by Charles Todd
"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.
What sort of man had her husband been? The war was over. Had been for two years. If Channing had been missing for four-five-years, it was more than likely he was dead. But she refused to accept it. Had she loved him so much? And was her guilt the growing realization that she must admit he was dead?
Rutledge didn't know. But he was a policeman, and solving riddles was bread and butter to him.
A good many men had gone missing. Blown up, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition by shells and gunfire, rotting in No Man's Land under the summer sun until the black, bloated body held no resemblance to the living.
Had she loved him so much?
The attendant brought his whisky and Rutledge paid for it on the spot. The harsh swirl of his first taste seemed to burn down his throat, and he set the glass aside.
This had been a wild goose chase. If the man from St. Mary's churchyard had come to Hastings, he wasn't here, or if he was, he was in bed and asleep, where he himself ought to be now.
But he waited all the same.
And just before dawn, after he'd finished his whisky and was fighting the fatigue that was slowly dulling his senses, he heard footsteps, brisk and male, crossing the marble floor of the lobby.
He turned his chair very slightly, so that he could see the elevator. But the man didn't use it, he took the broad, carpeted stairs two at a time.
Rutledge reached the lobby about a dozen steps behind him, and setting his hat on his head at an angle that shadowed his face, he went up after the man.
He reached the first floor in time to see his quarry disappearing into the fifth door on the seaward side. Rutledge followed, leaning lightly toward the door to listen.
A warm female voice said, "You're late, my dear."
And a man answered, "But I'm here now."
She laughed, a silvery sound, pleasant. "Come to bed, then."
Rutledge looked at the number on the door.
He moved silently away from it and then walked back the way he had come, down the stairs to Reception, where he rang the bell for the night clerk. The man limped as he stepped out of an inner office, his face slack with sleep.
"May I assist you, sir?"
Rutledge said, "Scotland Yard. You can verify that by contacting Inspector Norman, if you like. I just need information at the moment. And my request will not fuel the morning gossip. Is that understood?" He set his identity card on the mahogany counter. "Who are the guests in number eight?"
He repeated it, as if trying to take it in, then he opened the
book and scanned the entries. "Number eight. The guests in that room are a Mr. and Mrs. Pierce. Is there any problem, sir?"
The last thing Rutledge wanted was for this man to wonder about the occupants of number eight. And so he said, "Someone in London must have made a mistake. They aren't the guests I was expecting to find in that room."
"They've been here for several nights. Newlyweds, I'm told."
Surprised, Rutledge said, "Indeed? I wish them happiness." He turned and walked out to the terrace and down the broad steps to the street. The rain had stopped, but the waves, invisible in the darkness, were rolling in with the wind still behind them. He could smell the sea, and feel the spray on his face.
He turned in the street and looked up at the hotel facade, counting windows and focusing on what must be number eight.
And as he watched, the lights went out, and someone drew the curtain wide, letting in the sound of the sea. Rutledge turned away, wondering if he'd been seen. He walked on to his motorcar without looking back.
Daniel Pierce was in Hastings New Town. And with a wife. A new wife, according to the clerk at Reception.
That hardly sounded like a murderer. And yet-and yet the man had been out very late. Alone.
Hamish said drily, "This willna' sit well with Mrs. Farrell-Smith." W hen Rutledge awoke in the morning, the sun was well up. As he'd crested the ridge coming out of Hastings, he had seen the first hint of dawn struggling for a foothold among the clouds scudding east. The sun, apparently, had finally won, although there was no strength to it, as if it held on by a thread.
He ate a hasty breakfast and drove first to the home of Jimmy Roper. It was early for a social call, but not for the police to knock at the farmhouse door.
The housekeeper opened it a crack and peered out. "If you're wishing to see Mr. Roper, he's not himself this morning. Call again, if you will, later in the day."
"Scotland Yard. It's important that I speak to him."
Grudgingly, she opened the door to allow him to come inside. The passage was furnished simply, one narrow table with cut flowers in a black glass vase, a portrait above them, and across the way, by the stairs, another portrait facing it.
Looking at that one, a man and a woman in wedding clothes, he thought this must be the elder Roper himself and his wife. Young and happy and unaware of what the future might bring.
The housekeeper led Rutledge to a small parlor, opening the door to usher him in. It faced west, and on this dreary morning was still filled with shadows.
Rutledge thought he was expected to wait here, but as he turned he saw that Roper was seated in a chair by the window, a rug across his knees, his head tilted at an angle that indicated he was dozing.
"Mr. Roper?" the woman said, crossing the room to nudge him gently. "There's an inspector from Scotland Yard to see you."
The man lifted his head and looked up at the woman bending over him. "What did you say, Sadie?" The words were slurred.
"Scotland Yard to see you."
"I thought the bastard was dead," he replied in clearer tones.
"As far as I know, he's still alive," Rutledge answered, coming forward so that Roper could see him in what light there was. "I spoke to you in the village, shortly after your son was killed."
Roper turned to stare at him. "So you did. What brings you here?"
"I'd like to talk to you about your son. Do you feel like answering a few questions?"
"My son is dead," he said flatly. "What's the use of talking about him? It won't bring him back, will it?"
"It won't," Rutledge agreed. "But in remembering, you may find a little solace."
Roper was quiet for some time, and Rutledge had almost despaired of an answer when the man said, "He was a beautiful baby. My wife said so, and even I could see that he was. A good one too, never any trouble. Well, that changed when he started walking. Nothing was safe, he'd clamber on anything, and never cry when he brought it all down with him. More surprised than afraid, as if he'd expected it to hold." A flicker of a smile touched his mouth, pride in his son. "He was a good student. He wanted to go on to university, but of course there was no money for that. He said that farming was changing, and we had to change with it or be left behind. And then there was the war. When he marched away, it was the blackest day of my life. But he came back, like he said he would. Though it changed him, I could see that. I thought he might marry and settle down, but he said he needed to forget first. He didn't say what he needed to forget, but I expect it was the horrors."
"Did the Misses Tate feel that he should go to university?"
"They spoke of him as promising. He never had to study long hours, he just listened to his lessons and remembered what he'd heard. He took after my dear wife, there. She was a great reader, and read to him of an evening in winter. I liked listening to her voice. She could make you believe the story was real."
"Did he get on well with his fellow students?" Rutledge probed patiently.
"Oh, yes. He rose to corporal in the war, did you know? But he didn't like soldiering very much."
Rutledge had no choice but to bring up names. "Was he friends with Theo Hartle? Or William Jeffers? Or young Tuttle? Did he get on well with Virgil Winslow or Tommy Summers? Or the Pierce brothers?"
Roper turned to look at him. "Imagine you knowing all their names! I'd not say friends, so much as they grew up together. Still there's a bond in that. He didn't care much for Winslow, he said he traded too much on his illness. Some do, you know. Others never let it change them."
And Summers's name was conspicuous by its absence in his recollections.
Rutledge said, "What about the Summers boy?"
"As I remember, he left Eastfield early on. I doubt I could put a face to him now. I don't think Jimmy much cared for him. It was sad, you know, the girl was such a pretty little thing, took after her mother. And the boy was plain as a fence post, with a nature to match. I don't think I've ever met such a disagreeable child. Jimmy told me he could never keep up and was always whining. What's more, he could never see when he wasn't wanted."
"Was there ever any particular trouble between Tommy Summers and your son?"
Roper shook his head. "Jimmy was never a troublesome child. Well, there was the fair in Battle. As I remember, Tommy's father had given him a pony for his birthday, and Tommy was to show it at the fair. For a lark, Jimmy and the other boys painted the pony's hooves purple the night before the fair. They thought it would wash right off, Jimmy said, but of course it didn't, and they were sorry for that. It wasn't meant to keep the pony from being shown. They just wanted to see Tommy's face when he walked out of the barn that morning."
"What did Tommy's father have to say about this prank?"
"He was that upset, of course, but I said to him, they are only lads, they didn't know the paint would stain the way it did. Even blackening the hooves didn't help, when the sun struck them, the purple showed. I sent Jimmy over to apologize to Tommy, and that was that."
But of course "that was that" may have satisfied the father, but what about the boy?
And Roper answered as if Rutledge had spoken aloud. "Tommy was the butt of more than one prank, now that I think about it. But it's all part of learning to get on together, in my book. The lad just seemed to have the knack for making a nuisance of himself."
Rutledge found himself wondering how Roper would have felt if the shoe had been on the other foot. But he said only, "Was Jeffers one of the youngsters who painted the hooves?"
"I believe he was. It was such a long time ago, and my memory isn't what it used to be. I do recall sending Jimmy to apologize. To his credit, I don't believe he was as thoughtless after that. It was a good lesson learned."
"What about Anthony Pierce? Did he take part in these pranks?"
"Jimmy said he didn't care to join in, but he never told on any of them, either. When one of the Misses Tate asked him about some difficulty Tommy was having with his books and belongings disappearing, Jimmy told me that Anthony p
rofessed ignorance of the whole episode, and of course Miss Tate believed him. He was a good sort, Jimmy said, never ratting them out."
And that had been Anthony's sin. He'd wanted to belong as well, and he stood by while the torment went on, rather than trying to protect the Summers boy or telling the Misses Tate what was happening. Many a bullied child suffered in silence, afraid to ask for help, enduring what couldn't be stopped. Rutledge was beginning to see why Tyrell Pierce had sent his sons off to public school in Surrey. The sons of brewery workers and farmers and the like were not his sons' peers. Farrell-Smith must have been more to his liking.
Mr. Roper was tiring, and Rutledge rose to leave, thanking him for his time.
The man said, his dry, thin hand shaking Rutledge's, "He's still dead. It didn't help."
Rutledge said, "Sadly."
Driving back to Eastfield, Hamish said, "This was in the past. Ye canna' crusade for justice for Tommy Summers. It's too late."
"I don't want to crusade for him. I need to find out now if he's turned to murder to settle old scores."
"If it's old scores, why did he put yon discs in the mouths of the dead?"
"To put us off the track? And if it was, he nearly succeeded. But there could still be a connection we've overlooked."
18
R utledge went next to Hastings New Town. He arrived at The White Swans to find that the clerk at Reception was not the same man he'd spoken to the night before. He asked for Mr. Daniel Pierce, but he was told that Mr. and Mrs. Pierce had gone out. He waited for an hour, but they didn't return. Rutledge went back to Reception.
"Could you tell me, please, how long the Pierces intend to stay at The White Swans?"
The clerk consulted the register. "The rest of the week at least," he said. "Would you care to leave a message?"
