A Lonely Death (24 page)

“My mistake,” Kenton answered, smiling. “Shall we take our tea in the lounge?”

Pierce signaled to the woman who had served them. “It’s late, and I really must look in at the brewery.” He rose and said good night.

Kenton watched him go. “He’s in trade as well as I am. But you’d think the brewery set him up higher than the rest of us. I never could abide self-importance.”

“You rode him hard,” Rutledge said. “His son is one of the victims.”

“He was prepared to believe that Carl had been to the brewery the night Anthony was murdered,” Kenton retorted. “Anthony moved in such exalted circles he probably wouldn’t have recognized Carl on the street. Ironic, isn’t it? Pierce wanted the Yard here in Eastfield. And I trusted the Yard, to my sorrow.”

Rutledge left shortly thereafter. It was nearly time to start his patrol of the streets, and he went first to his motorcar to fetch his torch.

The shops had closed hours before, and the sun had vanished behind a bank of clouds. Shadows had deepened along the High Street, and beneath trees there were already pools of blackness. A gray cat trotting past a stationer’s shop disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone as he left the hotel behind and turned toward the brewery. He turned again to walk down the side street by the Misses Tate School, and doubled back toward the Hastings Road before moving on in the direction of the rectory. It was a random pattern, his ears attuned to the silence around him, his faculties alert.

Hamish said, “It’s an uneasy quiet.”

It was. A warm evening usually drew couples out to walk, holding hands in the darkness, or men talking together and laughing as they headed to the pub or sat on the bench outside the baker’s, having a last smoke. Instead, doors were shut, closing the sound of voices and laughter in, rather than letting it spill out into the night. Occasionally he’d seen a curtain twitch as someone looked out, then quickly pulled it across the window again.

The gate to the rectory was just ahead. He looked up at the long window that marked the staircase to the first floor, a hanging lamp glowing softly through the glass. As he did, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement in the churchyard beyond, and he turned his head for a better look.

It was that time of night when objects lost their color. Beneath the trees in the churchyard were patches that seemed impenetrable they were so thick with shadow, gravestones irregular splotches of gray, the church itself a stark silhouette beyond.

He stepped through the rectory gates, crossed the lawn to the wicket into the churchyard that rectors time out of mind had used to reach the church. The gate hinges squeaked a little, betraying his movements, but he walked on, wishing he could turn on his torch to prevent himself from stumbling over the settling ground and the footstones nearly hidden in summer grass. But to do so would mark his progress and take away his night vision.

It was near that tree, he thought, using a beech to keep himself oriented. He couldn’t tell whether someone was still near the thick trunk or if the figure had moved on. After a moment, he stopped, trying to listen.

Hamish said, “There. By the corner of the kirk.”

His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and he could almost swear there was a figure disappearing toward the south porch, used sometimes for funerals when it was raining. He changed direction and followed, nearly sprawling headlong as the toe of his boot caught in something, tripping him up. Swearing silently, he reached the corner of the church and paused, one hand on the cooling stone.

It was very dark here, the grass and wildflowers heavier under foot. He could barely pick out the thicker blackness of the church porch, against a patch of sky.

The hair on the back of his neck seemed to rise.

Someone was there, he was sure of it. But in the porch, or in the darkness on this side of it?

Hamish muttered, “ ’Ware!” but Rutledge was already debating the wisdom of going forward.

Was he being lured? As the first victim, William Jeffers, could have been? Or was the unseen figure as eager to see him turn away as he himself was to go?

He moved on, keeping one hand on the church wall as he walked. He was halfway to the porch when he heard the slight grating of the door into the church, as if someone had gone inside.

But he wasn’t convinced. He thought the man must still be inside the porch, waiting for him.

“I know you’re there,” he called softly into the shadows. “Come out and let me see you.”

Silence followed.

And then movement again, as if someone had slipped out of the porch and was going east, toward the apse.

But then a footfall on pavement, a shoe scraping in the gritty entrance as someone turned back to the porch, came to him.

A trap, then. Set with care. For him? For Walker? Did the figure ahead of him know who was following?

Forewarned, he kept his eyes on the porch, one hand still brushing the stone wall of the church, his feet thrusting through the thick summer grass with care. Sinners and saints alike wished to be buried as near to the church wall as possible. And on that thought, his felt his foot strike the edge of a gravestone.

His quarry must have heard it as well, and this time the figure ahead of him slipped out of the porch and disappeared.

Rutledge continued until he’d reached the porch himself. He kept one hand on the wall as it jutted out to form the porch, guided himself to the opening into the porch, and with one hand out before him, made certain that the small space was empty.

He stepped out of it, again using its shape to judge where he was going, and moved on toward the apse.

But he sensed now that there was no one ahead of him. While he had been investigating the porch, the fox had eluded the hounds, slipping around the apse and up the far side.

Rutledge rounded the church himself, and moved quickly up the north side and on toward the gate in the churchyard wall.

He had left it half open, but it was standing wide now.

Stepping through it, he closed it and crossed the rectory lawn again, fairly certain that he had lost whoever it was. But where had he gone? Up the Hastings Road or down it? There was no way of guessing which he’d chosen. And his head start had allowed him to vanish up a side street or into the shadows of a doorway.

Why was he out in the night? His movements had been furtive, and that boded trouble.

Rutledge turned back toward The Fishermen’s Arms, trying to recall any detail about the figure that would help identify him. Tallish, he was sure of that, and quick as a cat on his feet, because he had either known the churchyard well or had eyes better adjusted to the night.

And then in the distance behind him, he heard a motor turn over. He whirled but could see nothing, not even the flash of headlamps. No vehicle came his way, and after a moment, he was fairly certain that it had disappeared in the direction of Hastings.

There was no way he could catch it up. By the time he had reached his own motorcar, this one would have too great a head start, disappearing into the busy streets of the town.

Rutledge went to find Constable Walker. Wearing shirt and trousers, his mouth wide in a yawn, he came to the stairs in the police station as Rutledge called his name. “I’m up here. What’s happened? I was just dozing off.”

“Someone was in the churchyard.” Rutledge gave him a swift account of what he’d seen, and by that time, Walker was wide awake.

“I’ll just fetch my tunic,” he said, and disappeared. A lamp was turned up, and when Walker came back to the stairs and started down them, he had his torch in his hand. Rutledge was already out the station door, ahead of him.

They searched the churchyard carefully, and even went into the church. There their torch beams were lost in the high ceiling arching over head, and the pews were dark shapes that cast long shadows, the spaces between them stretches of pitch blackness. Their footsteps echoed on the bare paving stones as they moved forward in concert. The pulpit looked like the prow of a ghost ship, and the choir stalls could have concealed half a dozen bodies. But there was no sign the intruder had ever been inside. Even the choir loft was empty.

What’s more, there was no body tumbled into the high grass or hidden behind a buttress or a gravestone.

It took them a good forty-five minutes to be sure. As they were on their way back to the High Street, Walker said, “He saw you. That probably saved someone’s life. But what’s this, if Carl Hopkins is in gaol in Hastings?”

“We don’t know why he was here.” He looked up at the rectory as they passed. “That light in the rectory stairwell. It’s been burning for some time. Is that usual?”

“No, it’s not.” Walker turned to Rutledge, alarm on the pale oval that was all Rutledge could see of his face. “You don’t suppose it’s Rector he’s after? My God!”

They reached the gate between the churchyard and the rectory in long strides, going through it to the house door.

Walker was there first, his fist pounding on the wood panels.

Rutledge, staring up at the long window, watched the stairs, but no one came. He said, “Try the latch.”

The door was unlocked. Rutledge swore. Mr. Ottley had far too much trust in the sanctity of his office—or too much faith in the goodness in human beings.

They went in. Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, calling Ottley’s name while Walker went through the ground floor, searching each room. He was soon at the bottom of the staircase calling, “Any luck? He’s not down here.”

“Nor in his bedroom. Or in the other rooms. I’m going to the attics.”

But in spite of his torch, that took longer than he’d anticipated. He came back to where Walker was waiting. “He’s not here. Where would he be at this hour?”

“At Mr. Roper’s? Jimmy’s father. He’s taken the loss of his boy hard.”

To save time they went back to the hotel for Rutledge’s motorcar and drove out to the Roper farm.

The house was dark, not even a light in an upstairs room.

“Do we knock at the door?” Walker asked in a low voice, staring up at the bedroom windows.

“If Ottley were here, there would be a light showing. No, let’s not frighten the old man. The rector must have gone elsewhere.”

He backed carefully down the drive until they had reached the lane.

“I don’t know where else to look,” Walker said. “Unless we start a search of the village. Is he dead, do you think?”

Rutledge said, “Why would someone kill the rector?”

“I don’t know. That motorcar—you said it was driving toward Hastings. Do you suppose the rector was in it? That he was destined for those net shops? Or the cliffs?”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Rutledge turned back toward Eastfield.

“Mrs. Farrell-Smith saw that motorcar just outside the rectory gates. She saw Inspector Mickelson talking to the driver, and then leaving with him. The rector could know something about that,” Walker argued.

“If he had, he’d have told you.”

“There’s that,” Walker agreed. The rectory was just coming into view. Walker, peering through the windscreen, said, “Who is that?”

Rutledge could see the man some twenty yards from the rectory gate. He pointed the motorcar’s bonnet in that direction so that the headlamps pinned the man in their great twin beams.

Walker exclaimed, “Look, it’s Rector! Is he all right?”

Rutledge slowed as they reached the man standing staring into the light, as if mesmerized by it.

“I was just looking for you,” he said as he recognized Rutledge and the constable in the vehicle. “But they told me at The Fishermen’s Arms that you’d gone out. I’ve remembered something. I think it may be important.”

17

R
utledge said sharply, “You shouldn’t be walking out alone at this hour of the night.”

Mr. Ottley said, “I can’t neglect my duties, Inspector. Not if there were six murderers in Eastfield. God walks with me.”

Exasperated, Rutledge felt like telling the man that God helps those who help themselves. He bit his tongue instead.

Beside him, Constable Walker said, “I’ll walk you up the path to your door, Rector, and Mr. Rutledge here will drive his motorcar back to The Arms. Then he’ll join us. I’d give much for a cup of tea.”

“Yes, I could do with one myself.” He waited for Walker to join him, and Rutledge watched the two men safely inside the house before driving on.

Ten minutes later, he was standing in the rectory study. There were not many feminine touches here, and he remembered that the rector had been a widower for many years. What softness there was, he put down to the good offices of Mrs. Newcomb. There was even a slender vase of roses just opening out of the bud, and the silver tea service shone.

The rector poured and Constable Walker passed the first cup to Rutledge. They had chosen to sit in the half circle of chairs facing the cold hearth, but the brass fan that concealed the grate was polished to a high sheen.

Rutledge said, after the rector had handed them slices of cake that Mrs. Newcomb had baked for his dinner, “Where were you, tonight, Rector?”

“I’d gone to see Theo Hartle’s sister and her husband. You’d think that being paralyzed also meant being free of pain. But it’s not true. And she must bathe him in warm water and manipulate his limbs to keep the muscles from atrophy. Sister Kenny was a strong proponent of exercising wasted muscles.”

Sister Kenny was the Australian nurse who had made advances in the treatment of polio cases that upset many established medical opinions. There were many reasons given for her successes, none of which included credit to her methods. Rutledge had seen newspaper accounts suggesting that a nursing sister did not have the qualifications required to make strides in the field.

“Peggy works hard,” Constable Walker agreed. “Theo was often there to help. Lifting Winslow is no easy task.”

Rutledge, trying to bring them back to the subject at hand, said, “And this pastoral visit was what brought back the memory you spoke of in the road?”

“Well, it was something Virgil was saying. That when he was first struck down by poliomyelitis, he had prayed to die. That he couldn’t contemplate living if he couldn’t use his legs for the rest of his life. And he admitted to me that when I came to visit, he was afraid to tell me what it was he was praying so hard for. He thought I might use my powers as a man of the cloth to intercede with God and prevent his dying. Later, when he was older, he was ashamed to confess his prayers in that moment of crisis.”

Constable Walker set down his cup. “I daresay it was normal for an active lad to think his world had come to an end.”

“What inspired him to tell you now?” Rutledge asked.

“We were talking about Theo, and Virgil wanted to know if Theo had ever confessed to me that he’d nearly done something unforgiveable. Mrs. Winslow was very upset. I told him that he was mistaken, that Theo had had nothing to confess. And Virgil answered that he was only curious, having just told of his own secret guilt. You see, Virgil sometimes likes to shock. It’s his way of making people notice him, to say horrible things. And then they pity him, and he manages to escape being brought to book for being abrasively outspoken. I know there were times when I myself was unwilling to add to his burdens, and let small transgressions go. And of course as a result, he’s never been held to ordinary standards. I feel responsible for the way he uses his wife. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“Did Hartle ever confess to you? Do you know what it was that he’d nearly done?” Rutledge asked.

“That was what I remembered just as I was leaving. It was as if a light had gone on in my head, illuminating the incident. It was before Hartle went to France with the Eastfield Company. He came to see me because he had something on his mind. He said that he didn’t want to die unshriven.”

“What did he confess? Can you tell us?”

“I thought about that all the way back to the rectory. It was a confession, though not in the strictest sense. And I’m not sure I was told the whole story. But my own conscience was clear on that issue by the time I saw your motorcar coming toward me tonight.” He looked up at the clock on the shelf above the hearth. “Well, it’s nearly tomorrow isn’t it? I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

Rutledge said, “Are you certain you are comfortable telling us what Hartle said?” For it appeared that Mr. Ottley was postponing the moment of revelation as long as he could, almost as if he regretted making any mention of it to them at all.

“As certain as I can be. But you must promise me that this will not be made public. That if it helps you in any way, you won’t use what I told you in a courtroom. I won’t have Peggy Winslow suffer on my account. And I have a feeling that’s why Virgil brought it up. I think he was tired of seeing her mourn. He wanted her full attention, and if he had to ruin Theo’s memory to do it, he was willing.”

Rutledge said nothing, waiting.

Constable Walker said, “For my part, I give you my word. Peggy won’t learn of it through me.”

The rector put his own teacup down and walked to the windows. The wind had picked up as the clouds moved nearer, and the first rumble of thunder rolled through the darkness.

“Theo came to me because when he was about ten, he’d frightened another boy to the point that the child almost leaped to his death to get away from him. The story was that Theo had played truant one day, and cadged a ride to Hastings on the back of a hay wain. He’d intended to explore some of the so-called smugglers’ caves, to see if he could find any treasure. This child wanted to go too, and Theo couldn’t get rid of him. He called him an ugly little toad, pushing in where he wasn’t wanted, and still the child clung to him. Theo, who was large for his age, had expected to pass as an older boy, but now he thought that with the other child in tow, someone would take more notice of them and send them home with a flea in their ears. He lured the other boy far out on East Hill, and told him that there was smugglers’ gold below, and if he’d go down and look for it, he’d be given half of all he discovered.”

Ottley walked aimlessly about the room, not looking at the two men listening to his story, and found his way back to the window. “But of course,” he went on, “he lied, there was no pirate gold to divide, the cliff face was extraordinarily dangerous, and Hartle was hoping the other child would walk too close to the edge, and then his weight and gravity would carry him over. I don’t think—I don’t believe—that Hartle understood the consequences. He was frantic to enjoy his day of freedom, and he just wanted the other boy to go away. At any rate, the child found himself out on the very edge, became frightened, and froze. He started to cry, begging Theo to give him a hand to hold so that he could make his way back. But Theo walked away and left him there. The child finally made it to safety by crawling out of danger, and then he was late for his dinner, and his worried father disciplined him to teach him a lesson. He too was a truant, remember.”

“Gentle God. Who was the child?”

Closing the window finally and turning back into the room, the rector said, “Theo Hartle wouldn’t tell me. He said that there was no making amends, and the other boy would probably have begged him to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he would have. Perhaps not.”

Rutledge said, “And so Hartle, for his sins, was killed there on the headland and his body rolled over the edge.”

The rector said, “I know. It—the circumstances—are too close to Hartle’s death for comfort. I didn’t remember, you see. I don’t think I wanted to remember.”

“Are you certain,” Constable Walker asked, “that the child wasn’t Virgil himself?”

“I think that’s very unlikely. If it had been, then I think he’d have said so.”

“Then how did Virgil Winslow come to know about this story?” Rutledge asked. “I can’t imagine Hartle bragging to anyone about what he’d done. I mean to say, if Hartle had gone back to that headland and found it empty, found that the other boy wasn’t there, it must have given him an appalling shock. He couldn’t have known where his victim had gone—over the edge or if he had pulled himself out of his paralysis of fear and found his way back to safety. And surely, when Theo reached Eastfield and discovered that the child was alive, he must have expected the police on his doorstep at any moment. That the boy had told someone. A teacher, his parents, even other children.”

“I asked him just that question,” Ottley replied. “Hartle told me that he expected retribution at any moment, but the longer it was delayed, the more he’d thought that the child was afraid to tell what had happened that day. Hartle felt enormous relief, he said, and swore he would never again do anything he’d be ashamed of. Besides, he had had his own irate father to face when the school wanted to know why he’d played truant.”

“And you’re sure he said nothing that would tell you who this other child was?”

“Just the phrase, ‘he was an ugly little toad.’ As if that explained everything.”

Constable Walker spoke up. “Do you think it was the Summers boy?”

He had spoken to Rutledge, but the rector said, “Was he still in Eastfield? I did ask—Theo told me Summers had already left to take up his new position.”

“Hartle must have lied to you. He probably knew that’s why Summers left here. The boy must have told his father something about what had happened. He’d been terrified, after all. Hartle didn’t want to take the blame for that as well. His confession had its limits.”

The rector said, “He was the butt of much teasing, I’m sure. A very unpopular child, never could put a foot right. But do you think he really was Hartle’s victim?” There was lingering doubt in his voice. “Still, there’s the problem of how Virgil Winslow knew.”

“I don’t think Winslow knew—not this story, at least. I think tonight he may have been whistling in the dark. We’d asked his wife if her brother had any secrets. Winslow must have assumed that he had—because he’d been murdered.” Rutledge added, “Thank you, Rector, for telling us this. We’ll use the knowledge to look into the matter. If nothing comes of it, then I think perhaps Hartle exaggerated what happened. That with time he’d blown it out of proportion, and it seemed more ominous than it was.”

The rector’s face brightened. “To tell you the truth, I found it hard to believe that young Hartle could be so—vicious. He was a good man, he would have made a good father.”

But there were dark places in many a child’s life. Temptation was hard to resist when it was something that a child very badly wanted. The ability to know right from wrong wavered in the face of longing. The lemon drop at eye level in the greengrocer’s shop, the toy that another child played with, the larger biscuit on the plate, the biggest apple in the bowl. These seldom led to attempted murder, but a child who had planned his truancy carefully, was already half frightened by his audacity but intent on finding smugglers’ gold, would be desperate to rid himself of what he perceived as an intruder, someone who was about to ruin everything he’d longed to do in this one glorious escape from authority. Consequences never entered his head. Only being caught before he could find treasure. Would he have gone as far as murder? Or would he have considered it murder, if the boy fell over the cliff without his help?

Who could say?

They thanked the rector and left, warning him to lock his doors.

Walker said as they were out of earshot, “You let me lie to him. The story will have to come out.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Meanwhile, what good would the truth have done, do you think?”

The first drops of rain struck them in the face, blown by the wind, great wet drops that promised a downpour. Lightning illuminated the rectory gate, and thunder followed almost on its heels.

“We’ll have to speak to Roper’s father. To see if Jimmy knew this story. And Mrs. Jeffers. I don’t know if we’ll get much joy from Tyrell Pierce. Anthony could do no wrong. The heir and hope,” Walker said as they dashed through the gate and ran for The Fishermen’s Arms. There was another flash of lightning, and then the rain came down in earnest. They arrived damp and breathless.

“I’ll borrow an umbrella.” Walker cast a glance at the sky. “Are we still patrolling the streets?”

“No. I think he’s gone, whoever he was.”

“Then I’ll say good night.” He went into Reception, where there was a porcelain stand filled with umbrellas for the use of guests, chose one, and with a nod to Rutledge trotted out into the rain.

Hamish said, “Yon priest. He didna’ want to remember. Ye ken, these were lads.”

“And it was a very long time ago,” Rutledge said.

“Aye. Now they must judge the men the lads became.”

And that was true. The men had turned out well. They’d served their country with honor and distinction, they had respectable lives ahead of them, and the foibles of the past were forgiven.

Rutledge said, “It’s late. There’s nothing more I can do tonight.”

“Are ye forgetting The White Swans?”

He stopped in his tracks, halfway up the stairs. He had forgot.

Without a second thought, he went pelting down the steps and out to the motorcar. The drive to Hastings in the heavy rain was not pleasant, and he felt his tires slip several times as he ran down the twisting road into the Old Town.