A Fine Summer's Day (8 page)

Gibson was a veteran at the Yard, and he had amassed contacts across half of England, or so it sometimes seemed. An irascible man, he had no favorites, and was Rutledge's ally only as far as it concerned Chief Superintendent Bowles. But he was the best at what he did, which was finding out information that eluded everyone else.

No one knew quite why Sergeant Gibson disliked Bowles. He concealed his feelings very well, but there was something possibly left over from a distant past that might also have explained why Gibson had never risen beyond the rank of sergeant.

There was no doubt that Bowles was a difficult man for anyone to deal with, although his superiors looked at his record and either turned a blind eye, or agreed that they were unwilling to promote him further, even to be rid of him.

Rutledge thought the problem with Bowles was simple. He'd begun his career in the ranks, a man of limited education and lower-middle-class roots. He'd taught himself to speak well, had polished his image by choosing a better tailor when he reached the rank of Inspector, but he had never changed his mind-set. Suspicious, jealous, seeking to appear the initiator of any successfully concluded case, he had acquired a reputation for never applauding any effort by someone who might in time challenge his position as Chief Superintendent.

Chief Inspector Cummins had felt his wrath, and so had Rutledge, among others, ostensibly for not following orders, but it was generally felt that the new breed of better educated men from a better social class had drawn his ire simply because they were able to deal comfortably with a wider range of witnesses and suspects. Addressing a duchess or an archbishop came as easily to them as interviewing a guttersnipe or a fishwife.

Listening to Rutledge's request, Gibson said, “It's a wild goose chase.”

“Possibly. But according to the records in Somerset House, where I went this morning, our man can be traced to Somerset, to a village just outside Bristol. Netherby is the name of it. What the official records
can't
tell me is why he chose to leave there and never come back. What did he do—or fail to do—that might have led to his death once it was discovered that he was living in Moresby.”

“There was no one in Moresby with a better motive? Sir?”

“The interviews in Moresby were well done, and I followed them up
for myself. There's nothing in Clayton's present life to explain such a vicious killing. And he seldom referred to his past. In fact, even his children weren't certain just where he'd lived before coming to Yorkshire.”

“Then you're as likely to find you have the wrong Clayton. Did you consider the possibility that he'd changed his name with his county?”

“If that's the case, we'll never know what he did. It would also mean that his wife and possibly her family agreed to go along with the change in name. She knew him when he lived in the West Country. And while she might have agreed—it was a love match—her father was a canny man and is said to have looked into Clayton's past for himself.”

“I'll do what I can,” Gibson told him gloomily. “Sir.”

“Will you send a message to the house, if you find anything?”

“Sir.”

Rutledge nodded and left him to it. He reported to Bowles, who seemed to have other matters on his mind and brushed aside Rutledge's uncertainty about Moresby. “When a man says nothing about his roots, he's either ashamed of them or wants to forget them. Worth looking into.”

With that blessing, feeble as it was, Rutledge cleared his desk and then went home to prepare for the evening.

The affair was to be held at the Gordon house, and he'd had strict instructions to arrive early. Ross Trevor had sent him a message that he'd bring Frances, and she seemed to be relieved to be escorted by him rather than her brother, pleading the need for more time to dress.

Rutledge walked in the open door to find the rooms filled with flowers, their scent heavy in the warm air. He was told that Jean was still putting the finishing touches to her toilette. Her father, on the other hand, was in the study and expecting him.

Gordon was in excellent spirits.

“Hallo, Ian. Glad you returned in time. Jean was fearful you might not be here. Worried all week about that. Even so, the ladies have been busy seeing to all the arrangements. I've left them to it.”

“The house is transformed.”

“Here, have a bit of courage before the evening's fanfare.” He went to the silver tray of drinks and reached for the whisky. Pouring a glass for himself and another for Rutledge, he added, “I've had to retire to my club the last three nights. You'll be complimentary, of course.”

“Yes, of course.” Rutledge smiled. It was the sort of party his own parents would have given for Frances, if they'd lived. He made a note to speak to Melinda Crawford about standing in for them when the time came.

“What do you think about events in Europe?” Gordon asked.

“I'm hoping it's merely posturing and comes to nothing.”

“This is for your ears, only, but I've already been warned that if matters proceed, I'm to be prepared to be called back to duty.”

This was surprising news. Rutledge was about to ask if he'd been given a reason when the butler, a slender man in his fifties, came to announce that the ladies were on their way down.

“Thank you, Simpson. All right, Ian, drink up, and we'll face the worst together.” He smiled and, as Rutledge set his empty glass on the tray, took his future son-in-law's arm and led him back to the foyer. Mrs. Gordon was just descending the staircase, wearing a dark blue gown with silver trim, and there were feathers of the same color in a silver pin set in her graying hair. She was still quite an attractive woman, and there was no doubt that Jean's beauty had come from her mother.

Mrs. Gordon smiled at her husband and gave her hand to Rutledge. “How handsome you are tonight,” she said.

He took her hand in his. “And how beautifully you've arranged everything. I must say, it's like walking into a summer garden.”

She thanked him, looking quite pleased. Then, glancing around at the floral displays, she added anxiously, “I hope the heat won't wilt them before midnight. Do you think, my dear, that it will storm tonight?”

“I don't expect rain,” her husband answered. “We'll leave the garden doors open. That should help.”

He stopped and turned back toward the stairs.

Jean was just coming down. Rutledge's heart stirred. She was quite radiant in a rose gown that set off her coloring. He smiled up at her.

“My dear, I've never seen you so lovely,” her father announced and took her hand as she reached the last step. “I'm already regretting losing you.”

She laughed then, a little nervously, and said to Ian, “I was so worried.”

“I told you I'd be here,” he answered, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek.

The first guests began to arrive just then, and Rutledge stood with the Gordons in the receiving line for over an hour, a whirlwind of names and faces, congratulations and best wishes. And then they were free to enjoy the half hour before dinner.

Jean, cheeks flushed with happiness, took his arm and said, “I would die for something to drink.”

He found a lemonade for her and she drank thirstily. “Lovely,” she said, handing the empty cup to a passing footman.

“I've never seen the house so beautiful,” she went on, looking around at the displays of flowers and laden tables. The summer evening light created a golden haze that made candles unnecessary just yet, but candelabras stood ready to be lit.

“You and your mother are to be congratulated,” he said, and meant it. “It's quite marvelous.”

“Do you truly think so?” she asked, looking up at him. “It isn't Papa who put you up to saying something?”

He held her hands in his and smiled. “He's as proud of you both as I am. And tonight will be the talk of London.”

Laughing, she gestured to the crowded room. “We're expected to mingle. I'll go this way, you go in that direction, and we'll meet on the far side.”

Seeing Ross Trevor standing by the whisky decanters, Rutledge walked over. “I'm so glad you could make it,” he said. “I'm sorry David couldn't.”

“Not half as sorry as he is. He wanted to be here. By the bye, Morag sends her best.” Morag was the Trevor family's housekeeper. She'd run the house since the death of Ross's mother and had always treated Rutledge like another child. “She told me you should be marrying a Scottish lass.”

“Give her my love. Tell her if she'd been twenty years younger, I might have proposed to her.”

Ross nodded. “That will please her. I'm to bring her a detailed account of the evening, and what Jean is wearing, and what we have for dinner.” He paused for a moment, then said quietly, “You're a lucky man, Ian. I wish you both well.” He lifted the glass he was holding in a salute. “I thought as much when I met Jean at Melinda's.”

“Which reminds me, I must go and find Melinda. I wasn't sure she'd come.”

“Wild horses couldn't have kept her away.” He hesitated. “Frances is taking it hard.” He gestured to the room at large. “I expect she thinks you'll be swallowed up in happiness and neglect her. But after the first excitement is over, she'll be glad to have a sister. The Yard keeps you on the go.”

“That's why I've had only one drink this evening. I shall have to leave at first light, if not sooner.”

“Yes, I noticed you didn't have a glass. Try the punch over there. It's quite good and won't see you into the bushes at the first curve.”

“I will. Thanks.” Rutledge clapped Ross on the shoulder and moved on, speaking to others as he passed.

Jean's cousin Kate was just finishing a conversation with friends and turned his way as Rutledge was passing. They collided, and he held her shoulders to steady her.

“Hallo again,” she said, looking up at him. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Immensely.” She was a very attractive young woman, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes, and he'd always enjoyed her company.

He was about to say something more about the evening, when she
took his arm and whispered, “Here comes Teddy Browning again. Please, Ian, don't abandon me.”

She was right. He saw Teddy, tall, slim, and fair, handsome in his dress uniform, bearing down on them. Rutledge smiled at him. “Someone was looking for you just now,” he said, pretending to scan the room. “Over by the punch bowl, I think.”

Kate's father was standing there, talking to friends. Teddy's face lit up, and he excused himself, weaving his way through the crowded room toward the older man.

Kate said, “My father will never forgive you. I don't think he likes Teddy any more than I do.”

“He seems to like you well enough,” Rutledge replied in a teasing voice.

She sighed. “He thinks he's in love with me. But he's not. Last month he thought he was in love with Marilyn Whiting. And in May it was Sarah Bellefont.”

“And who are you in love with?” he asked.

She said tartly, “I'm going to be a spinster.”

He laughed. Kate was charming, intelligent, and well connected. He didn't think there was much chance of that.

She laughed with him, and then in a more serious vein, she said, “I hope you and Jean will be happy.”

“Do you doubt it?” He meant it lightly, taking her words at face value.

Kate looked straight at him. “Truthfully? I don't know. Jean has Enthusiasms. She always has. Her friends are out and getting themselves engaged, and she's happy to be joining them in their talk about wedding parties and gowns and how to manage the servants.”

“I wasn't her only suitor.”

“That's true. Of course. And I truly believe she cares for you, Ian. It's not that. What I see is how much you care for her, and I think it is by far more love than she can give anyone.”

“Why are you telling me this? Here? Now?” But Kate had always
been honest. About herself, most of all, and always without malice. He'd admired that about her.

“Because I like you, Ian, and I want you both to be happy. If you are content being happy loving
her
and making
her
happy, it should be enough.”

He didn't quite know what to say in reply.

Kate smiled, and lightly touched his arm. “Forgive me. I didn't intend to air my own thoughts. Not tonight of all nights. I expect I'm a little jealous. We've been so close, she and I. I miss that. Perhaps I shall have to accept Teddy, and then Jean and I can share everything again the way we used to.”

Rutledge laughed, as she'd meant him to. “I shouldn't go that far,” he said. “Not Teddy.”

But he thought she had been quite serious. He hoped he was wrong.

One of their mutual friends joined them just then, where they stood by one of the open windows, commenting, “Ah, there's a nice breeze here. Kate, would you care for a turn in the garden before it's too dark? It should be cooler.”

And with a quick glance at Rutledge's face, she went off with Harry.

Rutledge did his duty once more, circling the room, stopping to chat again and again, then pausing to speak to Mrs. Gordon, who said, her face bright with the success of the evening, “I don't believe I've ever seen Jean as happy as she is tonight. All her friends are telling her what a remarkably handsome couple you are, and I think even dearest Kate must agree. Which reminds me, Jean is looking for you.”

“I'll find her,” he promised, but before he could make his way to where Jean was surrounded by other young women, her expression animated as she talked, he spotted Melinda with a court of older men around her, most of them high-ranking members of the government or the military. Leaving Jean to her friends for the moment, he crossed to where Melinda was sitting and waited for her to notice him. She held out a hand, and he took it, coming to sit beside her.