by Charles Todd
Rutledge himself had interviewed the villagers in his attempt to learn more about Sam Milford, and he had come to the same conclusions about them. There was nothing to alarm him, just as nothing had alarmed Fenton.
“There were no strangers in Crowley that day?”
“If there was, no one saw him. Or her.” He took a deep breath. “We even searched for Milford’s sister. Half sister. But no one had seen her since shortly after her father’s death. And this was before the war, mind you. Still. I kept an open mind.”
“Who was the child’s father?”
“We never got to the bottom of that. According to Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Milford met her husband in London early in 1917, and the child was conceived then. The neighbors told us the same story. But that’s not likely. Milford was never sent to London on any mission. The odd thing was, Milford clearly considered the child to be his, and in spite of the fact that he was distraught, he defended his wife fiercely when we suspected her.”
This agreed with what Rutledge had heard from Inspector Carson.
“How did she manage to persuade her husband to accept such a story, when he must have known it was not possible?”
“She was quite clever. From what I’ve been able to piece together, she consulted a doctor in London when she realized she might be pregnant. I have tried to trace this man, but it’s likely that she gave him a false name. He must have confirmed her fears, because when she returned to Crowley, she told everyone that she had traveled to London because she had got word that Sergeant Milford would be there over the weekend, something to do with secret orders. They spent several days together, according to her account. No one appeared to question this. A month later, when the pregnancy was announced, the entire village was happy for her. She then told everyone that the doctor she was seeing in Shrewsbury had ordered her to take care, or she’d suffer a miscarriage. And so when the baby was born a fortnight early, no one suspected that it was a full-term child. Mrs. Blake assured us that Ruth had told the good news to her husband in a letter, and he had been overjoyed. Of course, she could have done no such thing. And yet my impression of Ruth Milford has always been that she doesn’t lie as a rule. So the fact that she was able to carry off this lie has worried me. It means she could have successfully lied about other matters.”
“And yet when her husband came home and discovered he had a daughter, he accepted her. Supported her, even.”
“I don’t believe she could have admitted to an affair. Which leaves us with an assault. She would have had to tell him about the assault and the pregnancy early on. Everyone must have been eager to write to him and congratulate him on the prospect of becoming a father, and she couldn’t risk him spurning her. I was told she came to Shrewsbury alone, to meet his train and welcome him home from France. That was probably why, to see if he was still supportive of her. She took Tildy with her, I believe, and Sam never doubted Ruth. To me or anyone else I spoke to.”
“Do you think that this assault actually took place?” he asked, remembering the officer outside Banner’s shop in Llangollen.
“It could have happened while Ruth was in Oswestry. Attending a funeral. The timing is right. All I know is, she never spoke to the police there, or anyone at the railway stations she passed through. Nor to a priest. But according to Mrs. Blake, Ruth was distressed when she came home, and that would most certainly support the fact that something untoward had happened.”
“Whose funeral was it? Do you know?”
“A classmate from the school she’d attended for a year or two. We did speak to the family of that friend. Ruth was there, and appeared to be herself the entire weekend. The family had found her to be a rock—their words, mind you—which didn’t agree with what Mrs. Blake was saying about her distress when she came home. When we questioned Ruth about her state of mind then, she told us the services for her friend had reminded her of her mother’s recent death.”
“It could have happened after the funeral. On her way back to Crowley. Was she traveling alone?”
“She was, that’s true. But, of course, there was no way to prove or disprove that it happened then. Except that she wasn’t free to leave Crowley whenever she pleased. Not with the pub to see to. When we questioned Will Esterly, he told us that he’d taken over for her three times in the new year while she went to Shrewsbury, settling her mother’s estate. He seemed surprised that it had taken so long, given such a small estate, but he knew it was difficult for her. Then the journey to London, either to visit a doctor or visit with Sam, take your pick. Finally there was the one to attend the funeral. Once she learned she was pregnant, he said, she was fearful about traveling.”
“Was one of those journeys to Shrewsbury in March 1917?” When Ruth was in Llangollen ordering clothing from Banner? Had she lied to everyone about where she actually was, using her mother’s legal affairs as her excuse?
“I believe it was. Carson has my files about the case, or I could look.”
“Any evidence that Mrs. Milford had been unfaithful to her husband during the war? Then or at any other time while he was away?”
“None that we could discover. And I don’t see how she could. She’d have to ask Will or Mrs. Blake to take over, and she couldn’t very well tell them why. And it would be impossible to invite a lover to the pub, the whole of Crowley would start to gossip.”
“If it was an assault, could her attacker have been in the Army? Home on leave? Possibly even recovering from wounds? That would explain why she didn’t pursue the assault, knowing he was traveling also and well away by the time she reached Crowley—out of her reach.”
“No idea. It was dark, I expect, or there would have been possible witnesses. And she could claim she never saw him clearly.”
“Returning to Tildy. Was there anyone in Crowley that you had second thoughts about? Someone who might have taken a fancy to her? Or someone who saw her every day, and would have been trusted by the child? Will, who helped in the pub, for instance.”
Fenton took his time answering.
“Will Esterly? No. I did wonder several times about Mrs. Blake’s husband. Donald.”
“Did you?” Rutledge was surprised.
“The thing is, he had no motive for harming her. Or none that I could find. He threw himself into the search like a man demented. Hardly slept, in fact.”
“Would the loss of Tildy persuade her parents to give up the pub? It’s what the Blakes have wanted for some time.”
Fenton considered the possibility. “If that was his intent, it didn’t have the effect he was looking for. Ruth and Sam were even more intent on keeping the pub open. If only because if whoever had taken the child had second thoughts, they would be there to receive their daughter. After all, a child that young couldn’t possibly identify her kidnappers. It would be safe enough to leave her where she could be found quickly.”
“And Sam was apparently still searching. Only I don’t think he told his wife what he was doing.”
“Didn’t want to get her hopes up. I’d probably do the same, myself, in his shoes.”
“What did you leave out of your final report?”
Fenton looked away.
“There’s often something.”
“No. I never did any such thing.”
Rutledge had a feeling he was lying.
But nothing he could say convinced Fenton to be honest with him.
His last question, as Fenton was looking drained of emotion and thought, was about the shoe that Ruth Milford had found in the hand-delivered parcel left on her house steps.
Fenton said, “I always wondered why that shoe wasn’t left before the child’s disappearance. It would have been far more effective as a threat. But then the sender might well have found it much harder to take the child. The family would have been on guard.”
7
Rutledge left soon after, half convinced that Fenton would turn to the bottle again as soon as his visitor was out the door.
Hamish said, “Was it a�
� about his son? Yon policeman’s concern for Tildy?”
“That’s a very good question. He was about to retire. Many men find it hard to give up the authority of a policeman for a quiet life where no one jumps to his orders.”
Still, even that failed to explain Fenton’s drinking. What had driven him to the bottle, to forget?
Unsatisfied, he went back to the police station.
The Constable on duty said, “He’s interviewing a suspect, sir. I don’t know if he wishes to be interrupted.”
“I have a question to put to him. I’ll wait if need be.”
But it was a good half hour before Carson could see him.
Carson said, “So you met with Fenton. I’m surprised you got him to answer his door. Much less talk to you coherently.”
“He spent an agonizing night sobering up sufficiently to remember Tildy. Why?”
“I’ve told you. He lost a child very close in age to Tildy. Cancer.”
“Yes, and he used the same excuse not half an hour ago. I’ve no doubt his dead son made another child’s loss feel more personal. But it goes deeper, I think. I’d hoped you could tell me.”
“Good luck in finding your answer to that. I don’t know Fenton well enough even to make a guess.”
It was clear that Carson had no further interest in the matter. His attention was already straying to the open file next to the blotter on his desk. Rutledge thanked him and left.
Turning the crank, he went back over what the hotel clerk had told him about the letter that Milford had been waiting for. He’d left the hotel immediately afterward. But where had he gone? Not back to Crowley. He’d told no one his plans, which indicated he hadn’t expected to be gone long enough for anyone to begin to wonder where he was. And yet somehow Milford had arrived in the vicinity of Llangollen.
Was it merely a coincidence that Milford had been killed not far from where his wife had ordered a suit of clothes for him while an officer waited for her outside Banner’s tailor shop? Or had he somehow learned about this man—who might have been Tildy’s father? How had Sam Milford made the leap from Shrewsbury to Llangollen?
And that brought Rutledge round to Dora, Andrew Clark’s sister. Was she the woman who had brought Milford the letter? If so, what did she know about it?
He didn’t know how to find her. He’d have to speak to her brother first. And tell him that Milford was dead.
He found a foreman at the brewery, and used his Yard authority to obtain Clark’s direction.
Clark was no happier to see him this morning than Carson had been. And protective of his sister, he was reluctant to give Rutledge any personal information about her, once he had been told that Milford was dead, and in suspicious circumstances.
“She’s got nothing to do with this business. Leave her out of it. She’s had enough tragedy in her life.”
“I can find out what I need to know from the police,” he said finally. “And I don’t believe she would care for that.”
More than a little angry, Clark said, “If you upset her over Milford’s death, you’ll answer to me. London policeman or not.”
“I have no intention of upsetting her. I need information about her work with orphans. Milford was interested in that as well. I need to know where it might have taken him, and why.”
“He’d lost a child. For all I know he was considering adoption.”
“Still.”
Clark left Rutledge standing at the door, came back a moment later with something written on a slip of paper, and handed it to him. “Now I’d appreciate it if you left.”
Clark’s reaction told him far more than the man himself would ever have revealed. Dora Radley had feelings for Sam Milford, just as he, Rutledge, had expected from the start. But were they returned?
And additional proof, if that was needed, lay in the address he’d been given: Maple Street. No one at number 18 knew Dora Radley. When he tried a neighbor, to confirm what he’d just been told, the householder suggested he try Elm or Oak, instead.
“There’s sometimes confusion over which species of tree,” he said with a wry smile.
Rutledge went to Elm first, and stopped before number 18. It was a modest bungalow in a quiet street of similar dwellings. He went up the short walk, tapped on the door, and after a moment a pretty woman with fair hair and hazel eyes answered. She was wearing a very becoming dress of deep brown with cinnamon trim. Redness around her nose and eyes indicated she had been crying. She said politely, “How may I help you?”
“Mrs. Radley? My name is Rutledge,” he replied. “I’m from Scotland Yard. I’m looking into a matter that you may be familiar with. I’d like to speak to you about Samuel Milford, and his daughter, Tildy.”
“Oh. I—I was just going out—”
“It won’t take long.”
“My brother just told me. Sam—Mr. Milford is dead. Is—is that true?”
So that was why Clark had sent him on a wild goose chase to Maple. To give his sister the news himself.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I don’t understand. What happened? He said—an accident?”
Damn Clark, Rutledge said to himself. And to Mrs. Radley, “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But there’s a possibility that Milford’s death was not an accident. That he was killed. I’ve been asked to investigate.”
“Kil—” She stared at him, trying to make sense of what he’d said. Shaking her head, she began to deny it. “Not Sam. No, I can’t believe that. You—you must have it wrong.”
Her reaction was much like Ruth Milford’s. He found that only reinforced his view that Dora Radley had been in love with Milford—or thought she was.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, more gently this time. “I’m afraid it’s true. I had hoped you’d be willing to help with our inquiries.”
After another brief hesitation, she said, “Oh. I don’t know how. But—yes. Please. Come in.”
The parlor was a pleasant room, a pale green with white trim and darker greens in the drapes and the upholstery. He took the chair she indicated, declined her offer of tea, and was about to give her a moment to compose herself, when she said, “Tell me, please. What happened to Sam—to him?”
“He fell. We have reason to believe he was pushed.” He didn’t give her any more details than that. He didn’t think it was necessary.
“Dear God,” she said softly, then clearing her throat, she added, “I’d only just seen him, you know. He always looked me up when he was in Shrewsbury. I work with children being placed in orphanages. It was never likely that Tildy would be one of them, but it gave him hope, you see. Some of the children have had very difficult childhoods. Mistreated, abandoned, no warmth or love in their short lives. Others are given up because their mother can no longer care for them. She’s ill, dead, drinks heavily—there are myriad reasons, of course. Not the sort of place for Tildy to be found, but he was desperate, and hope is sometimes all one has.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He was there one day, at the brewery, and we were introduced. My brother mentioned my work, because I’d just stopped by after a rather difficult morning, and he knew I was upset. Sam began to ask questions about the orphaned children.”
“What sort of questions?”
“How we found parents for them, when the children were waifs and we didn’t know where they had come from. How much children resembled their mothers, and whether we could establish who a parent was by looking for that resemblance. What traits were passed on. Like being left-handed or tall or having green eyes or bad teeth. I thought he was just being polite, putting me at ease by asking about my work. It wasn’t until later, when I was told that Tildy had disappeared, that I realized what he was asking was how much she might have changed in the months since he had last seen her, and whether he would still recognize her. It was rather sad. He loved her, you see.”
But was that why he was asking?
Dora, unaware of Rutledge’s doubts, was stil
l speaking. “And then he asked me to look out for Tildy. How could I say no? However impossible it might be for her to be brought in, what if she were? What if the person who’d taken her had regrets or something, and didn’t know of a way to be rid of the problem? We’ve had children left on the doorstep. Too young to tell us who they are, where their parents are, or how to find them.”
There were tears welling in her eyes as she went on to describe some of the children she cared for. “It’s heartbreaking work. But someone kind can make such a difference in their lives.”
“Did Sam have any theories about what had become of Tildy?”
“He always spoke of her in the present. As if he felt she was still alive. I found that quite touching. And for his sake, and of course his wife’s,” she added quickly, “I prayed that he was right. But mostly we are overwhelmed by widows from the war. Sometimes they simply can’t cope any longer, and want their child to have a better life. I can’t tell you that it’s any better. But many of them believe it will be. Hard for the child to understand that. All he or she knows is abandonment and loss.”
Was that what Tildy had felt? She would have missed her mother and father. He was beginning to understand, on a very different level, what Fenton might have tried to tell him.
And then he broached the issue that had really brought him here.
“Why did Milford leave Shrewsbury without telling anyone, and set out for Wales? I’ve learned that someone brought a letter to him at his hotel, and immediately afterward he left the city. A woman. Was that you? The next sighting is in Llangollen, where he was killed.”
She flushed in embarrassment. “I don’t know anything about a letter—I’ve never—I would never go to his hotel.”
He believed her. The embarrassment was too deep to be feigned. She might care for Sam Milford, Rutledge realized, but she would not chase him. Which meant there must be another woman in Shrewsbury who was privy to his secrets, one who hadn’t been found yet.
