by Charles Todd
Walking on, still setting the pace, he said, “You can’t prove that I killed her.”
“I think I can. There’s enough evidence. Does your wife suspect anything?”
Leslie rounded on him. “Leave my wife out of this. She had no idea what I was doing. What I was about to do. She trusted me, and I used her. That’s on my soul, not hers.”
“Why Avebury?”
“The village had no connection with me. It was dark, lonely, those stones were almost ghostly in what little light there was. It seemed to be an ideal place to leave her.”
“How did you persuade her to go there with you?”
“I told her I had a cottage there. That no one knew about it. No one knew me. We’d be safe there. It was so simple.”
“But you went to the house first. The house in Stokesbury. Why? That was a grave risk.” He didn’t know for certain. But he put certainty in his voice.
“That was afterward. I had to clean up, get rid of evidence. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“How did you get there?”
“There was an old man who drove my wife when she came down alone. He was outside the station, waiting for a fare. I didn’t know he was going to die soon after that. One less death on my conscience, that old man. I don’t enjoy killing, whatever you may think of me.”
“What did you do with the weapon?”
“Ah. You haven’t found that, have you?”
Rutledge said lightly, “Yorkshire? Did you take it there?”
“That’s possible, of course. By the way, your guess was quite good. It was the magician’s assistant who did those killings. He used the magician to attract the young women, then sent them word that the magician wanted to meet them again.” He glanced sideways at Rutledge. “You’re a clever policeman, I have to hand you that. I had thought, given your suicide attempt, you might not be quite as good as rumor had it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you—”
He’d been prepared for it, there was no other explanation for this roundabout walk Leslie had set out on. From the quiet square where he lived, he had come to a busier street where early morning traffic was feeding into one of the major thoroughfares, and now, as a lorry bore down on the slight curve in the road, Leslie turned and shoved Rutledge hard.
Prepared or not, he lost his footing on the uneven verge, and was falling toward the oncoming vehicle when he heard Leslie swear as he reached out and caught Rutledge’s out-flung arm, planting his foot and using all his strength to swing him out of the path of the lorry. Rutledge crashed against the iron railing in front of the servants’ entrance of the house beside them.
Grunting, he nearly overbalanced and fell into the stairwell, grasping at the railing with both hands as Leslie let him go. By the time he’d straightened up, Leslie was gone, dodging his way across the busy road to hail a passing cabbie on the far side.
Pressing his fingers against the aching ribs where he’d struck the railing, Rutledge watched the cab disappear, Leslie’s white face peering out the rear window.
An hour later, when Rutledge had retrieved his motorcar and had driven to the Yard, he walked into Sergeant Gibson’s office and said curtly, “Chief Inspector Leslie. Has he come in?”
Gibson looked up at Rutledge, frowned, and said, “What’s happened to your hand?”
Rutledge looked down. There was a cut on the edge of his palm. He hadn’t even noticed it in his anger. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped his hand. “Is he?”
“He was to leave this morning for Cornwall, sir. A new inquiry.” Gibson coughed a little. “Chief Superintendent Markham was looking for you, sir. About the ex-soldier. He was in Hampshire on the date in question. I believe there was a message from the Chief Constable in Wiltshire. About your own inquiry. I’d avoid him at present, if I were you.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
He went back to the Leslie house, and this time it was the daily who answered the door.
“Chief Inspector Leslie has left, sir. If you’re Mr. Rutledge, I was to give you this.”
She reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. “He said you would know what it means.”
He took the envelope, thanked her, and walked back to his motorcar as she shut the door behind him.
He tore open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet inside.
There was no greeting and no signature. Just a few words in Leslie’s handwriting.
I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my taste for killing.
18
Rutledge had a choice. To follow Leslie to Cornwall or to wait for his return.
Hamish said, “What if he’s no’ gone to Cornwall?”
If Leslie drove fast, if he knew the roads and could make up lost time quickly where necessary, he could go first to Avebury.
That was where the knife was . . .
He didn’t hesitate. Leaving the square, he set out for Wiltshire himself, and as soon as he was clear of the outskirts of London, he pushed the motorcar hard. Even so, he had time to think.
If Karina’s killer had come to Avebury by way of the West Kennet Avenue, where he might well have been seen by Mrs. Parrish, once the deed was done, he could leave by the most direct route. Cutting cross-country was faster, and there was less chance of being seen. It was how the purse had been hidden in the barrow, it was how the killer had known the forecourt and chamber were accessible.
But would Leslie have been clever enough to realize that leaving the knife and the purse in the same place was tempting fate?
If the purse had been found after Radleigh’s body had been discovered, there was no connection to the dead woman. She couldn’t have identified it, there was nothing in it to identify her. Radleigh could have taken it from anyone at any time. And if the crows and other scavengers had had a chance to finish their work, there would have been no way of telling how long he’d lain there. Weeks or even months, depending on when he was discovered. Possibly the killer that had got away—possibly not.
But the knife—that would be telltale.
Rutledge pushed harder on the empty stretches, almost colliding with a lorry turning into his path outside Marlborough. Swearing, he barely got clear, the horn on the lorry blasting the driver’s anger at him.
He reached Avebury and went directly to Dr. Mason’s, pausing only long enough to collect what he needed from the boot.
The doctor opened the door, took one look at Rutledge’s expression, and said quickly, “What is it?”
“Have you seen Chief Inspector Leslie?”
“No, is he—?”
Rutledge cut across his question. “I need to borrow the chestnut gelding again, if I may. There’s no time to explain.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll help you—”
But Rutledge was already striding toward the stable, and he had the blanket and saddle in place before Mason caught him up, his coat thrown on and his scarf trailing behind him.
“I’ll give him the bit,” he said. “What’s happened?”
“The knife is still missing. And I think Leslie’s going after it. I have to get there first.”
The doctor swung the doors wider as Rutledge mounted. “Do you think he’s armed?” he asked quickly, catching the bridle as Rutledge started out of the stable.
“God knows. Yes, if he’s already found the knife.”
“He’s fast, Prince is. And he’s not been ridden of late, he’ll be ready to go.”
But Rutledge was already headed around the house toward the street, and the horse under him lengthened its stride as they cleared the open front gate.
Where in hell’s name had the knife been hidden? It hadn’t been in the chamber, there was nowhere in the forecourt that was as safe from the curious, the summer visitor. And he himself had circled the barrow without noticing anything unusual, any possible cranny.
He set off down the road, and as soon as he had passed through the causeway, Rutledge swung left. The chestnut was us
ed to that now, and was eager for a run.
Soon the conical shape of Silbury Hill was in sight, and in the distance was the Long Barrow. Rutledge was pulling his mount in that direction when he saw movement on the western end, away from the entrance.
Urging Prince on, into a full gallop, Rutledge made for what he’d seen, telling himself it hadn’t been crows or even a stray ewe.
With his free hand, he reached inside his coat, pulled out his field glasses, and gripping the horse with his knees, he scanned the barrow ahead.
There!
He caught the movement again, and for a brief instant, there was the figure of a man in the lens before he lost it. The horse was moving too fast for him to hold the glasses steady, but he’d seen enough. He shoved them back inside his coat, and concentrated on reaching the barrow.
Leslie must have heard the hoofbeats. Suddenly he was climbing to the top of the barrow, staring across the plain, a dark silhouette against the fading light. He watched the oncoming horse for several minutes, and then began to climb down on this side, preparing to meet Rutledge at the foot of the barrow.
By his stance as he reached the bottom, he was braced for whatever was to come.
Rutledge slowed the gelding as he got closer, trotting now, gauging his adversary while letting him wonder what to expect.
By the time he was in hailing distance, Leslie said, “I thought I’d left you in London.”
Rutledge didn’t reply until he was within ten yards of Leslie, reining in his horse.
“Any luck, remembering where you left the knife?”
“It was dark. I couldn’t very well mark the spot. You may have better luck.” His shoulders were squared, his head up. “How do you expect to take me into custody, on horseback?”
“The horse can find his way back home. We’ll use your motorcar.”
Before he could stop himself, Leslie glanced toward the distant road. Rutledge looked in that direction, and he thought he could see the motorcar, off the road and behind some trees.
“Rather a long walk back, for you.” He didn’t dismount.
“Oh, very well, come inside the chamber over there, and I’ll show you what I did with it. I was searching for a better choice when I heard you thundering toward me.”
But Rutledge had searched the chamber. The knife wasn’t there.
He smiled grimly. “I’ll wait while you fetch it.”
Leslie smiled in return. “Then I’d rather walk. The truth is, I don’t particularly care for that damned chamber.” He turned, moving toward the distant road, walking briskly. Rutledge turned the horse and followed at a little distance.
“I don’t particularly care to hang, either,” Leslie commented when they were halfway to the motorcar.
“You should have considered that before you killed the first time.”
Leslie winced. “It wasn’t my plan. The truth is, I don’t like remembering it. And afterward, I had to watch Dr. Mason examine her body. It was all I could do to keep from screaming at him to stop.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Before they’d reached the motorcar, Rutledge took out his handcuffs and tossed them to Leslie. “Put them on.”
Leslie caught them and stared down at them for a moment. “How many times have I used my own cuffs?” he asked, almost to himself. Looking up at Rutledge, he said, “Are they necessary?”
“Do you think I’d trust you all the way to London, uncuffed?”
“To be honest? I wouldn’t trust myself, in your shoes.” And he flung the heavy cuffs straight at the horse, striking him in the white blaze on his nose.
The animal reared in pain and fright, nearly unseating Rutledge. He clamped his knees against the horse’s sides, caught a handful of mane with one hand while the other held tight to the reins. And then the gelding took off, galloping down the line of trees, away from the man beside the motorcar. Rutledge’s last glimpse of Leslie was of him racing for the bonnet to turn the crank.
And then he had to give his whole attention to the horse, who was close to sweeping him out of the saddle as it ran under low branches before clattering out to the road.
Leslie blew his horn as he started back the way he’d come, at speed.
It was a challenge.
By the time Rutledge had the horse under control, there was no way he could go after Leslie. Instead, he rode on, shouted for Mason as he came through the gate, dismounted, and called as the doctor opened his door, “Take care of him. Look at his nose. I don’t have time.”
And then he was turning the crank of his own motorcar, and tearing down the road after Chief Inspector Leslie, pausing only long enough to retrieve his handcuffs.
He was two miles from the outskirts of Stokesbury when he saw the brightening of the sky ahead and to his left.
“Damn the man,” Rutledge exclaimed savagely, and pressed on into the village.
The house was fully engaged by the time he got there, and Leslie was out in front, standing a little apart from his helpless neighbors, watching it burn as they tried to save the houses on either side. The shed too was ablaze, but no one was paying it any heed.
Rutledge braked hard, got out, and strode toward Leslie. The man turned, gave him an odd look, then held out his hands.
Rutledge said, something in his voice that Leslie heard clearly, “If you try anything this time, I’ll post you as a fugitive, armed, dangerous, and to be shot on sight.”
“You’ve won, Rutledge. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
And he stood there, waiting as his neighbors stared at the two tall men, while Rutledge clamped the handcuffs around both the Chief Inspector’s wrists.
19
They drove in silence all the way to London. Leslie made no effort to escape, his hands in his lap, his eyes on the road ahead.
Counting the miles? Rutledge wondered, on his guard all the same.
They were threading through the dawn traffic of London, the sun rising and a stiff breeze coming up with the light.
“Why did you burn the house?” Rutledge asked then.
“Did I set it afire?” And then, “I did. But not the way you think. I’d gone in, expecting you to go directly to London, leaving me in the clear. There was some money there, I knew I’d need it. Constable Benning knocked at the door, and I thought it was you. I leaped up, and I knocked over the lamp in my haste to get out through the kitchen. When I saw who it was, I made some excuse and we went around to the front of the house. As I was about to turn the crank, we smelled smoke. It was too late. The carpet must have caught, or the drapes. I don’t know. The heat was too fierce for either of us to try to salvage anything. There’s no fire company in Stokesbury, did you know? Benning ran to ring the fire bell. Nothing anyone could do by that time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Leslie said, his voice suddenly drained of feeling, his face drawn with exhaustion, “I don’t particularly care whether you do or not. I can’t prove it, and I can’t change what happened. Sara was fond of that house. That’s my only regret.”
But any evidence still there to find had gone up in the fire.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s preparing his defense. There’s no knife, and whatever was in yon house is gone as well.”
Rutledge suddenly remembered the photograph of Karina that had never been put in the case file. Had that been somewhere in the house too?
When they pulled up in front of the Yard, Leslie said, the mocking note gone from his voice, his eyes dark with something Rutledge couldn’t define, “Whatever I’ve done, I’ve got a shred of pride left. Remove the handcuffs. Let me walk to Markham’s lair without the speculation and stares.”
Rutledge himself had walked that gauntlet. But he was about to shake his head when Leslie quickly added, “I swear to you on whatever honor left to me that I will do nothing, say nothing. I swear.”
“If you break your word, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Leslie stared at him. Then held out his hands. Rutledg
e unlocked the cuffs and put them back in his pocket.
“Thank you.” After a brief hesitation, Leslie got out of the motorcar, walked around it, and went directly into the Yard, climbing the stairs ahead of Rutledge and turning toward Markham’s office.
It was Rutledge who knocked, after a quick look at Leslie. His face was expressionless, his eyes hard.
Markham called, “Come,” and Rutledge opened the door.
It was an awkward and painful half hour.
Markham, glaring at Rutledge, had turned to Chief Inspector Leslie and asked, “Has he run mad?”
Leslie didn’t glance at Rutledge. “Everything he has told you is true. I’m responsible for the death of Karina Larchian and the ex-soldier whose remains were found in the Kennet Long Barrow.”
“Do you have any idea how this is going to reflect on the Yard, if you are charged and tried?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
And that was all the apology that Markham got.
He fussed with the papers on his desk, glared again at Rutledge, as if he had personally planned this awkwardness, then said, “There will be an inquest, damn it. In Avebury. Until then you’ll be remanded into custody. I will have your identification, Leslie.”
The man winced at the use of his name without his title. He handed it over, and stood there stoically while Markham went through the necessary formalities, including a statement of guilt that the Chief Superintendent had insisted on having in Leslie’s own hand.
Leslie signed his resignation from the Yard, held out his hands, and Rutledge put the cuffs on his wrists a second time.
