by Charles Todd
"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." C arl 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 street, 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.
Shutting the wardrobe doors, he saw the small dog basket next to this side of the bed, and in it, folded into a square, was a blanket hand-embroidered with the name Muffin.
Leaving everything as he'd found it, he walked out of the room and shut the door. The hotel maid smiled at him as he passed, and he thanked her again.
Outside in the bright sunlight, he decided to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson and turned back into the hotel. But the sergeant was not at his desk. Rutledge didn't leave a message. He'd learned his lesson.
He went back to The Stade, and looked again at the strange black towers that held the drying fish nets.
How long would it be before Gibson found his man? The sergeant was very good at what he did, always thorough. Rutledge debated going to London to see what he could learn for himself. But he knew that would get him nowhere. And he wasn't prepared yet to deal with Chief Superintendent Bowles or face the curious glances of everyone at the Yard. The story had got out, it was bound to, and he knew any shouting match with the Chief Superintendent was sure to feed the rumor mill. He was still furious about the charges brought against him, and even if he could rein in his temper, he would be hard-pressed to pretend that he didn't know why they had been brought: because Bowles was suddenly afraid that his machinations had led to murder.
And Meredith Channing was in London as well. He didn't want to know the answers to the questions that wouldn't go away. Not now.
Inspector Norman came up, looking with him at the odd black structures. "You're no closer to the truth than you were when you left. And men continue to die."
"Are you saying that Inspector Mickelson didn't make it?"
"As far as I know, he's not out of danger. Nothing has changed. Look, if it wasn't Carl Hopkins-and it appears that he isn't our man-then bring the rest of that Eastfield Company in, and keep them there until someone admits the truth. They work for their living, every one of them. They can't afford to stay cooped up in a cell indefinitely."
Rutledge thought about Mrs. Marshall asking for help to feed the pigs. Every one of these deaths had created a hardship of some sort. "It's tempting. But I think they're as much in the dark as we are."
"I can't believe that. If you've fought side by side with a man for four years, you learn very quickly what he's made of." It was an echo of Constable Walker's words.
"Why would the survivors keep their mouths shut, when one name would make the rest of them safe? These murders are as deadly as sniper fire. Men are picked off at will."
"Because there's something none of them wants to come out. What's the worst crime a soldier can commit?"
Thinking about Hamish, Rutledge said, "Desertion under fire."
"They'd hardly cover that up. Shooting prisoners? Shooting one of their officers in the back?"
"Then why did Anthony Pierce die? He wasn't in their company."
"Point taken. I'm glad you were sent back here. I won't have to face the blame for coming up empty-handed on this one. That's in your future, not mine."
Would this become the case he couldn't solve? Like Cummins and the murder at Stonehenge? He'd already considered that possibility.
"I'll let you know. You'll be happy to come and gloat."
Inspector Norman laughed. "If we weren't so much alike, we could be friends." He turned and walked away.
Rutledge watched him for several minutes, then went back to the motorcar. The leather seats were hot from the sun, and there were holidaymakers strolling along the promenade and The Stade. The lush grassy slope of the East Hill spoke of peace and plenty. He watched three young girls flirting with a young man their own age. Carefree, pretty faces shaded by parasols. They were dressed to suit the fine weather in white or lavender or palest green. If he squinted his eyes, he thought, he could almost pretend it was 1914, and the war was only a shadow to come.
And then Hamish said something, and the image was sha
ttered. H e went to see Mrs. Jeffers, and found her in her kitchen, bottling plums.
The child who had answered the door and conveyed him there went skipping out into the kitchen garden, chasing butterflies.
"They can forget, for a time. I wish I could," she said, her gaze following her daughter. She had auburn hair that had been pulled back out of her way, and her hands were red from working with the boiling water and hot jars. "I have to keep at this, or they'll spoil," she told him. "To tell the truth, I don't know what good talking to me will do. I wasn't there when Will was killed. And I can't think he had any enemies. How could he have? He hadn't done anything to be ashamed of. He was a good man. I don't know how we're to get on without him." Her eyes filled, and she wiped at them with the cloth in her hand. "I tell myself I can't possibly cry any more, and the next thing I know, I'm crying again."
"Did your husband know Tommy Summers well?"
"Tommy? I doubt anyone did. He was not easy to know. I think his feelings had been hurt so many times that he just locked himself deep inside and let nobody else in. It was a crying shame how the boys treated him, Will among them. I sometimes thought, if he dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, who would care? His father, or maybe his sister. But that's all." She sealed two jars and turned to fill a third. "Now his sister I liked. A pretty girl, and sweet natured. She was younger than most of us. Her mother was dead, and I was sometimes paid to keep an eye on her after school. I'd have done it for free, if it hadn't been for Tommy, always lurking about, as if he was spying on us. I wrote to her for a time after the family moved away. I thought it a shame she had such a wretch of a brother, but then I was a child myself and hardly knew better. Now, thinking back on it after such a long time, I can see that he wasn't nearly as bad as we liked to make out. He had this look about him of having bitten into something bitter. Sour, that's what it was. I didn't trust him."
"Do you still have those letters?" Rutledge asked, realizing that he might find the sister faster than Sergeant Gibson would.
"Oh, I never kept them after I got married. I didn't see any point in it, did I? We hadn't seen each other in so many years we'd have been like strangers when we met, with nothing to talk about but the weather and our children. But I did think about inviting her to my wedding. It wouldn't have worked out, but when you're happy, you want everybody to know it, don't you?"
"Do you remember how to get in touch with her?"
"Oh yes, it was such an odd name. Regina Summers, Old Well House, Iris Lane, Minton, Shropshire. I couldn't think what an old well house must look like, and my sister said it must be a hole in the ground because Tommy the slug would live in a hole. She thought it was funny, but I didn't."
"Was your husband friendly with Daniel Pierce?"
"Mr. Daniel? Whoever told you such a thing? Will knew him of course, we all did. But Mr. Daniel's father had money, and our fathers didn't. That's a great barrier to friendship, even when you're young. Not that Mr. Anthony or Mr. Daniel put on airs, it was understood. They were different, even when they were doing what we were doing."
As he thanked her for her time, Mrs. Jeffers said, "Finding Will's murderer is the only thanks I need."
Leaving a brief message on Constable Walker's desk with a schedule for the nightly patrols, he packed his valise, left The Fishermen's Arms, and set out for Shropshire.
He had fewer than three days to find an answer.
Rutledge stopped in London for clean clothing, and found a letter waiting for him from Reginald Hume. I'm still with Rosemary. The thought of this empty house filled with Max's ghost was too much for her, I think, and caring for me has given her something to do. I'm no trouble, and I stay out of her way as much as possible. The doctors here are trying to persuade me to go to America and a place called Arizona. They believe the dry air there may help, but I don't believe I could survive the journey at this stage. And I have something to do before I die. Just wanted you to know that Rosemary is beginning to accept. But there's a long road ahead.
And then he was on the road north and west, to find Minton, Shropshire.
19
I t was late when he neared his destination. Rutledge had had to stop and ask for Minton half a dozen times before he finally learned that it was the next village over but one.
He stayed in a small inn that boasted no more than five rooms, and the next morning drove on to Minton.
He'd always liked Shropshire, sitting on the Welsh Borders. The River Severn divided the rolling land to the north from the southern plains, and just below Buildwas was the tiny village of Minton. It looked down on the tree-lined river and huddled together, as if half afraid of disappearing if it spread out.
Iris Lane was just that, a short track edged its entire length with beds of iris, the broad green swords of their leaves unmistakable, although there were no blooms now. Old Well House was a pretty cottage, windows open wide to the morning air and a line of wash already hung out at the side of the kitchen garden.
Rutledge tapped lightly at the door, and a young woman came to open it. Her face was flushed, as if she'd hurried down the stairs.
"Oh," she said, encountering a stranger on her step. Looking over his shoulder she saw the motorcar. "I thought you might be-well, never mind, you aren't. Have you got yourself lost?"
She was of middle height, with soft fair hair done up in a knot, and she wore a damp apron. He wondered if he'd caught her at the washtub.
"I'm Inspector Rutledge, from London. Scotland Yard," he began.
"Dear heaven, they've found Tommy!"
"Was he missing?" Rutledge asked, surprised by her shock.
"He never came home from the war. Well, not really. He was in hospital for a time, but then went back to France in October of 1918. I had a letter or two from him, and after that, nothing." She realized she was chattering on the doorstep and said, "I'm so sorry, please do come in." She led him to the front room. "You're from London, you said? That's a long way to come to bring me word of my brother."
"As a matter of truth," he said, "I've come to ask you about your brother. You lived in Sussex, when you were young?"
"Yes, and I cried for days when we left, I was so sad. My father had a better position, but I sometimes thought he'd left because of something else. My mother is buried in St. Mary's churchyard, you see. I thought perhaps he wanted to leave his memories behind."
"How did your brother like moving across England?"
"He was so excited. I thought, it will be the same, he'll annoy the other lads, and they'll play tricks, and then he'll be unhappy again, and nothing will change."
"It was his fault that he didn't get along with the boys in Eastfield?"
She frowned. "He didn't try. I'm sure he didn't. Other boys managed it, didn't they? That one-what was his name?-whose legs were crippled. He was the same way, never trying. A smile would have helped, or a willingness to be friendly. But Tommy surprised all of us, didn't he? He lost several stone of weight, his face cleared up, and he got along just fine. And I told him, it's wonderful how you've changed. He said the oddest thing then-he said, 'I had to change. And I hated it.' You would have thought he'd been forced to do something awful."
"How did he fare in the war?"
"He was a good soldier. He did everything that was asked of him. He told me he had learned that others wanted to make him over in their image, and so he did it for them, only it was merely on the surface, and they were too stupid to see."
"And after the war?"
"He was wounded in late spring of 1918, and he went to a clinic in Bedfordshire. I saw him there, and he seemed to be excited about what he'd done in the war. He was eager to go back. He admired the Ghurkas. Those dark little men from Nepal. He wrote that they were the best at what they did, which was killing people. He would have liked to be a Ghurka officer. They had English officers, didn't they? He stayed in France for six months after the Armistice. When he did come back it wasn't to Minton. He was searching for his nurse from the Bedfordsh
ire clinic. It was closed, of course, the remaining men sent elsewhere, and no one knew just where she was. Such a pretty girl. I was happy for him, I hoped he would find her. That was in 1919. And after that, there has been nothing. It was as if he'd vanished. I reported it to the police in Buildwas. They asked me if I suspected foul play, but of course I had no reason to think any such thing. He was just missing. They were polite and kind, but they did nothing."
"Perhaps he found his nurse and together they left England."
"He'd have told me, wouldn't he? He'd have wanted me to be happy for him." Her eyes filled. "I was beginning to think he could be dead. People sometimes aren't identified straightaway, are they?"
Rutledge said gently, "We make every effort to find a name. Do you have a photograph of him? It would help."
"He didn't like being photographed. There's one with my mother, but he was only a year old." She smiled shakily. "You wouldn't be able to tell what he was like as a man, would you? And I'd rather not part with it anyway, I don't have many photographs of her."
Rutledge cast about for a better way to broach his next question, but there was no way to soften it.
"I'm curious. Did your brother harbor any hard feelings toward his schoolmates in Eastfield? Did he talk about them or wish he could-um-punish them for the way he'd been treated? Or didn't it matter, after he'd grown used to another life?"
"I asked him that, once. He told me it was all right, that he'd cursed them. I suppose it made him feel better, but of course that's all it did. Their lives went on, and I doubt they've given him a thought in all these years. He didn't matter as much to them as they did to him, you see. You'll keep looking for him, won't you? I'm to be married soon. My father's dead. It would be lovely if my brother could give me away."
He promised to do his best, and left.
She went with him to the door and watched as he reversed down the track.
Regina Summers was serene in her certainty that her brother bore no ill will for whatever had gone wrong in his childhood. And perhaps he didn't. But men's lives were in the balance.
