A Lonely Death (30 page)

Well, then, Ian, my friend, I wonder what you will make of this!

Rutledge put down the letter. What indeed to make of it? He agreed with Cummins that the author of the letter had purposely made the clues difficult to follow. Still, if Cummins had happened on that flint knife in the course of another case, would he have followed the same steps toward finding an answer? Was that the point, that the killer had felt he had done his duty, secure in the knowledge that his role would never come to light?

What’s more, were there clues in that letter that might lead to the name of the victim, if not the murderer?

Without the original, he wasn’t able to make an educated guess about that. But surely Cummins would examine all the possibilities?

Hamish said, “Ye canna see ye’re ain way. You canna’ worry oe’r much about the ins and outs of anither man’s inquiry.”

But Rutledge said, “It’s a puzzle. Like this one of Summers’s doing. God knows how long he has planned his revenge, but so far he’s carried it out without so much a qualm. The men he killed, the woman he took to France, the dog he’d abandoned.”

“If ye had never gone to yon hotel room at The White Swans, you wouldna’ ha’ known about yon dog.”

It was true. And the Dover police had been particularly interested in how he had known about the dog and how he had come to learn what it was called.

He’d replied simply that he had been several times to the hotel where the Pierces were staying. True, as far as it went.

Rutledge took a deep breath. “He’s coming back. I can feel it,” he said aloud into the silence of the room. “And sooner than we expect. And I don’t know how to stop him.”

Hamish said, “With any luck ata’, he’ll drown on his way back across yon Channel. I was never sea sick mysel’, but ithers were, and dying was a cheering thought.”

“But that’s the problem. He could come back through a dozen different ports.”

And hovering in the back of his mind was the inescapable knowledge that if he hadn’t believed the false lead to Brighton, he could have reached Dover in time.

Rutledge let it go. There was nothing he could do this night, and sometimes an answer came more readily if he ignored the problem.

He went out to find his dinner, choosing a restaurant where he wasn’t likely to encounter anyone from the Yard. The food there was edible, the clientele older and quiet, and he didn’t linger over his meal.

When he came home again, there was someone huddled in the doorway of the flat, only a thicker shadow among shadows.

His first thought was Summers. Or—his wife?

Bracing himself, he called, “Who is it? Who is there?”

The shapeless figure turned, taking on the outline of a woman, and then a voice he knew said, “Ian? Please, I need your help.”

It was Meredith Channing, and he went forward quickly, taking her arm with one hand, opening the door of his flat with the other. Thank God, he thought, he’d left a lamp burning. He put her into a chair, closed the door, and went to find a handkerchief, for he could see that she was crying. He gave it to her, and as she pressed it against her eyes, he said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t know where to turn,” she answered him after a moment, her eyes still hidden behind his handkerchief. And then as if she had found the courage to say what she had come to say, she set the rumpled white square of cloth aside. He could read the anguish in her face. “My friends—I could ask any of them, and they would help me. But then they would know, you see—once the words are spoken, I can never take them back. And when they look at me, I’ll know that they remember, and I couldn’t bear that.”

He took the chair across from hers. “I’ve never judged you,” he said quietly. And waited.

“Shall I tell you a story, Ian?” she said when she was calmer. It seemed like hours later but perhaps no more than ten minutes had passed. She had stopped crying now, resigned. “Much of it may be familiar. It’s about a young man marching off to war. He was deeply in love, he said, he wanted to marry because even if the war only lasted until Christmas, he had a feeling he wouldn’t come home again. I asked him how he could say such a thing, and he smiled and said, ‘I just know.’ I begged him not to go. I even promised I would marry him, if he’d refuse to join the Army. But he had to, you see, all his friends had already enlisted, they were excited and buying uniforms and talking about glory, and he was a man, he couldn’t bear to be left behind. And I married him, because I thought if I do, he’ll have a reason to keep himself safe, a reason to defy that silly superstition, and he’ll come back. I didn’t love him, Ian. I liked him. Immensely. And so I was willing to do this for his sake, even if it meant spending the rest of my life with him. I thought, it will be worth it. We can be happy. I was young—I thought, if he’s killed, I’ll never forgive myself.”

She leaned her dark head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. “He went missing shortly after the first gas attack at Ypres. I was suddenly neither wife nor widow. And I blamed myself for not caring, for not loving him in the way he loved me. I kept telling myself that he knew, that somehow he’d realized why I had married him, and he’d lost his talisman, so to speak. I couldn’t bear the guilt, and so I thought, I’ll find him and save him. And so I trained as a nurse, and I worked very hard, I did my best, from mopping ward floors to keeping my nerve in the operating theater, and soon I was shipped to France. But I went for selfish reasons, I see that now. I never found Mark among the unidentified wounded. I could find no one who had seen him die. It was as if he were in a limbo of some sort, and no one had the key.”

It was hard to listen to her confession. Rutledge had wondered, time and again, but never asked. He realized now that he hadn’t really wanted to know. Her marriage was in the past, let it rest there. But he said nothing.

“I paid for my folly. For not having the courage to tell Mark the truth. For thinking that I could save him. For thinking that I could find him.” Her gaze came back to him. “One day in France, I saw someone who had been brought in for superficial wounds. He was dazed, and I was told he’d been buried alive when a shell fell short and exploded in his sector. He was the only survivor. All of his men were killed. But he kept asking for them, he didn’t want to be treated until he was sure they were seen to. An orderly took him away to rest for a little while, and I asked someone the officer’s name. I looked in on him later, and he was sleeping. I could see the shadows under his eyes, I could see that he’d been in the line through some of the worst fighting. And I knew I could love this man. I wanted to hold him and keep him safe. All I could do was ask that he be given a little longer to recover, but every man was needed. I was told to wake him up and send him back. I couldn’t. I asked someone else to do it.” She took a deep breath. “I never saw him again after that, though I’d hear some snippets of news from time to time and knew he was safe. I never asked. But I listened for his name. It wasn’t until this past New Year’s Eve that I found him again. I thought, we could be friends, it would be all right.” She added wryly, “I was still lying to myself, you see.”

He didn’t reply. He knew she didn’t want his sympathy or his compassion.

“I kept telling myself that I could always go away, if there were problems. After all, I was still married. And I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let myself deny that.”

This time when she fell silent, he said, “Meredith. Would tea help? Sherry?”

She shook her head.

That poise he’d found so attractive had deserted her now. He could see her hands shaking, even though she clasped them tightly in her lap.

“A little while ago—no, it must have been this afternoon,” she went on, frowning. “There was a telephone call. A group that works to find the missing has kept in touch from time to time. They told me they believe they’ve found Mark. He’s in a Belgian hospital, very badly damaged. In fact, for some reason they’d believed he was a Belgian, a Fleming from Bruges. There were a few who fought with the British, you see. But when he improved a little last week, they realized he doesn’t seem to understand Flemish. He responded a little to English, and so the hospital called in someone who could speak to him in English. It was necessary, you see, so that his answers could be taken down accurately.”

Her voice broke as she added, “I must go to Belgium, Ian. I need to see this man. And I can’t go alone. Will you come with me? As a friend?”

He could hear only Hamish in his head, Meredith’s words a distant hum, and yet he knew what she was asking. He didn’t think he could do it. Not with this inquiry ongoing, he told himself. Not when I care too much, he added, facing the truth.

Someone was saying, “Yes, of course I’ll do what I can. If the Yard will allow me to take leave.”

A thought flitted through his head: the last time he’d asked for leave of his own accord, it was to attend Max Hume’s funeral.

He expected her to cry again, then. Instead, she looked down at her hands and replied quietly, “Thank you, Ian. From the bottom of my heart.”

“I’ll speak to them tomorrow.”

He took her home soon after, touching her only to help her into the motorcar, seeing her to her door, and saying good night when her maid had opened it.

She smiled a little, and went inside.

The next morning he was as good as his word. He went to the Yard, ignoring the stares and the whispers as he passed along the corridors. Chief Superintendent Bowles was in his office and was caught quite by surprise by his inspector’s sudden appearance.

Rutledge faced him grimly, knowing Bowles for what he was, giving no ground as the man behind the desk seemed rattled for a moment, then collected himself.

“I thought you were in Sussex,” Bowles said gruffly. “Or failing that, in Dover.”

“There’s nothing I can do in Dover. And as long as Summers is in France, then Sussex is safe. I’ve come to ask for a few days of leave.”

Bowles’s face brightened. But he said, “I thought I’d just given you leave.”

“It’s been some time since then. This is a personal matter.”

He could see Bowles mulling it over, vacillating, emotions flitting across his face like shadows. The good fortune of being rid of Rutledge at this impossibly sticky time. The realization that if Summers reappeared in England while Rutledge was away, he could send another man to cope with it. The knowledge that Rutledge was the butt of gossip and speculation which Bowles himself could do without—they were all there. He had even heard one rumor that Rutledge had had his revenge for Mickelson’s interference—embarrassing the Chief Superintendent.

“Yes, all right,” Bowles declared finally. “Take your leave and report back in four days. By that time, something should have turned up at the ports.”

He clearly expected Rutledge to be satisfied, for he picked up the paper he’d been reading when he was interrupted.

But Rutledge stood his ground, and said with something in his voice that made Bowles look up sharply, “About Inspector Mickelson’s theory that I was involved in the attack on him. I would suggest that it’s an aftereffect of that blow on the head. You know as well as I do that I was not involved. I couldn’t have been. I had no reason to be. Whatever my personal feelings may be about Inspector Mickelson.”

“A combination of misinformation and mistake,” Bowles agreed hastily.

Rutledge left it at that. He would never have an apology from this man, and while he’d been angry enough to beard him in his den and tell him publicly what he thought about him, he had more to lose than Bowles: his position at the Yard, which was still his lifeline to sanity.

He didn’t want to call on Meredith Channing. Last night was still too fresh in his mind. But he drove to her house anyway and knocked at the door.

And she had foreseen his difficulty. Her maid answered his knock, and he gave her the message for her mistress.

“Mrs. Channing would like to leave for Dover this afternoon, if that’s possible,” the maid replied. “Will that be convenient?”

The sooner it was over, the better, he thought, but said only, “I’ll be here at one o’clock.”

“Thank you, sir.” She closed the door. He stood there for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Hamish was giving him no peace, a reflection of the strain he was under. As a precaution when he went home to pack a small valise, he added some things to his clothing and shaving gear.

One o’clock came all too soon, and he was outside the Channing house five minutes early.

And she was ready. The door opened almost at once, and he went to meet her, taking her case and adding it to his own in the boot. She said, “Ian—” and then shook her head, stepping into the motorcar when he opened her door.

They drove through London in silence, and were soon on the Dover Road.

They arrived in good time for their crossing, and Rutledge took a few minutes to call on Sergeant Bell.

“The laddie is still restless,” he said. “I took him for a walk along the strand today, and he was searching for scents, wanting to run up to anyone he spotted. There’s no word on Mrs. Summers?”

“None.”

Bell said, “Well, then. We’ll see that he’s fed and kept safe.”

The boat left on time. Meredith stayed below, while Rutledge stood by the rail, watching the water pass under the hull.