by Charles Todd
Shortly afterward, Constable Neville went on to the rectory of St. Simon’s Church. It was set back from the road on the far side of the churchyard, well out of sight of the cortege that had made its sad way to the doctor’s surgery. In the Middle Ages, wool had built East Dedham and enlarged its church before the market declined. Still, during the Great War, the demand for uniforms and blankets had seen to a small resurgence in income here and elsewhere, although not enough to bring a return to real prosperity. Close up, even East Dedham was showing the cost of war.
He made his way up the path to the rectory’s door. Like the church, the house was built of flint, sturdy and rather attractive with its stone facings and peaked roof. But while the church had Norman antecedents, the rectory was much later. It had been renovated early in Victoria’s reign, and a later Rector had set out gardens, softening the severity of the flint in spring and summer. Now the beds showed only the last bare spikes of late autumn amid withered leaves.
Neville stood at the door for a moment before lifting the brass knocker and letting it fall. Listening for footsteps, he tried to arrange the words he would have to use when the housekeeper opened the door. But it was hopeless. He wasn’t a man who found it easy to express sympathy. He’d have given much for a pint before coming here, but one didn’t deliver bad news while reeking of strong drink.
It was several minutes before a woman with graying hair put up in a bun on the top of her head opened the door to him.
“Constable,” she said, nodding to him. “If you’ve come for Rector, he’s gone out,” she added apologetically. “He was supposed to be back late last night, but he must have been kept over. I hope it’s not urgent business brought you here.”
“Might I come in a moment? It was a walk from Burling Gap. I could do with a glass of water.” He hadn’t meant to begin that way, but he found it hard to tell her, bluntly and on the doorstep, what he’d come to say.
“Yes, of course.” She moved back, allowing him to enter the cool dimness of the hall, then led the way back to the kitchen. “What was it you wanted with Rector?”
He didn’t answer straightaway. As she busied herself fetching a glass and pouring water into it from a jug kept cool in the pantry, he looked around at the plain, old-fashioned kitchen. It was built to hold a large family, like the house itself. Two infant chairs stood on either side of the door to the back stairs leading to the upper floors. Nearer where he stood, the Welsh dresser gleamed with patterned china, large platters and serving dishes handed down from generation to generation. The table itself, in the center of the room, could easily seat ten at a pinch.
Mrs. Saunders handed him the glass, and he drank a little before saying, “I expect you’ll be wanting to sit down.” And without waiting for an invitation, he pulled out one of the straight-back chairs and held it for her before taking one for himself.
She was alarmed now, although he’d tried not to let her guess what he’d come to say. There was nothing for it but to come out with his news and then give her time to take it in.
“There was an accident up on the Gap,” he said slowly. “The steep part. Motorcar went over off the road and rolled, killing the driver instantly.”
“Oh, my dear,” she said softly, almost relieved, and he realized that she thought it was on behalf of the dead man that he’d come. “Anyone we know?”
“The driver was Rector,” he said, and watched her face change.
“Rector?” she repeated. “Surely you must be mistaken. He doesn’t own a motorcar.”
“It was borrowed. But he was driving. There’s no doubt about that. And as far as we can tell, he was alone.” Neville picked up his glass and then set it aside.
“Oh, my dear,” she said again, and this time her voice dwindled into a sigh.
“He didn’t suffer,” Neville repeated, trying to reassure her. Then, fiddling with his helmet, he said, “Whose motorcar would he be likely to borrow? Do you know?”
“But he left here on his bicycle just after two o’clock. He was calling on that farmer whose son is dying of his wounds. Timmy Melford.”
Neville knew Melford. And his farm was nowhere near where the motorcar had gone off the road. Nor was there a bicycle in the wreckage.
She was saying, “Poor lad, he was in hospital for months. They brought him home to die. The wound in his chest wouldn’t heal, and finally turned septic. There was naught to be done for him. A nice lad, grew into a nice young man.”
Neville said gently, “Let me get this straight. Rector went to the Melford farm on his bicycle. Was he intending to go somewhere else from there?”
“He never said. But he did ask me to leave his supper, that he might be home late. He’d often stay until the undertaker had come. It was never touched, his supper. I found it this morning, just where I’d set it.”
“I see.” Changing the subject now, he said, “Is there anyone I can bring here to keep you company?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather be alone, at least for now. I might go to my sister’s tonight, if that’s all right. First I’ll need to lay out clothes for the undertaker.”
“There’s no family to be notified?”
“Rector never spoke of any. His mother died when he was young, and his father while he was in seminary.” She looked around the kitchen. “He loved this church. I expect he’d want to be laid to rest here.”
“Is there a will? Anything that might tell us what his last wishes might be?”
“If there was, he said nothing of it to me. You’d have to ask his solicitor. Mr. Edgecombe.”
Neville resigned himself to traveling back to the Gap in the dark. The days were short now, and it was already nearly two o’clock. There was the message to be sent to the Chief Constable as well. He sighed.
He stayed a little longer with Mrs. Saunders out of kindness, eating the bit of cake she’d insisted on offering him, the hospitality of the rectory.
The Rector’s solicitor had chambers in a narrow building with a dark green door, set between the tiny stationer’s shop and the greengrocer’s. Edgecombe’s clerk informed Neville that the solicitor was in Pevensey for the day, and wouldn’t be back until late afternoon on the morrow.
So much for that. Disappointed, Neville went on to the pub, where he begged paper and an envelope, and sat down at a table in a back corner to write his request to the Chief Constable. That done, he went around back to where he’d heard a brewery van offloading the week’s supplies of beer and ale, and persuaded the driver to carry the letter to Arundel, where the Chief Constable lived.
“Mind you hand it directly to his housekeeper,” Neville told him. “Not to a housemaid.”
His next call was at the police station to inform Constable Brewster of Wright’s death.
He found Brewster half asleep at the table that served as his desk, his helmet set to one side and his feet on the blotter. As Neville recounted the morning’s events, Brewster shook his head. “There’s a loss. He was well liked, Rector was. But what was he doing driving on the Gap road?”
“God knows.” Neville told him what he felt Brewster ought to know, then waited for the other man to think the matter through.
“Here, this should be my inquiry. You should have sent someone for me.”
There was a querulous note in his voice now.
“He died in my jurisdiction,” Neville countered. “But there’s doubt about why he was there. According to the housekeeper, he was going to the Melford farm yesterday. On his bicycle. But he hasn’t been back to the rectory since.”
“Are you certain it’s Captain Standish’s motorcar? He’s not likely to be lending it, even to Rector.”
“Certain as can be.” He paused. “The general opinion is, this is a matter for Scotland Yard. My advice is to leave them to it.”
“Why? It appears to be straightforward enough.”
“But what if it isn’t?”
Brewster stared at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“No,” Brewster said slowly. “But as you say, it’s your patch, not mine.”
Closing the door of the police station, Neville wished for his own bicycle. He could have asked the loan of Brewster’s, but he’d have had to explain why.
The church clock was just striking three as he turned toward the Melford farm.
It was a good three-quarters of an hour before Neville reached the house, set in a fold of the land and protected by half a dozen trees that leaned with the prevailing wind, their tops like shrubs set on nearly bare trunks. The light was already fading, and the temperature was dropping as he came up the track to the house. Like many of its neighbors, it was built of flint, long and rambling, nestled into its setting. He stopped to button up his tunic again—the pace he’d set himself had been warm work—and then went on to the door.
It was hung with black crepe, and there was no answer when he knocked. He stood there, waiting patiently, but no one came.
Finally, nursing a stiffening knee, he walked around the house to the kitchen door. Through a window he could see Mrs. Melford sitting at the wooden table, staring into space.
He startled her, even though his knock was hardly more than a tap. For an instant he read hope in her eyes as she opened the door. Then she said, “It’s Constable Neville, isn’t it?”
“Yes, from over to the Gap. Is your husband at home today?”
She moved aside to allow him to step in. “He’s gone into Seaford to speak to the undertaker. I thought at first you might be from there, come to tell me—he’s taken it hard. The boy’s death.”
He could see her clearly now as she lit the lamp. She looked tired, a tension about her eyes that told him she wasn’t sleeping well. He thought perhaps she had had a long battle with hopelessness, even before her son’s death.
“I’m sorry to hear he’s gone,” Neville said. “He was always a good lad, Timmy.”
“It was a blessing,” she said, but there was doubt in her voice. “Watching him waste away—but the house seems so empty now. I listened night and day to his breathing. You could hear it anywhere in the house. I don’t know that I can bear the silence.”
Not knowing what to say that might bring her comfort, he said gently, “Actually, I’ve come to about Rector. His housekeeper told me he was planning to call on you yesterday.”
Her eyebrows went up in surprise. “Rector? He’s not been here. I’ve been expecting him all the day long, but we haven’t seen him.”
“When was he last here?”
“It’s been four days, I should think. Yes, I’m sure of it. He stopped by often, looking in on Timmy and us. It was a comfort to all of us.”
He nodded in sympathy, uncertain whether to tell her that Wright too had died in the night. “There was a motorcar crash last night,” he said finally. “Rector was killed. I’m that sorry to have to be the one to tell you.”
Her hands to her face, she stared at him. And her first thought was for her late son. “But who will bury Timmy now?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Melford. The Bishop will send someone, I’ve no doubt.”
“I can’t get over it,” she said. “Rector dead too.” Tears filled her eyes as if this was the final blow, and Neville stood there, unable to think of anything to say.
Rousing herself, she said, “I’m forgetting myself, Constable. Could I offer you a cup of tea? I was just about to make one for myself.”
But she had been sitting there lost in thought, not starting to make tea or cook the evening meal. He thanked her for her courtesy and asked if she’d be all right, left alone, waiting for her husband and the undertaker.
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” she said, and walked with him to the door.
He stood by the window, watching her walk back to the table and sit down again, lost in her own grief.
Despite his stiff knee, he set himself a fair pace back toward East Dedham. There he encountered half a dozen people who asked him if it were true, about Rector.
He’d intended to go home, fetch his bicycle, and continue to Captain Standish’s house. Instead, cursing the steady climb up to the scene of the accident, he looked again at the torn turf and the bruised grass. Finding what he was after, he took out his notebook. He squatted where the two sets of tire tracks converged. The light was going fast now, but in the afterglow, he could just see the patterns where the mud from the road had marked the place where two vehicles had driven onto the turf, their tracks overlapping. He began to sketch what distinguished the sets, then made certain he got it right in each case. Already the distinctive marks were harder to see, and he cursed himself for not coming back here before he went on to the Melford farm. As he rose from his cramped position, his knee reminded him why he had not come sooner.
Standing there, notebook in hand, he looked around. It was as if he were alone here at the ends of the earth, only the wheeling gulls overhead, coming in from the sea and adding their calls to the ever-present sound of the wind. Not a single other soul in sight, not even the sheep, who had moved on. He shivered, for no reason that he could think of, and snapped his notebook shut.
On the long walk back to the Gap and the remnants of his own village, he found himself thinking that the cottages here, even though they were made of the same flint, couldn’t hold a candle to those at East Dedham. The roofs were still in need of repair, even two years after the war had finished, and several could use a little paint around windows and doors. But there was no money to put toward repairs. Perched as it was on the very edge of the great chalk cliffs, where it had set for centuries, Burling Gap was slowly crumbling into the sea. Since 1905 he’d watched the decline, watched the houses of neighbors fall into the sea in winter storms that ate at the cliff faces. How many were gone already? He recounted the names of those who had lived here. One or two had tried to rebuild a little farther inland, but the rest had moved on, taking what they’d managed to salvage with them. For there was little enough work here as it was.
But it was his patch, and he liked it. As long as one house remained at the top of the cliff, he’d not be leaving it.
The first stars were just showing as he limped to his door and stepped inside. He wasn’t sure he could make it to the chair by the cold hearth, his knee threatening to buckle first.
He was too old to walk as far as he’d done today. Come to that, he was close to being too old to pedal, but he dared not complain to anyone. Since the war’s end there had been talk of closing the police station at Burling Gap and adding the hamlet to the jurisdiction of East Dedham. To Brewster’s jurisdiction, a man too lazy to care.
Sinking at last into his chair, he leaned his head back on the cushion.
If the Chief Constable agreed to his request to bring in the Yard, Neville prayed that whoever they sent owned a motorcar. Unlikely, of course, but it would make short work of distances and be a blessing.
A man could always wish for something, couldn’t he?
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the New York Times best-selling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live on the East Coast.
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Also by Charles Todd
The Ian Rutledge Mysteries
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
Watchers of Time
A Fearsome Doubt
A Cold Treachery
A Long Shadow
A False Mirror
A Pale Horse
A Matter of Justice
The Red Door
A Lonely Death
The Confession
Proof of Guilt
Hunting Shadows
&
nbsp; A Fine Summer’s Day
No Shred of Evidence
Racing the Devil
The Bess Crawford Mysteries
A Duty to the Dead
An Impartial Witness
A Bitter Truth
An Unmarked Grave
A Question of Honor
An Unwilling Accomplice
A Pattern of Lies
The Shattered Tree
Other Fiction
The Murder Stone
The Walnut Tree
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Racing the Devil copyright © 2017 by Charles Todd.
the piper. Copyright © 2017 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Digital Edition JANUARY 2017 ISBN: 9780062678096
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