A long shadow ir-8

by Charles Todd

  The sign over the door had read FREEBOLD AND SON, and Rutledge nodded to the man standing behind the cabbages. "Mr. Freebold? Or son?"

  "Son. My father and grandfather, God rest them, have gone on to their just rewards," he responded affably. "How may I serve you, sir?"

  Turning his back on the two or three women in the shop, Rutledge introduced himself and said, "I'm interested in Frith's Wood. Everyone tells me it isn't a safe place to go. And yet Constable Hensley appears to have gone there, of his own free will. I'm trying to find someone in Dudling- ton who might have seen him walk that way."

  "I've not heard of anyone," Freebold answered, glancing over Rutledge's shoulder at the women in his shop. Apparently they had shaken their heads, for Freebold turned back to Rutledge and said, "Someone did say early on that he was seen leaving for Letherington that day."

  "On his bicycle?"

  "Yes, he was a great one for the bicycle." Freebold patted his own girth and added, "My days on two wheels are long vanished, right enough."

  Behind him, Rutledge could hear one of the women titter.

  "Then what became of the bicycle, do you think? I'm told no one found it there in the wood."

  "Which isn't to say he didn't come home and go out again. He wasn't what you'd call overworked here in Dudlington. He'd take an hour or so and pay a visit to The Three Horses in Letherington, if he found that Inspector Cain wasn't about. He was something fond of The Three Horses."

  "Why not stop at The Oaks?"

  "I expect Constable Hensley and Frank Keating didn't see eye to eye," Freebold answered with some reluctance. "You'd best ask Keating about that."

  Rutledge thanked him and left.

  Half an hour later, he was walking into The Three Horses, in Letherington. It was a sizeable village, with two churches to Dudlington's one, and three pubs. The Three Horses was the oldest, with a smoky interior and old oak walls set with horse-racing memorabilia.

  The owner, it transpired, had once been a jockey.

  "Rode three winners," he said to Rutledge, pride in his eyes. "Derby winners at that! Josh Morgan is the name." He was a small, wiry man with a large head and lively gray eyes.

  Rutledge asked for a pint and, when it was brought, engaged Morgan in conversation about his winners and then asked, "I understand Constable Hensley came here when he was in Letherington."

  "Oh, yes, we were blessed often enough with his company. A quiet man, except when he got to talking about London. Then he could go on for an hour without repeating himself!"

  "Much of a ladies' man?"

  "He would chat up whoever was in the saloon, but it was more in aid of his own view of himself. He never gave them-or me-any trouble, I will say that for Constable Hensley."

  "You've heard about the arrow in his back?"

  "Inspector Cain was telling us what happened. I'm glad to hear the constable survived. Nasty piece of business! But then I'm told Frith's Wood isn't a place to meddle with. I've never been there, you understand. I'm not what you might call superstitious, except perhaps on race day, but I believe in leaving well enough alone."

  "Had he been in Letherington that day? I hear he sometimes stops in at The Three Horses when he knows Inspector Cain isn't likely to find him taking his time getting back to Dudlington."

  "He didn't show himself here," Morgan answered, shaking his head. "And that would be unlike him. Always one for the road, he'd say. Not a drinking man, mind you," he added hastily. "But he'd have a pint, sometimes two, before heading back. Ale was his choice. The darker the better. And he could carry what he drank. No harm done."

  "What did he talk about, as a rule?"

  "Racing. He was a football man as well, and he hated Manchester with a passion. Nearly came to blows over that one once, when we had a Manchester man in the bar. Lorry driver, he was. Big as a house." Morgan grinned. "I was on my knees praying there'd be no brawl. They could have wrecked half the bar, between them. But Constable Hens- ley said he must get home to the missus, and he left. I offered Manchester a drink on the house, to see him on his way. Just to prevent the two from meeting on the road somewhere."

  "I didn't think Hensley was married," Rutledge commented. The house in Dudlington was empty. Was there a wife hidden away somewhere else?

  Morgan laughed again. "There's a woman who nags him if he's late for his dinner. He always said it was as good as being married, but without the fuss."

  Barbara Melford, then. She would be furious to learn she was being described as Hensley's "missus."

  "Do you think Hensley was afraid of someone? Or worried about being followed?"

  "He never said as much to me. Of course it's possible. He was a policeman, wasn't he? They're after telling everyone what to do, if we get out of line. Hensley was no exception. It wouldn't endear him to everyone."

  No one else at the pub was helpful, although they appeared to be concerned about Hensley's condition and wished him well. A far cry from the attitude just a few miles away in Dudlington.

  On his way back to the motorcar, Rutledge heard Hamish say, as clearly as if he had followed at Rutledge's heels, "The bicycle was hidden in the field, but he didna' ride it this far."

  "Which means," Rutledge answered, "he either changed his mind about coming to Letherington, or was waylaid before he could get here."

  "It's verra' likely," Hamish said, "that he lied about where he was going."

  "And someone caught him in the wood."

  "He willna' tell ye that."

  A motorcycle roared past as Rutledge cranked his engine into life. He watched it out of sight, then said thoughtfully, "That's an easy way to get about. If I had distance to cover."

  "Aye, but where do you hide it? It's no' like a bicycle, shoved into the weeds."

  But Rutledge was searching his memory for the sound of a motorcycle near Beachy Head, or on the road to Hertford. And drew a blank.

  "Aye, but if yon laddy, Tommy Crowell, was right, the shooter is dead," Hamish told him, his voice a taunt.

  15

  Once again his luncheon was waiting for him on the sideboard in the dining room, covered by a serviette embroidered with Mrs. Melford's initials. Sandwiches, with ham and a very good cheese. There were pickles in a dish, and sliced apples, looking very much like those he'd seen that morning at the greengrocer's.

  Rutledge sat down in the silence of the house, wondering if Mrs. Melford was at home and avoiding him, or if she had gone out.

  He was halfway through his second sandwich when there was a knock at the house door. Rutledge hesitated, unwilling to answer it if Barbara Melford was not at home. Then it opened, and a male voice called, "Barbara, are you in there?"

  The man came into the hall and then as far as the dining room, on his way to the kitchen. And almost fell over his own feet when he saw Rutledge.

  It was Ted Baylor, his boots cleaned and his trousers changed, his hair freshly brushed.

  "Good afternoon," Rutledge said, concealing a smile. Baylor was completely disconcerted, uncertain at first what to say, like a suitor stumbling over his rival. "I didn't know you were invited to lunch here," he finally blurted out. Hamish said, "Yon's a verra' possessive man!" Choosing his words carefully, Rutledge answered, "Mrs. Melford was kind enough to offer to prepare my meals. I'm staying in Hensley's house, and his kitchen leaves much to be desired." "Is she here, then?" Baylor looked around the room, as if half expecting her to be hiding behind the furniture. "I haven't seen her. If you'd care to wait-" For an instant he stood there, debating his choices. "The hell with it, then," Baylor said finally, and turned on his heel. The front door slammed. Hamish commented dryly, "He willna' screw his courage up to come again." Rutledge answered, "You may be right. I don't think I'll tell her she missed Baylor." He finished his sandwich and the apples, then took the empty plates and his cup into the kitchen. It was his turn to stop on the threshold in surprise. Mrs. Melford was sitting at her own kitchen table, her face in her hands, crying. "I'm sorry," he began, u
ncertain now what to do with the dishes. She looked up at him. "Why couldn't you stay in the dining room, where you belonged?" Her voice was bitter and accusing, as if he'd come into the kitchen on purpose, with malicious intent to embarrass her. "I thought you'd gone out." He set the dishes by the sink and turned to go. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked, concerned for her. "No! Yes! You can go away and leave me alone." "When you've assured me that you're all right." She took a deep breath and found a tea towel to wipe away her tears. "It's nothing. Or at least nothing you can repair. Worst luck."

  "You ken, she heard the man's voice. But you were there, in the way, and he wouldna' go on to the kitchen."

  Rutledge disagreed. There was more to her distress than a missed rendezvous. She could have come through from the kitchen and taken Baylor into the parlor, out of earshot.

  He felt helpless, uncertain whether it was best to leave her to cry or to try to comfort her. Because there was anger mixed with her tears, he decided he ought to go.

  After a brief hesitation, he walked to the door and reached out to push it open.

  She said, at his back, "Sometimes I don't understand how a man can tell you he loves you more than life itself- and then can walk away, leaving you to believe he's a liar."

  Without turning, he stood there facing the door and said, "Had he made promises?"

  "He wrote to me during the war. He said if he lived, he wanted to marry me. I'd lost my husband only a year after our wedding, in 1912. Ted and I had known each other since we were children, and I cared for him. I told him I'd be here waiting when he came home. And he was one of the fortunate ones, he survived. The day he came back to Dudlington, I was twenty again, as excited as a girl. You can't imagine how I felt. He went past the house, without a glance, I saw him. And he shut himself up in that farm of his and never said a word to me. Then or later. I could hardly knock at his door and ask him why. I had my pride."

  "Why did he come here today? After all this time?"

  "God knows. I don't. Oh, we've met before-this village is too small to avoid running into each other at St. Luke's or in the shops. We nod without speaking. I have my pride," she repeated, through clenched teeth. "I won't let him see that it matters. And it's too late to make amends. What I might have felt for him is gone" Her voice broke again on the last word.

  Rutledge stood there, waiting. But she'd said all she needed to say. He pushed open the door and left her in the kitchen.

  When he came to the house for his evening meal, he expected to find the door locked. But it was open, and his food was ready for him on the sideboard. Mrs. Melford didn't put in an appearance then or at breakfast. The post brought Rutledge a package the next morning. The handwriting was unfamiliar but graceful. Inspector Ian Rutledge. Dudlington, Northants. There was no return address.

  He opened the small box and inside, folded in a sheet of paper, was the cartridge case he'd inadvertently left at Mrs. Channing's.

  The sheet of paper was a note.

  I asked Miss Rutledge for your present direction, and she has found it for me. You hadforgotten to take this with you when you left, and I dislike having it in my house. I don't know why, it's merely a metal casing. But the more I look at it the more uncomfortable I feel. There's something evil about it, in a way. I'd have liked to bury it in the dustbin and be rid of it. However, it isn't mine to dispose of, and so I return it.

  He could hear her low, pleasant voice in the words as he read them, and for a moment he could see her sitting at the little walnut desk in her drawing room, writing the letter. It was such a vital image that he was surprised. He laid the letter aside and looked again at the case. Once more he asked himself if the shot on the road to Hertford had been meant to kill him. Or only to frighten him?

  Hamish said, "If it was to kill, why leave the three casings in the hedgerow?"

  Because, Rutledge thought, he came prepared. For either eventuality. Which said that he hadn't really cared how it had turned out. He had just folded the letter and put the shell case in his pocket when there was a timid knock at the door, and a young woman stood on the threshold, poised to back away. He put her age down as sixteen.

  "Come in," Rutledge said, giving her his name and moving around the desk to the far side, to leave the room to her.

  She stepped shyly into the office, looking around as she introduced herself as Martha Simpson.

  He thought, She's never been in Hensley's house before. "Please." He pointed to the chair across from the desk.

  "I'm so sorry to disturb you. But I've overheard my mother tell a friend that you'd been asking questions about Emma…"

  What had the rector said about gossip?

  "Yes, that's true. Did you know her?"

  She glanced at the other chair as if uncertain whether she ought to sit or remain standing. "I went to school with her. We weren't the best of friends-her grandmother didn't approve of me."

  "Why on earth would you believe that?" he asked, trying to put her at her ease. "You seem perfectly respectable to me."

  She laughed. "I'm the baker's daughter, you see. Not grand enough for Mrs. Ellison. But I rather liked Emma, and I've been very worried about her. I wondered if you'd had news of her. I couldn't ask her grandmother directly, I was always afraid I'd be told to mind my own business."

  "Sadly, no, I haven't anything new to tell you. I asked questions for the simple reason that Constable Hensley had put down very little about her disappearance in his files. It seemed strange, given the fact that it was possible that murder had been done."

  Martha winced at the word. "I'd not like to think of anything awful happening to her." She appeared to have conquered her initial shyness and finally sat down in the chair across from him. "She was talented, like her mother," she went on earnestly. "I've seen some of the watercolors belonging to Grace Letteridge. Emma could draw nearly as well. She did a portrait of me, once, in pastels. I still have it, it's framed in my room."

  "Was Emma a good student?"

  "She was very bright, yes. I rather admired that. I'm hopeless at mathematics, and she often helped me when I couldn't see how to do a problem. We sometimes studied together at Grace's house, after tea. I looked forward to it. She never made me feel young and useless."

  And then with an unexpected maturity that came welling up as her confidence increased, she added, "I'd always believed that Emma went to find her mother, in spite of all the rumors to the contrary. Dudlington is a backwater, with nothing to offer a girl like Emma. There isn't an unmarried man here that her grandmother would have considered worthy of her. She wrote to her mother, from time to time, you know. And the letters were returned unopened. But we always suspected, Grace and I, that her mother felt Emma was far too young to come to London then. She needed to finish her schooling and grow up. That's understandable, since Mrs. Mason had brought her here for that purpose in the first place."

  "You saw these returned letters? Do you by any chance know Mrs. Mason's direction?"

  "No, Mrs. Ellison always burned them, angry with her daughter for treating Emma so shabbily. My mother often said it was shameful the way Beatrice Mason ignored her own flesh and blood. She'd known Beatrice, and she said she'd never expected her to turn out to be such a snob." She smiled deprecatingly, in defense of her mother. "But then you must have seen Mrs. Mason's exhibitions in London. She must be quite famous by now."

  He not only hadn't seen them, he had never heard of an artist by that name. But then Beatrice Mason was rather staid for a painter hoping to take London by storm. Frances would know who she was… or who she pretended to be.

  But Hamish was taking a different tack. "If she wasna' sae successful as that, mayhap she didna' care for her mither or the daughter to know the truth."

  "I understand Miss Letteridge spent nearly two years in London at the start of the war. Did she look up Emma's mother while she was there?"

  Martha Simpson had risen. "I've asked her that. She said she saw no point in it, since Mrs. Mason had never
shown any desire to hear from Emma."

  He wondered if Grace Letteridge had lied for Emma's sake.

  Standing now, he asked casually, as if it wasn't important, "I'd have thought, at seventeen, Emma might have given her heart to someone here and lost interest in London altogether. It happens."

  She bit her lip, as if misleading him came hard to her. "I don't know anything about that, Inspector." The denial had come too quickly. She added, "Emma never confided in me."

  "But you knew her. You might have-er, guessed where her affections lay."

  Martha shook her head vehemently. "No. There was no one she cared for. She went to London. I'll always believe that."

  He pressed her. "If she's not with her mother, and not with a man she fell in love with, then what is the alternative?"

  "She was too young to marry without her grandmother's permission. And she wouldn't have gone away with anyone, no matter how she felt about him-she'd been brought up to respect her grandmother. Emma wouldn't have caused her such shame."

  He could imagine how the wives of the baker and the greengrocer and the butcher would have relished that sort of scandal, and taken pleasure in rubbing Mrs. Ellison's nose in her disgrace. He had to agree with Martha there.

  "It's possible that Emma hoped her mother would give her the necessary permission."

  "No. Somehow I can't believe-she'd have come back if that were true." She was agitated, as if he'd accused Emma of being immoral. After a moment, she added, "I've made a mistake in coming here. I'd hoped for news. Constable Hensley wouldn't answer me either. It's frustrating when everyone believes you're too young to know the truth! But please don't tell my parents I was foolish enough to come here alone. They'll be angry with me. I'm sorry-" And she was out the door, without looking back.

  He called to her, but it was too late.

  Restless, he went for a walk to clear his head. He went as far as The Oaks, and then turned right, cutting across the wide sweep of fields that ran down to the little stream, where trees marked its winding path through the pastures behind Dudlington. The wind caught up with him as soon as he was out of the shelter of the village, and he could feel the cold penetrating his coat and touching his skin with icy fingers. No wonder the village turned its back on the fields, however picturesque they might seem-they faced west, and the prevailing winds met no resistance on this open land until it reached the stone and mortar of man's huddled world.