by Charles Todd
“I hope you find the bastard.”
“Oh, I shall,” Rutledge told him grimly, and was gone.
It was never easy to bring the worst of news to a family still living in hope. As long as one didn’t know, one could still wait for the footstep at the door, the voice calling one’s name. I’m home—
Margaret Palmer looked at the two policemen on her doorstep in the shadows of the evening, and her face crumpled.
“Where is she? What’s happened?”
Rutledge took her arm and gently led her back into the house, saying, “I’m sorry. So sorry. We have found Serena, but I regret to have to tell you she is dead.”
The first door in the entry stood open. A parlor, bright with paintings of gardens on the wall and a fire on the hearth, a comfortable and pretty room that was welcoming.
Miss Palmer sat down heavily in the nearest chair. Seeing her clearly in the lamplight, he found himself thinking that if Serena had lived, she would look very much like this when she reached her cousin’s age.
He took the chair across from her while the Constable stood behind him, and with care, he told her the truth. There was no way to make it pleasanter. But he let her absorb it slowly, his voice quiet and even, only leaving out the worst details. She would learn them soon enough.
She cried, as he knew she would, a wrenching grief, and he gestured for the Constable to wait in the entry. After a time, she sobbed softly, then asked what she must do.
An hour later, Miss Palmer’s maid returned from her afternoon off and despite her own shock made tea for them. Rutledge had not wanted to leave Miss Palmer until there was someone else in the house.
She barely touched her tea, although the Constable drank his down.
“Must I see her?” she asked again.
“It must be official. The identification,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I have a cousin in Ireland. I’ll send for him. He can bring me to this—Tern Bridge, was it?”
“I’ll write it down for you. And there will be an inquest, as I said.”
“And I’ve told you I won’t attend. I don’t want to see that man’s face. Whoever he is, he destroyed Serena. And then he killed her. I only want to hear that he has hanged.”
There was a ruthlessness in her last words that surprised him. She could have been a schoolmistress herself, sternly admonishing a wayward student.
Rutledge stopped, late as it was, to speak to the doctor who had examined Serena Palmer. He confirmed the diagnosis.
“She took it well. Which disturbed me. I exacted a promise from her to come back the next week to begin treatment. I impressed upon her the need for haste, given the progression of the disease. And she agreed. But somehow I wasn’t surprised when the police came calling. She had been on my mind.”
“She understood the dangers of the treatment?”
“Yes. It would leave her barren. She would have no children. I think that was what distressed her most of all. I told her that the man would require treatment as well, but she smiled and said he would have to cure himself. An odd comment, but I thought it grew out of her disillusionment. I concluded that she had discovered he was married.”
“Did she say that in so many words?”
“No. She didn’t have to.” He sighed. “Miss Palmer was not my first patient with venereal disease. I fear she won’t be the last either.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
It was two o’clock in the morning of the next day before he reached Tern Bridge. He had made several stops on his way. Angry as he was, he went directly to the doctor’s surgery and pounded on the door.
Several minutes later, Allen came to answer the door, his nightclothes stuffed into his trousers, and a shirt over them.
“What is—” He stopped short. “Rutledge? Has there been another death?”
“I need to see the body again. Now.”
“Couldn’t it wait until morning? I had a difficult deliver—”
“Now.”
“Very well.” He lit the lamp as Rutledge stepped into the entry, out of the wind. They walked down the passage, carrying the lamp with them, and Allen moved ahead to pull the covering back from her face.
Rutledge took the photograph from his coat pocket and looked from it to the woman on the table. He’d felt no doubts, sitting there in Inspector Graves’s office. He had none now. But he made a show of making the comparison.
“You have a photograph of her?” Allen asked, watching him.
“I do. And a name. Serena Palmer.”
“Well, that’s a relief, I must say. Will her family be claiming the body?”
“Not before we have another doctor confirm your findings.”
“Confirm—?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. The cause of death is straightforward.”
“I expect you thought it would go to her grave with her. The venereal disease.”
“I—” He moved slightly, away from the table. “I felt that her family would have enough sorrow without learning that.”
“I’m not her family. I’m the investigating officer. How did you meet her?”
Allen didn’t reply.
“It doesn’t matter. I showed this photograph to the ticket agent at the railway station in Bath. He remembers selling her a ticket to Shrewsbury. And the ticket agent there remembers her as well. She’d been crying. He was worried about her, and kept an eye on her. He saw the man who finally arrived to collect her. He described you. You couldn’t bring her back to the village. Instead you took her to the old bridge and there you killed her. You’d attended Mr. Simmons in his last hours. You knew he was to be buried the next morning. It was the perfect place to leave the body.”
“No. None of this is true.”
“I stopped at the ruined manor house. Miss Palmer had with her a purse and a hat and a valise. I found all of them where you’d stuffed them under the section of roof that had fallen in.” He held up his driving gloves, filthy from shifting beams and years of windblown debris. “That didn’t improve my mood.”
“I was at a confinement that night. I could hardly have done what you’re suggesting.”
“In fact, you were late getting to Shrewsbury, because of the confinement. You kept Miss Palmer waiting, and the stationmaster can confirm that. How had she contacted you? A letter, telling you to meet her?” When Allen didn’t answer, Rutledge said, “I have only to ask the postmistress what letters came in the post for you. What did you tell your wife about that night? That you were concerned about the mother? The baby you’d just delivered?”
There was the sound of the door opening behind them. A woman wearing a robe over her nightdress stepped in. She was small and dark-haired, not as pretty as Serena Palmer. “There’s someone—oh. I didn’t know—” She looked from one to the other, sensing the tension between the two men. “It’s the Bailey child, my dear. He has croup.”
Allen turned, quickly covering Serena Palmer with the sheet, then moving on to a cabinet against the far wall. He opened it and took out a powder, mixing that with water in a small vial. He shook the vial vigorously, capped it, and crossed the room to hand it to his wife. “Mrs. Bailey knows what to do. Give her husband this, and tell him I’ll look in on Billy in the morning.”
She took the vial, then looked closely at her husband. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Mr. Rutledge won’t be long.”
“I’ll go back to bed then?” It was a question, not a statement.
“Do that. I’ll be up soon.”
She left, pulling the door shut after her.
Rutledge listened to her receding footsteps, her loose slippers tapping rhythmically as she walked down the passage.
“Is she infected?” he asked quietly, his gaze still on the door she’d closed.
“No. I’ve told her I’ve a pinched nerve in my back, and until it goes away, I must sleep in the guest room. Meanwhile I’m treating myself. It’s not pleasant.”
He would h
ave to cure himself . . .
Allen moved quickly, with the speed of resolve. Hamish shouted something as Rutledge spun around to face him.
The doctor had picked up a scalpel from somewhere while his wife was distracting Rutledge, and now he was lunging forward, his right hand raised to strike, his eyes wide with determination.
Allen was aiming for the throat, but Rutledge leaped back. As he did, the sharp blade slashed downward with all the force of the doctor’s shoulder behind it, and Rutledge felt it slice through his greatcoat and the clothes beneath, barely missing flesh. Ignoring everything but the flashing steel as Allen drew it back to slash again, Rutledge went on the attack, taking Allen off guard. He’d fought hand-to-hand in the trenches, and he waited until Allen’s arm was fully extended, then caught it, and using the weight of his body, forced it up and back.
Rutledge shifted his grip, and before Allen could recover his balance, Rutledge twisted the arm in his grasp, ignoring Allen’s empty left fist battering at his face and shoulder.
He thought the man was going to let the shoulder dislocate before he gave up, and then he cried out in pain and frustration. The scalpel clattered to the floor. Rutledge released the arm, and Allen bent double against the pain, his fingers wide and attempting to flex.
“Damn you, damn you!” he swore, his face taut with fury as he sank to his knees.
Rutledge said harshly, “Try that again, and it will be your neck I twist.” Reaching down, he took the doctor under the other arm, pulled him unceremoniously to his feet, then pushed him toward the door.
“Don’t touch me,” Allen snapped, jerking away, massaging his right shoulder again.
With Rutledge behind him, he walked out of the surgery into the cold night air, and five minutes later he was locked in the cell at the rear of the police station.
“I’ll be out of here tomorrow,” he shouted as Rutledge turned away, ignoring him.
But he was not out by morning. Four days later, an inquest found sufficient evidence to charge Dr. Allen in the death of Serena Palmer.
Rutledge saw Mrs. Allen in the room where the inquest was held, the Rector beside her. She was struggling to keep her composure as she listened to the witnesses give their evidence.
But he noticed that not once did she look at her husband, even when he was being taken away.
It was late when Rutledge reached London and drove on to his flat.
His report could wait until the morning.
He’d made good time, and the rain had held off until he was in the outskirts of the city. Dashing from the motorcar to his door rather than look in the boot for his umbrella, he lit the lamp in the front room, then took off his damp hat and coat and carried them through to the kitchen, where he spread out the coat on the backs of two chairs. There had been no chance to have the torn wool mended, where the scalpel had cut through the cloth. That too could wait until morning. At least he didn’t require mending as well, he told himself.
Standing there, he debated putting the kettle on to make a cup of tea, then decided he was too tired to wait for it.
He lit the lamp in his bedroom, and then went back to the sitting room to put out the one by the door.
The woman who came in twice a week to clean also brought in the post, and he saw that she’d left a telegram on the table by his chair, where he was sure to see it when he came home.
Frowning, he picked it up and after a moment’s hesitation, opened it.
Unfolding the sheet inside, he saw that it began quite formally and was unusually long for a telegram.
Monsieur Rutledge, I am writing because your name was found in the personal effects of Madame—
He stopped, standing there with the sheet in his hand while he stared out the window at the rainy night.
He didn’t want to know more. He couldn’t bear to finish it.
Hamish said, “Ye must.”
Personal effects . . .
“No.”
He dropped the telegram on the table, went to the cabinet on the far side of the room and opened it, taking out the decanter and pouring himself a whisky. Standing there, he finished it.
Personal effects . . .
The words seemed to echo around the room, but he knew they were only in his head.
“There’s no turning back time. Ye opened it. Ye canna walk away fra’ it.”
He was still standing there when the clock on the mantelpiece struck one, the silvery chimes almost a benediction. How long had it been? Five minutes? Fifteen? He had lost track of time, remembering.
Rousing himself, he crossed the room, took a deep breath, and picked up the telegram once more.
—of Madame Channing. It is with great sadness that we inform you that Madame died Friday last, and will be buried tomorrow here in Belgium, next to her husband. There was a tragic accident on the stairs. Her husband was unusually difficult that afternoon and attacked the orderly. Another came to that one’s aid, but Monsieur had the strength of ten. Madame hurried to calm him, but it was in vain. He lost his footing and they fell together down the stairs. He was killed instantly, while she lived three hours. There was nothing the doctor could do. Her last words were, My heart. If you wish her belongings to be sent to England, please contact us. May God be with Madame and Monsieur Channing. And with you.
It was signed Soeur Marie Andre, and under that the name of the convent that had taken in soldiers who were too damaged to be sent home.
Among them had been an unidentified officer who lived in violent darkness.
Meredith had been told her husband was missing, presumed dead, but she had never given up hope of finding him. Even after she had fallen in love with another man. And when her husband had finally been identified, she had gone to him and chosen to stay with him and help him recover. She had seen it as her duty. It was the sort of woman she was.
And in the end, he’d died, and he’d taken her with him . . .
Rutledge read the telegram a second time, looking at the date.
It was too late to consider attending the funeral. It was already over.
He sat down in the nearest chair, staring at memory.
Jean had died, married to another man. And now Meredith.
It was much later when he remembered her last gift to him.
It was a small heart on a gold chain. A promise? He’d taken it as that. He saw now that it was a farewell, that she had realized her husband would never recover. And she could never walk away and leave him in the dark place where he spent most of his days. How much of her strength came from love and how much from duty, he would never know.
Till death do us part . . . She had promised that at the altar.
Had she also foreseen, somehow, that her husband’s violence would one day be turned against her?
There was no way of guessing.
She’d had a stillness about her. It was what had attracted him to her in the beginning. It had been somehow comforting. A sign of the peace he himself longed for. He had loved her for that. And for many other things as well. What he hadn’t known, until too late, was that she also had infinite patience, waiting for news that might never come. She could not walk away.
Till death do us part . . .
He desperately wanted to curse her husband for taking her from him. And at the same time he knew he could not. The choice—and the courage—had been hers.
He would always love her for that too. Because she would have stood by him with the same courage.
It was almost dawn when he stood up and went out into the cold morning air, walking until the sun had risen and he was due at the Yard.
As so often since August of 1916, work would be his salvation. Whether it was being a competent officer to the men in his command or being a competent officer of the Yard.
However hard that might be.
5
He shaved and dressed with care, and drank a cup of tea to kill the whisky on his breath.
The telegram was still open on the table by
his chair when he walked out the door and drove to Scotland Yard.
Chief Superintendent Markham was pleased with the conclusion of the inquiry into the death of Serena Palmer.
“A pity that she allowed herself to be taken in by him.”
“We can’t measure how persuasive he was,” Rutledge replied, in her defense.
“Yes, I see that.” He fiddled with a pen on the blotter. “How long will it take you to write your report?”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “This morning. I’d hope for a day or two of leave after that.” He could visit her grave . . .
“Then I’ll expect to see the report on my desk by noon.”
Big Ben was just chiming the noon hour when Rutledge carried his report to the Chief Superintendent’s office and handed it across the desk.
“Thank you, Rutledge.” He opened the file and began to scan it.
He was turning to leave when Markham held up a hand. “There’s another matter that needs your immediate attention.”
“Sir?” He was about to add that he’d already asked permission to take a few days of leave. Still, if this matter didn’t take very long, better to get it out of the way. Then go.
“Sit down, sit down,” Markham said irritably, still scanning the report. Finally he said, “Yes, just as I thought,” and closed the file. “Do you recall the inquiry that Chief Inspector Leslie was called upon to deal with in Avebury?”
“The body found near one of the standing stones? Yes.” He braced himself. Markham, he thought, was about to draw parallels.
“It was never solved.”
Rutledge waited.
“Leslie is busy with another inquiry, one in Yorkshire. Since you discovered who that unidentified woman in Shropshire was, the one found in a grave, I think you might be just the man to take over this business in Avebury.”
“I don’t believe they’re in any way connected, sir,” he began. “Dr. Allen had other liaisons, it’s how he contracted syphilis. But there’s the distance to consider. I don’t think the victim in Avebury was one of those women.”
