A Lonely Death (20 page)

He rose, and this time Chief Inspector Hubbard didn’t stop him. “I’ll notify Sergeant Mitchell that I’ve asked for leave and will be away from the Yard for the next two days on personal business.” Mitchell was the man in charge of Yard personnel records.

“Yes, do that, Ian,” Hubbard said cordially, relieved to find Rutledge so cooperative. “This will all blow over, mark my words.”

Rutledge left, strode down the hall to find Sergeant Mitchell, and said as soon as he saw him, “I’m taking a few days of personal leave. I’ve cleared it with Chief Inspector Hubbard.”

Mitchell’s face gave no indication that he had been expecting this. He simply took Rutledge at his word. The whispers hadn’t started. But it was too early for that. In time they would.

“Very good, sir, I’ll make a note of it. Will you be staying in London, sir? In the event you’re needed?”

But he wouldn’t be needed. That was certain. Still he answered civilly, “No, I’m visiting a friend. In Kent.”

That had popped into his head. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew it was the answer. Melinda Crawford lived in Kent. And she would ask no questions, she would accept his visit as one long overdue. There he could come to terms with what had happened, and by the time he returned to the Yard, the molten anger possessing him would have cooled.

“Have a safe journey, sir,” Mitchell told him, as if Kent were in the wilds of Africa, and it would require days if not weeks of travel to get there. But Mitchell was a Londoner and felt lost outside the crowded metropolis.

It would have been amusing in any other circumstance. But not now. Rutledge thanked him and went down the stairs and out the door, grateful not to meet anyone.

When he reached his motorcar, he swore, sitting there with clenched fists on the steering wheel.

Chief Inspector Cummins had no doubt suggested Rutledge as a suitable choice for his replacement. Cummins was well respected, and his suggestion would carry some weight. And so the Chief Superintendent had jumped at the chance to use Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s complaint to put a stop to that possibility. A charge of improper conduct was a serious matter. It could follow a man for the rest of his career at the Yard. But Hubbard had given him a way out, a way to keep it out of the official record. He had thought he was protecting Rutledge’s future. What he had unwittingly done was to ensure that everyone would eventually know why Rutledge was being passed over for Cummins’s position. Rumor would begin soon enough, quietly fed from above, and most people would come to believe that Chief Superintendent Bowles had, in fact, looked after his own, shielding Rutledge from public disgrace.

It was an adroit move.

14

R
utledge drove to his flat, packed his valise, and shut the door just as the post arrived. He paused on his doorstep to sort through the handful of letters, and found one there from Chief Inspector Cummins.

He put that into his pocket and set the rest of the post inside on the table where he habitually kept it, then turned the key in the lock and walked out to his motorcar.

Hamish had been busy in the back of his mind for some time, and he tried to ignore the voice. But it followed him out of London and most of the way to Kent.

“Ye ken,” Hamish was pointing out, “yon inspector kept his eye on the main chance from the start. He was canny enough to study where you’d been before him, to appear he finished what you werena’ there to do. And so he got full marks for your work. All because ye let yon headstrong woman draw ye into a personal challenge.”

Mickelson had indeed done just that and would receive the coveted promotion. Aside from any personal feelings toward the man, Rutledge knew all too well that he was vindictive and shallow. Chief Inspector Cummins had been neither, and he was respected for leading by example, bringing out the best in the men under him. All the same, Chief Superintendent Bowles would cover any mistakes, if for no other reason than to make certain Mickelson’s failings didn’t reflect on his own judgment.

As for Mrs. Farrell-Smith, Rutledge hadn’t challenged her so much as he’d threatened her in some fashion. What was she so afraid of? Something she didn’t want him to know? Or something that she didn’t want to become public knowledge?

He couldn’t stop dwelling on events in London, and he knew that was because he was still very angry indeed. It was a lovely summer’s day in what many called the Garden of England, the road unwinding at what felt like a hideously slow pace, even though he was making good time. He had not telephoned Melinda Crawford. He had intended to surprise her. Now he realized that he should have been more courteous. Too late now. He’d have to rely on her joy at seeing him again. When his sister had gone there for a visit recently, along with his godfather, Rutledge had had his own reasons for not joining them.

The truth was, Melinda, like Meredith Channing, saw too much. Many years and a vast difference in experience separated the two women, but in their own way, they had much in common. Both had lost their husbands at a young age and had had to make peace with that loss.

Was that why he had come here? Because Melinda reminded him of Meredith?

Nonsense, he told himself sharply. Melinda had been friends with his own parents, and he’d known her most of his life. Hers was a story that had appealed to a boy’s sense of adventure. As a child she’d survived the Great Indian Mutiny and the bloody, vicious siege of Lucknow. She had married her cousin against all advice, and then after her husband’s death she had not led a retiring life. She had visited friends all over India, traveling on her own. Finally she had journeyed back to England by a circuitous route that had been of her own choosing, a shockingly forward thing for a well-brought-up woman to do, disappointing those who had expected her to be murdered in her bed for disregarding their dire warnings. Now she lived with her Indian staff in a house that had been in her family for many years, amidst a collection of treasures that she had readily shared with an inquisitive little boy.

At length he found himself at the foot of her drive, the summer borders rampant with color. Melinda loved color and often said that she had lived too long in the desert stretches of India, where the few trees offered only fragile shade and the land was barely fit for camels and goats.

When the door opened, the Indian woman standing there stared at him in disbelief, and then said, “You are a ghost. Come to bring us terrible tidings.” But the smile in her eyes belied her words.

He returned the smile. “I’ve come to beg a room for a day or two. Do you think Melinda will spare one for me?”

“She will be happy indeed. It’s been too long.” Leading him into the cool shadows of the hall, she added, “I think you haven’t forgotten your way? Or must I come and announce you?”

He said, “I know my way.”

“But still I will come with you, if only to see the Memsahib’s face when she finds you in the doorway.”

He tapped lightly on the first door in the passage across from the broad staircase and heard a voice call testily, “It’s about time. I saw you come up the drive. Let me look at you and then give me a kiss.”

Laughing, Rutledge did as he was told, crossing the room to kiss the wrinkled cheek of a woman who had kept her youthful beauty into old age, her iron gray hair still framing her face and dark eyes as it had done for as long as he could remember, and giving her a presence that few women possessed.

She held his hand for a long moment and then said, “What’s happened?”

“Nothing has happened. I missed you.”

“Your eyes are angry. Well, you’ll tell me when you’re ready. I’m just grateful you are here, and I’ll make the most of it. Go on, your room is ready for you—it always is—and then come back and tell me about London.”

Rutledge did as he was commanded, and brought down with him a book he’d been keeping to give her. She thanked him and set it aside. “I’ll read it when you’ve gone. I’ve missed your company. Tell me all the news and gossip.”

T
he next two days flew by. Rutledge soon realized that Melinda was making it her business to keep him entertained in an effort to counteract the seething anger that he’d brought to her door.

She knew something about men, and so she asked him no questions. Although she never spoke of it, he thought she’d guessed that he had turned from France with a wound that couldn’t be seen or touched or healed. What he didn’t know was how much she knew. Certainly not about Hamish, thank God, but possibly about his shell shock. For she had worried about him for the past year or more, and when he had survived and then found a way to live rather than die, she had quietly applauded his courage.

He found himself telling her about the murder that had taken place in 1905, and she had listened attentively, saying only, “On what was his last day at the Yard, why did this man Cummins tell you about such a long-ago crime?”

“I think, to get it off his chest. He isn’t the sort of man who accepts failure lightly.”

“No, I expect there was another reason. You’ve told him of your own discoveries? What has he had to say about them?”

“In fact, there was a letter from him in the post before I left London.” He patted his pockets, found it, and drew it out.

It was very brief. A matter of a few lines. He read them aloud.

My grandfather was Charles Henry Cummins. I visited his home as a child. In East Anglia. His garden was his pride and joy. What the hell is this all about?

“Well, well,” Melinda said after a moment. “I wonder why this man chose Hastings to sell his murder weapon?”

Rutledge said slowly, “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that same question.”

“It was deliberate, you must see that.” Melinda frowned. “If he went to so much trouble to make sure the knife was carefully documented, then he had a reason. Perhaps it was his name—the murderer’s. Or the name of the victim.”

He thought, fleetingly, of the Salisbury solicitor who was nowhere to be found. Was it that connection—or Cummins’s?

“That’s a fascinating idea. I’ll have to give it some thought. But why, three years later, would a man who had successfully eluded the police and had nothing to fear, leave clues that could lead to his arrest?”

“A guilty conscience?”

“Murderers seldom have guilty consciences,” he told her wryly.

“But if this was a sacrifice, perhaps he did?”

Rutledge smiled. “You should have become a policeman, Melinda. The Yard would have benefitted from your cleverness.”

“Oh, no, my dear, the Yard doesn’t want women underfoot. We could prove to be too much competition for men set in their ways.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “As my late husband could have told you, I have no ambitions.”

He left the next morning, reconciled to what lay ahead. Melinda Crawford had kept him too busy to dwell on the Yard—he had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was intentional—that she had seen the tension in him and even without understanding it, she had dealt with it by distracting him. He wished he could have said something to her about Meredith Channing, to hear her opinion there. But if he had, he’d have had to tell Melinda more about his time in France than he could bear to put into words.

Her house was in the most western edge of Kent, and he had just crossed into Surrey when a Kent police vehicle quickly overtook him and waved him to one side.

Rutledge pulled over, assuming that the Yard was searching for him. He waited for the constable sitting beside the driver to get out and come to speak to him.

“Inspector Rutledge?” the constable said, bending his frame a little so as to see Rutledge’s face more clearly. He was a tall, angular man with a scar across his chin.

“Yes, I’m Rutledge. What is it?”

Hamish, from the rear seat, said, “ ’Ware!”

“You’re wanted in Hastings, sir. Straightaway. I’ve been sent by London to find you and bring you to Sussex as quickly as possible.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “I’m no longer involved with the inquiry there. Didn’t London tell you that?”

“Their instructions were to take you directly to Hastings. If you don’t object, sir, I’ll ride with you to your destination.”

Rutledge said, “You aren’t a Hastings man. No need to waste your time there.”

“No, sir, I’m from Rochester. And we have our instructions, sir.”

Rutledge was silent for a moment, weighing that, and then said to the constable, “Get in.”

The man nodded and walked around the bonnet to open the passenger door.

Rutledge had expected the other vehicle to turn back, but when he drove on, it followed him at a distance. It was still there when he headed south to Sussex at the next crossroads. The constable was staring straight ahead with nothing to say for himself.

“What’s this about? Do you know?”

“Sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.”

Giving it up, Rutledge fell silent, an uneasy feeling beginning to build in his mind. This was how a suspect was arrested if found on the road. Except that he would be asked to step into the police car, leaving the constable to drive his.

There was the charge of improper conduct against him, but Chief Inspector Hubbard had all but told him that if he took a few days leave voluntarily, it would be ignored.

What else had Mrs. Farrell-Smith found to say about him? He’d have thought she would have been satisfied to see him withdrawn from the case.

Or had she learned that he had uncovered the facts surrounding her husband’s death? That was an old case, not something that he had permission to reopen. But did she know that?

It was another hour before Rutledge drove through Eastfield and down the Old London Road into the Old Town. He hadn’t expected to return here, now that the inquiry had been successfully concluded.

The morning sun sparkled on the water, touching the tips of the choppy waves with gold and catching the sail of a small private craft tacking down the coast, a white triangle against the blue of the sky.

He reached the police station and pulled in behind another vehicle standing there, and the constable accompanying him got out.

“Thank you for cooperating, sir. It’s much appreciated.” He gestured to the door. “This way, if you please.”

Rutledge led the way inside, and the sergeant on the desk recognized him.

“If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll send someone to fetch Inspector Norman.”

“I know the way to his office—” Rutledge began, but the sergeant shook his head.

“If you’ll wait here,” he repeated.

“Yes, all right,” Rutledge said, irritated now.

Five minutes later, Inspector Norman strode briskly into the room and said without any greeting of any sort, “Inspector Ian Rutledge, I am arresting you on the charge of attempted murder.”

Rutledge stood there, speechless. And then he was being led away, and the constable from Rochester was turning to leave.

“What the devil is this all about, Norman?”

Hamish was warning him not to lose his temper, and he held on to that advice with a tight grip.

Inspector Norman had nothing to say to him, and Rutledge had no choice but to go with the constables, who escorted him to a room in the back of the station.

They asked him to empty his pockets, give them his belt and his tie and his watch, and then they wrote out a careful receipt for him. There were holding cells in the back of the police station, and as he was escorted there, Rutledge had the impression they’d been dug out of the bedrock, because they were windowless, and he could feel the dampness emanating from them. There were four of them, and they looked, in fact, more like a dungeon than prison cells. There was no natural light, no fresh air, and they were too small to contemplate. And before he was quite ready to face it, the iron-barred door was swinging shut behind him, and the two constables were walking away, leaving him there.

He tried to think why he should have been arrested on a charge of attempted murder, and then realized that if anything had happened to Mrs. Farrell-Smith, the Hastings police might wish to question him. But an arrest?