A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  Slipping the top back down over the bottom to close the case, he put it in his coat pocket, then set about tidying up the narrow crack where it had been hidden. When he was satisfied that no one strolling by to keep an eye on the grave would notice anything missing, he walked away, going around the church to the intersecting street. Then he continued briskly to the hotel from there.

  But where to go from Oswestry?

  Hamish had the answer. “Back to the lass in Shrewsbury. Dora.”

  Passing a tobacconist on his way back to his motorcar, he stepped inside.

  It was like many in London and elsewhere: dark woods, wares spread out in an array of containers so that a man might browse before choosing. Small as it was, there were three racks of pipes, one of them holding elegant Meerschaum from Turkey, delicate carved faces and designs that caught the eye. There were humidors for sale, instruments for cutting, and an array of cases.

  The air was heady with the scent of tobacco and a hint of something else, a different world far away.

  The owner stepped out from behind a curtain leading to the rear of the shop, smiled at Rutledge, and asked how he could assist him. Then noticing his particular interest in the cases, he moved toward them as well.

  “We happen to have an excellent selection at the moment,” the owner was saying.

  But Rutledge took out the one he’d found in the churchyard. “What can you tell me about this?”

  “The case? Yes. Excellent leather, calf of course, and quite a nice color. We have some similar to that, as well as more exotic leathers.”

  “Can you tell where it was made? Who might have sold it?”

  He was still fingering the leather. “While it’s a fine maker, of course, it’s widely available.” Handing it back to Rutledge, he added, “This one is plain, but we offer a service if the buyer wishes to have the case initialed or a crest put on. During the war it was popular for young officers to have their regimental badge on the case. I’ve had them ordered by parents as well, to be gifted to the young man.”

  But no one had done that here.

  Rutledge thanked him, and left.

  Rutledge went out of his way to make a stop at the dairy farm. But Ted Brewster, he was told by a woman whose eyes were red from crying, was seeing to funeral arrangements for his sister.

  He didn’t leave a message. Thanking her, he went back across the muddy yard, listening to the lowing of a single cow that had wandered up to the milking gate, her dark brown eyes fixed on the shed on the far side.

  It was late when he reached Shrewsbury, the town’s lights a beacon as he came in from Oswestry, crossing over the Welsh Bridge after long stretches of dark and twisty roads. Before finding a room, he swung through the now-familiar streets to where Dora Radley lived.

  The house was dark, no lamps showing. But he had waited outside as Betty Turnbull had been murdered and her house ransacked. He would not risk this again.

  Leaving the motorcar a little way down the tree-lined street, he walked back to the house and knocked at the door.

  No one came to answer the summons.

  He tried twice more.

  And finally, a lamp bloomed in what appeared to be the stair hall. The lovely colored glass came to life, and he could hear someone turning the latch.

  The door opened a crack. “Alex? Is anything wrong?” And then she saw the black shape on her doorstep and said sharply, “Oh—!” She hurriedly began to shut the door.

  Rutledge said quickly, “Mrs. Radley, it’s Ian Rutledge. I need to speak to you, please. It’s rather urgent.”

  “Rutledge—? Yes, yes. Will tomorrow do? I’ve had a difficult day, and I was hoping for a quiet evening.”

  “I am so sorry to be calling at this hour,” he said, keeping his voice polite, apologetic. “I’ve just arrived from Oswestry, you see. And I think it best if we talk now. Tonight. It’s rather urgent.” He’d used the same words before, but he repeated them now.

  She opened the door a little, and he could see her features, and how her eyes shone in the light reflected from the lamp to the door and back to her face. He realized she must have been crying.

  “Have you found Matilda? Is that it?” She tried to imbue her voice with a measure of enthusiasm, but it rang false.

  “No. Sadly.”

  Falling silent, Dora looked down. He realized that while she was fully dressed, as far as he could tell, her slim feet were bare beneath the dark blue leather slippers.

  Resignation in her voice and face, she said, “Give me ten minutes, please.” And this time she shut the door before he could respond.

  He stayed where he was, on the step by the door, waiting with what patience he could muster. Five minutes passed, then another five, and he began to wonder if she had succeeded in putting him off until morning.

  Rutledge was on the point of knocking again when the door opened almost under his hand.

  Her hair was dressed properly, and there were stockings and shoes on her feet.

  She led him into the parlor, turning up a lamp as she did, then sat down across from the chair she’d offered him.

  With the curtains drawn against the night, the fire dying back in the grate, and only one lamp lit, there was an oddly intimate feeling to the room. But he thought she was trying to hide the ravages of tears, unaware of how the scene might appear to him.

  “I will tell you that I had to cope with a very difficult death today,” she began firmly. “And if your reasons for being here are not as urgent as you say, I will leave you to show yourself out.”

  Earlier, she had helped him for Sam Milford’s sake. But she owed Rutledge nothing more now, and he wasn’t completely certain she was even in danger. Still. He dared not risk walking away without a warning.

  He chose his words carefully. “I have news as well, and equally difficult to pass on. But for your own safety, I must.”

  “But you said that Matilda hasn’t been found?”

  “If you recall, I asked you for a contact in Oswestry. I didn’t want to go to the police, I didn’t want the local people to begin searching on their own, and possibly at cross purposes.”

  “Yes, yes, I told you to try the Brewster farm.” She was impatient.

  “As I did. It was too far from the town to be useful to me, but Brewster in turn passed me to his sister Betty. I must ask you, did you send Milford to Brewster?”

  “Of course. I don’t know anyone else in that town. And I knew him through someone at the orphanage—another worker there. It was all I could do for either of you.”

  “Milford found an ally in Betty Turnbull. Brewster’s sister, the one who lives in the town. Evidently she helped him search for Tildy or her captors. And Milford paid her for that. As he should have done. Unfortunately, either he was seen in the town, or someone was watching his movements from the start. But that person began paying Betty as well, to report whatever it was Milford was doing, what success he had, even where he might search next. I can’t prove it, but I believe that whoever it was used Betty Turnbull to guide Milford north to what was to be his death at the Aqueduct.”

  She had listened, but she hadn’t really understood what he was telling her. Still wrapped in her grief for the death earlier in the day, she said, “That sounds rather far-fetched. Guesswork, leading yourself to the answers you need.”

  “Is it so far-fetched?” He kept his gaze on her face. “Betty Turnbull was killed while I was in Oswestry. Someone came into her house, smothered her in her bed, and searched everywhere for something. Whether he found it or not, I don’t know. Still, there was nothing in the house to help the police with their inquiries.” He wasn’t ready to tell her what he’d discovered.

  Horror had spread across her face as she listened, erasing the grief and stress as he watched.

  “Dear God. Are you—are you trying to tell me that I had a part in that poor woman’s death? Because I sent you and Sam Milford to her brother?”

  He hadn’t meant that at all. He looked
down, realized that he was still holding his hat in his hand. He set it on the table at his elbow, buying himself a little time.

  “No—in no way are you responsible for what happened. It’s just that I’m worried. I have no real reason to believe that Mrs. Turnbull’s killer knows about you. But I was there in Oswestry when she was killed, and it has put me on my guard. I want you to be on yours as well. It will do no harm, you know.”

  She stared at him, still horrified. “I hardly know anything about you. You come here at this hour of night, talking about murder and killers, telling me that I could be in some danger—how am I to judge whether any of this is true or not? I tried to help you, for Sam—for Mr. Milford’s—sake. Because I believed he might have wanted me to. And instead, you threaten me—”

  “It isn’t a threat, it’s a warning. I’m Scotland Yard, Mrs. Radley. You have only to speak to Inspector Carson, if you aren’t convinced of that.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t know what to think or to believe.” Biting her lip, she looked down at her hands. Beginning to cry in spite of her determination not to, she added, “I’ve had enough of death today. One of our little girls died. She’d never been strong, but we thought—we hoped—” Struggling to regain her control, she rose and hurried out of the room.

  He sat there, waiting. Not wanting to leave her in this state, not sure where to find her brother at this hour.

  Ten minutes later she came back. A little more composed. And a faint hint of whisky or brandy on her breath as she spoke.

  “I’d hoped you’d left. Very well. You have warned me, Inspector. I don’t quite know what to do with that information. But I thank you. Now please have the courtesy to go.”

  Rutledge said, “I have to know. Has anyone else asked you about Sam Milford?”

  “I don’t know. A woman at the center where I help with the children. I’d brought him there a time or two. She asked if I thought he might be interested in adopting a child. Oh, and there was a man in the tea shop where Mr. Milford and I stopped one day. I went in there again, on my own, and he was there as well. He asked if the gentleman I’d been with was once with the Bantams. He thought perhaps he knew him. But when I gave him a name, he frowned, shook his head, and said something like, ‘Oh, I’m glad I didn’t speak. I’d taken him for an old school chum.’”

  “On that earlier visit, did Milford see this man?”

  “I don’t—well, he must have done, of course.”

  “And he didn’t appear to recognize the other man?”

  “If he did, he never indicated that he had.”

  “Can you describe him, please?”

  She seemed flustered by the question. “I—I think he was quite ordinary. Dark, I believe? Pleasant. Perhaps in his middle thirties? Medium height, as I recall. I don’t know that I would recognize him on the street, if I should see him again.” Her eyes grew wide. “Should I need to recognize him? Are you saying I ought to be wary of him?”

  “I don’t know. But yes, to be safe, it would do no harm to avoid him.”

  “Oh, dear God. I shan’t feel safe anywhere now. I’ve done nothing to deserve this, surely?”

  And yet she had unwittingly sent Milford to Brewster. It was at least possible that he’d been followed. All the way to Mrs. Turnbull’s house.

  Hamish startled him, commenting, “What else has she done, unaware?”

  That was the crux of the matter. Rutledge didn’t know. He couldn’t protect her from a threat he wasn’t aware of.

  Trying to help her as best he could, he said, “The police can offer you protection.”

  “Oh, yes, and have my neighbors wondering what I might have done, to attract the notice of the police?” She tried to make him understand. “I’m a young war widow, Inspector. I have to be circumspect. At church on Sundays, working with the children, at social gatherings, I have to know my place. I mustn’t speak to another woman’s husband in certain ways. I must be sure not to shake hands too firmly or with any warmth. I mustn’t look too closely at a man, or seem too interested in him. I must not seem too forward or vivacious or laugh too much at something he says. It’s quite difficult. And here I’ve entertained a visitor late at night. You’ve been here before. There will be questions about that, but I shall have to tell people that you were a cousin, traveling to London or Chester, bringing me family news. I don’t like to lie. But I shall have to. The police will only make matters worse.”

  He was taken aback, the unexpected attack leaving him momentarily speechless.

  Then he said, rising, “I’m sorry. It was my intention to do what my experience dictated. To let you know that you must be on your guard. I’ve done that. I’ll leave quietly. If you need to speak to me, I’ll come to your brother’s house or office. It will be for the best.”

  “Thank you.”

  He retrieved his hat, walked to the door, and stepped out into the night. Standing well away from the step, he said, “Good night,” and turning, walked briskly down to the street without looking back. The door was already closed behind him. He kept going until he’d come to his motorcar.

  Later, in his spartan room at the hotel, he stood by the window looking down at the street.

  Hamish said, “D’ye believe her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yon man in the tea shop?”

  “Milford didn’t take note of him. But if he didn’t know the kidnapper, he could have been sitting five feet from the man without realizing who he was.” Turning from the window, he began to pace, thinking.

  “What’s behind this whole affair? A child’s abduction. Three murders. If the point was to destroy Sam Milford, the killer is finished. His intention carried out. If he was unaware that the child wasn’t Milford’s, then she was merely a pawn. To make him suffer, then let him die.”

  “Why no’ let him live on, wi’ the knowledge that yon lass was oot there somewhere, and he couldna’ save her or change what was happening to her for the rest of her life?”

  Was she loved? Was she cared for? Was she suffering too? That would haunt any father.

  But Sam Milford was made of sterner stuff. He was actively looking for that child or whoever had taken her. And so he posed a threat that had to be dealt with.

  What had he done, to be taunted in such a way? What sadistic pleasure had been taken from this tragedy?

  Hamish said, “There’s the dead man’s sister. She didna’ have any love for her brother.”

  Rutledge stopped in midstride.

  There had been talk of an unknown woman in one of the narrowboats, just before Joseph Burton was drowned.

  The bit of scalloped cloth on the dead man’s pillow.

  All this time, he’d been looking for a man. For Tildy’s natural father. For her kidnapper.

  What if from the start, Milford hadn’t confided in his wife about his search because he feared that Tildy had been taken by his own sister . . .

  Rutledge had no idea what she looked like, or where to find her. Or even if she was still alive. Hastings hadn’t been very sure of that himself, and he was her solicitor.

  The question was, could Milford’s sister smother a woman in her bed? Drown a man in the narrowboat basin? Could she kill her own brother?

  He couldn’t answer that until he found her.

  He had to start all over again, change everything he’d thought he’d known about this entire inquiry.

  If only to rule her out.

  There was no going forward until he did.

  10

  The best source of information for the last known whereabouts of Susan Milford was the family solicitor, Hastings. If her brother had known how to find her, if they had stayed in touch, that connection had died with him.

  Hastings was in this morning. He was, in fact, just saying farewell to a client, a well-dressed woman wearing a fur stole and an expensive hat, as Rutledge was coming into the chambers. Without a flicker of recognition, Hastings continued his conversation with the woman as
they crossed the room.

  “It will be in hand, Mrs. Lacey-Smith, and I shall have the papers ready to send to you by Monday week, never fear.”

  She was in her forties, smiling back at him with the assurance that she was in good hands. “Thank you, Edwin. You always know what’s best.” And then with a polite nod to the man standing to one side, opening the door for her to step in the street, she was gone.

  Hastings’s gaze was still on the door for a moment longer, then he turned briskly to Rutledge, saying, “A visit from Scotland Yard never bodes well. Come back, if you please.”

  Leading the way down the passage to his room, he was silent, but once he had shut the door, he added, “From your expression, I must assume there is no news of Tildy. Or if there is, it is not good.”

  “Nothing to report.”

  “Well, then, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  And Rutledge did, giving him an abbreviated account of events both in Oswestry and at the Aqueduct. At the end of it, he touched briefly on his concern for Mrs. Radley.

  “I don’t know the motive of this killer. And therefore I don’t know what he—or she—feels is threatening. Mrs. Radley needed to be informed.”

  “I know of her. I’m told she has thrown herself wholeheartedly into Good Works. I’m not convinced that that is best for her. But that’s beside the point. Have you come to ask me to keep an eye on Mrs. Radley? Her solicitor is a friend, he’ll work with me.”

  “No, I’ve come about another matter. It’s time to find Susan Milford.”

  “I must tell you what I believe there as well. She is troubled. She’s been a thorn in her brother’s side from the start, and I have no idea just what she might be capable of, in her need to make his life as wretched as her own. That said, I strongly doubt that such a list would include kidnapping or murder.”

  “Nevertheless. As a policeman, I must rule her out.”

  Hastings toyed with the letter opener beside the blotter. “I have told you that I lost touch with her. In spite of all I could do.” He paused, then went on. “I can’t even be sure that she’s still alive.”