A Lonely Death (18 page)

“That’s a matter between the Chief Constable and Scotland Yard.” Turning to Rutledge, he added, “Your orders are to return to London immediately.”

Rutledge said, “I’ve several matters that need my attention first.”

“Not anymore. You have been relieved.” Mickelson turned again to Walker and said, “I’d like to see the statements you’ve taken from witnesses and the medical reports on the dead men. I’d also like to meet Mr. Pierce as soon as possible, and also Inspector Norman.” He opened the door of the police station, and Constable Walker hesitated.

“You needn’t look to Mr. Rutledge for instructions, man. I’ve told you, I’m here now.” And he strode into the station without waiting for Walker or saying anything more to Rutledge.

Walker, behind his back, began, “Sir—”

But Rutledge said only, “I’m leaving for London. Keep an eye on things until I’m able to return.”

He got back into the motorcar, and Walker had no choice but to step inside the station after Inspector Mickelson.

Furious, Rutledge drove first to the school and asked to see Mrs. Farrell-Smith. The girl who opened the door said nervously, “She’s not in, sir.”

“She should not ask you to lie for her,” he replied quietly, and took the stairs two at a time.

Mrs. Farrell-Smith looked up as Rutledge opened her office door without knocking. Then her gaze went to the girl at his back. “I thought I told you—” she began, but Rutledge cut her short.

“She told your lie for you. I didn’t believe her.” He turned to the girl, still standing in the doorway, her cheeks pink with uncertainty. “Thank you,” he said gently. “Please close the door as you go.”

She hesitated, and then did as he asked.

Mrs. Farrell-Smith said, “I have nothing to say to you.”

“But I have something to say to you. You’ve made a serious mistake, and it could easily get someone else killed. Will you rescind your complaint?”

“Why should I? I never wanted the Yard to handle this business in the first place. Inspector Norman is quite capable of clearing up these murders promptly and efficiently.”

“No doubt he could. He’s a good man. But you haven’t got Inspector Norman. Instead you still have the Yard, Mrs. Farrell-Smith, and I think you’ll find Inspector Mickelson is cut from a very different cloth.”

She stared at him. “But I expressly told them—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. “I’m sure you did. But Mr. Pierce insisted earlier on bringing in the Yard, and I expect the Chief Constable understands that it is Mr. Pierce’s son who is among the murder victims, not yours. If you want to call off the Yard, then I suggest you find someone with more authority than a brewery owner to do your work for you.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and went out the door.

This time, she didn’t call after him.

He packed his belongings quickly, left the hotel, and drove to London in a cloud of anger and bitter frustration. Hamish, reacting to the tension in his mind, reminded him that he had admitted that he had not come to any conclusions himself about the identity of the killer loose in Eastfield.

“And that,” Hamish added as the motorcar finally reached the city, “is the only way ye’ll find yoursel’ reinstated.”

But Rutledge didn’t respond. He found a place to leave his motorcar, and once inside the Yard, took the stairs two at a time, in search of Sergeant Gibson.

He found the sergeant in the canteen, having what passed for his dinner, a plateful of sandwiches and a cup of tea. Gibson looked up, saw Rutledge, and said, “Not here.”

Carrying the plate of sandwiches with him and balancing the cup of tea, Gibson followed Rutledge to his office, and as Rutledge took the chair behind his desk, Gibson carefully set down first the cup and then the plate on the corner of a box of files.

“Sir, Superintendent Bowles never liked the fact that he wasn’t here to choose who was to go to Eastfield. And you gave him the excuse he needed to change inspectors.”

“I didn’t give him any such thing,” Rutledge retorted. “Mrs. Farrell-Smith has her own agenda. I don’t know what she expects to gain from it, but at a guess, I don’t think it’s the murders that are worrying her. It’s an earlier run-in with the Yard.”

Gibson stared at him. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. It was the only explanation I could come up with on the long drive back to London.”

“There was an inquiry into her husband’s death. He died of a fall while walking in Derbyshire. The police felt that the circumstances didn’t quite match the version of his fall that Mrs. Farrell-Smith had given them. She was present, you see, but had sat down on a rock to catch her breath, and her husband went on alone for some distance because he wanted to take a photograph from the overlook. He fell just after she caught him up. She said. She admitted to having witnessed it.”

“What was the outcome?”

“The inquest brought in death by misadventure, but Mrs. Farrell-Smith was still under a cloud as far as the police were concerned. They couldn’t find a motive for her to kill the man, and without that, they couldn’t manage to charge her. It would have been easy enough, according to the sergeant I spoke with, for her to tip him over the edge if he was busy with his camera. The footing is uncertain at best at that spot.”

Rutledge was reminded of the drop from East Hill in Hastings, the headland where Theo Hartle was killed.

“Was that because the Derbyshire police couldn’t come up with a reason that satisfied the Crown, or was it because they didn’t care for her on general principles?”

“I couldn’t say. But there was no medical evidence that her husband had been struck or tripped. No bruises and the like. She claimed he’d experienced a bit of vertigo, that she put out a hand to him, and he turned the wrong way.” He paused. “She had scratches on her hands from where he clawed at her as he went over. But no one could tell whether they occurred as she tried to save him or whether it was as he tried to save himself and she let go.”

“Either way, she would have to move house, and live where she wasn’t known.” Rutledge nodded. “Very selfish of her to want the Yard out of the picture, but it’s understandable. I need to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles.”

“He’s not here, he’s on his way to testify in a trial in Lincoln. Remember that one? He had to examine the firm’s books himself.”

“Damn. It could be days before that’s finished.” He debated following the Chief Superintendent north, and then thought better of it. “All right, I’ll go back to Sussex and have a word with the Chief Constable.”

“I’d be cautious on that score, sir. The Chief Constable wasn’t best pleased by Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s complaint. Apparently he’d wanted the inquiry to be left in the hands of the local police, but Mr. Pierce had been very persuasive. He said as much to me, and then when I’d brought the Chief Superintendent to the telephone, he was still angry. I couldn’t help but overhear the Chief Superintendent blaming you for the lack of progress in the inquiry, and he apologized for your conduct and your incompetence. Something was said about the fourth murder, because I heard Old Bowels reply that if you’d spent less time annoying people and more in finding the killer, someone would have been in custody by now.”

Rutledge said only, “I’ll be careful.”

It was late evening before he left the Yard. He had used the time to put in two telephone calls of his own. He had managed to speak to the corporal in Cheshire whose name had been on one of the other identity discs—the inspector there had been more than willing to find and bring the man to the telephone. The corporal had never possessed identity discs, and he knew nothing about the men of the Eastfield Company The inspector had come back on the line and vouched for the man. That avenue had led nowhere, just as Rutledge had expected.

The second telephone call elicited the fact that the name on the fourth set had died of his wounds in England after a valiant fight against the odds.

Hamish said as Rutledge put up the telephone after the last conversation, “Ye ken, it was a trick. And a verra’ good one. But is the war a trick as well?”

“Early days,” Rutledge answered absently, thinking that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to draw the police into a lie. If that was true, then what secret had the discs been used to conceal? Was it a member of the company itself who was behind these murders?

When he left the Yard, the shadows were long and the heat of the sun already dissipating. He started the motorcar and drove with only half of his mind on what he was doing, still considering the case that was no longer his to think about.

Hamish was silent, and it was several minutes before Rutledge realized that he knew the motorcar just in front of his. It belonged to Meredith Channing.

13

A
t the next intersection, as Mrs. Channing was preparing to turn left, Rutledge pulled up beside her vehicle.

“It’s good to see you,” he called.

In truth. The last time he’d spoken to her, he’d asked her not to go away on the extended trip she was planning to take. She had hinted at a year or more abroad, in order to put her own life back together. She had even admitted that there was someone she cared for, and that that had been a factor in her decision. All he could think of, in the face of her sudden, unforeseen decision, was to say what he felt.

And then he’d walked away, refusing to look at what had motivated his words. Afterward, he had avoided her—her house, mutual friends, and any place in London where he had encountered her in the past.

Now, he searched her eyes for something to guide his next words, prepared to drive on.

And then on the spur of the moment, he added, “It’s late, but would you care for a coffee?”

She smiled. “Yes. Yes, I would, actually.”

He tried to think of a restaurant that was open. “The Marlborough Hotel?” he suggested. Neutral ground.

“I’ll follow you.” She pulled back into the line of traffic just behind him. He reached the hotel first, and she quickly found a space for her motorcar as she caught up with him. They entered the hotel Reception together, and she saw a small table in the lounge, set in an alcove with a long window. Several other couples were having tea or coffee in the room, and the atmosphere was quiet, pleasant.

“There?”

He nodded. They sat down, and he ordered two coffees.

Into the silence that followed, Rutledge said, “You’re out late.”

“I went to a lovely dinner party.” She smiled, reminiscing.

They had met at a dinner party. He had been afraid that she saw into his mind, her eyes seeming to read his thoughts. It was his own fear, he realized later. But she had a way of understanding people that was unexpected in one so young. And he had been drawn to her against his will.

Their coffee came. Rutledge waited until the young man serving them was out of earshot. Then he said as she passed the sugar bowl to him, “Why did you stay?”

He’d intended to keep his voice level, but it had taken an effort to achieve that. Hamish had set up a deafening roar in his head from the moment he’d recognized her motorcar.

She was playing with the silver spoon in her fingers, paying excessive attention to it, twisting it so that it caught the light and then went dark. Bright again in the lamplight. Dark again. He watched it too, thinking that it was very like their relationship, fragmented by too many shadows.

“Ian,” she said finally, not looking at him. It was a warning not to open that door.

He drank a little of his coffee. It was bitter in his mouth. “I’ve been in Sussex,” he went on. “Do you know Hastings? The water there is worth seeing.” He swore to himself. It was hardly an exciting conversational opening, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.

“Is it? No, I’ve never been there.” After a moment, as if she too was struggling to find common ground, she added, “I’ve always liked the sea. But I’ve never been fond of sea bathing. I’m content to sit and watch the tides.”

He searched for something else to say. “How is your shoulder?” It had been dislocated a few weeks earlier when a train traveling north to Scotland had derailed on a curve, killing or injuring more than a score of passengers. He had been among the first on the harrowing scene.

“Quite well, actually. I thought at first—but the doctors were very good. And I stayed with friends in order to be near their surgery. I quite fell in love with Dr. Anderson. He must be sixty-five, at the very least. He has a way with patients. I wished many times that he’d been with us out in France. I trusted him, and did the exercises he prescribed to please him. But I missed London. I always come back here.” Her voice changed on the last words.

Rutledge took a deep breath, toying with his cup, shutting out Hamish’s warning. “Do you know what shell shock is?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “I’ve seen it,” she answered. Warily, he thought.

He couldn’t go on after all. He couldn’t tell her. He finished lamely, “My sister knows a doctor who treats it in much the same way. By gaining the trust of his patients.”

“A rare gift,” she agreed, setting her cup aside. “Tell me more about Sussex.”

There wasn’t much to tell without bringing up the murders that had taken him there. But he scoured his memory. “There’s a shop that sells all things military. From lead soldiers to a noon gun. Including a flint knife.”

She was interested. “You mean worked from flint? How unusual. Is it very old?”

“Very. Or so I was assured. I bought it and sent it to a friend who was—intrigued by it. He has just retired from the Yard.”

What had promised to be a pleasant hour had devolved into stilted conversation. Her coffee was half finished now. She took a deep breath. “Ian. You know I served as a nurse in France?”

He froze, certain he could guess where this subject was heading. That he would find out, finally, what she had seen when he was brought in to the aid station after nearly being buried alive. He had been shell-shocked, barely aware of where he was or what he was saying. He hadn’t been aware of her, hadn’t even known she was there until he’d met her last year at a New Year’s Eve dinner they’d both attended. “Yes.” It was all he could manage.

He was wrong. There was something else on her mind.

“I went into nursing for a very selfish reason. My husband was reported missing early on, in the fighting near Mons. I thought, if I could get to France myself—if I could be there—I could find him. Or hear something useful. Anything was better than sitting at home, with no news. But I was in France for nearly three years, and no one could tell me if he was alive and a prisoner—or dead.”

She had never mentioned her husband before this.

“I’m sorry,” Rutledge said, and meant it.

Meredith Channing looked at him, smiled briefly. “Thank you.” And then her gaze moved on to the window, watching the passing traffic on the street.

“I call myself a widow,” she went on. “It’s more—convenient—in society. But am I?”

Rutledge asked, “Do you want to be a widow?”

She pushed her cup away. “It’s late. I really must go. Thank you so much, Ian.”

He stayed where he was. “Do you want to be a widow? Meredith?”

She turned to face him. “I go to concerts held every year on the anniversary of his birthday. I honor his memory in every way I can. I’m close to his family and visit them often.” Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away. “But it’s you I dream about, Ian. And I can’t go on living with that guilt.”

Before he could respond or stop her, she had risen and was walking swiftly toward the hotel doors, head down so that no one could see her face. He started to follow, and realized at once that it was the wrong thing to do. A public hotel was not the place for a scene.

The waiter came to the table to ask if there was anything else that Rutledge wanted.

Watching Meredith pass by the window on her way to her motorcar, Rutledge answered without looking up.

“A whisky,” he said. “If you have it.”

Hamish said, “It doesna’ matter if she’s a widow or no’. You couldna’ tell her the truth.”

And those words were to follow him home, echoing in his head.

He realized that it didn’t matter how he’d come to feel about Meredith Channing. Or how she felt about her own circumstances. In the end, there was nothing for either one of them.

T
he next morning, he stared at the paperwork on his desk awaiting his attention and decided he couldn’t face it. Instead he drew out of his pocket the information he had collected about the flint knife and considered it.

Charles Henry. That was the name of the man who had claimed his grandfather had found the knife in his back garden in East Anglia, miles away. If it was true, what had decided Charles Henry to sell it to a shop in Hastings? Why not offer it to a museum, or if it was money he was after, there must be a dozen other places that would be interested in the knife. In London, for one. Why a small shop on a back street in Hastings? Unless Charles Henry lived nearby.

Cummins had been right, it was hard to put the case out of his mind, and the more Rutledge seemed to learn, the more the puzzle pulled at him. And how to go about finding this man? After so much time had passed, he could have died, gone to war, or immigrated to Australia.

The odd thing was, Charles Henry sounded as if someone had given his Christian names, not his surname. Charles Henry Blake, Charles Henry Browning, Charles Henry Tennyson. Or perhaps it was, simply, Charles Henry.

And what—if anything at all—did Charles Henry’s grandfather have to do with Harvey Wheeler, the man who was found dead at Stonehenge?

Probably nothing at all.

Rutledge drew pen and paper toward him and wrote a note to Chief Inspector Cummins, giving him the details that the proprietor of the military shop had provided.

He added,

This will provide enough information to lead you to no possible conclusions, but should keep your mind busy for a few days, guessing at answers.

He signed it, put it in an envelope, stamped it, and set it aside for mail collection.

But he was unsatisfied, and went down into the bowels of the Yard to find the file that was stored there.

There was nothing more of interest in the folder—during their conversation, Cummins had given him a thorough summary of all the details. All the same, Rutledge sat there, studying the face of Harvey Wheeler in the photograph attached to the file.

What sort of person had he been in life? The dead eyes told Rutledge very little beyond their color, and there was nothing in the face to indicate greed or kindness, passion or cruelty, honesty or slyness. All expression had been smoothed away.

And yet there were details, if one looked closely. The eyes were wide set, the jawline firm, the nose straight, the ears well shaped. A pleasing face, structurally.

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ be sure, but dress him well, and he’d pass for a gentleman.”

And that would be useful, if the man had set out to swindle women of their life savings. The appearance of trustworthiness, at least, if nothing else.

The police in Kirkwall and in Edinburgh had identified the likeness as Wheeler’s. But what if they were wrong? They hadn’t seen the man for several years, after all.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, two constabularies canna’ be wrong.”

Yes, and that was the assumption that everyone had made: they couldn’t be wrong.

What if Wheeler, after his second brush with the police in Edinburgh, had turned himself around and lived an exemplary life thereafter? It was not likely, given his predilection for finding himself in trouble. But stranger things had happened. Men sometimes married a woman for whom they were willing and even eager to change. Or had a child, for whom a man would rethink his past and decide that being a proper father was worth the effort it entailed to transform himself into a hardworking, honest citizen. Even an encounter with the church could make a difference sometimes.

Or quite simply, Harvey Wheeler might have fallen under the wheels of a lorry or taken ill of pneumonia and died in a charity ward, an unknown consigned to a pauper’s grave.

“Aye, but he died on yon Sacrifice Stone.”

But what if he hadn’t?

Still, Chief Inspector Cummins was a seasoned and clever policeman. If he had found no trace of Wheeler, then possibly there was none to be found.

“Verra’ like yon inquiry in Hastings.”

Rutledge tried to ignore the comment.

If the dead man wasn’t Wheeler, it would mean starting the inquiry at the very beginning—so many years after the fact. With witness memories uncertain, with evidence tainted or lost, with no assurance that any resulting conviction would be any more correct than the initial one, person or persons unknown.

Cummins had been obsessed because the answers were out of his reach. It was the blot on his copybook, a personal failure that he couldn’t quite accept.

But by the same token, Rutledge reminded himself, a man had died violently, and the person or persons unknown who had killed him had escaped the workings of the law.

He closed the folder and put it aside to be returned to the files where old cases were kept.

Setting his teeth, he reached for the first of the reports awaiting his attention, refusing to think about what was happening in Sussex.

But Hamish’s remark about the murders in Hastings still rankled. And there was nothing he could do about it.

A
trial in which Rutledge was to give evidence was unexpectedly returned to the court docket after a long postponement, and he was summoned to Winchester the next morning. Sergeant Gibson brought him word shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon. He left at once to pack and drove through the golden light of late evening to the hotel room reserved for him. There was time after breakfast before he was scheduled to begin his testimony, and he walked in the cathedral precincts for half an hour.