A Fine Summer's Day (24 page)

He found Miss Tattersall at home and asked her if she or her brother had over the years received Christmas letters from someone she didn't know.

“Not Christmas messages,” she said, smiling at a memory. “But my brother often got birthday messages from someone he'd known at university in Bristol. Or more likely someone who thought they knew
him
. And the date was always wrong, so whoever it was had thoroughly confused him with someone else. Every year, without fail, on the twenty-eighth of June. It quite tried his patience. But of course there was nothing he could do, he didn't know anyone at the return address, and as I pointed out, even if he did, and he wrote to this person to inform him of the mistake, very likely his correspondent would take that as acquaintance and begin writing to my brother in earnest. He was quite put out, but I found it rather sad and even amusing.”

“What did the messages say? Do you know?”

“Oh, the sort of thing anyone might write. A few lines on the order of ‘Thinking of you on your birthday and hoping it's a happy occasion.' It was signed Fred or Frank, we never could decide, and the hand was copperplate and rather florid.”

“Did you save any of these letters? Or do you remember the postmark on them?”

“Good heavens, no. They went directly into the dustbin. As I recall, they were posted in Bristol. But still we couldn't think who it might be.”

“Lately has anyone stopped at your door looking for employment?”

“We do our hiring through an agency, like most people. The
agency supplies solid references. But I suggest you speak to Mrs. Betterton. She would know.” She rose and went to pull the bell.

When he put the same question to Mrs. Betterton, she shook her head. “No, sir, no one has come by looking for work. He's not likely to find it on this street.”

“A parcel then, or an inquiry about a neighbor?”

“Well, there
was
the man with the bundle of clean wash under his arm.” She smiled. “His wife was ill, and he'd been asked to bring the sheets back for her. But he got the wrong street, poor man, and tried to insist they were Miss Tattersall's. Mixed up the bundles, he had. He'd already delivered three, and he could only pray they went to the correct houses.”

“When was this? Do you remember what he looked like?”

“It was a few days before we lost Mr. Tattersall. He was rather ordinary, sir, as I recall. Not the sort you'd take a second look at. Stooped, his hair in need of the barber. He said he'd been too busy helping his wife to see to himself.”

“And you didn't think to report him to your employers?”

“No, I did not,” she said stiffly. “Neither Miss Tattersall nor Mr. Tattersall, God rest his soul, would thank me for disturbing them to gossip about another family's sheets.”

And yet it seemed that here and in Kent, the stranger had been affable enough to find out what he wanted to know.

Assuming of course that the itinerant worker and the washerwoman's husband with the bundle of clean sheets were one and the same, but Rutledge was ready to wager they were. The descriptions were too close.

He thanked Mrs. Betterton, and Miss Tattersall said as he walked to the door, “Is this important, Inspector?”

“I can't be sure,” he replied. “It's early to be drawing conclusions. But I have some hope now.”

From there he went to find the village constable. Hurley hadn't seen the man with the bundle under his arm.

“But if it was market day, and if he was minding his own business, I'd have no reason to take particular notice of him.”

Rutledge thought to himself that the washerwoman's husband would have taken great care not to encounter Constable Hurley.

He was tired when he reached London and left his motorcar in the mews. The house was dark when he walked around to the door on the square and let himself in.

The warm air was stuffy, the August night slipping toward the morning of the fifth. He tried to move quietly—after all, he knew the placement of every chair and carpet, every door and stair. He could walk—and had—in nearly pitch darkness from the door to his room without waking anyone, coming in from school late and unexpectedly, sent down for incurring his head's wrath.

He smiled at the memory. And froze with the smile pinned to his face as the study door opened, casting a bright shaft of light into the passage, catching him off guard.

Off stride, he heard his sister's voice.

“Ian? Is that you?” She appeared in the opening of the door, a black silhouette, slim and uncertain.

“Or else it's a very clumsy housebreaker.”

“Don't make light of anything tonight,” she said, moving back into the room.

He was down the passage in a half a dozen swift strides. “What is it? What's wrong?”

She turned to face him, and her eyes were bleak.

“My dear,” he began, uncertain what to say.

“Charles just came to the door to tell us,” she told him. “The Germans haven't replied to our ultimatum. They've marched into Belgium, and there's heavy fighting.”

Charles Talbot was with the Foreign Office, he would know the latest news. It wasn't a false alarm.

“Oh, God.” There was the end of hope that cooler heads might prevail.

It seemed they hadn't.

“We're at war. It's real,” she whispered, echoing the words she had heard not half an hour earlier.

He stood there, his gaze holding hers for a moment, then he went past her straight to the drinks cabinet to pour a little whisky into a glass. But he didn't drink it, he set it down again and simply stared out the window. It occurred to him—he'd had no idea at the time—that he had asked Jean to marry him on the same fine summer's day that the Archduke and his wife had been murdered.

Somehow it seemed his life and their deaths had become inextricably linked.

Frances said, her voice trembling, “You won't enlist, will you, Ian? I couldn't bear it if you did. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you so soon—well, so soon.”

He cleared his throat, turned and held out his hand. “I'm a policeman,” he said quietly, remembering that he'd said it before, and only recently. “Not a soldier. I don't kill people. I arrest those who do.”

A
fterward he couldn't have said when they went up to bed. They has sat in the study without talking for a time, then called it a night.

He hadn't expected to sleep. But the driving he'd done in the past few days caught up with him, and the morning was well advanced by the time he opened his eyes.

Frances hadn't come down to breakfast when he left for the Yard.

The streets were quiet, the Yard subdued. He made an effort to find Chief Inspector Cummins and tell him what he'd learned about two of the linked cases.

If he'd expected praise, he would have been disappointed. But it was in the way of a report rather than an announcement, and Cummins took it that way.

“It's amazingly fine work, Ian. But we still need that list of jurors,
and we'll have to see if the Clayton family and Stoddard's wife have had similar experiences. Still, we may have a better description now. Even if it isn't earthshaking. You've spoken to Watson, you say?”

“Yes. He's a good man. I need a few hours. I haven't been to see Major Gordon. Or Jean. I must say, he was expecting this.”

Cummins squared his blotter with the edge of his desk, then moved the tall jar that held his pencils and fountain pen. “Sergeant Hunt went to enlist this morning. You'd have thought he was prepared to win the war singlehandedly. I expect Inspector Perkins may do the same before this day is out.”

“They're both young.”

“At a guess, Hunt is a year older than you.”

Rutledge shook his head. “It doesn't matter. Before this is finished, old men will be called up for duty.”

“They're already saying it will be over before the year ends. That's why so many men are rushing to enlist. They don't want to miss a tidy little war.”

“I hope it is finished before Christmas.” He made an effort to smile. “After all, if my future father-in-law is in France, the wedding will have to wait for him.”

“Good God, I hadn't thought of that. All right, off with you. For once in my life I'm very pleased that I have daughters.”

Rutledge found the Gordon house in turmoil. Officers were coming and going, and Private Meecham was waiting in the entry for Major Gordon. He gathered from the chaos that Gordon was leaving for duty.

Just then Jean came to the head of the stairs, her face streaked with tears. She spotted him below and hurried down.

“Ian! I'm so happy to see you. Could you drive us to the railway station? Mama and I can't leave with Papa, but we both want to see him off.”

“He's not on his way to France?” he asked, surprised.

“No, he's taking over the training of men from the Midlands. We don't know when he'll have leave. Mama thinks he'll lead his men when they go over.”

The Major appeared then, his wife on his arm, and started down the stairs. He was already giving her instructions, but Rutledge thought she was heeding only one word in ten.

“Yes, George, of course I'll see to that. Yes, yes, I'll remember. This isn't the first time I've had to do this, my dear. Jean? Oh, you've found Ian. Thank you for coming, Ian, there's simply been no time to think. Where is your motorcar?”

“In front of the house.” He took the hand the Major held out to him. “Good luck, sir.” And then they were swept outside, and it was time to leave.

The railway station was in turmoil. Trains were being allocated to the Army's use, and the platform even at this hour of the morning was almost impossibly crowded. Steam from the railway engines wreathed everything, making the heat seem more intense. One young woman had fainted in the crush, and several people were bending over her, ministering to her.

Rutledge left the motorcar where he could and followed the Gordons to the carriage waiting for the Major, again shaking his hand.

“Look after them, Ian,” he said briefly, then turned back to his wife and daughter for a final farewell. Carriage doors slammed shut, the signal was given, and the train began to move.

Mother and daughter waved the train out of sight, then took Rutledge's arms, clinging to him as the crowds buffeted them. Another train was pulling into the track, and men were pressing forward to find their carriages. He did his best to protect them, guiding them through the throng of weeping families and grim-faced soldiers. He got them to the barrier and then through it. Mrs. Gordon, who had bravely held herself together seeing her husband off, began to cry into
her handkerchief. Jean's grip on his arm was so tight he could feel her nails through the cloth of his coat.

Mrs. Gordon, choking back a sob, said, “It never gets easier. I really don't know why I think it should.”

Rutledge had to offer both of them handkerchiefs by the time they had reached his motorcar.

Handing them in before turning to the crank, he said, “Back to the house, Mrs. Gordon?”

“Yes, please, Ian. It will take most of the day to settle everything down again. The Aldriches were to have us to dinner tonight, but I expect that will change. The Captain was on the train. I saw him just as it was pulling out, stepping into George's carriage. Or perhaps Mrs. Aldrich will want us there anyway. Can you be here at seven, Ian?”

He'd intended to leave for Yorkshire by five o'clock. But he smiled and said, “Yes, count on it.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Jean went upstairs with her mother, and after a few minutes came down again.

She said, appearing in the doorway to the morning room, “Mama will be in a frenzy for days, trying to see to all Papa's instructions. It's her way of coping. His solicitor was here this morning to make certain that everything was as Papa wanted it.”

“And how will you cope?” he asked gently.

“By being Papa's brave girl. As always. We never went with him to his postings, you know. He always said it was a greater hardship for everyone if we were uprooted every few years. So it really won't be much different now, will it? He could be on his way to South Africa or Egypt. Somewhere safe.”

“Who will take over the running of the estate?”

“His solicitor has already found an excellent man. Papa met him last evening and he was pleased. Their agreement is only for six months. With clauses for extensions of time as required. But that won't
be necessary. Don't let's talk about it any longer,” she said, pacing the room. “Tell me where you've been, what you've been doing.”

But he was fairly sure she didn't mean that literally. And so he said, “To Somerset and to Kent.”

“But you're back in London now? Because with Papa away, Mama and I will be counting on you to stand by us.”

“There's a matter I must see to tonight. It won't take too long.” He hoped he was telling the truth.

The Aldrich dinner party was canceled, as expected, and so Rutledge dined with Jean and her mother. Leaving there, he stopped at his own house long enough to collect what he needed, and by just after eleven, he was on the road north.

He arrived in Moresby late on the second day, which actually suited his plans better than driving into the village in daylight. Leaving his motorcar on a farm lane, he walked the rest of the way into the town and went first to the Clayton house.

To his surprise, it was Annie Clayton who came to the door, her face tight with uncertainty until she saw who it was.

“Inspector? I thought—are you here for the trial? But you can't be, it's far too early.”

“Actually, no, I haven't come for it. When is it?”

“With the war and all, it's been moved again. Two weeks from tomorrow. You can't imagine how I dread it.”

“May I come in? There are a few questions I'd like to put to you.”

“I—yes. Of course.”

He followed her into the front room, surprised to see that the walls had been freshly painted, and the stairs had a new bannister and balustrades.

She noticed his surprise, and said, “Michael and Peter couldn't get along. And so this was the compromise. I agreed to come back to the house if they would change—would improve on the room.”

“It's quite well done,” he said.

Offering him a chair, she added, “Michael should be home soon. He's working in the harbor with one of the chandlers. It's not work he particularly cares for, but he hopes something better will come along, with so many young men enlisting. But I heard him tell a friend that he was considering the medical corps.” She bit her lip. “He hasn't said anything to me yet.”

Rutledge said, “I've run into something that intrigued me, Miss Clayton. And I've come to ask you if your father ever received birthday greetings from someone from his past, someone he couldn't remember?”

Her eyebrows went up in amazement. “How did you know? Mama always teased him, saying that it was his lost love. He thought perhaps it was the young man who worked in his father's shop at one time. You could barely read the scrawled name. Papa said he was never good at penmanship, but it was the thought that mattered. Only he got the date wrong. Papa didn't have the heart to tell him. So he just let it pass.”

“Did he reply?”

“I don't believe so. The return address was a scrawl as well. But the greetings came faithfully. I always thought it rather sweet. And I did wonder if it really was a girl he'd known before he met Mama.”

“Do you have any of those letters by any stroke of luck? We'd like to have a look at one.”

“I don't think it ever occurred to us to keep them. And there wasn't one this June. Papa thought Danny might have taken ill or even died. Why are you interested in Danny? Does this have anything to do with what happened to Papa?”

“Just tying up loose ends. There's one more question. In the week before your father's death, had anyone come to your door with a parcel or to ask for work? Possibly even bringing clean sheets to the wrong house?”

“Do you mean to speak to Papa? No. I don't remember anything like that.”

“Could your father have seen this person, if you didn't?”

“He was usually in the shop from early morning to later in the evening. There was always something to be done, turning a piece or staining it and waxing it. After Mama's death, he tried to stay as busy as possible.”

That was a disappointment. But Rutledge persevered. “Would your father have mentioned such a visit to you?”

“I don't know. I don't see why he should.”

So much for that. At least he'd verified the birthday message. And surely all Dobson would have had to do was follow Clayton home from the shop one evening.

Rutledge thanked her and walked back to where he'd left his motorcar.

Some miles back from the headland, he found a room for the night in a small inn along the road.

It wasn't until he was preparing to drive on to Northumberland that he remembered the Clayton neighbor who had been so helpful on his first visit. She hadn't given him her name, but he knew which house was hers.

Taking a chance, he drove back into Moresby and went to her door.

She was as surprised to see him as Miss Clayton had been, saying, “You're that policeman, aren't you?” and she invited him in for a cup of tea.

It was clear she wanted to gossip about the upcoming trial, and it was some minutes before he could bring her around to the question he had come to ask.

“Strange that you should bring that up,” she told him. “Such a nice young man. I was walking home from a friend's house, and there he was, looking rather lost. I asked if I could help him, and he told me his brother had done some work at number seventeen, repairing a chair, and he was to meet him there so that they could walk home together. I had to smile, coals to Newcastle, you know, repairing a chair for the Clayton household. I told him that number seventeen belonged to the
man who owned the furniture shop in Abbey Street, Mr. Clayton, and he wasn't likely to hire the young man's brother. He looked again at the scrap of paper in his hand, and laughed at himself—he'd got the number right but the street wrong. He thanked me and was off.”

“Do you remember him well enough to give me a description?”

“It was nearly dusk, and of course he wore a workman's clothing.” She considered Rutledge. “Not as dark as you, nor as tall. Wide shoulders. But rather thin.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Oh, I doubt it. I was in a hurry, my cat was waiting. I wouldn't have remembered just now if you hadn't asked.” Her face slowly changed. “Are you saying—does that young man have anything to do with Ben Clayton's death? Is that why you're asking?”

He smiled, unwilling to worry her. “It's important to question everyone who might have been out and about in the week before his death. Who knows what he or she might have seen that could help us?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, reassured. “I quite understand.”

Dobson had had long years of practice at hiding his feelings. At knowing how and when to please the people around him, so that he and his mother could eke out an existence in a hostile village. And he had probably learned to lie as well, discovering early on that a glib tongue was a shield against prying questions and callous indifference. He could hate in secret, and survive.

It would stand him in good stead as a murderer too.

Rutledge had reached the corner, on his way to his motorcar, when a constable approached him.

“Inspector Rutledge?”

He was wary, uncertain whether the constable had spotted him or was actually looking for him. The face was familiar, but Rutledge didn't recall his name. He said with a nod, “Yes?”

“Inspector Farraday is looking for you, sir. He's asking if you would step into the station.”

“I'll be happy to.” But he was on his guard. He and Farraday hadn't
parted on the best of terms, and the man had gone against his express orders when he arrested Mark Kingston.