A Fine Summer's Day (31 page)

Rutledge found a vantage point down the street from which he could watch the house, and settled himself as best he could. There
was a sharp breeze off the sea that hadn't dropped with sunset, and before long he felt its bite.

He stayed there until an hour before sunrise, when it would soon be too light for someone to hide.

And there was no sign of Dobson.

It had been a long shot, he told himself as he headed back to the hotel. And yet all that previous afternoon he'd had a feeling that Dobson was here in Torquay.

Was it possible he hadn't found Chasten yet? Or was he still troubled by his wound? He couldn't afford to be noticeably injured. Any sign of weakness and he couldn't be sure his victim wouldn't put up a very good fight.

Rutledge slept for several hours, came down for a late breakfast, and saw the black headlines in the morning paper. They painted a dire picture of Belgium's plight.

The Army, pathetically small to begin with, still held out. But losses were heavy, and it was thought they would have to surrender soon or face utter annihilation.

And there were reports of atrocities as the frustrated German Army turned on civilians. Refugees reported witnessing many horrors, but there was no independent confirmation. Still, posters were appearing that showed Belgium's suffering, and this had increased enlistments. Meanwhile, a British Expeditionary Force was preparing to go to Belgium's aid.

Rutledge set the paper aside. He had visited Belgium and France a time or two while a student at Oxford. The place-names were familiar to him. He had been to Liège, to Bruges and Brussels. Had seen the fort where the worst of the fighting was taking place.

It made the war personal.

He waited two more days in Torquay, keeping watch at night, until he began to worry about Taylor, the policeman who had come with his men to take Evan Dobson into custody.

Was he still in hospital? Or sent home?

After some difficulty he found a telephone and put in a call to the Yard.

Sergeant Gibson reported that Taylor's pneumonia had begun to improve. But he was in hospital still, and very weak. There was talk of a convalescent home when he was finally released.

What's more, reports from the constable keeping watch on Fillmore Gilbert were not encouraging.

“He's eating, not with appetite, mind you. But eating. It's a start.” Gibson's voice had an echo of doubt in it.

Rutledge remembered Gilbert pushing away even a glass of water.

“A start,” he agreed. “But I want to know as soon as he is talking.”

“There's a new inquiry on your desk,” Gibson added.

“Pray God, nothing to do with laudanum.”

“A shotgun,” Gibson said. “Sir.”

Rutledge thanked him and put up the receiver.

Where the hell was Dobson? If he wasn't in Torquay, and Taylor's illness in Bristol presented a temporary obstruction, where was he?

Rutledge wasn't completely convinced that being hunted himself had deterred Dobson. He wouldn't have come back to Swan Walk, if that were true. His wound, then? Or had he spotted Rutledge in Torquay and simply decided he could outwait Scotland Yard?

In the end, Rutledge spoke to the local police again, asking for a watch to be set on Chasten's house. The Torquay Inspector, whose wife bought her breads and cakes from the Chasten bakery, agreed to send a constable. “Or I'll have nothing for my tea,” he said with a wry smile. “My wife has no time for baking. She's on a War Committee, God help us all.”

T
he plight of Belgium was the talk of the city when Rutledge reached London.

Jean and her mother had joined a charity to help Belgian refugees,
many of whom had escaped from the fighting through Le Havre. Some had decided to remain in France because they were French-speaking, while others, already in a state of shock at what was happening to their country, were unconvinced that France herself could hold.

Rutledge had arrived just after six, and was dragooned into helping at one of the teas organized to raise money. And he listened to the speakers who had been invited to tell their stories.

They were harrowing. Families separated, husbands at the Front, children without parents—it was enough to open the pocketbooks of those present, and afterward, Rutledge spoke to one of the men. He'd been a policeman in Liège, wounded in the fighting even though he wasn't with the Army, and suspected of being a saboteur. And so he had left hastily, to avoid being taken by the Germans.

“It's an unfair fight,” he said in perfectly good English. “We have no artillery. Only machine guns. But we know the countryside, we know each other, and we know how to defend ourselves. Learning to use a rifle is not difficult. Learning to kill a man with it is harder. But the time comes when we must decide. Let them kill me—or kill them first and worry about my soul later.”

When the evening was over, Jean had asked what Rutledge and the middle-aged Belgian had found to talk about.

“Realities,” he said, and changed the subject.

The next day when he went back to the Yard, he learned that Mrs. Hadley had given the policemen who had come to arrest Peggy Goode a very difficult time, and they had had to withdraw to lick their wounds.

“She told them in no uncertain terms,” Cummins related to Rutledge, fighting to keep a straight face, “that if they took her maid into custody on such ridiculous charges, she would see to it that Inspector Watson was reduced to constable for his ineptness and his blind disregard of facts staring him in the face. As the Hadleys were on friendly terms with the Chief Constable and Mrs. Hadley has an uncle in the Home Office, Watson backed down, even apologized for disturbing
her. He sent a telegram to the Chief Superintendent, but Mrs. Hadley's connections put Bowles off as well. I advised him to let everyone cool down.”

It was galling for Rutledge to admit to Cummins that he hadn't brought in Dobson. Afterward he walked on to his own office and began to work his way through the files sitting on his desk before looking at his latest assignment.

Jean would be pleased, he thought, that he would be in London for the near future. The inquiry was in Hampstead, a dispute over a will that had escalated into violence.

“There's so much happening, Ian,” she had told him just last night as he'd driven her home. “We've been working with the refugees as you know, and there's another tea coming up. And a dinner party tomorrow night. Papa had promised to be here, but we aren't quite sure where he is at the moment. He's been out of touch, and Mama feels he's already in France. There's a charity auction next week, and we've been assured that a member of the Royal Family will attend. Mama is going to ask you to escort us.”

In fairness to her, he had agreed to help in any way he could.

That evening, after another charity event, she asked, when her mother had gone upstairs, giving them a few minutes alone, “Have you given any thought to being married in September? If Papa has leave, we could find a way to arrange it. I've had the last fitting for my gown. If we were married, surely the Yard would understand and not send you so far away.”

He couldn't tell her that the Yard cared little for the happiness of its men. Murder didn't wait on the convenience of a policeman or the arrangements made by his wife. She would come to accept this, as most women did. Mrs. Cummins had a very active social life, a large group of friends. It occurred to him that he could ask Cummins for advice. He had met Mrs. Cummins, he thought she would be kind to Jean and help her.

But he still had qualms, and he said then, “Jean, are you sure you'll be happy as a policeman's wife?”

She laughed. “I've been a soldier's daughter. Why should it be any different? And I love you, Ian, more than you know. We'll be happy, I promise you.”

Earlier, he'd found Frances at home, dressing to go out for the evening. She asked for his help doing up the buttons in the back of her gown, and reminded him that there was a cold chicken in the kitchen, if he had no other plans.

“Who is the lucky fellow tonight?” He stood back to admire her in the dark blue gown. “You'll break his heart.”

“He hasn't a heart to break. But he's such fun, and I need to think about something other than the war. Those poor Belgians. We're so lucky, Ian.” She shivered. “I want it to stay that way forever.”

He kissed her cheek. “I'll be late myself. I must drive Mrs. Gordon and Jean back home when the event is over.”

But the event was marred by the news from France.

Belgium had lost its fight with Germany. The German Army was now racing toward the French Frontier.

T
hrough Cummins, Rutledge was able to stay in touch with Torquay, Tonbridge, and Bristol.

Taylor was now in the convalescent home, still surrounded by nurses and patients and doctors. That was very good news.

Chasten on the other hand had tired of the watch on his house and had asked that it be withdrawn. Torquay, also suffering from a shortage of men, was happy to agree. Rutledge swore in frustration when he heard the news.

Gilbert still refused to speak.

Rutledge tried to understand his silence. But there was nothing he could do about it.

In Kent, the inquest on the death of Jerome Hadley was to be recalled.

Henry Dobson, meanwhile, appeared to have vanished. Cummins
was of the opinion that this was good news. Rutledge, who had tracked him for weeks now, was convinced he was simply waiting.

From Hampstead, Rutledge was sent to Carlisle and then on to Derby. He was grateful that all three inquiries had been straightforward, swiftly concluded. Each day that he was out of reach of London tested his patience.

He took Melinda Crawford's advice and wrote letters. To Jean, to Frances, and to Melinda, at one point asking a favor of her.

He was just about to leave Derby when the telegram came from Cummins.

Taylor was dead.

There had been a setback, and he was too frail from the pneumonia to survive.

That left Chasten. And Chasten had left himself vulnerable. But Dobson hadn't taken advantage of that fact. What was he waiting for?

I
t was almost the end of August when Rutledge arrived in London from Derby. Just as the first salvoes of the Battle of Mons began. On the Belgian side of the border with France, the capital of Hainaut Province, and a city of heavy industry based on its coal, Mons was strategic. The British Expeditionary Force had reached it two days before, in an effort to close the coast road to the Germans. The French Army was poised to stop them wherever they crossed the Frontier.

At Mons the battle lasted two days, and then the outnumbered British were forced to retreat. But they managed to do it in an orderly fashion. They were professionals, and they knew what they were about, even against such odds.

It was the beginning of a long, slow withdrawal toward the coast and the city of Ypres. Still in Belgium, but for how much longer? How soon would it be a French town that was besieged?

London talked of nothing else. The call for volunteers had gone out afresh, and it was a race against time to train the new Army and get it into the field before the British Regulars had to be reinforced.

Jean, greeting Rutledge when he stopped by the Gordon house on his way home, asked if he had changed his mind about volunteering.

“There will be general conscription soon—it's almost certain. You won't wait for that, surely not. They are saying we need every man. That it's only a matter of time before the tide is turned. Don't you want to be a part of this brave undertaking?”

He'd seen the bands in the streets, stirring up enthusiasm as men marched behind them in growing numbers on their way to enlist. Firms urged their young men to go, and the poor and unemployed were pressed to sign their names.

“I have a duty, Jean. To a man facing trial in Moresby. To others whose lives have been cut short. To myself, as a sworn officer of the law.” Yet he knew men who had left the Yard to fight. It had added immensely to the work those who remained had to deal with. There had been talk about calling men out of retirement, if the drain on resources went on.

“Yes, yes, I see that, of course I do. But you will consider it, won't you? As soon as you've finished what you must do?”

“Yes, all right, I promise.”

When he reached the Yard, he sought out Cummins to ask for news.

Cummins shut his office door and lowered his voice. “Taylor died of natural causes. I made certain I was kept informed. That leaves Chasten. Why hasn't Dobson tried to reach him? Is it possible that Chasten sided with Evan Dobson?”

“He seemed to view the trial as a matter of duty. Unpleasant but necessary. Unlike Benjamin Clayton, who appeared to be disturbed by his part in it. Certainly not the sort of man Mrs. Dobson would have any reason to feel sympathetic toward.” Rutledge took a deep
breath. “Even if we've stopped the killing, there are the dead Dobson has left behind. It isn't over.”

“I've wondered about that, Ian. He'd had everything his own way, until Swan Walk. He'd seemed invincible. You've shown him he wasn't.”

“If I were Terrence Chasten, I wouldn't wager my life on it. Why won't Gilbert talk to me? I'm beginning to wonder if his mind has been damaged to the point that he can't tell us what happened that night. It's a bitter thought.”

“Did you know the constable was recalled from Swan Walk? And from Mrs. Upchurch? The local constabularies are as shorthanded as we are.”

“Where do we stand with the Hadleys' housemaid, Peggy Goode?”

Cummins smiled but he was watching Rutledge's face. “The inquest was reconvened, and the evidence against Miss Goode was presented. Mrs. Hadley was asked if she had gone to Canterbury because she was on bad terms with her husband and suspected him of straying. That was a mistake. Mrs. Hadley challenged everyone in that room to speak up at once if they possessed any knowledge of her husband's philandering. And when no one came forward, she went on to say a good bit more about the evidence in hand. She was quite knowledgeable about some matters, mentioning the fact that the police were refusing to look at other deaths too similar to her husband's to be ignored, and until they did, any verdict calling her husband's honor into question would result in dire consequences. What's more, the housekeeper and the rest of the staff backed up Mrs. Hadley, saying that they felt the police had leapt to conclusions without evidence to support them. I wonder how Mrs. Hadley came by such detailed information. You haven't been to see her, have you, Ian?”

“No, sir, I have not.” The answer was firm, unequivocal.

“Did you write to her?”

“No, sir, I did not.” But he had written to Melinda, whose slight acquaintance with the Hadleys provided the opportunity for a condolence call.

“Yes, well. However you managed it, Mrs. Hadley's speech left everyone stunned.”

“What did the inquest say to that?”

“They're back to person or persons unknown.”

Rutledge smiled for the first time. “Can we work a similar magic in Moresby? Although I'm afraid we have no Mrs. Hadley there to speak for Kingston. Just the opposite, in fact. What did the Chief Superintendent have to say when word got back to him about the outcome?”

“The worst of it was, the Home Office wanted to know what it was all about, and what this further evidence might be that was brought up in the inquest. Mrs. Hadley does indeed have friends in high places. An uncle, in fact.” Cummins hesitated, then said what was on his mind. “Regarding Bowles. You do know that very likely you've made an enemy for life, there?”

“I didn't set out to do that.”

“I'm quite sure you didn't. He always weighs the main chance, Ian. He doesn't want to bring a case to trial and have it fall apart in the Crown's face. Sadly, he doesn't possess the imagination that will let him judge the difference.”

Rutledge said ruefully, “I shall have to learn a better way to deal with him.”

“He holds the keys to the Yard, Ian. And so, yes, you will. You can run rings around him. But he must never know that. Or even guess it. On to other business, I've arranged for you to give testimony in the Moresby trial.”

“That's very good news. Thank you. Inspector Farraday won't care for it, but I'll do my best to put a spoke in his wheel.”

Cummins reached into his drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I've been saving this for you. It came yesterday from Tonbridge. It
might be worth looking into, although strictly speaking it isn't a Yard matter.”

Rutledge took the sheet from him and scanned it, then looked up at Cummins. “It appears to be a missing person inquiry.”

“Yes, Tonbridge forwarded it because it had to do with a wounded man. I happen to know there's nothing else on your desk at the moment. And you have a motorcar, which makes the distance to Tonbridge negligible.”

Nodding, he said, “We asked for doctors and hospitals to report gunshot wounds—without any luck.”

“Indeed.”

Rutledge was on his feet, his mind already busy. “I'm on my way.”

Rutledge stopped at home and encountered Frances on the stairs as he was going up them.

“There you are,” he said. “I'm on my way to Kent. I'll take you as far as Melinda's, if you like.”

“Thank you, Ian,” she said, holding up her face for his kiss. “But I have engagements here. This new Army needs everything. And until the manufacturers catch up, there's much we can do. The weather is changing. Soldiers will soon be asking for warm stockings and sweaters and gloves. I'm working with a group of women who are willing to knit these things, but someone has to supply the patterns and the wool. And it must be khaki wool, not colors. I'm told the enemy would only be too glad to see our men decked out in blues and reds and greens. It makes sense.”

She was so earnest. It was a new Frances, and he was surprised by her dedication and enthusiasm. What's more it suited her, and he told her so.

“By the way, there's a letter for you in Papa's study. It's from Ross Trevor. If your letter is like mine, he's telling us he's joining the Royal Navy. He always did like the sea.”

“What a shock that must have been for his father.”

“Yes, I think it must have been.”

“I'll pick it up on my way out.”

When he came downstairs again, he paused briefly to look at the post lying on the desk. And stopped, staring at the unfamiliar handwriting on another envelope bearing an address he knew.

Terrence Chasten. Torquay. Rutledge shoved it into his pocket along with Ross Trevor's letter, wondering briefly how Chasten had discovered this address rather than writing to him in care of the Yard. If it was a personal plea to withdraw police protection, it could wait.

I
t was raining by the time he reached Kent, dark clouds foretelling heavier weather before nightfall.

The farm he sought was south of Tonbridge and well off the main road. Even with directions, he missed the turning he was after.

The house was set back from the road, Victorian and plain, but like the barn and the outbuildings, sturdy and in good order.

The woman who answered his knock looked up at the stranger on her doorstep and said hopefully, “Are you from Tonbridge? Have you found him then?” She was middle-aged, her fair hair already tending to gray, her face lined from work and the sun. Tall and strongly built, she looked like the farmer's wife he'd been told she was.

“I'm from the police, Mrs. Abbot. I've come about your missing farm worker.”

“Step in, then. I'm just washing up from our dinner.”

He followed her down the passage into the kitchen, ducking under the low lintel.

It was a bright room, four square but large enough to feed a family at the table at the center. Three girls, stair steps in age, were sitting at the table, and they stared up at him with curiosity bright in their faces.

“This is Mr. Rutledge, girls, and he's come to speak to your mama. Go and see to your chores, and then I'll read to you before bedtime.”
They rose reluctantly and went out the kitchen door into the yard. Mrs. Abbot watched them for a moment and then turned back to Rutledge. “The kettle's on. Would you care for tea, then?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She busied herself with the tea things, her back to him. She said, as if it didn't matter, which told him it mattered a great deal, “Have you found Tommy, then?”

“Not yet. I'm afraid we don't have enough information to be going on with. Could you tell me more about Tommy?”

“Not really.” She seemed wary, concentrating on measuring out tea into the pot. Then as if making up her mind, she turned to face him. “I found him on the road, bleeding from a gash in his leg, and his bicycle in the ditch. I'd been to market in Tonbridge, and I was too tired to take him back there. And so I loaded him and his bicycle into my cart and came home. I didn't know what else to do.”

“Weren't you worried that you were taking a risk, that he was in trouble of some sort?”

“It was a nasty injury, going right through his calf. I hadn't noticed that on the road, not how bad it was, because he'd wrapped it in his shirt. He was on his way home, he told me, and someone had tried to steal his bicycle. There was a long scrape on the metal bit that holds the front wheel in place. I could see it for myself. And so I believed him.”

Like so many others?

“Go on.”

“He was feverish for days. I didn't have the money for the doctor and nor had he, but I'd doctored the livestock, I told myself it was no different. But it took a good bit of my time, what with the girls and the farm. I'm a widow, and I thought, when he was well again, he might repay me for what I did and help out here. And so he did. Not that he could do much at first, he couldn't hardly walk for days, but he made himself a crutch and he did what he could. I told him I'd pay him,
if he'd stay on. He was good with the girls too. Judith is six and he taught her how to feed the hens. She'd been afraid of the cock before. That meant Nan, who is eight, could deal with the cows, and Bethy, who is ten, could help me with the mucking out. That left time to work in the vegetable garden of an evening, while the girls washed up after dinner. As he got stronger, he took on the milk cow, and he did the heavy work, said it helped his leg.”

“What happened to him?”

“It's been a week now. One morning Tommy told me he thought he'd seen someone walking around outside and peering in the windows. He said he was afraid of this man, and didn't want him harming us. I wondered then if he owed money to this man, if taking the bicycle was just a means to collect. Before I got around to asking him, Tommy left in the night. He'd taken the clothes I'd given him and his bicycle, and a little food. That was all. He didn't touch the butter and eggs money.”