A Fine Summer's Day (27 page)

Was it the same bicycle? He couldn't be sure. But looking the other way, he could see that the long straight road to Tonbridge was empty. Leaving the motorcar where it was, he walked over toward the church. It was handsome, set as it was in the churchyard shaded by great old trees, surrounded by equally handsome old dwellings, some of them black and white Tudor houses. He went up the steps, through the archway, and stopped.

He still couldn't be sure it was the right bicycle. He went across to it and felt the front tire. It was warm, even here where the sun hadn't reached it.

Cautious now, he walked on. Grave stones spilled out of the high summer grass, and there was a large stone table near the porch doors. No one else was in sight. For all he knew, he was the only person in the Square. He made himself slow his pace to stroll leisurely through the empty churchyard.

If he couldn't recognize Dobson, then it was very likely Dobson wouldn't recognize him. Then why had he come in here? Had he caught sight of the motorcar thundering down on him, and already wary from his encounter with the constable, decided to take no chances?

Rutledge paused occasionally, pretending to study the inscription on a stone here and there, glancing toward the faded one under a tree where legend said a murdered man had been interred in the last century. The slightest movement caught his attention, from the pigeon scratching in the grass near the church porch to the sparrows squabbling by the west front.

The Square was cool, serene. The houses were silent, their doors closed.

Had he been wrong about the bicycle? It could well belong to
someone else, from the rector to one of the residents of the houses facing into the square.

If he was wrong, then he'd lost his chance to catch Dobson up.

A crow suddenly took wing, cawing raucously, startling Rutledge. He saw it then, rising from the far side of the church, climbing high above the roof and turning sharply in the direction of the grounds of the great house.

What had startled it? Someone on the far side of the churchyard?

Rutledge stopped, gazing up at the oddly set pinnacles on the tower. Every sense was alert now. Still appearing to stare upward, he walked on to where he could see down the north side of the church.

No one was there. He moved swiftly now, toward the apse, hoping to catch Dobson playing tag with him around the Square, but when he reached the south porch once more, and was still empty-handed, he turned and in three strides, went through the heavy wooden doors into the nave.

It was bright, airy inside, with heavy well-spaced pillars and a delicate wooden chancel screen.

His senses were at fever pitch now. If his quarry had come in here, where was he? Under the tower? In the south chapel hidden by one of the monuments to dead Sidneys?

He stayed where he was for a moment longer, putting himself into his quarry's shoes, then he began to walk down the aisle.

And stopped, suddenly realizing that he was cold, well off the scent.

He'd been tricked. The church was empty.

Turning, he dashed for the porch doors and shoved his way through them, his gaze at once going to the arch that led out to the sunlit road beyond.

Where the hell had Dobson gone?

He'd hardly framed the thought when he saw someone running out from the shadow of the tower across the grave-strewn ground, headed
for the arch. The man looked up as he heard the porch doors scrape loudly, spotted Rutledge, and in the same instant, caught his foot on a stone half hidden in a thick patch of grass.

Rutledge was certain Dobson was going down. He saw the grimace of pain twist Dobson's face, followed by desperate determination. His arms windmilling frantically, he kept his balance somehow, kept running, despite the cost, and reached the arch before Rutledge could catch him up.

He already had his handlebars in his grip, was swinging his leg over the saddle even as he was rolling through the arch and bumping down onto the road, quickly disappearing out of Rutledge's line of sight.

As Rutledge reached the arch, he could see the tall wooden gates of the estate closing behind a cart piled high with straw. And just behind the cart, where he was invisible to the man holding the reins, was Dobson, astride the bicycle and out of reach.

Fast as he was, by the time Rutledge had reached the gates, there was no room even to squeeze himself through, and as he watched, the gates closed with a snap of the latch on the far side.

He pounded on them with his fist, realized it was useless, and swearing, ran on to his motorcar.

As he turned the crank, a woman came out of one of Leicester Square's handsome houses, staring around to see what the noise was. Climbing into his seat, he called to her, “Is there a back way into the stable yard?”

The woman looked him up and down. “And who is asking?” she demanded.

Rutledge yelled, “It's urgent, a man has been hurt.”

“Why didn't you say so?” She told him how to find the lane that ran in beside the garden walls, and he thanked her.

Rutledge drove directly there, bounced down the wide, rutted lane and spent half an hour searching for his quarry.

There were fields of sheep to his right and ahead of him as he kept
the wall to his left. It turned, then ran along the bottom of the gardens. Here the vast eastern front of Penshurst came into view, rising high above the wall. It might well have been mistaken for a royal palace, he thought, with its great battlemented wings and towers. He finally discovered a back way into the gardens, but by that time Dobson could have gone in any direction, even back toward Swan Walk.

Still he searched, as determined in his own way to find Dobson as Dobson had been to escape. And when someone from the estate came to ask his business, he questioned them about a man on a bicycle. No one, apparently, had noticed him. Rutledge thanked the gardener and drove back to the main road.

It was a near run thing.

But he had seen Dobson's face.

He was trained to remember faces, and he would know this one again when he saw it. No distinguishing features. Long, thin, brown from the summer sun, and ordinary. Intelligent. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Light eyes, most likely blue, straight medium brown hair. Useless in finding him, of course, because the description would fit hundreds of men. But for Rutledge it was enough.

There was the other side of that coin, as well.

Dobson had seen his face, just as clearly.

As he drove empty-handed back to the Gilbert house, Rutledge tried to put himself into Dobson's shoes.

How would I manage it? Getting about England without leaving tracks?

The answer lay in his very ordinariness. Dobson belonged to the class of people he moved among. He'd grown up in a village, shunned and looked down on. He'd learned to make himself inconspicuous. In spite of the native wariness of strangers, there was also an empathy for their own kind in most villages. A man passing through, with a simple story to tell to explain away his Somerset accent, neither tinker nor Traveller, having an honest face and nothing to sell, a workman's hands . . .

Perhaps. It would depend on the village and it would depend on the local constable. But it could be done.

Still, he'd already established himself in Swan Walk, the young groom waiting to take a horse to its new owner. It was certain he wasn't staying there, easily trapped.

Rutledge went to the village and asked people on the street and in the shops, and was rewarded by shakes of the head. The groom hadn't been seen lately, although one man thought he might have seen him pedaling through not more than an hour past.

By the time Rutledge reached the house, Dr. Greening had returned, and the burly constable had helped manhandle a bed and a mattress from the old Nursery into the sick room.

They were just finishing as Rutledge came up the stairs. Mrs. Thompson, disappointed that she wasn't even allowed to snatch a glimpse of her employer, left the nurse to make up the bed and was in the hall, listening to the doctor give instructions about meals.

“A tray each for the nurse and the constable,” Dr. Greening was saying, “and one for your master.”

“He can eat, then? Mr. Gilbert?” she asked, her face lighting up.

“I don't count on it,” Dr. Greening said, glancing at Rutledge. “But we must try, of course. A soft diet, if you please.”

When they had all gone away, Rutledge went in the room to see Gilbert for himself. The nurse, a matronly woman in her late thirties, said out of her patient's hearing, “He won't speak or open his eyes. If I've ever seen a man willing himself to die, it's that poor soul.”

“The point is to keep him alive,” Rutledge said grimly. “At any cost. Let no one in, give no bulletins as to his condition. And no gossiping with the constable or the staff.”

Affronted, she said, “In my profession we do not gossip.”

He was firm. “I'm sure you don't. But this man's life could depend upon it.”

He went to stand by the bed, then bent over it to whisper, “There's crepe on the door and on the gates. The village believes you're dying,
that it's only a matter of time now. But you must live, because you are the only witness I've got. And I'm damned if I'm going to face this bastard in trial by combat. He's going to stand before a judge.”

For an instant he thought he saw a flicker of response on Gilbert's wan face. Rutledge touched his shoulder lightly, and then, nodding to the nurse, left Swan Walk for London.

C
hief Superintendent Bowles was livid.

“You've been dashing about the countryside like a cavalry horse. I've warned you that motorcar was going to be the end of you. One way or another.”

The dressing-down had gone on for ten minutes, and Rutledge had had to stand there and listen.

As Bowles ran out of words, all but reaching the point of spluttering in helpless fury, Rutledge said quietly, “I've told you. I believed I knew who murdered those four men. Clayton, Tattersall, Hadley—possibly even Stoddard in Alnwick. Now Fillmore Gilbert has nearly died at his hand. Once he recovers, Gilbert will give us a statement. What's more I've seen Dobson for myself—he's no longer a faceless killer.”

Bowles came up out of his chair. “You're like an old dog with a
bone, you won't leave Clayton alone. I've told you, that inquiry had been
closed
.”

“Very well. Set him aside. Someone has attempted to kill Gilbert, one of the foremost barristers of his day. Is the Yard going to investigate that attempt? Or leave it in the hands of Tonbridge? If you won't assign me to that inquiry, then assign someone else.”

But Bowles wouldn't listen. “I warned Cummins. I
told
him not to give you that file. But he insisted, because your father knew the man. And precious little good has that done Gilbert or you. Kent hasn't asked for assistance—they list Gilbert as a near suicide. Now get back to Aylesbridge and bring me the person who killed Jerome Hadley.”

Rutledge had no choice but to leave. He finished paperwork at his desk for the next twenty minutes, then went home.

He walked in the door to see the housekeeper roll her eyes at him, and then he heard Frances calling from the sitting room.

“Ian, is that you? Do come in—we've been waiting for you.”

The stiff, artificial tone of his sister's voice warned him that something was wrong. Summoning up a smile he hoped appeared genuine, he handed his hat and his valise to the housekeeper and strode down the passage.

And stopped short in the doorway.

Amid the remains of afternoon tea, sat four women. His sister Frances, his fiancée Jean, Jean's cousin Kate, and the woman he'd met in Beecham who was writing the little guide book to the village and its church. Lucy Muir.

She had been dressed in simple country clothes when he'd met her at her cottage. Today she was wearing a very stylish London walking dress of periwinkle blue with white lace at the throat. The effect, he thought, would have left the vicar in Beecham stunned. As it was, her companions in the room were regarding her with a very brittle politeness.

Jean rose, moving gracefully to his side and holding up her face for a light kiss, establishing her position as his fiancée. Frances gave him a smile that he correctly interpreted to mean that he would have to earn
her forgiveness for the awkwardness she'd endured for his sake. Kate's eyes twinkled, as if she had found the long afternoon amusing. Behind the twinkle was curiosity.

Miss Muir's gaze held an apology. As he came into the room and greeted her, she said, “I had to travel up to London on a family matter. And so I brought what you were looking for, rather than trust it to the post.”

He said quickly, “You found it? Bless you! It's even more urgent now than it was before.”

She reached into the elegant traveling bag beside her chair and drew out an envelope. “I do hope you can read my writing. I had to copy everything, and there sometimes wasn't enough time to do it as carefully as I'd have liked. There was quite a bit that I thought might be of interest. No one realized what I was trying to find, by the way. They thought it was just more of what I'm generally looking for. You seemed to want to keep it quiet.”

“Yes, that's right. For the present.” Above anything else, he wanted to rip open the envelope, pull out the contents, and read them now. If this was what he hoped it was, it could well silence Bowles, if not bring him around to Rutledge's way of thinking. But good manners required joining the ladies at the table while Frances asked for a fresh pot of tea. Thanking Lucy, he set the envelope to one side, and did his duty as host with every appearance of pleasure.

Jean often claimed his attention, full of news about friends who had been called up or enlisted, and Frances, much less enthusiastic, named a good number of their own friends who were either enlisting or seriously considering it.

Changing the subject, Kate asked him where he'd been, and Rutledge replied that he'd come from the Yard. But Jean pressed him, as if to prove that his every move as a policeman was fascinating to her. “I was briefly in Kent, Tonbridge, in fact,” he added lightly. “Conferring with a colleague.”

He turned to Lucy, attempting to draw her into general conversation.
But a few minutes later she set down her cup and said, “You'll be looking forward to your dinner and a quiet evening.” Rising, she took her leave of the others, and he accompanied her to the door, asking if he could find a cab for her.

“As it happens, I'm just in the next street. Staying with friends. It was good to see you again, Ian. If this isn't what you need, you have only to send word to the cottage.”

“I must tell you this information comes at a good time.” He lowered his voice so that it didn't carry beyond the two of them. “You've read it. Do you see a connection with the vandalized grave stones?”

“I didn't tell the vicar. I didn't think you wished it to become general knowledge until you'd seen what I'd discovered. However, I did walk in the churchyard. I couldn't read the names on the damaged stones, of course, but I could piece together who these men were by looking at the graves next to them in the family plots. And there they were, in one of the reports about the trial. It seems to validate what you suspected.”

He smiled. “You would make a great detective.”

“But I am,” she replied, returning the smile. “It's what I do, hunting for clues to the past.”

“I've paid my sixpence,” he reminded her. “I expect a copy of the visitors' guide.”

“You'll have to wait a bit longer then. I hope you'll allow me to use what you've discovered. When—if—it can be made public.”

He made no promises, reminding her instead, “You'll have fresher village information very shortly, if this war lasts any time. There will be heroes the villagers will want to remember.”

She looked away. “The war has claimed its first victim in Beecham. Four friends went to enlist. One was turned down, something to do with his eyes. He went home and hanged himself.”

“Good God.” It was all he could think to say.

Lucy took a deep breath. “Good luck finding your man. Anyone
could have bought a newspaper during that trial and learned the same information I've copied for you. It was public knowledge then.”

He thanked her, and watched her as far as the corner before shutting the door and returning to the sitting room.

Jean said, “What were you two whispering about?”

“A tragedy. You don't want to know. It would distress you.”

“I didn't realize you knew Lucy Muir,” she added archly.

“I met her in the course of an inquiry. She was able to provide information that was critical.”

Kate said, rising, “I'm awash in tea, Jean. And I have an engagement for dinner. Are you leaving?”

Jean smiled up at Rutledge. “Unless you can be persuaded to take us to dinner?”

“My dear, I have to finish a report for the Yard,” he told her. It was his first intentional lie to her, but his mind was on the contents of the envelope lying beside the teapot. They were urgent—and difficult to explain without going into details that would trouble Jean, her cousin, and Frances.

Kate touched Jean's arm. “Your mother will be wondering where you are.”

Frances, ringing the bell for the housekeeper, didn't press them to stay.

Rutledge asked, “Shall I drive you home?” It was the least he could do.

“Would you, Ian?” Jean asked.

It was well over an hour later when Rutledge came back to the sitting room. “They're safely home. And the motorcar put away.”

“She wouldn't leave, Ian. Not after Miss Muir arrived. Kate did her best.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking more closely at her.

“It's just this war. Everyone seems to be so thrilled. So in a hurry to
fight. I've had what felt like an endless stream of visitors, calling to say good-bye. It's terribly depressing.”

He said, “Men at the Yard have been resigning, intending to enlist. I expect it's just the beginning.”

She roused herself. “You've been away a great deal of late. Jean has been complaining. I think Lucy was the last straw. Was it just to Tonbridge?”

“Today, yes. Although I think I've driven over half of England in the past month.”

He didn't tell her that it was Fillmore Gilbert who had almost died. He knew it would distress her, as would his encounter with Dobson. He said, “Would you care to dine out? I owe you an evening pleasanter than your afternoon.” He tried not to look in the direction of the envelope.

Shaking her head, she said, “Thank you, but no. We'll only be told about a dozen more friends who've gone mad with war fever. There's a roast from last night, I think. We will dine well enough here.” And then what was troubling her came out in a rush. “Jean says you're trying to wind up all your cases so that you'll be free to fight. Like all the rest. That that's why you've been away so much of late. Is that why Miss Muir brought you that envelope? To hasten the conclusion to whatever it is you're working on at the moment?”

He laughed, though he didn't feel like it. “It wouldn't do for Jean's fiancé to appear to be less patriotic than her father.” After a moment, he added more seriously, “I've found satisfaction in what I do as a policeman. The British Army is made up of men who feel the same way about protecting their country and its interests. Thank God for it. They have their duty as I have mine. I don't need to prove my courage, Frances. I've seen people die, and it's not pleasant.”

It was the first time he'd let her hear the darker side of his work. She looked away.

And then she went on, as if goaded by her worry. “But what if it's a
longer war than we think it will be. Or we start to lose, Ian? Like Belgium.
They
can't possibly stand up to the German Army. What if
we
can't? If France can't?”

“Then I shall have to reconsider. I shouldn't worry, if I were you. It's not likely to happen.”

He realized suddenly that her concern might not be only for him. He said in a different voice, “Frances. Is there someone you care for?”

She turned back to face him, saying brightly, “No. No, of course not.”

Just then the housekeeper came to ask when they wished to have their dinner, and he wasn't able to judge whether his sister was lying or not.

I
t wasn't until much later that he was free to go up to his room and look at the contents of the envelope that Lucy Muir had left for him.

He whistled under his breath as he realized just how much work she must have done on his behalf. Unable to obtain copies of the newspaper columns, just as she'd said, she had written it all out in longhand. There was a word here or there that he'd had trouble making out. But the substance of all the pages spread out on his desk was clear. Evan Dobson had been desperate to recoup his losses on the bridle. It was a substantial sum for a poor man, and realizing that he would be out of pocket for the lot, even though he'd delivered the bridle as promised, he'd turned to the father when the son proved to be a scoundrel.

Whether Dobson had killed the greengrocer or simply taken his fists to him in frustrated anger, leaving the son to finish what he'd begun, was hard to say. But the son had sworn that he hadn't touched his father, and he was believed. Patricide was an unthinkable crime. The jury had heard the evidence and found Dobson guilty. And Atkins's son had walked away without paying for the bridle, inheriting his father's property as well.

What had become of the younger Atkins?

He turned to Lucy Muir's list, but there was no mention of his name there, after the trial.

The names of the jury seemed to leap off the closely written sheets of paper.

Hadley, Stoddard, Clayton, Tattersall. All of whom must have put the trial behind them and moved on. But not so the Dobsons. They'd never really recovered.

And Fillmore Gilbert, who no longer remembered it, who thought someone else must have been given that brief, had acted for the Crown.

Rutledge looked for the name of the judge—and found it. A man named Vernon Abner, who, given his age at the time, must have died long since.

Somehow Lucy Muir had even discovered that bit of information in the obituaries. He silently blessed her again.

Abner had died at age sixty-eight of a digestive disorder. His wife and only son had predeceased him, and he'd been buried beside them in one of the fashionable London cemeteries.

Lucy had ticked off the names of the jurors whose graves had been vandalized, with a footnote to that effect.

Eleven men accounted for. That left one man still in danger. Someone by the name of Chasten. Tomorrow, he'd ask Sergeant Gibson to find him, so that he could be warned.

No, there was one more. The policeman who had come to the Dobson house and taken away Henry Dobson's father. Taylor. Sergeant Ralph Taylor.

Rutledge sat back. It was all there. Everything he needed to prove his case. One man had done it all. The vandalizing. The murders. The attempted murder of Gilbert.

That was one short week among so many as the years had passed, but it had cast its shadow over the lives of more than a dozen people.

But what was it Dobson had held over the heads of the four men who had willingly drunk their milk, knowing it would kill them?
What had his mother told him that he'd remembered and used as an excuse to kill?