A Lonely Death (19 page)

The constable who was sent to fetch him was an older man, gray and stout.

As they walked back to the courts, Rutledge said, “Do you recall the man who was found murdered at Stonehenge in 1905? The case was never solved.”

Constable Gregg frowned. “My good lord, sir, I haven’t thought of it these dozen years or more. How did you come to know about it?”

“I knew the inspector who headed the inquiry. He retired recently.”

“He was a good man. If anyone could have found an answer it was him.”

“The Salisbury police were first on the scene, were they not?” It was a question designed to draw out his companion.

“It was a Winchester man. Constable Dutton. He was on his way back from giving evidence in a trial. On his bicycle, mind you, and he had a flat. By the time he’d walked to the next village and managed to get the tire mended, it was after dawn. The people celebrating the summer solstice had sent someone to walk to the nearest village—they happened to be one and the same. This man’s name was Taylor. Clerk in a bank. He’d been sick at least twice, and nearly fell flat on his face when he saw Dutton coming toward him. All he could manage to say was, ‘A body. At Stonehenge.’ So Dutton pedaled off, and there it was, hanging on that stone at the end of the avenue. And a group of would-be Druids were sitting on the grass, looking like they wished they were back at home in their beds. Dutton didn’t know whether to stay at the stones and send someone out on his bicycle, or go himself. In the end, he sent the schoolmaster for help. That’s when it was turned over to Salisbury. All the witnesses were interviewed two and three times, but they never saw anything of any use.”

Gregg shook his head, marveling. “There’s usually something, you know. You find the slimmest bit of evidence, a piece of paper, a pencil stub, a footprint. And it opens the inquiry right up. I kept up with the case, you see.”

“And someone looked into the background of each of the latter-day Druids?”

“Oh, indeed, sir. They were all what they appeared to be.”

They had reached the courts and were climbing the stairs to the room where Rutledge’s case was being tried.

As he stood there waiting to be called, Rutledge said, “Was there a Charles Henry among the Druids?”

“Charles Henry? Not precisely among the Druids,” Constable Gregg replied. “I believe that was the name of the solicitor the schoolmaster sent for. Yes, Charles Henry. He was—”

He turned as the door opened and the summons came. Rutledge was still looking toward Gregg, but he was moving away, nodding, as if to wish him well. He had no choice but to walk on, seeing the sea of faces turned his way in the crowded courtroom, the judge in crimson and the KC in black, their wigs properly appended to their heads, and the prisoner in the dock, his expression taut with concern. Rutledge moved to the witness box, fighting to clear his mind of Cummins’s obsession, which was fast becoming his own, and to dredge up the facts in this case. As he was taking the oath, he felt the calm of duty settle over him, and as he stated his name and rank as he’d done so many times in this box, he was ready for the first question.

Half an hour later, cross-examined and finally dismissed, Rutledge left the courtroom and went in search of Constable Gregg.

But he was told the man had been sent for and was on his way to take down a witness’s statement in another case.

The trial dragged on into the second day, as the Crown rested its case and the defense presented its view of events. At long last the jury was sequestered and Rutledge was free to go.

He could spare the time, the days were long, and so he drove on to Salisbury, in search of Charles Henry, solicitor, but it was as he’d expected. If the solicitor had been there in 1905, he was not there now. Rutledge asked at chambers he passed as he went up and down several streets, and even stopped in the main police station. The answer was the same. No one recalled the name or the man himself. It had been fifteen years, and Henry had played only a minor role in the case.

Hamish said, “Did he sell yon knife in Hastings?”

“How did he come to have it?” Rutledge countered. “No, there’s something else at work here, I think.”

He should have been on his way to London an hour or more ago, but it had been important to track down Charles Henry, if he could. He walked back to where he’d left his motorcar, feeling unsatisfied. But it hadn’t been his case, it had been someone else’s.

Still, Charles Henry rankled.

He arrived in London later than anticipated, held up by an overturned lorry blocking the trunk road, and stopped by the Yard to leave his notes on the case in which he’d given evidence. There was a message on the blotter, waiting for him.

Chief Inspector Hubbard wished to see him. The note had been amended at the bottom, indicating he’d come looking for Rutledge a second time.

My office, please, eight o’clock in the morning.

Rutledge knew Hubbard, had spoken to him from time to time, but had never worked with him on an inquiry. He had a reputation for strict adherence to rules, a strong sense of fairness, and a razor-sharp mind.

It would be a refreshing change from Chief Superintendent Bowles.

The next morning he arrived at the Yard fifteen minutes before time, and as it happened, met Chief Inspector Hubbard on the stairs. He was a man in his late forties, what he called the sunny side of fifty, still very fit, his manner brisk.

“You’re prompt,” Hubbard said. “Come with me, we’ll get started. How was the case in Winchester?”

“The jury was still out when I left. But at a guess, the Crown expects them to see matters its way. The evidence was clear, solid.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I daresay the results will be in today.” They had reached Hubbard’s office, and Rutledge was offered a chair. Hubbard set his hat on the top of the taller file cabinet, and sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and said, “I hear that inquiry in Sussex is a sticky one.”

“Whoever the killer is, he’s clever. Nothing is what you expect it to be. But I’d started ruling out possibilities when I was sent for. Constable Walker is a sound man, he’ll bring my replacement up to speed very quickly.”

Hubbard nodded, then picked up a folder he’d put to one side on his desk. He opened it, read the contents, as if to familiarize himself with them, and then set it down.

“I’ve been informed that Inspector Mickelson is preparing to make an arrest in these murders. Possibly as we speak.”

His comment, casually spoken, caught Rutledge completely off guard. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said sincerely. “It was touch and go, whether we’d find the killer before he struck again. Can you tell me who it is?”

“Yes, one Carl Hopkins. A German sympathizer, I believe.”

If he’d been surprised before, Rutledge was stunned now. “Hopkins? I was about to interview him when I was taken off the case. Hardly a German sympathizer—I was led to believe he was distraught because of what had happened during the war to his younger brother and his cousin.”

“Yes, well, according to Inspector Mickelson, he’s good with his hands and obviously was able to counterfeit those identity discs to throw the police off.”

“How did Inspector Mickelson come to suspect him?”

“Apparently Mickelson drew up a list with Walker’s help of all the people you’d spoken with, and went back to interview them. Someone at the hotel remembered the owner of the chair firm calling on you. Mr. Kenton was very reluctant to discuss the conversation he’d had with you—he’s related to Hopkins, I believe—but in the end Inspector Mickelson threatened him with a night in gaol to rethink his reluctance, and he gave a brief explanation of what had brought him to you in the first place.”

Rutledge didn’t argue the matter. He hadn’t been there—he hadn’t spoken to Carl Hopkins. Nevertheless, the man’s motive was plausible, and it made sense that someone known to the victims could walk up to them in the dark without arousing suspicion or fear.

He wished he could put a face to Hopkins, to weigh what he’d seen for himself against Mickelson’s certainty. After all, it had begun as his inquiry. He still felt a responsibility for its outcome.

“Thank you for telling me, sir. Inspector Mickelson is to be congratulated.”

Hubbard said, “Yes.”

After a moment Rutledge said, “I should like to have a day or two of leave. For personal business. Would you have any objection to that?”

“Not at all. You’re between cases. I see no harm in taking a little time.”

“Thank you, sir.” He started to rise, but Hubbard motioned him to sit where he was.

“We haven’t discussed the matter about which I’d summoned you.”

Rutledge sat down again, his hat on his knee, and waited.

“The woman who reported you for misconduct. A Mrs. Farrell-Smith, I believe?”

“Yes, sir,” Rutledge replied.

He’d had no warning. Not from Sergeant Gibson, not from curious stares or people turning away as he passed. Not even from his usually acute intuition. But of course he’d seen no one last night when he came into the Yard. Only a skeleton night staff was on duty, since there was no major London case on the docket that required every available man.

Hubbard’s voice was chilly as he said, “I understand from Sergeant Gibson that you were interested in learning more details concerning her background. Was that a personal issue, Rutledge?”

“Personal?” he repeated, staring at Hubbard. “Hardly. Her late husband had known one of the possible suspects in the murders. This was before the war. I was curious about the suspect’s background, and I’d hoped that she could tell me something about him. Even secondhand, it could have been useful. She refused, got angry with me, and I wondered why. When I first met Mrs. Farrell-Smith, she seemed to believe I’d come to see her about that suspect, but I hadn’t. What’s more, she had objected to the Yard being brought into the inquiry to start with. Any good policeman would begin to consider what if anything was behind her attitude. Three men were already dead, the fourth victim would be found shortly. Most people would be eager to help us find that killer.”

“Sergeant Gibson tells me he warned you that she was complaining of your conduct, but you still insisted that he find out what he could about Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s husband.”

“Her complaints were, in my opinion, a matter for the Yard to deal with. I needed information that I could use to pursue a killer.”

“Not to coerce her into dropping her complaint?”

Rutledge opened his mouth and shut it again. Finally he said, “That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Sergeant Gibson came to me—and rightly so—when he discovered that Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s husband had died under suspicious circumstances. She was cleared in the matter.”

“I was told he died in a fall.”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern. The point I’m trying to make is that it smacks of impropriety for you to be investigating the woman who filed the complaint about your behavior. You also brought Sergeant Gibson’s conduct into question by asking him to do something that he felt was unwise.”

“It wasn’t my conduct,” Rutledge said tightly. “She wanted me off the case. And she was right. The new man sent to Eastfield has found the murderer in a very short time, and this German, Hopkins, has nothing to do with Mrs. Farrell-Smith. Or her late husband.”

“Are you impugning Inspector Mickelson’s ability to conduct this inquiry?” There was anger in Chief Inspector Hubbard’s blue eyes and his tone was decidedly cold now. “Perhaps if you’d kept your objectivity, none of this would have happened.”

Rutledge regarded him for a moment. And then he said quietly, “We are getting nowhere. What do you intend to do?”

Chief Inspector Hubbard realized that he’d made a mistake. He grimly got his temper in check, then said, “You should take that day or two of leave coming to you. While this is sorted out.”

Rutledge said nothing.

“Ian. You asked for it yourself. This is for your own good. I quite take your point that you weren’t aware of Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s complaint when you telephoned Sergeant Gibson and asked to know more about her background. It’s the perception of impropriety here.”

But Hamish was reminding him that Gibson had warned him about the complaint, and he hadn’t listened. He had not, in fact, expected the Yard to take it seriously.

Then who had? And why?

“If you take a short leave of your own accord, there will be nothing on your record. After all, this inquiry has come to a successful conclusion, there was simply an unfortunate coincidence in timing in regard to the situation with Mrs. Farrell-Smith, no harm intended nor done by your request. She has been satisfied that you were withdrawn from the case and is unlikely to pursue the matter further.”

Suddenly he knew.

It was as clear as if the words had been spoken aloud. But he thought Hubbard did not know, and that explained why
he
was dressing Rutledge down, not Chief Superintendent Bowles. Hubbard had been chosen because he could be trusted to handle the matter with circumspection and convince Rutledge to put the matter to rest, nothing on his record, just whispers that would never go away. And it would not be seen as Superintendent Bowles playing favorites. But it would clear the way for Inspector Mickelson to be promoted to fill Chief Inspector Cummins’s shoes.