A Lonely Death

by Charles Todd

  “Where was he found?”

  “He raises pigs out on the road to Battle. He goes about Eastfield with his cart, collecting scraps people save for him, and he takes milk from the dairy herds that they can’t sell. He was on his rounds before first light, and stopped in a copse of trees just north of the turning for Hastings. It appeared his horse was lame, or he thought it was, and he drew up out of the road. Or someone hailed him, we’ll never know. But the horse is indeed lame, a stone in its shoe. We found that out when we tried to turn the cart for a better look at Marshall’s body.”

  “My motorcar is still outside. Show me.”

  The copse was some hundred yards past the turning to Hastings, just as Constable Walker had described it. On the far side, where the trees began, there was a small grassy opening among the trunks, and Walker pointed to it.

  “Just there. The body was still warm. And if you look hard enough, you can see the roof of Marshall’s barn beyond the treetops in that direction. He died within sight of his own farm.”

  Rutledge turned. There was indeed a barn roof, nearly hidden by the leaves of a stand of trees.

  “Have you notified his family?”

  “Not yet. Do you want to deal with that and afterward see the body?”

  “They’ll be wondering where he went. We’ll go there first. What sort of family did he have?”

  “A mother who lives there with him, his wife, and three small children. He always claimed he made up for the war years as soon as he got home. He was wounded early in 1918, and by the time he was fit to return to active service, the war was over.”

  They could smell the pigs as they approached the farm, but the house was tidy and there were flowers along the track that led to the door.

  An elderly woman opened the door to their knock, fear in her eyes. And then she clapped a hand to her mouth as she read their faces.

  “He’s dead.” It wasn’t a question. “When he didn’t come home with the cart, I knew something must have happened.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Ushering them into a front room, she added, “My daughter-in-law is upstairs nursing the little one. Let her finish.” She glanced up the stairs and then shut both doors quietly.

  Rutledge identified himself. “I’m afraid we’ve come to confirm your fears, Mrs. Marshall. Your son was found this morning in the copse down the road. He was murdered.”

  “Like the rest of them. I told him. I said, you mustn’t leave so early.” She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, as if to stifle the scream rising in her throat. A low moan escaped, and she sat down suddenly. And then with an effort of will, she raised her head and said, “Where is he now? My son?”

  “At Dr. Gooding’s surgery,” Constable Walker answered her.

  “He lived through that awful war. And now this.” It was an echo of what Mrs. Winslow had said. “I want to see him.”

  “I think—” Constable Walker began,

  But she cut him short. “I brought him into the world. I’ll see him out of it.” Again she looked upward, as if she could see through the ceiling to the room above. “How am I going to tell her?”

  In the silence that followed, Rutledge could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of a rocking chair moving back and forth, and a low hum, as if someone was singing softly.

  Mrs. Marshall stood up. “I’ll just call up to her, and then we’ll go. The rest can wait. I want to see my son now.”

  They couldn’t dissuade her. In the end, she did as she’d said she would. She called to her daughter-in-law, “I’m just stepping out, Rosie, I’ll be back shortly. Mind the soup on the fire.”

  Then she led Rutledge and Constable Walker to the motorcar and sat beside Rutledge as Walker turned the crank. Rutledge had a moment’s panic as the constable turned and opened the rear door, but he couldn’t look to see where Hamish was. He felt the motorcar shift as the man settled in his seat. And then he had no choice but to drive on, pointing the bonnet back to Eastfield.

  Mrs. Marshall sat in stoic silence, her eyes straight ahead. Neither Rutledge nor Walker could find words of comfort. None seemed adequate.

  People on the street turned to stare as they passed. Rumor had already run ahead of them, and villagers knew who was in the motorcar as well as where they were going.

  Rutledge pulled into the drive in front of Dr. Gooding’s house, and before he could step out and open her door, Mrs. Marhsall was already out of the motorcar and striding toward the surgery.

  She was a tall, rawboned woman in a faded apron over a blue dress patterned with small white sprigs of flowers, her graying hair drawn back into a bun. But she moved with the dignity of a Spartan woman preparing to receive and bury her dead. Rutledge watched her and was moved.

  Dr. Gooding was surprised to see her, looking over her head at Rutledge and the constable.

  “She wished to see her son,” Rutledge said, and Gooding said, “Er—give me a moment, and I’ll take you back.”

  He disappeared, and Mrs. Marshall showed no sign that her resolve was weakening. Dr. Gooding’s nurse came out of an adjoining office and asked Mrs. Marshall if she would like a cup of tea before her ordeal.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Davis, I’ll be all right. Rosie is waiting at home for me.”

  The doctor came back just then and escorted them to the room where the body had been examined. It was tidy, and Hector Marshall lay under a sheet drawn up to cover the ravaged throat.

  Ignoring the others, Mrs. Marshall walked straight across the room without faltering and looked down at her son’s face. After a moment she touched his hair, which Dr. Gooding had combed. Then she bent to kiss him. Her voice was audible, but not the words as she addressed him. She stared at him a moment longer, and before the onlookers could stop her, she stripped back the sheet. Nodding at the body as if she understood something, she gently pulled the sheet back into place.

  “I’d thank you to take me home, now.”

  Rutledge moved to her side, but she walked out of the room without help, down the passage, and out to the motorcar, thanking the doctor for taking care of her son.

  Walker was there to open her door, and she got in without another word. When they had delivered her again to her home, Rutledge said, “Would you like us to help you break the news to your daughter-in-law?”

  “Thank you, no, she’ll be able to cry if we’re alone.” She turned to Constable Walker. “Could you send someone to feed the pigs today? They will be hungry by now.”

  He promised, and with a nod she disappeared inside, shutting the door quietly.

  Rutledge said, “Will she be all right? Should we send someone to look in on her later?”

  “Best to let them mourn,” Walker said.

  Rutledge turned the motorcar, hearing Hamish’s voice like thunder in his head. And as he started off down the track, he heard a woman’s scream, so full of pain he winced.

  They went back to the surgery, but Dr. Gooding could tell them very little more.

  “When was he killed?” Rutledge asked.

  Gooding said, “Later than the others by a good four hours. After the rain ended, I think. Marshall was on his back, and his clothing was wet from lying in the leaves. His chest was dry. Of course the killer had to wait for him to start his rounds, that may account for a change in timing.”

  Or the killer had been thwarted, unable to reach the victim he had been waiting for.

  “I was driving back from Hastings close to that time,” Rutledge said slowly. “I’m surprised I didn’t meet anyone on the road.” But Daniel Pierce had walked into The White Swans just before dawn broke. Where had he been?

  “It’s a tragedy,” the doctor finished, after showing Rutledge the identity disc from Marshall’s mouth. “I can’t believe there’s no way to stop this madman. And what about Carl Hopkins? I thought he was the killer. Is he still in jail? Surely the police will have to let him go, after this.”

  “He’s still there,” Rutledge said. “Our murderer would have been smarter to
let well enough alone, and let Hopkins take the blame.”

  “Pierce won’t like it. He was so certain his son’s killer was in custody. I ran into him just after Inspector Mickelson had taken Hopkins to Hastings. You could almost see the relief in Pierce’s face. As if a burden had been lifted.” Gooding covered the body again. “My nurse wondered if perhaps he’d been worried about Daniel having some role in this business. She asked if Daniel would be coming for Anthony’s funeral, and he all but snapped at her. Where is Daniel? Does anyone know? I haven’t seen him since just after the war.”

  Walker said, “Mr. Pierce hasn’t said.”

  “Do you remember Tommy Summers?” Rutledge asked the doctor.

  “Summers?” Dr. Gooding frowned. “Oh yes, I do remember him. He was a clumsy child, and his father brought him to me to see if there was anything to be done. Some children are just naturally poorly coordinated. He wasn’t a very prepossessing boy. Sadly, such children are seldom popular at that age. And they seldom grow into swans, do they? Nature is often unkind.”

  “What did he look like, do you recall?”

  “Rather pudgy, and short for his age. Sandy hair, I think.”

  “He couldn’t have been mistaken for either of the Pierce boys, then?”

  Gooding smiled. “No, of course not. Far from it. What are you driving at?”

  Rutledge said, “How would you describe Daniel Pierce, the last time you saw him?”

  “Daniel? He’d just come home from France, and he was quite thin. He couldn’t settle to anything, apparently, because he was away again soon afterward. He’s a little above medium height, brown hair.”

  The description would have fit a dozen men Rutledge had seen on the streets of Hastings. Except for the thinness, it fit the man he’d seen at The White Swans.

  “I don’t understand why you should be asking about Pierce?”

  “I’m curious about anyone who lived in Eastfield at one time and who isn’t here now,” Rutledge answered easily. “There was someone in the churchyard last night. Before Marshall was killed. I never got a good look at him, but he didn’t move like a heavy man.”

  “Yes, I see,” Gooding replied, but Rutledge didn’t think he did.

  They left the surgery and went back to the police station.

  Constable Walker said, “You’ve asked a good many questions about this Summers boy. And now you’re asking about Daniel Pierce. Have you made up your mind that the killer isn’t someone in Eastfield?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about anything,” Rutledge countered. “But if Carl Hopkins isn’t our killer, who is?”

  “There are the other survivors of the Eastfield Company. I asked my nephew just last night if he could make head nor tail of this business, and he refused even to consider anyone from the war. Unthinkable, he said. He’d served with them, they’d gone through too much together in France. Besides, if one of them believed he was still in France killing Germans, he’d have used a shotgun.”

  “That’s probably true. And I understand what Tuttle is telling you. Battle is a man’s testing ground.”

  Walker nodded. “Well, then I asked him about Tommy Summers, and he laughed. Summers wouldn’t have been able to overpower Theo or Hector. Or even Jeffers.”

  “People change,” Rutledge reminded him. But Walker shook his head.

  “Inside sometimes, outside seldom.”

  Rutledge didn’t argue. “I’ll collect Kenton, and we’ll go to Hastings to bring back Carl Hopkins.”

  “I’d leave him there a little longer,” Constable Walker said. “He’s safer.”

  But Rutledge remembered the bleak cells, and shook his head.

  “Where does our murderer go, between killings?” he went on. “We need to find out. He can hardly be staying in Eastfield. Under the circumstances, a stranger would have caused considerable comment.”

  “I’ve wondered about that,” Constable Walker agreed. “There’s no derelict building he could hide in. No castle ruins or such. For that matter, no rough land. He must come up from Hastings. Or over from Battle. There you can wander the abbey grounds at will, you know. Still, someone hiding there would attract notice.”

  “What about these smugglers’ caves in the Old Town?”

  “Well, that’s possible. Not all of them have been explored. Although boys must have poked about in them long before this and never said anything. Caves and treasure—irresistible. My own father told me the caves were still in use when he was a lad. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not—he might have been making certain I never ventured into them.”

  “It might be wise to have a look, if Inspector Norman can spare the men. By the way, he’s letting us have Constable Petty for the duration. On his terms, of course. But we need an extra pair of eyes.”

  “It didn’t do a hell of a lot of good last night, did it? Our watch. The devil’s determined, and he finds a way.”

  “The question is, why was he in the churchyard, if he’d already set his sights on Marshall?” Rutledge looked at his watch. “I must go back to Hastings. I’m expecting a telephone message from the Yard—”

  Mr. Kenton came down the street, hurrying in their direction. “I say. There you are, Rutledge!” he hailed them.

  Rutledge turned to him. “Just the man I wanted to see. You had a clerk some years ago, by the name of Summers. He left for another position. Do you recall where he went?”

  Caught unprepared, Kenton said, “What? Summers? My God, that was fifteen or more years ago. Somewhere in Staffordshire, I think. Or was it Shropshire? Yes, it must have been Shropshire. A firm of wardrobe makers. The name escapes me. Never mind Summers! I’ve come about a far more important matter. I’ve just been told about Hector Marshall. I want Carl out of that jail, do you hear me? I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I was just going down to Hastings. Follow me in your own motorcar and you can bring Carl back to Eastfield.”

  Kenton spun on his heel and went back the way he’d come.

  Watching him go, Walker said, “He’s happy. Mr. Pierce won’t be.”

  Carl Hopkins was almost dazed with relief when he was brought to Inspector Norman’s office.

  “They say I’m free to go. Has there been another murder, then?”

  “Hector Marshall,” Kenton said.

  “Dear God.” Hopkins shook his head. “When is it going to stop?”

  Inspector Norman said, “Yes, it’s a good question, Rutledge.”

  He ignored the taunt.

  After the formalities were complete, Rutledge walked with Hopkins out of the station, followed by Kenton.

  “I didn’t think I could manage another night in that cell,” Hopkins was saying. “I’d started to imagine things. Is there any news on Inspector Mickelson?”

  “Nothing new,” Kenton said from behind them.

  Hopkins sighed, looking up at the blue sky. And then his jaw tightened, and he said, “Do I still have a place at Kenton Chairs?”

  Kenton had the grace to look ashamed. But he said, “I never doubted you, my boy. You must believe me.”

  “Then why didn’t you come to see me? Why didn’t you bring me books—some writing paper?”

  Rutledge walked away, leaving them to sort out the changes in their relationship. He drove to The White Swans and asked at the desk for any messages. There were none.

  After a brief hesitation, he went up the stairs to the room belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce.

  The maid was just closing the door after cleaning the room, and Rutledge said to her, “I just wish to leave a message.”

  She looked uncertain, but he handed her a few coins, and she pocketed them almost before her fingers had closed over them. “I’ll just be across the way, then,” and she gave the door a little shove to open it again.

  Rutledge walked in. The room had been serviced, and there wasn’t much to see. It was well appointed, in a French Provincial style that was suited to a bridal suite. Long windows overlooked the str
eet, and beyond that, the strand, and he remembered someone opening the curtains last evening. He walked over and looked out.

  It was indeed a beautiful view, far out to sea. Sunlight glistened on the water, sparkling as the waves rolled inland, and the salt-tinged air blew the lacy curtains against his face.

  Turning back to the room, he considered it. A wardrobe. A desk. Tables on each side of the bed, drawers below. One could hardly hide a garrote and a supply of identity discs here, and risk having a maid or one’s bride stumbling over them.

  Crossing to the desk, he picked up the scrolled silver frame that stood there and looked at the man and woman standing by the white swans that guarded the terrace. They looked happy, carefree, holding hands and smiling for the camera.

  He recognized the man at once. A high brow, strong straight nose, firm chin. He’d seen him before, only not as clearly as here in the photograph. The first time, he’d been standing at Reception, staring, when Rutledge had stepped out of the telephone closet. And he was the man Rutledge had followed to this room only last night—or early this morning to be more precise. Had he also been in the churchyard last evening? Hard to say. Yes, possibly.

  Daniel Pierce looked nothing like his brother. A good face but not attractive, as Anthony had been even in death.

  Hamish said, “The second son.”

  Second in all things.

  The woman beside him was fair and very pretty, dimpling into a smile that made her seem almost beautiful.

  He recalled hearing his sister Frances saying something about all brides being beautiful, and here it was certainly true.

  At her feet was a little dog, tongue out as he panted in the warmth of the summer’s day. Of indeterminate breed, fur overhung his dark eyes in a fringe that was almost frivolous, and he looked up adoringly at his mistress. Her dog, then.

  Rutledge walked to the wardrobe and looked inside. There was a pair of suitcases, without monograms, her clothes and his, side by side, shoes below, hats on the shelf above.