A Fine Summer's Day (10 page)

The vicar said tightly, “We've never found the guilty party. Or known why those graves were damaged while so many others have not been touched. It's a desecration. I've prayed that the police will find out who has done this, if only to know why he's so disturbed.”

Rutledge surveyed the damage. Surely here indeed was Inspector Davies's unsolved case. He remembered how lightly he and Cummins had discussed the inquiry. Looking down at the evidence before him,
it no longer seemed humorous. There was a violence and hatred here that was shocking, the black substance layered on with savage intensity, as if the person doing this wished he could tar the body buried here as well. But he said nothing to the vicar of Inspector Davies.

“It's a tragedy,” he said, and meant it. “And you know of no connection among these people?”

“They died on different dates of different causes as far as I can ascertain. A farm accident for that one, typhoid fever took another one, cancer two more, and a brain hemorrhage for the most recent. I've made it my business to find out. I even wondered if someone hated doctors. There's a doctor among them.” He sighed. “Desecration, that's what it is. Family members have been very upset, as you can imagine.” They walked on. “My training says that all men have good in them. And I strive to find it. But this is depravity. The dead can't fight back.”

Rutledge thanked him again as they reached the churchyard gate and took his leave.

As he walked back to where he'd left his motorcar, he thought that he must tell Cummins what he'd seen here. And that the vicar had been right to fear for his church. But that was all that he'd accomplished here in Somerset.

Unless there was a connection in Netherby with Clayton's death that he hadn't found.

Yet.

He was no longer so convinced that there might be.

Clayton's break with the village had been amicable and permanent. Hardly the stuff of murder thirty years later.

Now he must return to Moresby and look into the possibility that the killer had mistaken his target. There had been the older man living next door to the Clayton house. Talmadge, his name was. His past would bear looking into next.

Which was certain not to please Inspector Farraday.

As he turned toward London, Rutledge wondered if Jean was enjoying
Henley with her parents. For all the good he'd done by rushing to Bristol, he could have stayed in London and spent the day with the Gordons.

W
hen Rutledge reached London, he looked at his watch and saw that there was still time to call in at the Yard before going home.

Bowles was not in, but Rutledge stopped to thank Sergeant Gibson for directing him to Sergeant Miller.

“Little good it did you,” Gibson said. “Or you'd be more pleased than you are. Sir.”

“True, but there's another possibility I'd like to look into when I get back to Yorkshire. A man by the name of Talmadge.”

“There's no need. A suspect's already in custody.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Inspector Farraday's found Clayton's killer? Who is it?”

“You'll have to ask Himself on Monday. He sent for you and wasn't best pleased you were haring about in Somerset when the murder was in Moresby.”

Rutledge swallowed the retort he'd been about to make. Bowles had agreed to his going on to Somerset. It wasn't Sergeant Gibson's fault, but it would delay his return to Yorkshire if he must wait to speak to the Chief Superintendent.

He went to his office to see if Bowles had left anything on his desk. But there was nothing.

T
he rank and file referred to Bowles as Old Bowels, and with good reason—his ill temper was legendary. When Rutledge walked into his office on Monday morning, Bowles glared at him and snapped, “There's an inquiry come in that needs your attention.
You had no business taking yourself off to Somerset without my authority.”

“I went because I haven't closed the inquiry in Yorkshire,” Rutledge said as pleasantly as he could manage. “It was my belief that you concurred in that decision.”

“It's been closed. Yorkshire. And without your help, I might add. The local man informed me that you didn't wish to act, and he was forced to do it for you. And I'm told you hurried back to London for a party on the Friday night.”

“There was a dinner honoring my engagement to Miss Gordon,” he said. “Yes. But you knew about that. And I took my time in Moresby.”

“I won't stand for insubordination, Rutledge. Do I make myself clear?”

“
Who
was taken into custody?” he pressed.

“Man by the name of Kingston.”

Rutledge felt anger sweeping through him in a red tide. He tried to count to ten before answering but didn't quite make it past six. “I told Inspector Farraday that the case he presented against Kingston wouldn't stand up in court. That's why I went to Somerset, to look into the victim's background—”

Bowles didn't wait for him to finish, abruptly interrupting. “And did you find anything?”

“My opinion is—”

“Did you find anything.” It was no longer a question.

“No—”

“Then Inspector Farraday's decision stands. The matter is closed.”

“I'd wager my life that Kingston is innocent.”

“We'll see how you feel about that when he's tried and found guilty.” Bowles took up a file lying on his desk and gave every appearance of being absorbed by it. But Rutledge saw his eyebrows twitch in annoyance.

He left the office, feeling the roil of an anger so fierce he kept going, out of the building and down the street, unaware of where he was until he heard Big Ben strike the half hour and realized that he was just by Westminster Bridge.

He wasn't sure whether Bowles had been in the police force so long that he had lost any driving need to see justice done. If Inspector Farraday was satisfied that the inquiry was closed, then closed it must surely be.

Or was it the fact that Bowles had no imagination? He'd long suspected that. No ability to look beyond the obvious and see where supposition and possibility might lead.

Swearing, Rutledge turned back toward the Yard.

And then there was Farraday's decision.

Was
he
—Rutledge—wrong about Kingston? Or for that matter, Michael Clayton, the dead man's son? Had he looked into every corner of the inquiry before—as Bowles had put it—haring off to Somerset?

In his considered opinion, he had. And yet Farraday had won the day, Kingston was in gaol, and it would now be up to a jury, not an Inspector of police, to decide if the charges stood on their own merits or not.

Yet it
felt
wrong. He'd dealt with murderers before this, he'd had to sift through evidence and interviews, he'd had to come to a conclusion based on facts he could prove. Kingston had neither the courage nor the weakness necessary to kill.

He had reached the door to the Yard, but his anger was still molten, and he stood there for a full minute, debating what to do.

Just then Inspector Cummins came out of the building and nodded to him.

“You could give thunderclaps a bad name,” he said. “Run-in with Bowles, was it?”

“Yes. He's cut short the inquiry in Yorkshire.”

Cummins put a hand on his elbow. “Let's walk, shall we?” He
headed in the direction of Trafalgar Square and carried Rutledge along with him. “More of those blackened graves have come to light. This time in the village of Beecham. South of Bristol, a few miles from the first village. Davies was sent to have a look, and it appears to have been the same vandal, because whatever was poured on the first graves appears to be the same substance used here. Or else news of what happened earlier has sparked someone else to copy what was done.”

“Davies must be beside himself.” He turned toward Cummins. “While I was in Somerset, I happened on the first of the damaged graves. In Netherby.” He went on to describe what he'd seen. “It was rather macabre, the way the names had been eradicated as the black substance, whatever it was, spread into every crevice. As if the dead were sinners, not fit to lie in a proper churchyard. The vicar hasn't found an answer, although apparently he's still looking.” For a moment Rutledge watched the traffic moving around the square. “I did wonder if they might have some connection with Clayton. Now it seems unlikely.”

“I'm sorry there isn't. Davies has two vicars and a local squire pressing him for answers. The latest theory is that someone is targeting churches. My feeling is that it's more personal than that.”

“Male, again? The grave stones.”

“Yes. One of them the squire's late nephew who owns a cottage not far from the church. Owned, I should say. Although his widow lives there still. She's as perplexed as everyone else is.”

“The count is seven, now?” Rutledge asked, wrenching his mind away from his own thoughts. “Five in Netherby, two in Beecham?”

“I believe it is. Davies has looked at everything from wills to disputes over an inheritance. And he's no closer to the truth.”

“What about a jury? Could these men have served on one?”

“That's quite clever, Ian.” Cummins considered the suggestion, then shook his head. “Still, I don't see how that fits. At some point in time, all these men would have had to live close enough to have been called upon to serve together. According to the information Davies
has, three of the five in the first churchyard hadn't died in the village but had been brought back there for burial in the family plot. And one of the two in Beecham had been brought back as well. Quite a scattered population, in fact.”

“Another possibility is that they shared a secret of some sort. Or someone believes that they did.”

“That has possibilities. I'll pass the suggestion along to Davies. He'll be grateful.”

“At least he's not faced with an innocent man sitting in prison, awaiting trial.”

“Yes, well, if you feel that strongly, then the jury might also. What's the proof against this man?”

“Circumstantial, all of it. And the local man's memory of a troublesome lad who left town under a cloud. Farraday was a constable then, and he seems to think Kingston escaped his just deserts.”

“That shouldn't affect his judgment now.”

“I believe it has.”

They had reached the small restaurant where Cummins usually bought his lunch, and Rutledge followed him inside. He wasn't hungry, but he ordered a cup of tea to be polite, and then changed his mind and asked for a sandwich as well.

He liked Cummins, he always had, a fair-minded man who took care with his cases and supported those under him. But he didn't think there was much Cummins could do about Yorkshire. And Kingston would have already lost his position in Scarborough, and perhaps the girl he wished to marry as well.

As if he'd heard the thought, Cummins said, “Have you decided where to live after your marriage?”

“For the time being, I expect I'll stay where I am. There's my sister to think of, you see.”

“Well, take my advice. Two women in the same house, vying for the attention of one man and eager to make him happy, can be difficult.”

He was considering the ramifications of that—after all, it was Frances's house—when he realized all at once that Cummins had changed the subject and was waiting for an answer or at least a comment about what he'd just said.

Rutledge lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. I seem to have lost my train of thought.”

“Engagements do tend to destroy a man's concentration,” Cummins said with a laugh. “I was asking if you'd had a chance to look over the new file on your desk.”

“The new file? No. Truth to tell, I haven't seen it.”

“Odd case. I think Bowles gave it to you as punishment. He was not happy that the local man in Yorkshire gave him the news before you did.”

Rutledge stirred his tea and said, “I doubt he's ever happy. Yes, all right, I'll go back and have a look.”

“Good man.”

For the rest of their meal, the two men discussed other Yard business, and then Cummins summoned the waiter and paid the bill, insisting that he settle up for Rutledge as well.

Rutledge wondered if the Chief Inspector had happened to see his abrupt departure from the Yard and come looking for him with an eye to smoothing over whatever it was that had disturbed him. As a rule Rutledge kept his temper well in hand, but Farraday's betrayal and Bowles's complacency had struck him as callous and deliberate.

He said wryly as they rose to go back to the Yard, “I know better than to lose my temper. But injustice rankles more than I care to say.”

“You're young,” Cummins replied, an echo of bitterness in his voice. “The time will come when you tell yourself you've done your best, and that it must be enough.”

I hope I never reach that stage,
Rutledge answered, but not aloud, for he saw that Cummins himself had already come close to that point.

The odd case, as Cummins had called it, took him just west of Wells, to Stoke Yarlington. It was a village of pretty thatched cottages,
a venerable square-towered church, and a small manor house set behind tall gates at the far end of the High Street.

Rutledge drove again, as he had done to Bristol, and when he arrived it was rather late. He'd snatched a brief moment with Jean before leaving London. He looked for a place to spend the rest of the night, and found it not far from the narrow green in the heart of the village. The building appeared to have been a coaching inn at one point in its history, but now it housed the only pub to one side and a tearoom on the other. Above there were six bedchambers, if they could be called that, and tall as he was, his head brushed the rafters in the largest one available. He'd asked for it after seeing the others. At least the bed in the one he'd chosen appeared to be long enough for him. The woman from the pub left him with an oil lamp, and the admonition that if he wished his breakfast, he must ask in the tearoom.