by Charles Todd
“He’s in the garden. You know the way. You’ll forgive me, won’t you, for not walking out with you.” She rose and held out her hand. “It was good to see you, Ian. Thank you for coming by.”
He took her hand, held it for a moment. “When Reginald is—gone, if you need me, I’ll come.”
“I—thank you.”
He turned away before she could know that he’d seen the tears welling in her eyes.
Reginald was sitting in a deck chair in the shade of a large maple. He appeared to be asleep, but the painful rise and fall of his chest told Rutledge he was not.
“You’ve become quite the man of leisure,” Rutledge said as he came nearer, so as not to startle the ill man.
“This is a surprise! Hallo, Ian, it’s good of you to come. Have you seen Rosemary?”
“Yes, just now. She thinks I’ve mistaken my Baedeker—Chaswell is nowhere near Sussex.”
Reginald began to laugh, and it was cut short by a spasm of gasping for breath that was painful to watch.
When he had control of his breathing again, he said, “I’m glad you will be looking in on her. I’m not doing as well as the doctors had expected.”
“Nonsense,” Rutledge began in a rallying tone.
“I saw the doctor this morning. Doctor Bones, I call him. He is forever telling me that I shan’t make old bones. But he’s right. It’s more and more of a struggle. And one day, it will be over. I could be at peace with that save for two things. Rosemary is one of them.”
“And the other?”
“I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want Rosemary to have to face it with me.”
“I’ve already promised—”
“I know. But there’s the Yard. Your time isn’t your own. I’ve left instructions in a letter my solicitor keeps for me. And if you aren’t here, there’s another letter meant for you. For old time’s sake.”
“I’m glad you told me. I shall be here, if it’s at all possible.”
He rose and took Reginald’s hand. “Would you prefer to be at home?”
“No, no. I think the decision to stay on here was a good one. Whether she wants to admit it or not, sometimes when I rattle about the place, she can pretend that Max is just in the other room, or upstairs, or sitting out here in his favorite chair. He’d taken to smoking a pipe out here, every afternoon, did you know? Smelled like the very devil, but he thought it might steady his nerves.”
Rutledge said, “Then you’ve done the right thing.”
He left soon afterward, wondering if he was likely to see Reginald alive again. But he’d meant his promise, and he would try to keep it.
Hamish was his companion on the rest of the drive back to Sussex, and they debated the whereabouts of Tommy Summers and Daniel Pierce, before the discussion moved on to Reginald and the war. Rutledge could feel the tension mounting as the voice grew louder in his ears, and he could feel himself slipping back into the waking nightmare of the trenches. He couldn’t remember much about the last one hundred miles, but it was late when he rolled into Battle, passing the great gatehouse of the abbey ruins. Eastfield was not far away. He dreaded to hear that there had been another killing. Tuttle or one of the others.
Where the bloody hell was Tommy Summers? He knew where to lay hands on Pierce.
No one had died in his absence.
And Constable Walker was relieved to see him.
“There’s no better news of Inspector Mickelson,” he told Rutledge, “but Inspector Norman has asked to set up the inquest without him. Now that Carl Hopkins has been released. Waiting for the inspector to recover doesn’t serve any purpose now.”
“Yes, all right. And send word by Constable Petty that Hartle’s body can be released. Perhaps we can tempt our murderer to attend the funeral service.”
He had said it wryly, but Constable Walker asked, “Do you think that’s likely?”
“That depends. Is there anyone in Eastfield who isn’t well known to you? A distant cousin come to visit? A mate from the war—someone we could have overlooked?”
“Nobody. I’ve been thinking about it. I’d recognize Tommy Summers if I saw him.”
“I doubt it.” Rutledge told him of the visit to Regina Summers’s cottage. “You’re remembering the child, not the man. He could be someone we see every day but never think twice about.”
“Constable Petty?” Walker asked with dry humor. “He’s a great help, I don’t doubt that, but the man gets on my nerves. Always creeping about. It’s as if he knows where he’s not wanted, and pops up there on purpose.”
“If there are no strangers, what about someone who has lived quietly here for the past year or less? A new worker at the brewery? A laborer on one of the farms? Someone at Kenton Chairs? Above suspicion, because he’s been accepted?”
“There’s the groundskeeper at the school,” Constable Walker said, suddenly galvanized. “I hadn’t thought about him.”
“What is his name? Where does he come from?”
“He called himself Ned Browning. Ex-soldier looking for work, never any trouble, kept himself to himself. I saw him once or twice in The Conqueror, but he wasn’t a drinking man, as far as I could tell. When I asked Mrs. Farrell-Smith how he was getting on, she told me he knew something about gardening and pruning, and did what he was told without complaint. Deferential, she said, knew his place. He was allowed to live in that tiny cottage behind the stables, where the coachman lived in the Misses Tates’ day.”
Rutledge could see another cottage, Old Well House, with its long beds of iris and other plantings. He had assumed that Regina was the gardener. Or had she just kept up the work that her brother had begun? He hadn’t thought to ask. Landscaping was landscaping, except to admire the results.
“What does he look like?”
Constable Walker said with a shrug, “Not as tall as you are, as I remember. Brown hair, shaggy, falling into his face. Looked like it had been trimmed with his own secateurs. Ordinary features. If he was on the street or at the pub, he’d wet it down and slick it back, making it appear much darker. Rarely looked you in the eye, but not hangdog. More like the life had been sucked out of him. I doubt I heard him speak a dozen words.”
“An ex-soldier? But not with the Eastfield Company?”
“No, from the north, I was told. My nephew wondered if he’d been shell-shocked, but I didn’t see any signs of that. You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
Rutledge felt a frisson of panic at the words shell shock. As if the constable could see in his own eyes the shame that haunted him.
He managed to say, “Where is he now? You used the past tense.”
“That’s the devil of it. He only stayed a few months and left in late winter, giving Mrs. Farrell-Smith the opportunity to hire someone else before spring. She said it was very considerate of him, and gave him an excellent reference.”
“That reference. Where was he going with it?”
“He said he had an offer from one of the large estates in Staffordshire. I didn’t know of any, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Staffordshire. Kenton had had trouble remembering where the elder Summers had taken up his new position. He had dithered between Staffordshire and Shropshire.
Another connection. They had been plain to see, if one had just known where to look.
Rutledge said, “There’s Moseley Old Hall at Bushby—Wolseley Hall at Colwich—Pillaton Hall near Penkridge. It’s possible. But is it likely?”
“We must speak to Mrs. Farrell-Smith, then.”
“There are two tasks I must see to first.”
He left directly for Hastings and The White Swans. When he got there, he learned that Sergeant Gibson had returned his telephone call as expected, but he had left no messages.
“And your guests, Mr. and Mrs. Pierce. Are they still here?”
“I’m afraid they left yesterday morning, unexpectedly. The housekeeper told me they were unhappy with their room.”
Unhappy with it—or had
they learned of Rutledge’s intrusion? The maid could have said something.
Hamish was an angry buzz in the back of his mind.
“Never mind,” he said far more pleasantly than he felt. “Do you know where they were intending to travel next?”
“He left a message for anyone who asked after him. Mr. Pierce said he was intending to travel to Brighton.”
Rutledge thanked the clerk and went to the telephone closet, where he put in a call to the Yard.
Sergeant Gibson was away from his desk.
Rutledge rang off.
He went next to the police station. “Did you know,” he asked as he walked through to Inspector Norman’s office, “that Daniel Pierce was staying at The White Swans with his bride?”
“Was he, indeed. Well, I’ll be damned. Does his father know?”
“I doubt it. The happy couple never came to Eastfield. But that isn’t to say that Pierce didn’t come here to see them.”
“How is he connected with this business? I’d find it easy to believe that he had some part in it.”
“Evidence is slowly but inexorably pointing to one Thomas Summers. The problem is, he doesn’t appear to be in Sussex. And Pierce is. But in his case, there’s the question of motive. Why would Pierce turn to murder?”
“To rid himself of his brother,” Norman said unequivocally.
“Then why does he continue to kill?”
Norman shrugged. “The excitement. He couldn’t have expected that, could he? The hunt for victims—avoiding the police. He was a sapper, wasn’t he? That’s perilous work. A man can miss danger.”
It was possible. It was also possible that he’d come to his senses, finally, and walked away from temptation. “No word on Mickelson?”
“He appeared to be awake for a quarter of an hour this morning. The doctors sent the constable charged with keeping an eye on the sickroom to alert the local police, but by the time they reached the hospital, Mickelson had slipped into unconsciousness again. Damned incompetence, if you ask me.”
“I’m glad to hear there’s been some improvement.”
“Because you care about the man, or because whatever he can tell the police stands to clear your good name?”
“I’ll let you decide.” Rutledge hadn’t taken a chair. Now he turned to leave the room.
“What are we to do about this Summers person?”
“We must find him first. Constable Walker wonders if your man Petty could be Summers.”
Shutting the door behind him, he strode out of the building and to his motorcar. Even the five minutes he’d spent there had forcibly reminded him of his cell. If he never saw the police station again for the remainder of his life, it would still not wipe away the memory.
Back in Eastfield, he went to call on Tyrell Pierce.
“Do you bring me news?” he asked as his clerk showed Rutledge into his office.
“Not at present. I would like to ask you several questions. The first is about your son Anthony’s connection with Mrs. Farrell-Smith.”
“I had hoped he would look in that direction. I won’t lie to you. She comes from an excellent background, and she has money of her own, from her late husband’s estate. There was no fear she was after Anthony’s inheritance. And she’s very attractive. I could see that for myself. Pleasant, well educated, good company at dinner, a fine hostess. She would have been a very good match for Anthony.”
Hamish said, “He’s verra’ attracted to her himsel’.”
And it was true. Rutledge, considering him, realized that he was still young enough to marry again and have a second family. Rutledge wondered if Pierce knew anything about the shadow hanging over the late Farrell-Smith’s death. Probing, he asked, “What happened to her husband?”
“Yes, a pity he died so young. She told me privately that he drank too much. Anthony mentioned that he’d been at loose ends after he left school. Moody, his temper uncertain. He felt that Farrell-Smith had married before he really knew his own mind about what he was going to do with his life. But young men in love are often impulsive.”
Rutledge could see that Mrs. Farrell-Smith had cleverly sown seeds of doubt about her husband’s state of mind. If it came to Pierce’s ears that the man had killed himself, he would understand why.
He abruptly changed the subject. “Have you met Daniel’s wife?”
“Wife? Where did you hear that Daniel had married?”
“He was in Hastings, with his bride and her little dog.”
The elder Pierce’s face flushed with anger. “It’s not true. I can tell you it’s not true.”
“Why shouldn’t he wish to marry? The war is over, he wouldn’t be the first man to look for an anchor in his life.”
“Because the woman he has been in love with since he was sixteen is already married,” Pierce answered, goaded. “And I was glad of that, damn it. She wasn’t suitable, and I told him so. I thank God on my knees every night that her husband is still alive. And I pray that he stays amongst the living until whatever passion it is that my son feels for her has burned itself out.”
“Who is she?”
“Mrs. Winslow.”
Rutledge sat there and digested what he had just been told.
“Does she return his feelings?”
“She did when she was sixteen. But I put a stop to that. And a good thing too, because just before the war she chose to marry Winslow. I’m sure she’s regretted it every day since then. Martyrdom is best enjoyed briefly.”
A vicious remark, but then Peggy Winslow had threatened this man’s view of how his sons would prosper as he had prospered, climbing the social ladder with their looks, their charm, and their money. He’d seen Mrs. Farrell-Smith as eminently suitable for Anthony. He didn’t seem to know she preferred the younger brother.
“Where is he now, your son?”
“I don’t know. But that’s why he left Eastfield again so soon after coming home from France. He couldn’t bear to be in the same village with Winslow. He was afraid he’d do him a harm. And if you pass that on to anyone, even Constable Walker, I’ll tell the world you lied.”
That, Hamish was pointing out, explained why Pierce had been distraught when village men began dying. He’d been terrified that their deaths, even his own son’s, had been random, to make Winslow’s death, when it happened, seem part of a pattern that had nothing to do with the man’s wife.
Rutledge said tightly, “It’s not my intention to gossip. Unfortunately, I can’t walk away from potential evidence, however odd or unimportant it appears to be.”
“Did you see Mrs. Winslow’s cat?” Pierce asked.
“Cat? No, I’m afraid not. Should I have done?”
“He gave it to her. A tortoiseshell. Named the damned thing Arrow, after our firm, and told her that as long as she possessed Arrow, she had his heart in her hands. He’d found it as a kitten in a corner of the brewery wall one winter’s night. He had a soft spot for cats. I never could understand that. With any luck, Arrow has used up her nine lives and has gone on to whatever heaven God reserves for animals.”
Rutledge thanked him and was walking to the door when Pierce added, still fuming over Rutledge’s allegations about Daniel, “I know you’re lying to me. I can prove it. Daniel can’t be in contact with dogs. They make his eyes red, and he wheezes. And so you may tell Inspector Norman that this trick won’t wash.”
Standing in the doorway, Rutledge said, “I’m sorry?”
“We had him to specialists in London. Daniel. Dogs and chocolates. We were warned that either of them could kill him by choking off his air.”
Closing the door, Rutledge stood there, his mind flying.
If that hadn’t been Daniel Pierce and his bride with her dog Muffin, who the hell had it been?
20
Rutledge turned on his heel and knocked at the door behind him, opening it almost at once before Pierce could deny him entrance.
“Do you have a photograph of your son?” he asked the man beh
ind the desk. “As recent as may be.”
Pierce said warily, “Not here. At my home. Why do you need a photograph? I have told you, Daniel isn’t a murderer.”
“To eliminate him finally from the queue of suspects.”
“I’ll bring it to the hotel later in the day, shall I?”
Rutledge had to be satisfied with that.
He asked the clerk, Starret, for the use of the brewery telephone. He thought at first that the man would refuse, for he looked toward Pierce’s office uncertainly.
It took some time to reach Gibson at the Yard, and his voice was testy.
“I’ve not found this Thomas Summers. The Army records show that he enlisted in Buildwas, Shropshire, he was wounded twice in France, he was demobilized in early 1919 because he was attached to the details reburying the dead. His current residence is still in Shropshire. They don’t have a more recent one.”
“I’ve been there,” Rutledge said, Hamish hammering in the back of his head to the point that he could hardly think. “He’s not there. What else?”
“I was at Somerset House, and after looking up Lieutenant Pierce’s marriage—there is no record of it—I took the liberty of looking up Corporal Summers’s records. I see his birth, right enough, there in Eastfield. He was married in Brighton three weeks ago to one Edna Stallings, spinster, from Bedford. He put down Shropshire again as his residence.”
Rutledge swore with feeling. He’d had the man within reach, and he’d lost him.
Hamish said, “He used another man’s name.”
And how had he convinced his bride to allow that?
My friends will track us down, they’ll stand on the terrace and serenade us. It will be shockingly embarrassing. Everyone will stare. Daniel is a good friend, he told me he doesn’t mind, as long as we don’t leave him to settle up.
She would laugh and find it exciting to be someone else.
She had a sweet face, she’d stared up at her husband adoringly in that wedding photograph. Was she the nurse he’d gone in search of?
