by Charles Todd
What’s more, there was no body tumbled into the high grass or hidden behind a buttress or a gravestone.
It took them a good forty-five minutes to be sure. As they were on their way back to the High Street, Walker said, “He saw you. That probably saved someone’s life. But what’s this, if Carl Hopkins is in gaol in Hastings?”
“We don’t know why he was here.” He looked up at the rectory as they passed. “That light in the rectory stairwell. It’s been burning for some time. Is that usual?”
“No, it’s not.” Walker turned to Rutledge, alarm on the pale oval that was all Rutledge could see of his face. “You don’t suppose it’s Rector he’s after? My God!”
They reached the gate between the churchyard and the rectory in long strides, going through it to the house door.
Walker was there first, his fist pounding on the wood panels.
Rutledge, staring up at the long window, watched the stairs, but no one came. He said, “Try the latch.”
The door was unlocked. Rutledge swore. Mr. Ottley had far too much trust in the sanctity of his office—or too much faith in the goodness in human beings.
They went in. Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, calling Ottley’s name while Walker went through the ground floor, searching each room. He was soon at the bottom of the staircase calling, “Any luck? He’s not down here.”
“Nor in his bedroom. Or in the other rooms. I’m going to the attics.”
But in spite of his torch, that took longer than he’d anticipated. He came back to where Walker was waiting. “He’s not here. Where would he be at this hour?”
“At Mr. Roper’s? Jimmy’s father. He’s taken the loss of his boy hard.”
To save time they went back to the hotel for Rutledge’s motorcar and drove out to the Roper farm.
The house was dark, not even a light in an upstairs room.
“Do we knock at the door?” Walker asked in a low voice, staring up at the bedroom windows.
“If Ottley were here, there would be a light showing. No, let’s not frighten the old man. The rector must have gone elsewhere.”
He backed carefully down the drive until they had reached the lane.
“I don’t know where else to look,” Walker said. “Unless we start a search of the village. Is he dead, do you think?”
Rutledge said, “Why would someone kill the rector?”
“I don’t know. That motorcar—you said it was driving toward Hastings. Do you suppose the rector was in it? That he was destined for those net shops? Or the cliffs?”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Rutledge turned back toward Eastfield.
“Mrs. Farrell-Smith saw that motorcar just outside the rectory gates. She saw Inspector Mickelson talking to the driver, and then leaving with him. The rector could know something about that,” Walker argued.
“If he had, he’d have told you.”
“There’s that,” Walker agreed. The rectory was just coming into view. Walker, peering through the windscreen, said, “Who is that?”
Rutledge could see the man some twenty yards from the rectory gate. He pointed the motorcar’s bonnet in that direction so that the headlamps pinned the man in their great twin beams.
Walker exclaimed, “Look, it’s Rector! Is he all right?”
Rutledge slowed as they reached the man standing staring into the light, as if mesmerized by it.
“I was just looking for you,” he said as he recognized Rutledge and the constable in the vehicle. “But they told me at The Fishermen’s Arms that you’d gone out. I’ve remembered something. I think it may be important.”
17
Rutledge said sharply, “You shouldn’t be walking out alone at this hour of the night.”
Mr. Ottley said, “I can’t neglect my duties, Inspector. Not if there were six murderers in Eastfield. God walks with me.”
Exasperated, Rutledge felt like telling the man that God helps those who help themselves. He bit his tongue instead.
Beside him, Constable Walker said, “I’ll walk you up the path to your door, Rector, and Mr. Rutledge here will drive his motorcar back to The Arms. Then he’ll join us. I’d give much for a cup of tea.”
“Yes, I could do with one myself.” He waited for Walker to join him, and Rutledge watched the two men safely inside the house before driving on.
Ten minutes later, he was standing in the rectory study. There were not many feminine touches here, and he remembered that the rector had been a widower for many years. What softness there was, he put down to the good offices of Mrs. Newcomb. There was even a slender vase of roses just opening out of the bud, and the silver tea service shone.
The rector poured and Constable Walker passed the first cup to Rutledge. They had chosen to sit in the half circle of chairs facing the cold hearth, but the brass fan that concealed the grate was polished to a high sheen.
Rutledge said, after the rector had handed them slices of cake that Mrs. Newcomb had baked for his dinner, “Where were you, tonight, Rector?”
“I’d gone to see Theo Hartle’s sister and her husband. You’d think that being paralyzed also meant being free of pain. But it’s not true. And she must bathe him in warm water and manipulate his limbs to keep the muscles from atrophy. Sister Kenny was a strong proponent of exercising wasted muscles.”
Sister Kenny was the Australian nurse who had made advances in the treatment of polio cases that upset many established medical opinions. There were many reasons given for her successes, none of which included credit to her methods. Rutledge had seen newspaper accounts suggesting that a nursing sister did not have the qualifications required to make strides in the field.
“Peggy works hard,” Constable Walker agreed. “Theo was often there to help. Lifting Winslow is no easy task.”
Rutledge, trying to bring them back to the subject at hand, said, “And this pastoral visit was what brought back the memory you spoke of in the road?”
“Well, it was something Virgil was saying. That when he was first struck down by poliomyelitis, he had prayed to die. That he couldn’t contemplate living if he couldn’t use his legs for the rest of his life. And he admitted to me that when I came to visit, he was afraid to tell me what it was he was praying so hard for. He thought I might use my powers as a man of the cloth to intercede with God and prevent his dying. Later, when he was older, he was ashamed to confess his prayers in that moment of crisis.”
Constable Walker set down his cup. “I daresay it was normal for an active lad to think his world had come to an end.”
“What inspired him to tell you now?” Rutledge asked.
“We were talking about Theo, and Virgil wanted to know if Theo had ever confessed to me that he’d nearly done something unforgiveable. Mrs. Winslow was very upset. I told him that he was mistaken, that Theo had had nothing to confess. And Virgil answered that he was only curious, having just told of his own secret guilt. You see, Virgil sometimes likes to shock. It’s his way of making people notice him, to say horrible things. And then they pity him, and he manages to escape being brought to book for being abrasively outspoken. I know there were times when I myself was unwilling to add to his burdens, and let small transgressions go. And of course as a result, he’s never been held to ordinary standards. I feel responsible for the way he uses his wife. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Did Hartle ever confess to you? Do you know what it was that he’d nearly done?” Rutledge asked.
“That was what I remembered just as I was leaving. It was as if a light had gone on in my head, illuminating the incident. It was before Hartle went to France with the Eastfield Company. He came to see me because he had something on his mind. He said that he didn’t want to die unshriven.”
“What did he confess? Can you tell us?”
“I thought about that all the way back to the rectory. It was a confession, though not in the strictest sense. And I’m not sure I was told the whole story. But my own conscience was clear on that issue by the tim
e I saw your motorcar coming toward me tonight.” He looked up at the clock on the shelf above the hearth. “Well, it’s nearly tomorrow isn’t it? I hadn’t realized it was so late.”
Rutledge said, “Are you certain you are comfortable telling us what Hartle said?” For it appeared that Mr. Ottley was postponing the moment of revelation as long as he could, almost as if he regretted making any mention of it to them at all.
“As certain as I can be. But you must promise me that this will not be made public. That if it helps you in any way, you won’t use what I told you in a courtroom. I won’t have Peggy Winslow suffer on my account. And I have a feeling that’s why Virgil brought it up. I think he was tired of seeing her mourn. He wanted her full attention, and if he had to ruin Theo’s memory to do it, he was willing.”
Rutledge said nothing, waiting.
Constable Walker said, “For my part, I give you my word. Peggy won’t learn of it through me.”
The rector put his own teacup down and walked to the windows. The wind had picked up as the clouds moved nearer, and the first rumble of thunder rolled through the darkness.
“Theo came to me because when he was about ten, he’d frightened another boy to the point that the child almost leaped to his death to get away from him. The story was that Theo had played truant one day, and cadged a ride to Hastings on the back of a hay wain. He’d intended to explore some of the so-called smugglers’ caves, to see if he could find any treasure. This child wanted to go too, and Theo couldn’t get rid of him. He called him an ugly little toad, pushing in where he wasn’t wanted, and still the child clung to him. Theo, who was large for his age, had expected to pass as an older boy, but now he thought that with the other child in tow, someone would take more notice of them and send them home with a flea in their ears. He lured the other boy far out on East Hill, and told him that there was smugglers’ gold below, and if he’d go down and look for it, he’d be given half of all he discovered.”
Ottley walked aimlessly about the room, not looking at the two men listening to his story, and found his way back to the window. “But of course,” he went on, “he lied, there was no pirate gold to divide, the cliff face was extraordinarily dangerous, and Hartle was hoping the other child would walk too close to the edge, and then his weight and gravity would carry him over. I don’t think—I don’t believe—that Hartle understood the consequences. He was frantic to enjoy his day of freedom, and he just wanted the other boy to go away. At any rate, the child found himself out on the very edge, became frightened, and froze. He started to cry, begging Theo to give him a hand to hold so that he could make his way back. But Theo walked away and left him there. The child finally made it to safety by crawling out of danger, and then he was late for his dinner, and his worried father disciplined him to teach him a lesson. He too was a truant, remember.”
“Gentle God. Who was the child?”
Closing the window finally and turning back into the room, the rector said, “Theo Hartle wouldn’t tell me. He said that there was no making amends, and the other boy would probably have begged him to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he would have. Perhaps not.”
Rutledge said, “And so Hartle, for his sins, was killed there on the headland and his body rolled over the edge.”
The rector said, “I know. It—the circumstances—are too close to Hartle’s death for comfort. I didn’t remember, you see. I don’t think I wanted to remember.”
“Are you certain,” Constable Walker asked, “that the child wasn’t Virgil himself?”
“I think that’s very unlikely. If it had been, then I think he’d have said so.”
“Then how did Virgil Winslow come to know about this story?” Rutledge asked. “I can’t imagine Hartle bragging to anyone about what he’d done. I mean to say, if Hartle had gone back to that headland and found it empty, found that the other boy wasn’t there, it must have given him an appalling shock. He couldn’t have known where his victim had gone—over the edge or if he had pulled himself out of his paralysis of fear and found his way back to safety. And surely, when Theo reached Eastfield and discovered that the child was alive, he must have expected the police on his doorstep at any moment. That the boy had told someone. A teacher, his parents, even other children.”
“I asked him just that question,” Ottley replied. “Hartle told me that he expected retribution at any moment, but the longer it was delayed, the more he’d thought that the child was afraid to tell what had happened that day. Hartle felt enormous relief, he said, and swore he would never again do anything he’d be ashamed of. Besides, he had had his own irate father to face when the school wanted to know why he’d played truant.”
“And you’re sure he said nothing that would tell you who this other child was?”
“Just the phrase, ‘he was an ugly little toad.’ As if that explained everything.”
Constable Walker spoke up. “Do you think it was the Summers boy?”
He had spoken to Rutledge, but the rector said, “Was he still in Eastfield? I did ask—Theo told me Summers had already left to take up his new position.”
“Hartle must have lied to you. He probably knew that’s why Summers left here. The boy must have told his father something about what had happened. He’d been terrified, after all. Hartle didn’t want to take the blame for that as well. His confession had its limits.”
The rector said, “He was the butt of much teasing, I’m sure. A very unpopular child, never could put a foot right. But do you think he really was Hartle’s victim?” There was lingering doubt in his voice. “Still, there’s the problem of how Virgil Winslow knew.”
“I don’t think Winslow knew—not this story, at least. I think tonight he may have been whistling in the dark. We’d asked his wife if her brother had any secrets. Winslow must have assumed that he had—because he’d been murdered.” Rutledge added, “Thank you, Rector, for telling us this. We’ll use the knowledge to look into the matter. If nothing comes of it, then I think perhaps Hartle exaggerated what happened. That with time he’d blown it out of proportion, and it seemed more ominous than it was.”
The rector’s face brightened. “To tell you the truth, I found it hard to believe that young Hartle could be so—vicious. He was a good man, he would have made a good father.”
But there were dark places in many a child’s life. Temptation was hard to resist when it was something that a child very badly wanted. The ability to know right from wrong wavered in the face of longing. The lemon drop at eye level in the greengrocer’s shop, the toy that another child played with, the larger biscuit on the plate, the biggest apple in the bowl. These seldom led to attempted murder, but a child who had planned his truancy carefully, was already half frightened by his audacity but intent on finding smugglers’ gold, would be desperate to rid himself of what he perceived as an intruder, someone who was about to ruin everything he’d longed to do in this one glorious escape from authority. Consequences never entered his head. Only being caught before he could find treasure. Would he have gone as far as murder? Or would he have considered it murder, if the boy fell over the cliff without his help?
Who could say?
They thanked the rector and left, warning him to lock his doors.
Walker said as they were out of earshot, “You let me lie to him. The story will have to come out.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Meanwhile, what good would the truth have done, do you think?”
The first drops of rain struck them in the face, blown by the wind, great wet drops that promised a downpour. Lightning illuminated the rectory gate, and thunder followed almost on its heels.
“We’ll have to speak to Roper’s father. To see if Jimmy knew this story. And Mrs. Jeffers. I don’t know if we’ll get much joy from Tyrell Pierce. Anthony could do no wrong. The heir and hope,” Walker said as they dashed through the gate and ran for The Fishermen’s Arms. There was another flash of lightning, and then the rain came down in earnest. They arrived damp and breathless.
>
“I’ll borrow an umbrella.” Walker cast a glance at the sky. “Are we still patrolling the streets?”
“No. I think he’s gone, whoever he was.”
“Then I’ll say good night.” He went into Reception, where there was a porcelain stand filled with umbrellas for the use of guests, chose one, and with a nod to Rutledge trotted out into the rain.
Hamish said, “Yon priest. He didna’ want to remember. Ye ken, these were lads.”
“And it was a very long time ago,” Rutledge said.
“Aye. Now they must judge the men the lads became.”
And that was true. The men had turned out well. They’d served their country with honor and distinction, they had respectable lives ahead of them, and the foibles of the past were forgiven.
Rutledge said, “It’s late. There’s nothing more I can do tonight.”
“Are ye forgetting The White Swans?”
He stopped in his tracks, halfway up the stairs. He had forgot.
Without a second thought, he went pelting down the steps and out to the motorcar. The drive to Hastings in the heavy rain was not pleasant, and he felt his tires slip several times as he ran down the twisting road into the Old Town.
The White Swans was quiet, most of the guests in their beds. He walked into the lounge and beckoned to the sleepy attendant at the far end.
“Whisky,” he said and chose a table that was secluded enough that his presence wasn’t obvious. As he sat down, he remembered another hotel, the Marlborough in London, and Meredith Channing’s last remark.
He took a deep breath, trying to put it out of his mind. But he couldn’t. He’d tried for days, but it was there, underlying everything he did during the day and his last thought as he fell asleep at night.
He couldn’t imagine a future with her. He couldn’t imagine a future without her. That was the dilemma. There was something about her, the poise that was so unusual in one so young, the quiet understanding that had seen him through a rough afternoon, the willingness to help even when she didn’t particularly care for the fact that he dealt with murder and violence. Her voice, low and soothing. He’d fallen in love with Jean because she was pretty, she was of his own social class, and she was amusing. He had slowly fallen in love with Meredith Channing because she was herself.
