A Lonely Death

by Charles Todd

  “Inspector Rutledge?” the constable said, bending his frame a little so as to see Rutledge’s face more clearly. He was a tall, angular man with a scar across his chin.

  “Yes, I’m Rutledge. What is it?”

  Hamish, from the rear seat, said, “ ’Ware!”

  “You’re wanted in Hastings, sir. Straightaway. I’ve been sent by London to find you and bring you to Sussex as quickly as possible.”

  Surprised, Rutledge said, “I’m no longer involved with the inquiry there. Didn’t London tell you that?”

  “Their instructions were to take you directly to Hastings. If you don’t object, sir, I’ll ride with you to your destination.”

  Rutledge said, “You aren’t a Hastings man. No need to waste your time there.”

  “No, sir, I’m from Rochester. And we have our instructions, sir.”

  Rutledge was silent for a moment, weighing that, and then said to the constable, “Get in.”

  The man nodded and walked around the bonnet to open the passenger door.

  Rutledge had expected the other vehicle to turn back, but when he drove on, it followed him at a distance. It was still there when he headed south to Sussex at the next crossroads. The constable was staring straight ahead with nothing to say for himself.

  “What’s this about? Do you know?”

  “Sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.”

  Giving it up, Rutledge fell silent, an uneasy feeling beginning to build in his mind. This was how a suspect was arrested if found on the road. Except that he would be asked to step into the police car, leaving the constable to drive his.

  There was the charge of improper conduct against him, but Chief Inspector Hubbard had all but told him that if he took a few days leave voluntarily, it would be ignored.

  What else had Mrs. Farrell-Smith found to say about him? He’d have thought she would have been satisfied to see him withdrawn from the case.

  Or had she learned that he had uncovered the facts surrounding her husband’s death? That was an old case, not something that he had permission to reopen. But did she know that?

  It was another hour before Rutledge drove through Eastfield and down the Old London Road into the Old Town. He hadn’t expected to return here, now that the inquiry had been successfully concluded.

  The morning sun sparkled on the water, touching the tips of the choppy waves with gold and catching the sail of a small private craft tacking down the coast, a white triangle against the blue of the sky.

  He reached the police station and pulled in behind another vehicle standing there, and the constable accompanying him got out.

  “Thank you for cooperating, sir. It’s much appreciated.” He gestured to the door. “This way, if you please.”

  Rutledge led the way inside, and the sergeant on the desk recognized him.

  “If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll send someone to fetch Inspector Norman.”

  “I know the way to his office—” Rutledge began, but the sergeant shook his head.

  “If you’ll wait here,” he repeated.

  “Yes, all right,” Rutledge said, irritated now.

  Five minutes later, Inspector Norman strode briskly into the room and said without any greeting of any sort, “Inspector Ian Rutledge, I am arresting you on the charge of attempted murder.”

  Rutledge stood there, speechless. And then he was being led away, and the constable from Rochester was turning to leave.

  “What the devil is this all about, Norman?”

  Hamish was warning him not to lose his temper, and he held on to that advice with a tight grip.

  Inspector Norman had nothing to say to him, and Rutledge had no choice but to go with the constables, who escorted him to a room in the back of the station.

  They asked him to empty his pockets, give them his belt and his tie and his watch, and then they wrote out a careful receipt for him. There were holding cells in the back of the police station, and as he was escorted there, Rutledge had the impression they’d been dug out of the bedrock, because they were windowless, and he could feel the dampness emanating from them. There were four of them, and they looked, in fact, more like a dungeon than prison cells. There was no natural light, no fresh air, and they were too small to contemplate. And before he was quite ready to face it, the iron-barred door was swinging shut behind him, and the two constables were walking away, leaving him there.

  He tried to think why he should have been arrested on a charge of attempted murder, and then realized that if anything had happened to Mrs. Farrell-Smith, the Hastings police might wish to question him. But an arrest?

  It would have required the approval of the Yard to send the Kent police looking for him. Had they been to Melinda Crawford’s house, asking for him? Or had they been scouring the county for him, and had just had the good fortune to spot him on his way to London?

  He refused to consider where he was, he refused to look at the dimensions of the cell, the walls, the furnishings. He hated confinement, and this was the ultimate of that. He kept his eyes on the floor, and wished for his watch. It wouldn’t be long before someone came for him. He couldn’t remain here for very long. He could already feel panic rising.

  He waited what he estimated to be half an hour, his temper nearly getting the best of him, before Inspector Norman came back to the holding cells and said, “I’ll not handcuff you. Call it professional courtesy, one officer to another. But you’ll have to give me your word that you’ll not cause me any trouble while I take you to my office for questioning. They’re sending someone down from the Yard, but this is my patch, and I’ll do my own questioning, thank you very much.”

  “I give you my word,” Rutledge said through clenched teeth, and the cell door was opened. Without looking back, he followed Inspector Norman to his office and took the chair indicated. “What are the charges against me? I’ve a right to hear them.”

  Norman walked around to his own chair, sat down, and considered Rutledge. “I’ve told you. Attempted murder. Very likely murder—it’s going to be touch and go on that. Dr. Gooding holds out little hope. When we put in a call to London with word of what had happened, Chief Superintendent Bowles ordered us to bring you in. He himself spoke to the Chief Constable in Kent, where you were said to be staying. And the Kent police went looking for you. Now London is sending someone down. Hubbard, I think the name was.”

  “And who is it I’m said to have attempted to kill?”

  Inspector Norman said, “Where were you these past two nights?”

  “I was staying with a friend in Kent. Mrs. Crawford.” He gave directions for finding her house, and then said again, “Who is it I’m said to have attempted to kill?”

  Norman finished his notes and set them aside. “Inspector Mickelson was struck on the head night before last. And as we have one Carl Hopkins in custody for the other murders, we couldn’t look in that direction. The finger of guilt seems to be pointing directly at you. I was told there was bad blood between the two of you.”

  Rutledge stared at him, stunned.

  “Why should I wish to kill Inspector Mickelson?” he asked finally.

  “I understand he was being considered for a promotion that you wanted.”

  Rutledge stopped himself from swearing. “That’s hardly a reason to commit murder. It defeats the purpose, in fact.”

  “I told you. When I spoke to London, Chief Superintendent Bowles informed me that you and Inspector Mickelson had had trouble before this. He also said you’d agreed to a short leave after disciplinary action, and walked out of the Yard in something of a temper, telling Sergeant Mitchell to look for you in Kent if he needed to find you. That’s to say, practically on our doorstep. And then you dropped out of sight. This wasn’t a garroting, mind you. The case is very strong, Rutledge.”

  It was indeed. “When was he attacked? Where?”

  “I can’t discuss the murder with you. Those are the instructions I received from Scotland Yard.”

  �
�This is nonsense and you know it. Let me drive to London. I’ll speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles myself and clear it up.” He was angry enough to face the man down.

  “You know I’d be in trouble if I allowed you to leave.” Norman sat there, studying Rutledge.

  The two of them had had their own disagreements.

  Was he gloating? Rutledge couldn’t tell. Did he agree with the Yard? It was impossible to be sure.

  He said after a moment, “What were your views on the arrest of Carl Hopkins? Did you find the garrote when you searched his residence?”

  It was Inspector Norman’s turn to be caught off guard.

  “Hopkins?” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the name before. “I don’t know enough about the facts of the case to make a judgment.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t kept up with events in Eastfield. Especially after one of the victims died right here in Hastings. You know as much about the murders as London does.”

  Inspector Norman flushed slightly, caught in a lie and handed an uncomfortable truth.

  Rutledge went on. “I’d have done the same in your place. I’d consider one death on my patch reason enough.”

  He sidestepped the question. “There is the fact that the killing stopped after Hopkins was taken into custody.”

  “Hardly stopped. If you count Inspector Mickelson. And I do. He got in the way, if you think about it. Whoever has been killing these men could well have been afraid that Mickelson was about to change his mind. Blaming Hopkins would have been very convenient if our murderer had finished whatever it is that he’d started.” Rutledge didn’t believe it was finished. But he wasn’t about to weaken his own arguments by adding that.

  “Mickelson wasn’t garroted. What’s more, why didn’t our murderer kill you? You thwarted him by locking up those village men—” He broke off. It was an admission that he’d kept up with the inquiry.

  Rutledge ignored the opening. At the moment, he wanted Norman on his side. “I hadn’t made an arrest. I was useful as long as I didn’t—my very presence promoted fear of more deaths, and he got to Hartle. But Mickelson did take Hopkins into custody, and if that’s the wrong man in your cell, then we haven’t finished with these murders. What we don’t know—unless Mickelson took Constable Walker into his confidence—is whether he stumbled on something that either clears Hopkins or brings up serious doubt about his guilt. Either way, Mickelson had to be stopped before he reported that to the Yard. If the killer had used the garrote, we’d have had proof we’d gotten the wrong man. Don’t you see?”

  “There were no discs in Mickelson’s mouth.”

  And that was interesting.

  “I’m not surprised,” Rutledge told him, considering the comment. “It means he wasn’t one of the chosen.”

  “Or you didn’t have any of them to put there.”

  “True.” He didn’t argue. After a moment he went on, “I have witnesses, you know, that I never left Kent until this morning. Very reliable ones, in fact. Someone should have asked about that before having me stopped and brought here. It smacks of leaping to conclusions.”

  “Unless your witnesses were sleeping in the same room with you, it doesn’t preclude leaving in the middle of the night. You could have slipped out and back in again, with no one the wiser,” Inspector Norman countered.

  Rutledge said only, “We’ll see. Can Mickelson be questioned yet?”

  “I don’t think he’s regained his senses. You’d better pray he doesn’t die.” Norman rose, preparing to take Rutledge to his cell when there was a flurry of voices from the sergeant’s desk in the front of the police station.

  They paused where they were, Norman undoubtedly believing that Chief Inspector Hubbard had arrived.

  But it was not Hubbard.

  The flustered sergeant on the desk came to the door, saying, “I tried to stop her, sir. But she insists she has information on Inspector Mickelson’s murderer.”

  And they looked beyond him to see Mrs. Farrell-Smith coming through the doorway behind him. She took in Rutledge standing there in the passage with Inspector Norman and said, “That’s the man I saw in Eastfield the night Inspector Mickelson was attacked. I saw him drive up, speak to that poor man, and then drive away with him. They were in front of the church, and my bedroom window looks out toward the gate to the rectory.” For emphasis, she pointed directly at Rutledge, as if she were already in the witness box.

  Rutledge’s mouth tightened. And then he said, “Are you so certain that Daniel Pierce is the man we’re after, that you are willing to lie to shield him?”

  She retorted, “I know nothing about Daniel Pierce.”

  Rutledge turned to Inspector Norman. “This is Mrs. Farrell-Smith, headmistress at the Misses Tate Latin School. If she really wanted to protect someone, she could have looked back into the school’s records to see if anything happened in the past that could have some bearing on these murders. All the victims were together there for at least two or three years. If it isn’t the war, and it isn’t the present that caused someone to start killing, it could very likely lie in the distant past. I’d prefer to be escorted to my cell now.”

  She opened her mouth, and then shut it again.

  Inspector Norman nodded to the sergeant, and Rutledge went with him, already regretting his impatient request.

  He said to the sergeant, trying to delay entering his cell, “Am I the only prisoner here?”

  “No, sir. There’s another man at the end of the row. We were preparing for the inquest to be held this very week, but it must wait now for the Inspector to recover.”

  This must be where Carl Hopkins was also being kept, as he’d thought, and he said under his breath, “Poor devil.”

  He went into his cell and watched the door swing shut with a clang and the large key turn in the ancient lock. It sounded like a death knell.

  This time he couldn’t ignore his surroundings. He had no idea how long it would be before Hubbard arrived, and he was faced with the possibility that he would remain in this place for several days, at least until it was certain whether the charge was going to be attempted murder or murder. He wasn’t sure he could manage it.

  The cell contained a narrow cot, a bucket, and a basin on a shelf with a pitcher standing in it. Near the flat, ugly pillow, a tin cup lay on the blanket that covered the cot. What little light there was came through the barred square in the door. The walls were painted a dreary dun color that had faded into a shade like cream gone off. Although the cell was clean enough, and the water in the pitcher fresh, there was a lingering odor of urine that rose from the floor, and the smell of fear that seemed to cling to the walls. He hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too intent on matters being set straight in a hurry. Now—now, his fate lay in the hands of Inspector Mickelson.

  Hamish said derisively, “Ye’ve been inside a cell before this.”

  But always knowing that he wasn’t the occupant, that when he was ready to leave, the door would open and there would be a reprieve from the panic. Now Rutledge was battling his claustrophobia, fighting the urge to promise anything if they would leave that door unlocked. He thought about the night to come and shuddered, then began to pace. In the dark, the walls would begin to close in.

  Hamish cautioned, “There’s no help for it, ye ken. Sit doon and close your eyes. Ye willna’ see the door, then.”

  I’m going to make a fool of myself, he thought, when I start screaming. And then they’ll know. But after a time, he sat down and shut his eyes, as Hamish had counseled, imagining the room to be as long as the drawing room in Melinda Crawford’s house, counting first one and then another of the furnishings and treasured objects that filled the space. It helped, but only a little against the rising tide of dread.

  A constable brought him a meal later, as well as fresh water, and he realized it must be noon, or possibly one o’clock. The food was hot, plentiful—fried fish, roasted potatoes, fresh bread and peas. He wondered if Inspector Norman was
hedging his bets by treating his thorny prisoner with some care in the event the Yard had to eat its words.

  The afternoon dragged by, and Rutledge set himself the puzzle of why there was murder being done in Eastfield.

  If Inspector Mickelson had taken the wrong man into custody, the murderer had only to bide his time, and then kill again. It would have made Mickelson look a fool. Why then had he targeted Mickelson?

  What had the man done that had angered the killer? From the time that Scotland Yard had arrived in the village, whoever was behind these murders knew he was risking being unmasked. He must also have known that dispatching one inspector would only bring another in his place, someone even more determined to search him out.

  What had made it necessary to rid himself of Mickelson before the inquest? Rutledge had told Norman that it was what Mickelson knew—or was about to do. But was that true?

  Or had Kenton, trying to persuade Mickelson he was wrong about Hopkins, lost his temper and acted rashly? Something as simple as that?

  He went to the door and raised his voice, but only loud enough to reach to the last cell down the passage. He had heard the door being unlocked and a lunch tray passed to the prisoner there. But the man had been quiet. If he had spoken at all, it was so softly that the words hadn’t carried.

  “Carl Hopkins?”

  There was no answer.

  Rutledge tried again. “Mr. Hopkins. I’m a policeman. I was in Eastfield before Inspector Mickelson.”

  “I remember.” There was a pause. “Why are you in a cell?”

  “Inspector Mickelson was attacked. For lack of a better idea, they think I’m involved. I didn’t like the man. The feeling was mutual. Meanwhile, I’m waiting for my movements to be cleared up.” He hoped that was true.

  “It’s a trick of some sort. Well, it won’t do you much good. I didn’t kill anyone. I have nothing to confess.”

  “It’s no trick.”

  But Hopkins wouldn’t say anything else and Rutledge let it go.

  I didn’t kill anyone . . .