A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

  They were all talking at once, arguing with Susan, blaming him, telling him to leave.

  And in the confusion they didn’t hear the side door open until Donald Blake stood there.

  Rutledge was never sure afterward just how much he’d heard.

  But from his expression, it was clear he’d heard enough. Slamming the door, he was gone, running across the yard and down the hill.

  Rutledge went after him, leaving the door standing wide. Nan, crying her husband’s name, came running at his heels. Rutledge, shouting over his shoulder, ordered her to stay there. She came on, without her coat, following the two men down the hill and toward the Blake cottage.

  Donald got there first, went in, and slammed the door after him.

  Rutledge got there seconds afterward, opened it again, and went inside.

  Donald was in the front room, struggling with something that Rutledge couldn’t see. And then he wheeled, and in his hand was a war souvenir, a German officer’s dress sword, bare and pointed at Rutledge.

  Nan came bursting through the door. “Donald—no—”

  “Stay back, Nan. I’ll deal with this,” Donald said.

  Rutledge said, “It will do you no good, using that. Don’t add murder to what you’ve done.”

  Nan said, “Tell him, Donald—darling, tell him he’s wrong. That you didn’t have anything to do with Tildy’s disappearance. Please—tell him!”

  “I was going to bring her back—as soon as we’d signed the papers for the pub. I swear to you, Nan! But it was our only way out, don’t you see? Ruth was going to keep that pub open until we had all been drained of every penny we had left, and then what? And Sam would have let her, he was besotted with her. And I had that cabinetry work in Gloucester that week, nobody thought anything about my going there. I got back a day early, and I saw the pram sitting outside the house—and suddenly I knew. She was asleep, I didn’t hurt her. And I walked back to the railway station, got as far as Worcester, and it was done. It was our only hope, Nan. You must see that. I made certain she was safe, I made them promise not to let anyone adopt her.”

  Nan was crying, her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the sound of his voice. “I don’t want to believe you. I can’t believe you.”

  “Don’t make it worse for her,” Rutledge said quietly. “There’s nowhere you can go.”

  “I won’t go to prison. I did what I had to do, for the sake of all of us. I can tell you where she is. You can bring her home. But first you have to let us go. I’ve money put aside. Not much, but it will see us out of here.”

  Rutledge said, “But she’s no longer at the orphans’ asylum, Donald. She was adopted. They didn’t wait for you to come back. She’s gone.”

  “No, you’re lying! I signed papers. She wasn’t to be adopted. She was to come back with me as soon as possible.”

  “They lied to you. Or didn’t believe you. They let her go. We don’t know where she is, you see. And that’s at your door. You can’t bring her home. It’s too late.”

  He stared at Rutledge, the point of the sword slowly circling between them.

  “You’re lying,” he said again.

  “The other woman in the pub—Sam Milford’s sister—can confirm what I’ve just told you.”

  “She’s mad—she’s always been mad. Why should I believe her? Any more than I believe you.” And he lunged.

  21

  Rutledge had been watching his eyes. When they widened slightly, he leaped to his right, crashing into the table by the window, knocking picture frames and ornaments to the floor.

  Even so, he heard the cry as Nan fell back.

  “Oh, God!” Donald shouted. “Nan, no!”

  Rutledge was already getting to his feet, starting forward. Donald dropped the sword with a clatter, made it to the door, and was outside, running.

  Nan, clutching her arm, was crying, “He didn’t mean—” And then she slipped to the floor, fainting.

  He went to her, took out a handkerchief, and wound it around the bleeding wound on her arm, tying off the corners. And then he went out, looking for Donald Blake.

  He hadn’t gone far. Rutledge found him on his knees in front of the Milford house, where once he’d found the unattended pram, his head in his hands, weeping.

  Rutledge took him into custody, got him to his feet, and said, “You’ve done enough damage. Let’s go.”

  “Nan? Did I kill her?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. Her arm. She will be all right.”

  He got Blake as far as the motorcar, and left him by the dustbins.

  Inside the pub he could hear voices. A shouting match between Ruth Milford and her sister-in-law.

  He’d had enough. He walked in, and said, “Miss Milford, get into the motorcar, if you please. I’ve got a prisoner to take to Shrewsbury.”

  “With pleasure.” She limped heavily to the door, grimacing with the pain.

  Ruth said, “Where’s Nan?”

  “You’ll find her in her cottage. Her husband cut her arm with his war souvenir. She’ll need your help. It’s been a shock.”

  “Why would he take Tildy? How could he do that to Sam and to me? I don’t—I thought—never mind.” She looked around for her coat. “I wanted it to be Alasdair. I wanted him to care for her.”

  “He’s recently become engaged, Mrs. Milford. To a very wealthy woman. The trouble is, I don’t think he knows what to do with Tildy now. And that’s worrying me. Do you know anything that will help me find her?”

  “He wouldn’t harm her. She’s his child!”

  “I don’t think that matters to him now. He must have thought that Sam was searching for him to press a paternity suit. Once he got the child, he could deal with your husband. This marriage must matter more to him than you do.” It was harsh, but she needed to hear the truth.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I think in some corner of my mind, I wanted to hurt him the same way he’d hurt me. That’s why I never told him about Tildy. When she was taken, I convinced myself that he’d give her all the advantages she would never have in Crowley. But deep down inside, what really mattered was the knowledge that every time he looks at her, he’ll remember me.”

  “Wasn’t it enough that Sam loved that child? That he’d provide for her?” he asked, curious. “He was a better man by far.”

  But she didn’t answer him.

  He turned and left.

  On his way, he returned Susan to Dr. Matthews’s surgery. The doctor wasn’t pleased, nor was Susan, and Rutledge had to use all his authority to persuade both of them to accept the arrangement. There was nowhere else he could safely leave her. He was too well aware that given the chance, she would go after Tildy herself, and take her where no one could find her.

  And then at the door, as he was preparing to walk out, she limped after him and caught his arm.

  “It’s not just taking Blake to Shrewsbury, is it? If it were, I could go to my rooms at the hotel. You know where Tildy is, don’t you? Let me go with you. She knows me, she’ll feel safe with me.”

  “No.”

  Her grip tightened on his arm. “I want her. That woman doesn’t deserve her. Promise me I can have her.”

  He didn’t try to reason with her. He said harshly, “I must find her first.”

  But he’d been thinking that she might be somewhere near Ludlow. Where no one who didn’t know about Dale’s personal connection to the town would suspect to find her. He had no intention of telling anyone that he had come to that conclusion.

  She let his arm go. “Don’t shut me out of her life,” she warned.

  Rutledge delivered Donald Blake to Inspector Carson in Shrewsbury, charging him with kidnapping and attempted murder. It took longer than he’d counted on.

  Inspector Fenton was leaning against a wing, waiting for him when he walked out of the police station.

  “Carson sent me word,” he said, “while you were attending to the paperwork. I never suspected Donald. Not seriously. He’
d been away, and he could prove it. What’s more, his employer neglected to tell us he’d left early. Just that the dates he was employed were correct.”

  “I should have. He didn’t want me staying at the pub. He must have thought I knew more than I did.”

  “I said it had to do with Ruth. I just didn’t know how. There’s no way to charge her. But she ought to be charged. Have you found the child? What’s to become of her? Ruth is an unfit mother. I’ve a cat that had more feeling for her kittens.”

  “I haven’t found her. I’m going now to look for her.”

  “I hope you find her. I’ll sleep better then.” And he walked away.

  Rutledge was turning the crank when one of the Constables came running out of the station, waving something.

  “Inspector Rutledge? This was just handed to us. It was addressed to you, here.”

  It was a telegram. He took it, thanking the Constable, and closed the door before opening it.

  The message was brief.

  I’ve sent him a telegram. I told him I know what he’s done. And why. In exchange for my silence, I will have Tildy again. It’s finished. I’ve been such a fool.

  It wasn’t signed, but he knew who had sent it. Ruth Milford.

  Rutledge swore.

  If Dale had received his telegram, even if he wasn’t already planning to silence her, Ruth had just invited her own death.

  There wasn’t time to speak to Carson. Rutledge put up the crank and was on his way south.

  Even so, he was nearly too late.

  When Rutledge reached the pub, only Nan was there.

  She sprang up from her chair when he came in. “She went after Tildy,” she said, her words tumbling over each other. “He didn’t think I’d seen him. I’d gone upstairs to have a lie-down. And I heard voices. I was standing at the top of the stairs, when he told her where to find Tildy. And then he left. But I think he went after her. I didn’t know what to do—Will has gone to Shrewsbury to pick up supplies. I’m all alone—”

  “Where is Tildy?”

  He expected her to tell him that she was in Little Bog. It was the ideal place to be rid of both the child and her mother. There were the pits, deep enough to keep their secrets for a very long time, even though they had been closed down. Boards could be removed, then replaced.

  But she said, “Up on the Stiperstones. The Devil’s Chair. Why would he leave her there? It’s almost dark—Tildy will be frightened—she might fall—hurt herself. Ruth took the torch and went after her.”

  The Stiperstones were an outcropping of rock, a bare ridge jutting out of the landscape and rising in jagged tors to their highest point. It was unusual, a gray mass of stone where nothing grew. On the slopes leading up to it, saplings had become trees, obscuring the climb almost until the rock itself began. One of the highest tors, with its distinctive profile, was called the Devil’s Chair, and the locals had for centuries believed he came to sit there and watch wild storms break around him.

  Rutledge didn’t believe the child would be there. But Ruth Milford had believed it.

  He said to Nan, “Leave the pub. He may come back looking for you. Go to Will’s aunt, and keep the doors locked.”

  “I ought to be here when they come down. They’ll want food—tea.”

  “It can wait. Do as I say. I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “Yes, all right. I’ll go.”

  She caught up her coat and started for the door. “You’ll find Tildy, won’t you? To be sure she’s all right?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  As soon as he’d watched Nan walk to the Esterly house, he went back to the motorcar and drove to the stones, approaching from the west, their dark silhouette formidable against the eastern sky. He got as close to the tree line as he could. Then, leaving his hat on the seat, he started to climb.

  It had been easy to pick out the formation locals called the Devil’s Chair, stark above him. He couldn’t see Ruth, and didn’t want to take the time to use his field glasses. Even so, he was nearly sure there was something up in the Chair—a red scarf or coat. It seemed to flutter in the light wind.

  Hamish, at his back, said, “It’s your imagination.”

  But Rutledge knew it wasn’t.

  Once in the trees, he found it harder to keep to the track he’d picked out. Pushing his way through the dry undergrowth, avoiding fallen logs, climbing over minor outcroppings, he depended on his sense of direction to guide him. And as he climbed, he listened for any sound.

  The wind was picking up, and he could feel the air cooling as night came down, taking with it any light he’d had until now.

  He had nearly reached the ridge itself when he heard a gunshot, echoing, hard to pinpoint. He redoubled his efforts and finally came out into the open, the tors still rising high above his head.

  The Devil’s Chair, he realized, was to his right, and he began to climb across loose scree, hoping to reach the ridge just short of it.

  It was not an easy climb in the dark, and he dared not use his torch. As he got higher, he could see the occasional flash of another torch, pointing this way and then that, frantically picking out pockets one minute and pinnacles the next.

  Ruth hadn’t found Tildy. She was still alive, still searching. He thought once that he heard her calling.

  And then there was another gunshot. He couldn’t see where it had come from. But the torch went spinning wildly into the air, before tumbling like some demented thing as it fell, lighting gray stone and the night sky by turns.

  Silence fell, except for the wind and the sound of his breathing, the rasp of his boots against stone as he climbed. It was pitch-black now, and the jagged rock was cutting into his gloves as he sought for the next handhold, giving him purchase for the next move upward.

  When at last he came out on the tor, he could see the Devil’s Chair ahead of him, and keeping his silhouette low, he started forward.

  It was rough going. Twice his foot slipped and he had to catch himself. It was a near-run thing the third time. He could sense the space where his foot found nothing but air instead of rock.

  He was almost at the Devil’s Chair when he stumbled, and reaching down, felt an arm. At the same time, there was a cry, quickly muffled as it was jerked away.

  There was the sound of scuffling movement, scree falling, and another cry, cut short as the scuffling stopped suddenly.

  He turned on his torch, covering the light with his fingers as he shone it down where the sound had stopped.

  A distorted face, wide-eyed with fright, stared back at him. He barely recognized Ruth Milford.

  He flicked off the torch almost at once, then said quickly, hardly above a whisper, “It’s Rutledge. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t find Tildy!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not badly. Cuts. Bruises.” And then, almost on a wail, “Her little scarf was caught on the Chair. I’m afraid she tried to climb down—that she’s fallen—I keep listening for her crying.”

  “Who fired those shots?”

  “I fired one. When I saw him climbing after me. And then he hit the rock just above my shoulder, and I dropped the torch. Please, find Tildy. I’ll be all right.”

  He didn’t tell her that the little girl was very likely not there. How could Dale have managed to get Tildy so far? It wasn’t feasible. She would have been in the way. And Ruth’s fall had to look like an accident.

  “Stay here.” He got himself past her without incident, and then moved on toward the Chair.

  Even in the dark, it did look very much like a huge chair, and up here, it could easily hold the Devil and his helpers, Rutledge thought, as he swept his fingers over the stone.

  His hand touched something, and as he felt for it, he realized that it was the scarf Ruth had found earlier. What he’d seen as a splash of color against the uneven gray of the tor.

  But there was no child here. Alive or dead.

  Somewhere behind him a voice c
alled, “Ruth?”

  Rutledge tensed, waiting for her to reply.

  “I lied to you, Ruth. She isn’t here. But I’ll tell you where she is.”

  No answer.

  “Did you realize that you damned near clipped my ear? I didn’t know you were a good shot. I’d have been more careful.”

  There was the sound of a chuckle. As if he were laughing at himself. At his own carelessness.

  At his ease. Certain that he had found her, and that he would be finished very soon.

  “Let me help you, Ruth. Give me your hand, and together we’ll both get down from this wretched tor. I’ll help you back to the ridge. I could always see well in the dark, remember? You teased me about it.”

  He must have been groping in the dark, searching with his hands even as he talked.

  “Tildy isn’t here. I just needed to be sure you loved her enough. That you truly wanted her back. You’re a widow now, sadly. It means we can finally be together—”

  Rutledge heard a cry, bitten off as quickly as it had been uttered.

  “There you are!” Triumph in the voice now. “Come on, give me your hand, it’s cold up here, and that wind is rising. We need to go down. Ruth? I’m sorry I tricked you. Surely you understand why.”

  And then angrily, “Come on. We can’t stay here all night. They’ll be missing you at the pub soon.”

  He must have found her hand or arm, because Rutledge could hear her cry out, and the scraping sounds of a scuffle, as if she was fighting him.

  “Come on, Ruth, help me or we’ll both fall.”

  She said something that Rutledge couldn’t make out.

  He couldn’t risk it. Once Ruth was back on the spine of the ridge, she would be vulnerable. All Dale had to do was let go of her and push, and she would be off the rock with nothing to break her fall until she reached the bottom.

  He flicked on his torch and shouted, “Over here, Alasdair!”

  The man’s reflexes were still good. He had let go of Ruth and was raising his service revolver even as Rutledge switched off the torch.