A Fine Summer's Day (12 page)

Sitting down, and gesturing to Rutledge to follow suit, he said,
“I've been told you're from Scotland Yard and that you wish to see me about the Tattersall trust. Is that correct?”

“More precisely,” Rutledge said pleasantly, “I wished to discuss a report from Inspector Holliston that you were drunk the morning he came to report Mr. Tattersall's death to you. And later you couldn't account for your whereabouts when asked where you were on the night your client died.”

“I couldn't because I couldn't remember.” Simmons ran his fingers through his hair. “Look. I'd just proposed to the young woman I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and she turned me down. Not even a ‘Do let me think about it, Thomas,' or an ‘I'm not ready to consider marriage just now, Thomas.' A resounding
no
. I wasn't expecting it. And I wasn't about to relate that story to Holliston because he's acquainted with the young woman and could, for all I know, be my rival. I went home and got drunk. The first time I've done that since I was at university, and rather stupid, yes, but at the time I couldn't think of anything better to do.”

Remembering the rowing trophies behind Holliston's desk, Rutledge smiled. Holliston might well turn a young woman's head. “And your gambling habit?”

“That's a rumor that got started after I'd been up to London. I put some money on a horse race, just for a lark, and by God I won. Quite a large sum, in fact. I shouldn't have told anyone, but I was elated. After that I was occasionally invited by people I knew to sit in for a hand or two of cards. Friendly games, hardly wallowing in dens of iniquity, and I won as often as I lost. That experience changed my mind, gave me the courage to try my luck. I determined to speak to Rach—to Miss Barclay. Apparently my luck was short-lived.”

“Do you play cards often?”

“Two or three times a year? Whenever I'm in London. Never locally. And certainly never more than I can afford to lose. But I'd give much to know who started the rumors that I was in over my head,” Simmons ended grimly.

“Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Tattersall had come to question your stewardship of his and his sister's trust?”

“I can't. Unless those rumors reached his ears. Holliston also asked me about Tattersall's concerns. I will say this. Sometimes Tattersall would decide that this or that would be a sound investment, and he would ask me to look into shares. If I couldn't dissuade him, and the London banks warned me off from that particular investment possibility, I'd drag my feet rather than argue with him. It was simpler. South American gold mines, Trans-Africa railways, coffee plantations in Kenya—they all appear quite tantalizing when you read the brochures. As do the unbelievably good rates of returns guaranteed. The fact is, most of them never pay back a farthing, and as often as not the principal is lost as well. If you want to talk about gambling, there's the real danger.”

He was right. Financial bubbles usually burst.

“Why did Tattersall take a fatal dose of laudanum?”

The question took Simmons off guard. “God. I don't have a clue. I'd have said he was the last man I would think of as a murder victim. Tattersall and his sister lived a settled life. He walked every morning, whatever the weather. He read every afternoon. In the evening they occasionally entertained but most often played a two-hand game of whist. Hardly the sort of people you expect to arouse strong passions in anyone.”

“What becomes of the Tattersall trusts?”

“Nothing. Miss Tattersall inherits her brother's share, and that's that. There's no charitable distribution or the like. It isn't like a will. The funds simply go to his sister.”

“Would she have killed him for it?”

“Miss Tattersall?” he asked, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “I can't imagine that, either. As it is, she has enough money to see her through this lifetime and several more. I quite like her, as a matter of fact. Very different from her brother. He enjoyed the solitary life. I
expect she would have traveled more, if the decision had rested with her. But they were devoted to each other.”

“What happens to the trust when she dies?”

“As I remember it goes to Eton. Hardly the sort of people who might try to collect early on their money.”

To Eton. Where Tattersall and most likely his father had gone to school. Her share of the trust was not in Miss Tattersall's gift.

Rutledge left with a handful of names and began the tedious process of interviewing their owners. Holliston had most likely covered the same ground earlier, but given Simmons's suspicions about the man, he thought it might be best to work independently.

He began with Rachel Barclay and found her at home in a fashionable part of Wells where old money still lived. The house was handsome, and the maid who answered the door wore a uniform so well starched that it gave the impression she was imprisoned in it.

He told her his name but not his connection with the Yard, and a few minutes later, when he was shown into the sitting room where Rachel Barclay had been writing letters, she frowned on seeing him.

“I fear you have the advantage of me. Are you a friend of my father's? I don't believe we've met,” she said quite coolly, rising.

“I doubt that we have,” he answered equitably. “I'm from Scotland Yard, Miss Barclay. I'm looking into a murder that occurred recently, not far from Wells.”

“I don't see why this requires you to call on me.”

“Because it appears that you can provide proof that Mr. Simmons was with you on the evening in question,” Rutledge said, meeting bluntness with bluntness. And he gave her the date of Tattersall's death.

He'd expected her to be surprised.

Instead she stared at him with distaste and said, “If you are asking me if he got himself drunk later that night, after I had turned down his proposal, the answer is, yes, he was here.”

“You were a witness to his drinking?”

For the first time she appeared to be taken aback. “Most certainly not.”

“Then a member of your family witnessed this fall from grace? Your father? Perhaps a brother or a cousin?” he inquired, his voice polite, his face giving away nothing. But he thought he already knew the answer to his question.

“Of course not,” she snapped.

“You are, perhaps, clairvoyant?”

At that she flushed and walked across the room to the bell pull. “I will ask you to leave now.”

“I'm afraid I can't. Not until you've answered my question. This is a murder inquiry, Miss Barclay, not a temperance meeting. However disgusting it may appear to you that a man who has just asked for your hand in marriage should go out and drink himself into oblivion, you must tell me how you came to know he'd done such a thing.”

Flushed and angry, clearly not accustomed to being told what to do, she said, “I shall tell my father how you have behaved, Mr. Rutledge. But to answer your question, I was informed by a friend, who felt I should be aware of the true character of the man who had so recently asked me to be his wife.”

Rutledge smiled. “Ah, yes, the man who found him in that condition. Inspector Holliston. Thank you, Miss Barclay. I can find my own way out.”

He turned on his heel, leaving the room and nearly colliding with the maid who was hurrying to answer her mistress's summons. She begged his pardon and rushed on in the direction of the sitting room.

Inspector Holliston had overstepped his authority by using information he'd collected in the course of his duties to further his own interests. Rutledge found himself wondering if Holliston had also broken into the solicitor's chambers in search of any damaging information he might find there.

His next stop was the bank on the High Street, where he learned from the assistant manager that Mr. Simmons's accounts were in good order and had not been overdrawn at any time.

“I was told that he had a problem with gambling. Perhaps the horses?”

The assistant manager, a short heavyset man called Jenner, laughed. “I daresay any number of our clients may make small wagers from time to time, but these don't show up in their accounts. It's usually in notes and on the spur of the moment. I can tell you as well, since it's on this list you've given me, that the accounts of Mr. and Miss Tattersall are also in good order. While their trust is administered by London through Simmons and Simmons, the income is paid into an account in our bank, enabling them to withdraw such monies as they may need for their personal use.” He peered again at the list that Rutledge had. “Mr. William Barry, clerk at Simmons and Simmons, has been saving toward his retirement, and everything is in order there. He lives frugally—a widower with grown children—and takes one holiday a year, traveling to Lyme Regis where he has a cousin.”

“He doesn't visit his children?”

“They come to Wells, it seems. He was saying not long ago that they appear to like coming home, that they enjoy the quiet here. His daughter lives in London and his son in Manchester. Metropolises compared to Wells.”

“And Mr. Holliston?” Rutledge gently pressed.

“He has his income as a policeman of course, but also a small legacy from his mother. He tries to live within his means.”

Hardly the suitor that Miss Barclay might prefer. But Holliston had successfully blackened Simmons's character in her eyes.

Thanking Mr. Jenner for his time, Rutledge found a small pub where he ordered his lunch at the bar. Moving on to a table, he began to organize what he'd just learned.

Holliston had not directly accused Simmons of being involved
in the death of Mr. Tattersall, but he had most certainly suggested it was possible. But how had the story that Simmons was an embezzler reached Tattersall's ears?

Or perhaps it was the other way around. Inspector Holliston had seen the letter that Tattersall had written, asking Simmons for an accounting of his stewardship. A letter never sent. And Holliston had seized the opportunity to interpret Tattersall's request as suspicion.

On the other hand, Tattersall's might well have been the largest account that Simmons administered. He couldn't afford to lose it, either financially or from the standpoint of his reputation. Which made Simmons suspect if Tattersall was murdered before the man could make accusations public or move his business elsewhere.

But Rutledge favored the view that if the trust was withdrawn from Simmons and Simmons, it might make the solicitor a far less eligible suitor for Miss Barclay's hand. It might even level the playing field in the rivalry. And once started, whispers spread. Of Simmons's gambling, of his possible misappropriation of funds to pay for it, even of his drunkenness. Whether they'd reached Tattersall's ears, or his letter had offered Holliston the chance he needed to ruin his rival, there was no way of knowing.

He finished his meal with a plate of cheeses, and then walked back to the police station.

Holliston was in a meeting, Rutledge was told, and would be available shortly.

In another five minutes a tall, well-dressed man strode purposefully out of Holliston's office and passed Rutledge without a glance.

Holliston had followed him to the door, and his face changed as he saw Rutledge waiting.

“I didn't know you were here. Otherwise I'd have let you speak to Mr. Barclay and explain yourself. You've been harassing his daughter.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Rutledge said breezily. “I've been asking her to help the police with their inquiries.”

“I don't see how interviewing Miss Barclay could possibly help with your inquiries,” the Inspector retorted, an edge to his voice. Clearly, whatever Barclay had said to him had stung. “Tattersall wasn't killed until very late. Simmons left the Barclay house shortly after nine-thirty.”

“I'd like to read for myself the letter that Tattersall wrote to Simmons but never posted.”

Holliston frowned. “It's in the file. Constable Hurley must have told you the contents.”

“The letter, if you please.”

Holliston turned and went back to his desk, glancing through the files in his current box, and finding the one he wanted. He opened it, thumbed through the contents, and pulled out the letter.

Rutledge read it through quickly, then a second time.

The pertinent passage was very different from what he'd expected.

Hardly an accusation of embezzlement, but an angry request to explain the solicitor's actions.

Rutledge had seen the advertisements for Gower and Healy in the financial pages of the
Times,
although he hadn't read them. They appeared to claim that a new vein had been discovered in the Minero River region and was calculated to produce the finest stones of the last two centuries. Shares were being offered to finance the costs involved in mining them.

He knew very little about mining emeralds and even less about the Republic of Colombia, but as a policeman Rutledge was well versed in schemes that promised vast fortunes for the gullible investor. Whether the emerald mine was one of those he couldn't say, but Simmons was well advised not to allow his client to act rashly.

He handed the letter back to Holliston, who stood there behind his desk, his expression wooden. Looking at his face, Rutledge realized that the Inspector had found Tattersall's letter and read only the pertinent parts to Constable Hurley and Dr. Graham, leaving them with the impression that the solicitor was guilty of mismanaging funds.