone was erasing the worst memories of Daniel Pierce’s childhood. But what was more interesting was how Daniel had got that mark on his face.

  He went back to the hotel for lunch, and found a letter waiting for him.

  It was from Chief Inspector Cummins. Rutledge took it to his room and opened it.

  Ian.

  Thank you for the surprising contents of your parcel. It had not occurred to any of us to look for a flint knife. We were told that the wound was oddly shaped, and so we developed a list of foreign knives—African, Southeast Asian, Middle Eastern—and the theory was that in his travels, Wheeler had lived in a port where such souvenirs were available to buy or steal. Portsmouth, Southampton, Dover, London, and so on. We had one promising lead, an Oxford don, retired to Dartmouth, whose home was broken into while he was abroad and several objects from his Near Eastern collection were stolen. Alas, when he returned and inventoried what was missing, a selection of Yemeni knives, they didn’t match the dimensions of the wound. Your flint knife is a far more likely candidate. What more can you discover about its origins? Meanwhile, I shall ask a friend who is interested in such topics if he can detect traces of human blood on your find. His home laboratory must surely be useful for something other than mystifying his wife, family, and friends.

  I must say, this is encouraging. But I absolutely refuse to let my hopes be raised again, lest they be dashed as so many others have been.

  I must have intrigued you with my account of this unsolved mystery. I should have warned you that it was bound to cause sleepless nights and overwork one’s imagination.

  And it was signed simply Cummins.

  Smiling, Rutledge returned the letter to its envelope and put it in his valise.

  Now if he could only have equal success in solving his own mystery.

  Mr. Kenton, who owned the furniture works where Theo Hartle had been employed, came into the dining room of the hotel as Rutledge was finishing his luncheon.

  He was a tall, stooped man with graying hair and spectacles. He stood in the doorway, looking around, and as the woman who served meals approached him, he asked her a question.

  Rutledge looked up from his plate of cheeses just as she was pointing to him.

  The man came over, introduced himself, and asked if he could join Rutledge for a few minutes, or if Rutledge would prefer to meet him in the hotel lobby after his meal.

  “Yes, of course, sit down,” Rutledge answered, and signaled the woman to ask for a fresh pot of tea.

  Kenton thanked him and said, “This business with Theo has been heavy on my mind. I come here reluctantly, you understand, because what I’m about to tell you is something I refuse to believe. Still, I’m no policeman, and if there is any possibility that I am right, then I have a duty to those who have died to talk to you.”

  He broke off as the fresh pot of tea and a dish of biscuits was set before them. When the woman had gone away again, Rutledge said, “I appreciate your sense of duty. I shall look into the matter. I can’t promise anything, but I will respect your confidence as far as I’m able.”

  Kenton appeared to be relieved. That was clearly what he had come to ask.

  “Theo was a good man,” Kenton went on. “I don’t know how we’re to replace him. Steady, dependable. Amazingly gifted when it comes to working with wood. Well liked by the others in the firm. Such a loss. I’ve been asked to say a few words at his funeral.”

  He paused, stirring his tea, as if it were the most important task of the day.

  Rutledge said, watching his face, “I don’t think that’s what you’ve come here to tell me.”

  Kenton met his gaze. “No. No, it isn’t. I don’t know where to begin, I suppose.”

  “What had Hartle done that could be of interest to the police?”

  He turned to the window, ignoring the question. “My mother had a companion for many years. She had an arthritic condition and was a regular visitor to the spas of Europe, looking for a cure for the pain if not the disease. When she fell ill at Würzburg, a young woman named Hilda Lentz nursed her back to health. When my mother recovered, she asked Hilda to come back to England with her. The idea of travel must have appealed to her, because she agreed. But instead of returning to Germany, she married the son of one of our friends, a man named Peter Hopkins, and they had three children. She continued to work with my mother until her death. And Hilda died of appendicitis a year or so later. She’d lost a child, a daughter, in childbirth, but her sons were treated more or less as members of our family. Carl Hopkins in fact came to work for me, because he has a way with machinery that’s invaluable.”

  “What does he have to do with Theo Hartle?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” He shook his head vigorously. “Carl was torn about
the war, you see. His eyesight was damaged by a case of the measles, and there was no doubt that he couldn’t serve, when the war came. But his younger brother George joined the Army with the Eastfield Company. And Carl’s favorite German cousin—Hilda’s sister’s boy—hurried to join the German army. Carl considers himself English, but he was worried about his brother and his cousin. Neither of them survived. It wasn’t long after we heard about George that someone sent Carl an anonymous letter saying that George had been shot in the back while crossing No Man’s Land. The Army refused to confirm or deny the story, but the letter claimed that George had been shot because he had a German mother, spoke fluent German, and wasn’t to be trusted.”

  George Hopkins. Rutledge remembered the name. He’d been one of the two Eastfield soldiers who died in the war.

  “Go on.”

  “When the Eastfield soldiers began to come home from France, Carl asked them how his brother had died, and in Carl’s view they were evasive. Well, apparently it was a night attack just as George’s commanding officer had told us in his letter. No one really knew how he died. Were you in the war? I can’t imagine that it’s a tidy business, attacking at night. I suspect the letter—which was posted from London—was meant to be hurtful, not true. Unfortunately, about this same time, Carl’s aunt wrote to him to say that his cousin had died of his wounds as an English prisoner, and she believed he hadn’t been given proper attention. It was understandable, she was upset, looking for someone to blame, but she told Carl that he ought to be ashamed of his English heritage, because the English had killed both George and his cousin. Carl withdrew into himself. Dr. Gooding gave him something to help him, because he walked for hours every night, unable to sleep. Thank God, early last year he got over whatever it was, came back to work, and seemed to be himself again. I can’t tell you how relieved I was.”

  “Then why are you telling me about him now?”

  Taking a deep breath, Kenton met Rutledge’s gaze. “Several weeks ago, he received a letter from someone in Germany. His aunt had hanged herself. Despondent still over the death of her son, according to her priest, and enclosed was a copy of the letter from her doctor, documenting her ill health. An effort, I should think, to convince the church that she was not an intentional suicide, but it made sad reading. Carl showed it to me, asking what to do. I suggested making a small gift to the church, in her name. And that was the end of it for all I knew. Now . . . now I’m betraying a trust.”

  He stopped, his face drawn, his eyes reflecting his discomfort and anxiety.

  Rutledge said, “I’ll speak to him. Quietly, without making it obvious. Thank you.”

  “I’m not saying—I’m not pointing a finger, you understand. But my God, four men are dead, and if I don’t speak up, there may be others. I love Carl like a son, I’ll do anything to help him. But I was fond of Theo as well. I can’t believe Carl could have harmed him. Not Theo.”

  “It took a great deal of courage to come here. But you did the right thing.”

  Kenton rose from the table. “Have I? He could have been my son, you know. But my mother persuaded me not to marry Hilda. And she was right, in the long term we were much happier with our respective spouses. All the same, I still remember how I felt at the time.”

  As he walked away, Rutledge wondered if that last was true. Or if over the years Kenton had convinced himself that it must be true, that his mother had been wise.

  He went directly to the police station and found Constable Walker reading a message from Inspector Norman.

  He looked up as Rutledge came in.

  “There’s a woman in Hastings who saw Theo Hartle at seven o’clock, speaking to a man. The Inspector wants to know if you’ll be interested in interviewing her with him. I told Constable Petty that we’d come as soon as I tracked you down.”

  “Let’s go,” Rutledge said, and turned toward the inn to collect his motorcar. He told himself that Carl Hopkins could wait.

  But he was wrong.

  12

  Inspector Norman was waiting for them, impatient and short tempered. He greeted Rutledge with a sharp, “I was about to go on without you. I’ve got a murder inquiry of my own, two women killed in a house on Brent Street. They walked in on a man ransacking it. There’s an intensive search in progress. I don’t appreciate the distraction of your inquiry.”

  “We’ll talk to this person ourselves, Constable Walker and I.”

  “This is my patch. I told you.” He reached for his hat and led the way back to the street. “We’ll use your motorcar, if you please.”

  And so Rutledge had no choice but to accommodate Inspector Norman, Constable Petty, and Walker, with no space left for Hamish where he usually rode. However, the distance wasn’t too great, and in a matter of minutes they were walking into a shop that catered to newborns and small children. There were caps and blankets, gowns and christening robes, finely woven blankets and the dresses that children of both sexes still wore when very young, rich with embroidery and ruching and tucks. There was also a small selection of prams, rocking horses, and the Teddy bears that the American president had made so popular, as well as a tray of silver rattles, spoons, cups, and teething rings.

  The woman waiting on a customer was large and motherly, with a low-pitched voice and a warm manner. She glanced up as she saw the four men enter the shop, but her discussion of cap ribbons never faltered. And so the four policemen were forced to stand idly waiting until the customer was satisfied and had left with a small parcel done up in silver paper.

  “Mrs. Griffith?” Inspector Norman asked, coming forward.

  “Yes. How may I help you? I doubt you’ve come for christening robes or china kittens.”

  Inspector Norman gave their names, and then said, “You spoke to one of my men. About Theo Hartle.”

  “Oh, yes. I heard that the police were trying to find out where he was before he was killed. I saw him where the main road divides just at the foot of Marine Street. He was speaking to a man. A friendly conversation, as far as I could tell, but rather serious as well. I was walking with a friend, and we weren’t going in that direction, and so I didn’t have an opportunity to ask after his sister.”

  “You know the family?” Rutledge asked, surprised.

  “His mother and I went to school together. And then we were married and went our separate ways. But we stayed in touch. Peggy Winslow is my goddaughter, and I have tried to keep an eye on her for her mother’s sake. But that worthless complainer she’s tied to keeps her on a short rein. A pity, but there you are. She always enjoyed the little treats I planned for her visits. But she doesn’t come to Hastings these days.”

  Rutledge remembered how Mrs. Winslow had seemed to enjoy the pastries at the tea shop in Eastfield.

  “Did you know the man Hartle was speaking with?”

  “I don’t think I do, although I may have seen him about from time to time.”

  “And Hartle didn’t appear to be afraid of him, or uncomfortable in his presence?”

  “No, not as far as I could tell.”

  “What time of day was this?” Inspector Norman asked.

  “Closer to seven than six, at a guess,” she said. “I wasn’t exactly keeping track of the time.”

  “And they were still there talking when you last saw them?”

  “Still there, on the corner. I couldn’t have said where either of them went after that. I find it so hard to believe that Theo is gone. He survived the war. The Germans couldn’t kill him, and then some murdering maniac takes his life. I shall go to the funeral, no matter what that husband of Peggy’s has to say. And I’ll bring her here as well,” she ended vigorously, and Rutledge had no doubt that she would do just that.

  “Can you describe the other man?” he asked.

  She pursed her lips, thinking. “Not as tall as you. Brown hair, slim. I had no particular reason to take note of him.”

  All the same, it sounded like the man Rutledge had encountered at The White Swans Hotel. No
certainty, of course, but still, very likely.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, it doesna’ mean he didna’ follow his victim and kill him when it was finally dark.”

  And that was true as well.

  “You were never near enough to hear any of their conversation?” Rutledge asked. “You couldn’t judge the other man’s accent, for instance?”

  “No, not close enough by a long chalk,” Mrs. Griffith replied. “Are you thinking he might have been a foreigner, then?”

  “Actually I wondered what class of man he might have been.”

  “I can tell you, he was dressed more like a gentleman.”

  Inspector Norman had turned to stare at Rutledge. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

  He was a sharp man, and Rutledge had forgotten that.

  “No one—that is to say, no one alive—has heard the killer speak. He could be a Scot as far as we know. Or from the Midlands. It would be helpful if we could place him.”

  Norman grunted, then turned to Constable Petty. “If you’ll take Mrs. Griffith’s statement?” And to the woman, he added, “When the shop is closed, we’d like you to come in and read it over before signing it.”

  “I don’t know that I’ve been any help,” she said doubtfully. “But yes, I shall come in and sign the paper.”

  They left her, then, and on the street once more, Inspector Norman stopped by the motorcar, instead of getting in. “You think it was Daniel Pierce, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been given no reason to suspect Pierce,” he said, keeping to the literal truth. There was only circumstance and conjecture so far, hardly evidence. “But I’m told you wouldn’t mind seeing him taken up for this crime or any other.”

  “And you have a reason for thinking as much,” Norman went on relentlessly, ignoring the denial. “Don’t hold out on me, Rutledge!”

  “I’m not holding out,” he retorted. “So far there’s no clear motive for these murders. And as long as there isn’t, I have no more reason to suspect Pierce than I do any other person.”

  “I’m told you went away for several days. What was that in aid of?”