by Charles Todd
And that was a view of the murder no one else had considered. Both he and Leslie had questioned every man in Avebury, but they’d spoken to the wives of these men only to verify their husbands’ statements.
“Who in this village is jealous enough that she’d kill to keep her husband away from the woman searching for him?”
“I could name you three or four who wouldn’t like it. Only I don’t see them doing murder, however much they might want to. My grandmother, now, she could have done it. She was a farmer’s wife and could dress a pig or kill a chicken. Blood didn’t bother her. I was afraid of her as a child.” She stopped and looked at the ceiling above her head. “Mrs. Parrish is moving about upstairs. You’d best go.”
“If not a wife, could there have been a widow, trying to protect her husband’s good name from scandal? A soldier’s wife who didn’t want his memory tainted?”
“A widow would be more likely to laugh and send her packing. What could her man do for that woman, if he was in his grave?”
A woman living in Avebury wouldn’t have needed a tandem bicycle.
“Is there a woman in Avebury whom either Chief Inspector Leslie or I have failed to speak to?” he insisted. “Someone like your grandmother?”
She was ushering him out of the kitchen as she replied, her attention on the movements upstairs. “Not since the war. The war changed everything.”
He was about to thank her, but she shook her head to silence him, then shut the door quietly as soon as he was clear of the threshold.
Rutledge went on to the inn, mulling over what Mrs. Dunlop had told him. Was she a great reader of the more sensational novels? Or was her imagination that lively?
All the same, her views on the women of Avebury made sense. He’d need to keep an open mind in spite of her denials.
Walking through the door to the inn, he found the barmaid polishing glasses. Smiling, asking for a cup of tea, he added, “Did you have any guests staying here the night the woman was murdered by the stone?”
He knew what the answer would be—Leslie had been there before him.
“Guests? Not that night, no. We’re often empty in winter.” Disappearing into the kitchen, she was back soon with a tray.
That made Avebury an attractive place to do murder. There would be no strangers wandering about, and on a cold night, the local people would likely be in their beds, asleep.
As he drank his tea sitting at the bar, he considered what that offered as a possibility.
What if the woman had been told that a person she was looking for—hoping to meet—was already here in Avebury and waiting for her? And then he’d arranged to meet her somewhere and bring her the rest of the way?
That opened up an entirely different line of questions.
A plausible excuse to get the victim to a place where neither of them were known, and she could be killed with impunity.
“It’s not the best weather for coming here to see the stones, is it?” the young woman behind the bar was saying, putting the towel aside and leaning on her elbows, glad of someone to talk to. “We had three people here in early January, and they were caught out in bad weather. After that, only Chief Inspector Leslie before you. It’s a good thing the people here like the food we serve, or the Bryants would have to shut down much of the winter.”
He let her chatter, all the while his mind explored the new direction. Then the door opened, someone else came into the pub, and she moved on to greet him.
Hamish said, “She’s no fra’ this place, ye ken. Yon dead woman. No’ fra’ the villages close by. It would be easy to lie to her.”
Rutledge stood and walked to the window, looking out across the road, beyond the grassy stretch to the standing stones. They appeared to be smaller at this distance. Less threatening. Or perhaps that was because so many had been pulled down. Most of them were misshapen, irregular now, worn by the wind and rain for several thousand years. Had they always been that way? Or had they been shaped alike at the start so that the circle appeared to be regular, perfect? Had that mattered to those ancient builders? He tried to imagine it that way.
It would have been impressive. Taller than any man-made stone structures those builders had ever seen. Powerful.
Given that this woman hadn’t been local, she could be persuaded to see the stones up close, before moving on to the inn where—supposedly—her killer was staying.
It’s an amazing stone circle. Wait until you see it. Best at night too, and we’ll have to pass them on our way. After that, we’ll rouse the Bryants and have something warm to drink, a fire in the room . . .
He paid for his tea, collected his hat and coat, and left the inn. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked on as far as the stone where the woman had died.
In the gray light, it was surreal, a great figure whose shrouded head was bowed almost as if in sorrow, its arms about to reach out and offer shelter. The face veiled, unclear.
Rutledge shook himself. It was only a megalith.
But was that how the woman had been persuaded to cross the grass to reach the stone?
It’s something you won’t see anywhere else. My favorite stone. We’ll walk the bicycle the rest of the way . . .
He could hear the man’s voice in his ear. Cajoling, gently urging. A whisper.
A woman was more likely to trust someone she knew. More likely to pedal out into a dark, unfamiliar landscape filled with ancient tombs and monuments looming out of whatever ambient light was there.
And while she was looking up, trying to see what the voice was telling her about the stone rising above her head, the knife had come out. Had something warned her? A slight movement? Or had her killer softly spoken her name so that she turned, only to be shoved back against the rough stone as the knife went in?
It was fanciful, a reflection of his need to find answers, to take them back to London and throw them in Chief Superintendent Markham’s face.
Sorry about the bicycle. The horse was out all day, they said I couldn’t borrow the carriage after all. So I brought this. Do you think you can manage? Well, it will be an adventure of sorts. And it’s not far. And who will think to look for us here, in this godforsaken place?
That brought Rutledge up short. Was this an assignation, a Miss Palmer tricked into thinking she was loved and would be safe?
This woman must have had a valise too. Toothbrush, brush and comb, a change of clothes. She’d insist on it, to look her best. Not like a Gypsy, windblown, her boots muddy. She’d have dressed well to meet him, expecting a motorcar—a carriage at the very least. She hadn’t seemed to be the kind of woman used to rough living.
Everything she needed or might want would be in that valise. So where was it now? What had her killer done with it?
Just the opposite, in fact, from the murder of Miss Palmer, who had angrily come to confront Dr. Allen, forcing him to act. Whose doorstep—metaphorically—had this unidentified victim turned up on?
And where, if not in Avebury?
Leslie hadn’t had any better luck finding where the woman had come from. Wales? The doctor had said she could have been Welsh.
Hamish said, “Ye found Miss Palmer.”
But there was no Mrs. Branson in Avebury to point the way to Bath.
Rutledge turned and walked on, down the grassy slope to the road in front of Mrs. Parrish’s house.
He was nearly to Dr. Mason’s surgery when the doctor came out the door, waving his hand, his coat clutched in the other.
“Rutledge? I’ve found out. A photograph was left in the Rector’s charge, in the event anyone came later on to search for her.”
“Was it, indeed? Thank you, Doctor.” And he walked on, not waiting for Mason to catch him up. After a moment he heard the surgery door close.
He hadn’t intended to be rude, but this was something he himself needed to do, alone.
He wanted to see the dead woman’s photograph. She had been different things to different people. Mason, more than a little fas
cinated by her, had lived in a wider world than Avebury. And the daily, Mrs. Dunlop, who did for the upstanding women in the village, had called her respectable. A subscription had been taken up to bury her. It was a weathervane for which way public opinion was pointing. What would he read in her face? Something in between?
Using Leslie’s final report to the Yard as his guide, he’d walked in Leslie’s footsteps so far. It had had to be done, of course. He had had to eliminate the people or possible bits of evidence Leslie had eliminated. Or else make the same mistake Leslie might have made in overlooking a possible suspect. But the bicycle sighting was the one piece of the puzzle Leslie had never had, and in questioning local Constables about the tandems, there had been no indication that Leslie had even considered such a means of transport across the distance between Avebury and—where?
It widened the scope of the inquiry.
The bicycle hadn’t materialized out of thin air. The killer must have known where to find one. He wouldn’t have wasted precious time scouring the countryside for one while his intended victim waited impatiently.
One could travel long distances by motorcar. It could have been left on the approach to Avebury, well out of sight, and then killer and victim could have walked the rest of the way. Why hadn’t they? Why use a bicycle at all?
He left it. It was more important to have a look at that photograph, now.
7
He found Mr. Marshall, the Rector, in the church. It was impressive, of Saxon origin with Norman changes. A wooden beam ceiling. And a rood screen that had been plastered over at the Reformation and only discovered in the last century. It gleamed in the dimness, the gold leaf catching the pale light as the apostles stared back at him. He had the fleeting thought that his godfather, the architect, should come and see it.
The Rector, a stout balding man, was just coming up the aisle and greeted him with a smile. “What do you think of our church?”
“It’s quite interesting, isn’t it? I’m glad I came inside.”
“We’re very proud of it,” he said, looking around him. Then he turned back to Rutledge. “Looking for me, are you? More questions?”
Both Leslie and Rutledge had taken his statement along with those of the other men of the village. He had claimed he was in Chiswell at a meeting with other Rectors about fund-raising in the spring to pay for church repairs. Three churchwardens had been there as well. Constable Henderson had confirmed it in the course of the first inquiry.
Rutledge said, “When I spoke to you earlier, nothing was said about a photograph of the dead woman.”
Surprised, the Rector said, “I’m sorry. It never occurred to me. This one was not for Yard use. Leslie had one for his report, and as you were taking over, I assumed you must have seen it. No, we kept one for the church records. If someone had ever come here looking for the poor woman, we had nothing but a description to give them. She was buried in her own clothing. My wife saw to it that these were properly cleaned and pressed. We did keep her pretty scarf in the hope someone might recognize it. My wife, who knows a bit about fashion, believed it was silk, possibly a gift.” He shook his head. “So little, you see, to mark a life, and even silk doesn’t last. The photograph was my wife’s idea—she’s in the habit of taking photographs of the floral arrangements for services and weddings. It helps the flower committee to have a record of what’s been done, and it provides suggestions for the future. I must say, it’s proven amazingly useful.”
What had Mrs. Dunlop said? That the police had questioned the men, but not the women?
What was the dead woman to the Rector’s wife, to have done so much for a stranger?
“Had she done this before? Made a photograph of a corpse?”
“Well, no. No, of course not. Several times during the war she’s taken one of a bridal couple who asked her.” He sighed. “For a few brides, it was all they had to remember their soldier husband by. The Army photograph had gone to the man’s mother, you see. They were so young, all of them. I have kept them in my prayers.”
Bringing him back to the present, Rutledge said, “I wasn’t here when the body was discovered. Chief Inspector Leslie saw it, I didn’t. It would have been helpful.”
The sharpness in Rutledge’s voice galvanized the Rector. “Um, well, yes, of course. I hadn’t considered—I’ll be happy to show it to you. Yes,” he replied. “It’s in my study at the Rectory. It was my impression that you were merely covering the same ground as the Chief Inspector . . .” His voice trailed off, his embarrassment evident.
Rutledge swallowed his impatience. Marshall wasn’t to know there had been no photograph in the report. “Did you think your wife might have recognized the dead woman?” Rutledge asked.
“Recog—of course she didn’t recognize her, Inspector. Dorothea is a caring woman who takes her role as my wife quite seriously.” He was suddenly angry. “Are you possibly suggesting that she could do such a heinous thing and still calmly take a photograph of her handiwork?”
“I believe she was at home alone the night of the murder.”
“Come with me and meet her. Ask her yourself.”
Rutledge followed him out of the church and across the churchyard to the Rectory. They went in the side door, and it led to a passage. They could hear the clatter of dishes being washed and set out to dry as they followed it down to a door at the far end.
The woman pouring hot water from the kettle into the tin wash pan looked up.
“I know, I said I’d wait until you came—” She broke off, staring at the man behind her husband. “I wasn’t expecting guests—”
She was as thin as her husband was stout, with a lined face and kind eyes. Looking at her, Rutledge couldn’t imagine her using a knife on anyone. He thought she might be ill, and trying quietly to live with it.
“Inspector Rutledge, Dorothea. He’s here about the photograph we took of that poor woman.”
“Indeed?” She looked from one to the other, sensing the stiffness between her husband and the man from London. “Is anything wrong, my dear?”
“Not at all,” Rutledge said pleasantly, stepping in before her husband could frame an answer. “I should like to borrow it. It would have been very helpful when I was asking the other villages if they’d seen her.”
She picked up a cloth and began to dry her hands. “It wasn’t taken for the police. It’s for her family or whoever comes to ask about her.”
“Yes, I do understand that. But the copy intended for the Yard appears to have gone missing. I’ve never seen it. And so I should like to borrow the other copy for a time. You must have the negative.”
He could see that she was about to refuse.
“I don’t think it’s proper to show it to everyone and his cat. Anyone who might simply be curious about her. The dead are so—vulnerable. I can’t help but feel she wouldn’t like it.”
“It’s more important, I think, to find her killer than to worry about her dignity.” He kept his voice calm, gentle.
She looked to her husband, silently asking him his opinion.
The Rector said, “I’m not happy about it either, my dear. But if he promises faithfully to take care of it and return it to us as soon as his business here is finished, then I feel we must give it to him.”
“You can’t put a name to her?” Rutledge asked her. “It would save so much time if you could.”
She faced him, drawing herself up. “If I could name that poor young woman, I would have done so, the minute I saw her. I was taking her clothing back to Dr. Mason, so that she could be suitably dressed for the undertaker’s. She wasn’t my size, and no one else had anything that would fit. Nor did the doctor’s late wife. I saw her then, and I thought it such a pity. She must have a mother somewhere—a father—someone to whom she was precious.”
“It’s to your credit that you thought about a photograph. I’ll take very good care of it, I promise you. And see that it’s returned.”
She hesitated, and then nodded.
She was a perceptive woman, and he asked, “If you saw her, if you worked with her clothing, even photographed her, what could you tell me about her?”
She smiled wryly. “If he’s to be successful in the living he’s sent to take up, a Rector’s wife has to understand people. Not judge them, mind you, but take them as they are and still know what they are. I noticed her shoes. She’d walked a great deal, and although she kept them polished, the soles told their own story. Her clothing was good. Neither cheap nor overly expensive. The sort of things I might buy for myself, and so there must have been money, but not a great deal of it. Still, they were proud, and careful with what they did have. One of her undergarments had been beautifully mended along one side.” She shrugged slightly, as if a little self-conscious. “Perhaps that in itself doesn’t tell you much. We all did without during the war. We had no choice. But it says something about her too. Her clothes were made for her by an excellent seamstress, and I wondered if perhaps they were French. Like the little scarf. The stitching was exquisite. I wondered perhaps if she was a refugee? We had a few of those staying with us during the war. Does that sound far-fetched?”
Not Welsh, then? It was a new bit of evidence, and Rutledge felt certain that the Rector’s wife was not lying to him.
“Not at all. In fact, I find it very helpful. Did you tell Chief Inspector Leslie these things?”
“No. He saw her body, you see. And he didn’t ask.”
The Rector returned just then with an envelope in his hand, and after the briefest hesitation, he held it out to Rutledge. He accepted the envelope but didn’t open it.
He thanked both of them, and the Rector saw him out. He said only, “Good day, Inspector.”
