A Fine Summer's Day (32 page)

“So it wasn't a question of theft?”

“I'm afraid something has happened to him. He hasn't come back, although I thought he might. Then, when I went in to market two days ago, I reported him to the police as missing. I told them about the leg, and how that man had worried him. And I said to tell him I wanted him back, if they found him. I can't help but wonder if he was afraid for us, and went home, out of that man's reach. Tommy was from Somerset. It's a long way to go on a bicycle. I wonder if his leg is up to it.”

But Tommy would find it easy enough to beg a lift. He'd managed to find help even in this farmhouse.

Was it Dobson? If it was, then there was nothing for him in Somerset. He'd be heading for Torquay.

Rutledge asked Mrs. Abbot to tell him what Tommy looked like, and her description seemed to fit. As did the wound. It also could explain where Dobson had been hiding.

The youngest daughter, Judith, was peering in the kitchen window,
her nose flattened again the glass. He smiled at her, and she grinned back at him, a gap where her two front teeth belonged.

“I'll do what I can,” he promised Mrs. Abbot. “But I wouldn't hold out much hope. I expect Tommy needed to put space between himself and Kent. As for the man he saw outside, I wouldn't worry there. He could have been anxious enough to imagine him.”

She brought him his cup of tea. “I wondered about that too. Except that he did watch the road. As if someone would come down it one day.” She stirred her tea and said philosophically, “He did us no harm, but I'd like to have him back all the same.”

“How strong was he, by the time he left?”

“Middling strong, I'd say.” She looked squarely at Rutledge. “You're not telling me he tried to go after this man? To protect us. So he wouldn't come here?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, that's a relief, anyway. He used to listen as I read to the children of an evening. He said his mother had always been too tired to read to him. She was a widow too, poor woman. I've managed to keep the farm going, for the sake of the girls. But it's trying.”

He'd finished his tea and asked to see Tommy's room. But when Mrs. Abbot had taken him upstairs to the small bedroom under the eaves, there was nothing to tell him who the occupant had been.

The trouble was, he wanted it to be Dobson in the worst possible way.

But the burning question now was, where had he gone from here?

R
utledge stopped in Tonbridge for a brief report to Inspector Williams, then drove on to Swan Walk. He didn't allow himself to hope. It was a formality only.

The rain had stopped, but not for long.

The crepe had been removed from the gates, and there were no longer any flowers there. He continued up to the house, to find that the
crepe had also been removed from the door. The housekeeper's doing?

The constable was gone as well, but he knew that, although he was surprised to find the nurse had left too. What's more, Gilbert was now sitting downstairs in his usual chair overlooking the terrace.

He was thinner, if that were possible, and he looked a good ten years older, with deep lines in his face and haggard eyes. As Rutledge walked into the room and greeted him, he said, “Sit down.”

Rutledge brought another chair to put next to Gilbert's, remembering how he'd sat here in this room himself, covered in shawls and blankets, while Dobson watched warily from the flower beds. He glanced out at the delphiniums, and saw that they were no longer blooming in profusion. It wouldn't be long before they would be faced with colder weather, even the first frost.

Gilbert said, “The French brandy is on the tray. Glasses, too.”

“So they are.” He went to pour the silky golden liquid into two of them, and brought one back to Gilbert, as he'd done once before. It seemed like years ago, not a matter of weeks.

“War's not going well,” Gilbert said, taking his first sip and then setting the glass to one side.

As he did, Rutledge glimpsed the dark metal of Gilbert's revolver hidden in the shawls that kept him warm.

Gilbert saw his glance. “I won't be taken by surprise ever again,” he said grimly.

“You can't shoot him. You know that.”

“But I can. They won't hang me for it. Even if they try, I'll have had the satisfaction of it.”

“You shouldn't be telling an Inspector at Scotland Yard such things.”

“It doesn't matter. You want the bastard as much as I do. I heard the constable telling Greening that you'd shot at him yourself.”

Rutledge couldn't think of a suitable reply.

Gilbert sipped his brandy for a time, and then he said, “I can talk about it now. I couldn't before. I thought it was the laudanum and nearly dying. Whatever, it left me confused, unable to be sure what was real and what was not. Do you know what it's like to doubt your own mind? To wonder if you've run mad? No, of course you don't. Not at your age. But I've sat here and pieced it together again. A bit at a time. It took me days. Weeks, for all I know.”

Rutledge waited.

“He came through that window, Ian. Bold as brass, and wished me a good evening. I had no idea who he was. He was dressed neatly, but in work clothes. I thought perhaps he was about to ask me for money. Instead, he asked if he might sit down. He'd come a long way, he said. I'll admit, I was intrigued. I wondered just what it was he wanted. And after a while, he told me.”

There was a long silence. Once more Rutledge waited. The afternoon was far gone. There would be no sunset, with the heavy clouds in the west. It would be dark soon.

“He was Evan Dobson's son. I had no idea who Evan Dobson was and told him so. He seemed surprised, as if he expected me to remember. Then he explained that I'd been the Crown prosecutor in his father's trial. His father was convicted, he said, and on the twenty-eighth of June, he was hanged. It had been scheduled at dawn, that hanging, but had been moved up to noon. His mother wasn't allowed to see him or even claim his body. And so she had sat in her cottage with her son by her side and watched the hands of the clock move inexorably to noon. She had cried out then, like someone in torment. He hadn't understood why. He knew his father had been taken away and couldn't come back. That's all. When he was older, his mother told him why.”

Gilbert held out his glass, and Rutledge, without a word, got up and refilled it.

“He said he'd come to make me pay for what I'd done. I asked
him if his father had been innocent, and that didn't seem to matter to him. It was the
loss
he had felt, and his mother's pain, and his father's inexplicable absence before he understood why this was so.” Gilbert swirled the golden liquid in his glass and watched it catch the dying afternoon light.

“And then he asked where the kitchen was, that he'd come a long way and would like a glass of milk. I asked him if he were armed, and he said he wasn't. God help me, I told him where the kitchen was, and he left me sitting here and went out through the door there.” Gilbert cleared his throat. “He came back soon enough, the glass of milk in his hand. I asked him if he'd helped himself to the silver while he was about it, but he assured me he was an honest man and didn't intend to steal a penny.”

“Nor did he, from what I learned later,” Rutledge agreed.

“I didn't know that. At any rate, he set the glass of milk there on the desk and took a vial from his pocket. He began counting the drops as they went in. I thought he was intending to drink it, that he intended to kill himself in front of me and leave me to take the blame. For the first time I began to feel a rising alarm. But he didn't touch the milk. After he'd put the vial away, he said to me in as quiet and sane a voice as my own, ‘You have a daughter, I think. How much do you love her?'”

When Gilbert didn't go on, Rutledge felt his stomach churn, unable to stop himself from imagining the horror that was to come.

Gilbert drained his glass, and put it aside. “God forgive me. I told him that she was my only child and of course I loved her. ‘Enough to die for her? Would you willingly give your life for hers?'”

And Rutledge remembered Mrs. Hadley's quiet, intense voice saying,
Ours was a love match. I'd have given my life for Jerry. And he for me.

“He made a bargain with me,” Gilbert went on, fighting to keep his voice steady. “If I would drink that glass of milk, right now, in front of him, he would swear on his mother's memory that he would not touch
my daughter. But if I refused, he would leave, and at a time of his own choosing, he wouldn't offer her a glass of laudanum. He would hang her. Just as his father was hanged. And he reached under his coat and brought out a rope with a noose, which had been wrapped around his body. And he quietly recited her address and described her house to me, so that I would know he'd been there and he would do what he said he would do. That obscene noose was in his hands, moving a little, swinging a little. And I believed him. So help me God, I believed him.”

His voice broke. It was several minutes before he could continue. “I'm an old man. My mind isn't what it used to be. I told you that myself, when you came asking questions about a trial I couldn't remember. I had to send you elsewhere to find the information you wanted. I asked him then what pleasure he got from threatening me if I didn't remember Evan Dobson. And he said it was no pleasure at all. But he and his mother had lived with loss and the torment of knowing that his father had been among strangers when the noose had been put around his neck and the hood dropped over his head. To spare the onlookers, he said. And so his father's last sight in this world were the men whose duty it was to take his life. Efficiently and coldly. There was no warmth or kindness or sorrow for his family. Even the priest brought for him hadn't cared, because he never came to tell Dobson's mother that his father's last thought was for her. He could have, you know. That was the sad thing.”

Gilbert stared out into the growing darkness, then stirred, as if coming back from a long way.

“And so his son was about to inflict the same pain on me. I would die facing someone who had no warmth or kindness or pity for me. My daughter would live with the grief of losing her father, and wonder why I had chosen to take my own life, without a word of explanation or farewell. It was rather diabolical. He didn't seem angry, I think I'd have been less shocked if he had been. I could have understood it. He
just sat there, waiting for me to make up my mind, that noose swinging before my eyes, and no mercy in his. And so in the end, I couldn't take the chance. I couldn't put Claudia at risk. So I asked for the glass and I drank it down quickly, bitter as it was. He sat there watching me until I had passed out. In no hurry. I remember at one point reminding him that I had his word that Claudia wouldn't be harmed. And he simply smiled at me. I didn't know then whether he would keep his promise or not, if he would find pleasure in killing her too. By that time it was too late. I didn't hear him leave. My last thought was that if I'd refused, I'd have had time to warn her. That I had failed her after all. It was terrifying to know that, as the darkness came down. I never expected to see the light again.”

Rutledge sat there, stunned.

Benjamin Clayton had had a daughter, who had just left the house to stay the night with her brother and his wife.

Joel Tattersall had a sister who was sleeping upstairs.

Jerome Hadley loved his wife deeply, and she was in Canterbury with friends.

He didn't know how the headmaster Stoddard in Northumberland had felt about his wife. But there was the school he loved.

And of course Gilbert had had Claudia.

Rutledge didn't know if Terrence Chasten loved anyone. Would he drink a glass of laudanum to save his brother?

Gilbert put his head back against the pillow behind it. Spent, and silent.

Rutledge sat there with him, watching the night come down until it was dark enough to get up and light the lamp. He found himself thinking that if Dobson came again and Gilbert shot him, he himself would have no reservations about it. It would be justified, whatever the law felt about it.

After a while, he rose. “It's past time for your dinner. Let me fetch your housekeeper.”

“I'm not particularly hungry tonight.”

“You realize that I must go back to the Yard and tell them what you've told me.”

“If you do,” Gilbert said, rousing himself, “I will deny it. Every word of it. Do you think I want Claudia to know this? That I didn't have the courage to protect her? Why do you think I've refused to speak all this time?”

And there was Mrs. Hadley, who loved her husband deeply. She had spoken the words about dying for each other figuratively. As a measure of that love. How would she feel if she learned that he had quite literally died for her sake?

“Then why have you told me? You know I represent the Yard.”

“Because you need to hear what manner of monster you're dealing with. And if you are very smart, you'll see that he never hurts anyone else again. Do I make myself clear?”

“I can't shoot him in cold blood.”

“But you can keep the world from hearing what he did. Do you think Claudia and the others who survived his victims can bear to listen to what I've just told you? It's a final cruelty. He's better off dead, I tell you.”

“I understand what you are asking. I don't know if it's possible to keep it all out of the record. I give you my word I will try.”

He didn't offer to put Rutledge up that night. Gilbert bade him good night and went on sitting by the open window. Waiting.

T
he rain came back, harder this time, as Rutledge drove through the gates of Swan Walk and made his decision. Continue to London, or go to Melinda Crawford's house? It was nearer. And he didn't think he could face Frances, with Gilbert's voice still echoing in his ears. She would guess at once that something was wrong. And he couldn't tell her.

When Melinda came down the lovely staircase to greet him, her hair in a long plait behind her back, the lace at the throat of her dressing gown gleaming brightly in the lamplight, she took one look at his face and said sharply, “Ian. What has happened?”

“It's an inquiry. That's all. It—has turned rather nasty.”

Relieved, she nodded. “I expect they sometimes do,” she said, not pressing. “Are you hungry?” Over her shoulder she said to Shanta, “Tea, please. In the sitting room.”

“I'd rather go up to bed. I'm not very good company.”

“You'll be the better for a little food and some tea. Go along in, while I dress.”

“No, don't worry—” he began, but she stopped him.

“I'm going to dress. Go and sit down before you fall down.”

And so he walked on down the passage to her sitting room and sat there for a time staring into the empty hearth. He could hear the fast patter of the rain on the terrace outside. It was soothing in its own way.

It was then he remembered the letters he hadn't read. He took his friend Ross's out of his pocket, opened it, and scanned the brief message.

It was signed, simply,
Ross
.

He sat there staring at the familiar handwriting. He and Ross had always been as close as brothers. He couldn't even contemplate something happening to him.

Folding the sheet and returning it to the envelope, he took out the second letter, the one from Terrence Chasten.

Only it wasn't from him.

An unformed hand had written,
You have a sister. If you go on trying to find me, I will know. And you will put her at risk.

His fatigue fell away. He was on his feet and heading for the door when Melinda came down the stairs again, impeccably dressed as always. At the same moment, Shanta came through the door from the kitchen stairs, a tray in her hands.

He said, “I must go back to London. Now.”

“I won't hear of it,” Melinda said, stepping between him and the door. “What's this all about?”

“I can't tell you. It would take too long.”

“Nonsense. There is nothing in London that can't wait ten minutes.” She took his arm and drew him back toward the room he'd just left. “You will eat your sandwiches and drink your tea, and then you can go.”

“Melinda—”

“It will do you no good nor London either if you find yourself in a ditch. Have you noticed how the rain is coming down?”

There was truth to that. The roads would be quagmires. He sat down at the tea table, and Shanta put the plate of sandwiches in front of him and set the teapot, two cups, the cream jug, and the sugar bowl in front of Melinda. She proceeded to pour the tea, and with a quick glance sent Shanta away.

“Now then. What's happened?”

“The man I've been searching for. He threatens Frances, if I go on hunting him.”

“Do you believe him? Or is it an idle threat?”

“I believe him.” He had to, he'd sat there listening to Fillmore Gilbert's agony, and he'd believed every word.

“Then you can stay the night here. Frances will be perfectly safe, and you won't frighten her to death rushing in to protect her.”

It made good sense. But he found it hard to think of food as he pictured her as she had been on the stairs earlier, her mind full of wool and what could be done with it to help the troops. Alive with enthusiasm.

Melinda handed him his cup of tea, and added sugar to her own. Stirring vigorously, she said, “Now then. What's this about? Why can't you simply put in a call to the Yard and ask them to safeguard her?”

Rutledge tried to explain. To put into words how isolated he was.

“It has to do with a murderer I've been searching for. The one I didn't know existed when I went to Moresby. The Chief Superintendent refuses to listen. He can't see that sometimes we have a feeling
about a case—about a person—even about the evidence. I've learned to listen to those feelings. It would be useless to go to Bowles with this letter. He'd tell me to ignore it and get on with what needed to be done.”

“I'm not surprised that you do,” she said. “You're your father's son. Those feelings were what made him such a good solicitor.”

“I expect you know probably more about this man than anyone other than Chief Inspector Cummins. More, possibly, than is safe for you to know.” But not what Gilbert had told him as the sun had dropped down in the black shadows of the western sky.

She said slowly, “I've told no one about the letter you sent from Derbyshire. Mrs. Hadley was very grateful, you know.”

Ignoring his sandwiches and his tea, he went on as quietly, “The problem is, without the backing of the Yard, this threat to Frances can't be ignored. Cummins would do his best, but he would have to justify round-the-clock surveillance.”

She sat there, trying to conceal her anger from him. Anger at his isolation and Bowles's stupidity. Rutledge reached into his pocket and took out the letter purportedly from Terrence Chasten. As she looked at the envelope, he said, “Dobson's next victim is this man Chasten. What Dobson is telling me is not to interfere while he goes after him. I called on him in Torquay, and while I think Chasten believed me when I told him he could be in grave danger, he seemed to feel he could deal with this man Dobson himself.”

“And can he?”

“I don't know. In his shoes, I wouldn't take the risk. Still. I'm too close to catching him. That's why Dobson wants me out of the way. Why he's threatening Frances.”

She opened the sheet of paper folded inside and read it. “Dear God, Ian,” she said, looking quickly up at him. “Do you think Dobson has actually come to London?”

“I don't know. I have to take it for granted that he can do what he says. I can't guard Frances all the time. I'm here in Kent—or Derby—or wherever I'm sent. The question is, how rational is this man? What if
next month I'm sent to Torquay or Somerset or Bristol on another case entirely. Will he give me the benefit of the doubt? Or will he make good on his promise then? If I go after him, she's in danger. If I do nothing, he will be out there forever. And I won't
know
.” He hesitated, not wanting to tell her why he was so afraid for Frances. But Melinda had been a soldier's daughter, a soldier's wife. She had been one of the child heroines of the Great Indian Mutiny—the Sepoy Rebellion—carrying water to the wounded and to men fighting to save Lucknow from the mutineers bent on slaughtering the entire garrison. She had seen death in many guises.

“What is it?” she asked, with that uncanny ability to read him. He was never sure why she could. Whether it was love or only her deep knowledge of people. “What are you afraid to tell me?”

He smiled wryly. “I didn't want to upset you. It's rather ugly.”

But in the end, she made him tell her.

After a long moment, she said, “Of course you have to take this threat as real. The question is, what will you do about it?”

“The best thing is to ask Chief Inspector Cummins to assign someone else to the case.”

“I don't think that will answer,” she told him. “Will you tell your sister? You must, you know. If only to allow her to be watchful. It could make all the difference.”

Melinda Crawford was right, as she so often was.

“I don't want to. I don't want to drag her into my wretched world of crime and murder and fear.”

“In my view, Frances will deal with it better than you think. Be grateful this man doesn't know about Jean.”

Rutledge felt his heart lurch. “I was so worried about Frances, I didn't consider—If he's found where I live, he could just as easily find Jean.”

“He could have discovered your identity easily enough. He saw you in Penshurst Place and Swan Walk. A question casually asked in a pub one night about the man from London? It's not that far from the village to London.”

“I'd have seen him. I'd have recognized him. Besides, I usually
drive to the Yard.” But sometimes he didn't. Sometimes on a fine day, he walked. Dobson needed only to wait at the Yard to see where he went. And he needn't follow him all the way. He had already shown how easily he could discover a street and a number.

It was an appalling thought. It made the danger to Frances even more frightening.

“You've got to find him. This man Dobson. But not tonight, my dear. He won't touch Frances lightly. She's his hold over you. He knows you'll protect her at any price.”

He wished he could believe her. He did, in his mind. He knew she was right. But he'd lost his parents, and he couldn't lose Frances. Not to this man. Not after what Gilbert had told him. And now that made him afraid to lose someone
he
loved. Just like the others.

“That letter was posted from Torquay,” Rutledge said, willing himself to think clearly. “It means he's there. Looking for Chasten. I'll have to do something about that. But I shall have to see Frances safe first. I hesitate to ask, to put you at risk. But could I bring her here?”

“By all means. But tell her as little as possible, so as not to worry her. It's settled. Now go up to bed. A night's sleep won't make this go away. On the other hand, you'll be rested enough to plan properly.”

He finished the sandwiches, if only to please her. Rising, he came around the table and took her hand. “I'm glad you don't live in the north of England.”

“My dear, it's much too cold in the north.” She walked with him as far as the stairs. Watching him go up them, her mouth tightened. If she could have put her hands on this man Dobson just then, she knew she wouldn't be responsible for her actions.

B
ack in London, Rutledge went first to the Yard and spoke to Cummins.

He said nothing to the Chief Inspector about the reasons Gilbert had willingly gone to his own death. But he did tell Cummins that the
former Crown prosecutor had confirmed that it was Dobson who had invaded his home and nearly killed him.

Cummins said, “Why did he change his mind and speak to you? I didn't expect it.”

“Nor did I,” Rutledge said. “Sergeant Gibson needs to alert the police in Torquay. Dobson has a bicycle. I'll drive down straightaway. I can recognize him.”

“You haven't said. Why was there no struggle, no attempt to call for help? Was Dobson armed?”

In his mind's eye, Rutledge could see again the glint of the revolver beneath the shawls that wrapped Gilbert's thin shoulders and body.

“We weren't there. I expect we'll never know the pressure Dobson brought to bear.”

Cummins stared at him. “It's the difference,” he said after a moment, “in whether it was suicide or murder. Legally.”

“We weren't there,” Rutledge said again. “We can't judge.”

And he was gone before Cummins could frame his next question.

F
rances was writing notes to contributors at the last fund-raiser, to thank them for their support.

He waited until she had finished, sealed the envelopes, and affixed stamps to them.

Turning to her brother, she said lightly, “If you had stood for Parliament instead of becoming a policeman, you could frank these for me. I'm spending a young fortune on stamps.”

“Do MPs still have the right to sign a letter in lieu of stamping it?”

“How do I know? But it seems like such a good idea, don't you think?” She set the letters in a basket, ready to be posted, then said, “You've been sitting there very patiently. Am I to hear the lecture again on bringing in someone to live here and protect my good name? It won't do, Ian, you're wasting your breath.”

“No. It's a case I've been working on. Somehow the man I believe
to be a killer has found out where I live. I must leave for the south coast, and I would rather you went away for a few days. Just as a precaution. Would you mind terribly?”

Frances regarded him. “Are you quite serious? Are you really in danger?”

“I doubt it. Still. My hands are tied. I can't be in two places at once. I'd be happier knowing you weren't here. Melinda is always asking you to spend a little time with her. Why not go there? The Yard is looking for this man. We'll have him in custody soon enough.”

It took a little persuasion. But in the end, she agreed. He thought she might even have been glad of an excuse to be away from the talk of war, at least for a bit.

“If he's found this house, whoever he is, there's Jean to think of. You're there nearly as often as you are at home.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “I'll deal with that later. Go and pack what you need. Do you think Toby MacBride would run you down to Kent?”

He was one of her numerous escorts, and at last word, he hadn't rushed off to enlist.

And so it was arranged. An hour later, Toby was at the door, and it was time to carry Frances's luggage out to the motorcar.

Rutledge left instructions with the household, then went up to pack. He wanted to call on Jean. He'd missed her, he wanted very much to see her. It felt as if their entire engagement had been at the mercy of the Yard and most especially Dobson. But he knew it would possibly mean putting her at risk.