A Fine Summer's Day (20 page)

“Jerry was urged to keep diaries when he was a boy and he never
fell out of the habit. His grandfather gave him a new one every Boxing Day, and later he bought his own. They're not terribly personal—mostly jotting down what he'd done in a given day and what the weather was.” She looked up at Rutledge with tears in her eyes. “On our wedding day, he simply wrote, ‘I have married Helen. Now our happiness together begins.'”

Without waiting for him to respond, she reached for a volume on the top row and opened it. Thumbing through it she found the place she wanted. “Here it is, 1888. Look at May. Or early June.”

She handed him the diary.

He found the end of April and scanned the pages forward. And there it was. Monday, May 14—and the entry:
Reported to the Crown Court this morning to serve as a juror.

Rutledge turned to the following pages, but the notations were cryptic.

Trial continues
for successive days, and then on Friday,
Delivered our verdict
.

He felt a surge of frustration. If only Hadley hadn't taken his oath quite so seriously and had put something in his diary that was germane. The charges, the name of the accused, the name of the judge.

Mrs. Hadley was studying his face. “Will this help you find my husband's murderer?”

“I don't quite know,” he told her honestly. “Not yet. What it will do is tie together an unsettling series of events that could finally point the Yard in the right direction.”

Taking the book from him and restoring it to its place in the row, she smiled, wry humor mixed with heartbreaking sadness. “That's not terribly reassuring, Inspector.”

He felt he owed her something more, regardless of the Yard's policy not to divulge information to potential witnesses.

“There have been other murders, very similar in fact to the way your husband died. The question was, how could these be related?”

“I remember now. You asked me about several other men. I couldn't think why they mattered.”

“They might have been known to your husband. Somewhere in their pasts, these three men, possibly a fourth one, crossed paths. Joel Tattersall served on a jury in Bristol, and so did your husband. If it was the
same
jury, perhaps that's where this inquiry actually began. If such a connection can be shown for the other two, we can narrow our search for answers.”

“How awful,” she said with a frown. “I don't think I'm quite comfortable with such a thought.
Four
men?”

“Still, if this terse entry in your husband's diary can be tracked down, it's possible that he's given us the information we need to stop a killer.”

“Too late for him,” she said regretfully. She led the way back down the passage after closing the estate room door behind them. “I don't want to learn any more. Not until you make an arrest and I can see this man's face for myself.” And then, her control breaking, she said angrily, “Why should something Jerry did as a very young man make my husband a victim now?”

“Because some people,” he told her, “have very long memories.”

“How very frightening.” She glanced anxiously through the open door of the sitting room, as if wondering if the windows there were locked.

“I don't have any reason to believe that the suspect we're after will return to disturb you.”

“No. He's already taken what I held most dear. There is nothing left to steal.”

R
utledge went to look for Constable Roderick, but he had gone to one of the outlying farms to talk to a father about his rowdy sons. Or so Rutledge was told by his wife, who came to answer his knock.

“Tell Constable Roderick I'll be back as soon as possible. I have work to do in London first.”

“I'll do that, sir. Thankee.”

But as a matter of fact, he went back to Melinda's and slept for five hours straight before turning toward London. If he intended to beard Chief Superintendent Bowles in his den, then he needed to have his wits about him.

T
here was a message from Jean waiting for him at home, asking if he could join the Gordons for dinner that evening. Rutledge wondered what frame of mind he would be in by seven in the evening.

However, Chief Superintendent Bowles was not in his office at the Yard, forcing Rutledge to postpone their meeting. It was useless to leave a message. What he had to say was best related face-to-face.

And so at the hour given in Jean's note, he presented himself at the Gordon house and was welcomed warmly.

He hadn't had a chance to look at any of the newspapers, which surprised the Gordons and their guests, all of whom were following events anxiously.

“France has indicated that if Russia is attacked by either Austria or Germany, she will go to war on Russia's behalf, against both countries,” Gordon said over cigars and port. “This will not end well. The Foreign Office has already acted, informing Germany that as guarantors of Belgium's safety—have been since the country was set up in 1830—we'll brook no interference there.”

“I can't see Germany taking on France, Russia, and Britain simultaneously. It would be madness,” an older officer by the name of Strickland said.

“There are those who say the Kaiser is just mad enough to try.” Gordon shook his head. “The General Staff will have contingency plans. If the worst happens, an Expeditionary Force will be sent as a
stop-gap measure while we fully mobilize. My view is that the French Army can't hold back the German tide on two fronts.”

“We'll see some fierce fighting at the start,” a young Captain said. Rutledge had met Harvey before and liked him. “But I daresay it won't last long, this war. There's no reason for it to. By Christmas everyone will have come to their senses and the talking will start.”

“From your lips to God's ear,” Strickland said under his breath, just loud enough that Rutledge heard him.

“None of this before the ladies, gentlemen,” Gordon said as he rose to leave the dining room. “No need to worry them before we know where we stand.”

Rutledge managed a few minutes alone with Jean. She was in a restless mood and finally said, “Papa won't tell me what's going on. There's talk of war. But everyone stops the minute I enter the room.”

“Let's hope it comes to nothing,” he said cheerfully. He knew what she was afraid of, that her father would be called back to active duty. Privately, he thought there was a very good chance of it, although not necessarily to serve in the fighting.

“
And
you've been neglecting me terribly, Ian. I've had to attend three parties this past week with my parents. Everyone asks where you are.”

“I'm sorry, my love. Blame it on the hot summer, if you like. The Yard has been very busy.”

“Yes, but will we blame it on the rainy autumn next time, or the frigid winter? We're engaged, it's supposed to be the happiest of times. I sometimes feel that people are talking about me behind their hands.
There she is, alone again. I thought she was engaged. Oh, but she is. Her fiancé is always somewhere else
.”

“You know I'd be here if I could,” he said gently. Some of the older guests were already calling for their carriages or motorcars. “Shouldn't you join your parents in saying good night?”

“Don't change the subject, Ian. I really wonder if you love me as
much as I love you. If you did, you wouldn't find it so easy to stay away.”

“It's never easy. It's just that I have responsibilities. As your father did when he was a serving officer.”

“He wants to serve again,” she said, her voice anxious. “He misses the Army. Will you enlist if we go to war with Germany?”

He was taken aback. “I haven't thought about it.”

“Oh, Ian, we could be married in September, you in uniform, the two of us running down the church steps under an arch of swords. I've been to military weddings—they are exciting, romantic.”

“And what happened to your dream of being married at Christmas, like your parents?” It was said half teasingly.

“But Ian—”

“And if there
is
a war, I'll be marching off with my brothers-in-arms, rather than leaving with you on a wedding trip.”

That stopped her short.

“I'll make certain you're given leave for the wedding journey,” she said after a moment. But he thought even she knew it wouldn't happen quite that way.

And then Kate walked up. Jean frowned at her. “We're trying to have a little time together, Kate.”

She looked from one to the other. “So it appears,” she said dryly. “Anything I can do?”

“Just go away,” Jean told her sharply.

“I can't. Marianne Hayes and I are faced with a small problem. I was hoping that Ian could drive the two of us home.”

“I thought you came with Teddy Browning.”

“So we did. But he's just got a message from his commanding officer. All leaves canceled. And so he's going straight back to barracks. That leaves us without an escort.”

Jean said, “Oh, very well, take him then.” Turning on her heel, she marched away without saying good night.

Kate watched her go. “You've been neglecting her,” she said to Rutledge.

“So I've just been told,” he replied ruefully.

“Yes, well, I'd pay attention if I were you. Where
have
you been, come to that?”

“On business for the Yard.”

“I don't think Jean bargained for murder topping romance. There's Marianne. Do you need five minutes to make your peace with Jean? She must be on the terrace. We can wait.”

He took a deep breath. “I think it's all this talk of war that's upsetting her.”

“It's upset all of us. I've three friends in the Army. All they can think about is showing the Kaiser a thing or two. Ridiculous men! But as Teddy said, they've trained for years to fight for King and Country, and all they've done is travel from one outpost of Empire to another. They're spoiling to get into this war in Europe.”

“They may well have their chance.” He touched her arm. “Hold the fort for me, will you? Let me see if I can find her.”

But he didn't find her. If Jean had gone out to the terrace, she'd come in another door and slipped upstairs without his seeing her.

When he got back to Kate, the evening was nearly over, and Marianne was looking distinctly anxious. Kate took his arm and walked with him to the door. “Send her flowers tomorrow. With a kind note. That will help,” she said softly, and then louder, “Here is our dashing chauffeur, Marianne. He went to say good night to Jean.” She smiled, and Marianne answered it, looking archly at Rutledge, as if she understood completely.

He appreciated Kate's attempt to lighten the moment, but he said to her after seeing Marianne to her door and inside to where her maid was waiting for her, “What am I to do, Kate? We're busy at the Yard at the moment. I'll probably be away again tomorrow.”

“It's called pen and paper, Ian. Write to her every day you're away.
Not just a short note saying you're off to Manchester or St. Albans. Take the time to say the things she wants to hear, that you miss her, that you're thinking about her, that you are looking forward to getting back to London. It will make a huge difference.”

He was suddenly reminded of Mrs. Hadley's comments on her husband's diaries.

He walked Kate to her door and bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “You're very wise,” he said with more cheerfulness than he felt.

“Not wise, Ian. I'm a woman too.” And with that she went inside without looking back over her shoulder, as Marianne had done.

T
he next morning, Rutledge made it a point to be at the Yard early. In his office he listened for sounds of the Chief Superintendent's arrival and hoped for some barometer of his mood.

It didn't appear to be very encouraging. Rutledge could hear him shouting at Chief Inspector Cummins, then marching into his office and slamming the door.

He winced. Changing tactics, he went to find Cummins, and said quietly, “Can you spare a few minutes?”

“I can,” he said. “It would seem that I'll have quite a few minutes in which to contemplate my sins.” With a wry smile, he opened the door to his own office and ushered Rutledge inside.

“You look like a man with something on his mind.”

Rutledge grinned. “Is it so obvious? But yes, something has come up, and I was intending to broach the subject to the Chief Superintendent before I heard his door slam.”

“Give him an hour. Meanwhile, what's afoot?”

Rutledge had already mapped out what he intended to say to Bowles, and so it was a simple matter to explain the question of a jury to Cummins.

The Chief Inspector listened intently, then blew out a breath in a soft whistle.

“Ye gods, that's convoluted thinking. Didn't you mention that to me before? Yes, about the blackened grave stones. Not about the murders. But I'm damned if I don't believe you may have something here. It would solve the problem that Davies faced, it could clear up four cases that haven't been closed to everyone's liking, and it could find us a killer. Who do you think he is?”

“Assuming it was a capital case, the accused is probably dead. Convicted and hanged. But there may be a son who is probably a man now, and for some reason launched on this vendetta.”

“It's certainly no way to clear his father's name,” Cummins said dryly.

“I don't think he has any intention of doing that. He may simply wish to punish the people he blames for taking his father from him. Children don't always see things clearly. Guilt or innocence doesn't really matter, does it? But loss does. And for some reason he hasn't outgrown that loss, and he's still angry enough to kill.”

“But why laudanum?”

Rutledge shrugged. “Perhaps he had access to it. And it's quiet.”