A Lonely Death (34 page)

“I’ll go in. I think he wants to garrote me, not shoot me.”

“By the way, there’s a message for you from the Yard,” Norman said after a moment. “Mickelson is feeling better, and he’s pushing the doctor to release him. He wants to take the case back from you.”

“Wanting is not having,” Rutledge answered. “And with any luck at all, if I’m right, we’ll catch our elusive friend tonight.”

But in the back of his mind, he heard Hamish’s words. “What if he’s cleverer than you?”

24

R
utledge escorted Mrs. Farrell-Smith back to Eastfield, and she sat beside him in the motorcar in pensive silence most of the way.

She had already agreed to take a room at The Fishermen’s Arms as a precaution, but now she said, “There must be something else I can do. After all, some of this is my fault.”

“Do you know where Daniel Pierce is?” he asked, not looking at her.

It was some time before she replied. “When he came to tell me that he was leaving Eastfield for good, that he was never coming back, I was so angry I picked up the first thing to hand and threw it at him. It was the paperweight from my desk, and it actually hit him in the face. I was appalled. I stood there unable to say anything. And he just turned and left my office.” She coughed, to ease the constriction in her throat. “I tried to tell myself it was the war, the danger he lived with every time he went into one of those abominable tunnels, or perhaps it was blowing up so many men. I don’t know. But he needn’t have lied to me.”

Rutledge was wary, now. Had Daniel Pierce told this woman about Peggy Winslow? Or had she guessed the truth?

“What lie did he tell you?” he asked when she didn’t go on.

“It was ridiculous. Daniel, the most exciting man I’d ever met, always a scapegrace, always fun, never dull—in France even his men adored him. And he stood there in my office and told me he was converting to Catholicism and becoming a lay brother in a contemplative order. If he didn’t love me, if he didn’t want to marry me, I could understand that. If he needed to put the war behind him, I’d have done everything in my power to help him. What was even worse, he thought I’d
believe
him. It wasn’t until the killing began that it all made sense. I’d found the garrote of course, and I thought, he left me because he was starting to lose his mind and didn’t want me to know. And I thought, if I can find him before the police do, I can still save him.” She turned to him, grief in her face, wanting to hear Rutledge make light of the lie and tell her that Daniel loved her as much as she loved him and would come back one day.

“That explains why you told the police it was my motorcar you saw by the rectory gates, when you thought it must be Daniel’s.”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. But I’d do it again, if I thought it would protect him.”

Rutledge considered what she’d told him, and he thought Daniel Pierce must have given this woman the literal truth. That he was withdrawing from a world he couldn’t face—not because of the war as she wished to believe, but because of the ill-found marriage of Peggy and Virgil Winslow, about which he could do nothing. It would explain too why the Yard had failed to find him. The police had looked in the wrong directions all along.

He said, “He may have told you the truth, you know. That he was looking for a peace that you couldn’t provide. An—absolution.”

He had meant the carefully chosen words to give her a little peace as well. But she was blind to what he was saying, seeing it as a reaffirmation of her own belief.

Mrs. Farrell-Smith sat back, reassured. “Then he was letting me know he’d be all right, wasn’t he? And that I must try to be patient until he’s healed.”

Rutledge let it go. She would be happier living with forlorn hope than with bitter truth. It was obvious how fiercely she could love, and he had a feeling that she could hate just as fiercely. And Peggy Winslow was vulnerable. Time was not always a healer—as often as not, it was just a measure of how long someone had waited.

As they turned into the hotel yard, she said, “Please. Find something for me to do. I’m responsible for the school. What if he decides to burn it down? Who knows what he could do, to try to cover his escape? I’ll be worried sick until it’s over.”

After she had been given her room key, Rutledge asked the desk clerk for paper and pen, and told Mrs. Farrell-Smith what he wanted. Then he went to find Constable Walker.

He would have given much to put a watch on the school long before this, as soon as Mrs. Farrell-Smith was safely out of it. He had learned a grudging respect for the man they were after, well aware that Summers was capable of circumventing any plans the police chose to make. But Walker agreed with Rutledge that there was a greater risk of losing their quarry altogether if he got the wind up and slipped away. Besides, in daylight, there was no way to guard the rear of the property without being seen—the pastures beyond were flat and empty of shelter.

“If he thinks you saw him, he’s already gone away,” Constable Walker pointed out. “What I’m counting on is that he wants his revenge so badly, he’ll take a chance that you didn’t notice him.”

Rutledge tried to picture the street in front of the school. “There’s the first floor in the greengrocer’s house.”

Walker was skeptical. “You can see the main door from those windows, but there’s not a good view of the alley.”

“Then we wait until dark, and box him in.”

With an eye to that plan, there was something else Rutledge needed to attend to. He spent quite some time closeted with an assistant at the ironmonger’s shop, and left there well satisfied with their knowledge of what he wanted.

Restless now, with nightfall still hours away, Rutledge patrolled the village and outlying farms on foot, staying well clear of the school but covering as much ground as he could. There was no indication that Summers had left the school building, but Rutledge spoke to every man whose name might appear on the killer’s list, telling them to be alert. He found all of them save Tuttle, whose mother informed him that her son was in Hastings until the morrow. “There’s a girl,” she’d said. “He can’t stay away from her.”

All the same, as a precaution, Rutledge ordered Walker to be on the lookout for his nephew, in the event he came back to Eastfield earlier. The course of true love seldom ran as smoothly as expected.

At length night fell, and Inspector Norman and his men arrived in Eastfield in the sunset’s afterglow, that soft light that was always slow to fade. They went directly to St. Mary’s Church, as agreed, where they were not as likely to draw attention to themselves. He had brought a sergeant, Constable Petty, and two other constables whom Rutledge hadn’t encountered before this. Both were sizeable and quiet.

At Rutledge’s request, Mrs. Farrell-Smith had spent her afternoon sketching maps of the school and marking the exits clearly. After each man was assigned to guard a specific door, Constable Walker explained how to reach their posts unseen, carefully describing landmarks to help them find their way in the dark. The main door was the most difficult to reach, even using the shadows for cover. It was decided to leave that to the last, once the other men were in position.

“You’ll have only a few minutes to reach your destination. I want you in place by the time it’s completely dark. Mark me, don’t go inside the school, no matter what happens. The point is to bottle him up. I’ll do the rest,” Rutledge told them. “This is a dangerous man. You’re not to take any chances if he comes your way. Use your truncheons to stop him if need be. Here are your signals. One long blast of your whistle if he comes your way. Two short if you need help. One short and one long if you see he’s got out of the building. Understood? Good. Any questions?”

Rutledge led them outside to the apse of the church, to accustom their vision to the gathering dark, then saw them off. He turned to Inspector Norman, who was taking the main door. “I’m going in that side door I showed you on the map, because I know my way there. Your task is to back up anyone who gets in trouble. But stay outside. If anything moves in that building, I’ll be assuming it’s the killer. You don’t want to get in the way.”

“You ought to be armed.”

Rutledge said grimly, “I am.”

He watched Inspector Norman disappear into the dark shadows of the churchyard and then heard the squeak of the rectory gate as he passed through it.

There was nothing to do now but wait until his men were in position. Five minutes passed. It was time for him to move.

The squeak of the gate reached his ears again. It stopped almost at once.

Hamish said, “ ’Ware!”

There was no reason for Norman or his men to come back to the church.

He had been standing not far from the church tower, facing the rectory, and now he moved toward the gate, picking his way through the heavy summer grass and the scattering of tombstones. It was as dark as the back side of hell in the churchyard, and there was no way to know whether someone had been coming into it or going through into the rectory grounds.

Misdirection
.

Rutledge knew then that he’d been right. Summers had seen him leave the school, had seen him turn and look back at the windows. Shortly afterward, someone had come for Mrs. Farrell-Smith. That had had to be done, Rutledge had had no choice. But his quarry, taking no chances, must have slipped out the back way, across the kitchen garden, the barnyard, and out through the orchard before Mrs. Farrell-Smith had even reached safety.

And now he was loose. But here in the churchyard or at the rectory?

Rutledge’s hearing was acute, but Hamish’s had always been far sharper.

“On the steps of the rectory.”

Rutledge could just make out the soft footfall. And then it came down the steps again and was lost in the grass. After a few seconds Rutledge realized that someone was moving around to the side of the rectory, facing the church.

Where was Mr. Ottley, the rector? At this hour, in his bed, most likely. But was he? For now Rutledge could see that although the drapes had been drawn, lamps were still lit in his study.

Just then, the rectory door opened, throwing a shaft of light across the lawn, and Mr. Ottley was saying, “I’m glad you came, Tuttle. I think you’ve made a wise decision. If Miss Lang accepts your proposal, I’ll be happy to post the banns and marry you when the time comes.”

Tuttle. Constable Walker’s nephew. And what the hell was he doing in Eastfield? He must, Rutledge thought, have arrived at the rectory while it was still dusk and the police were gathered inside St. Mary’s. Damn and blast the man!

“Thank you, Rector,” Tuttle responded. “I’m that sorry to have come so late, but we lost track of time, didn’t we, Nan and I?” He laughed lightly. “One good thing about getting married, I shan’t be traveling all the way to Hastings and back of an evening.”

Mr. Ottley laughed with him, and then they said good night.

The door closed, and the shaft of light vanished, leaving Rutledge blind for several seconds. But he could hear Tuttle moving down the path from the rectory door, and then turning toward the gate into the churchyard. A shortcut to his house—Rutledge had spoken to his mother only that afternoon.

A lorry rumbled down the Hastings Road, and its headlamps swept the churchyard wall as it passed the main gate.

As if in a tableau, Rutledge could see Tuttle stop, his head turned toward the vehicle. And in the shadows by the rectory wall, he could just discern the outline of another man frozen in place not ten yards from where Tuttle was standing.

Tuttle was the victim this time.

And Rutledge had two choices—to call out a warning, and risk losing Summers, or to put himself between Tuttle and the killer.

Tuttle was opening the rectory gate, whistling to himself as he stepped through it and paused to shut it behind him.

Something—some tiny movement—caught his attention, and he turned to stare at the rectory wall, now in darkness again. “Who’s there?” he asked sharply.

A voice said softly, so as not to disturb the rector behind his closed doors, “Do you remember me, Tuttle?”

The low churchyard wall was between them now. Tuttle said warily, “I don’t know your voice. Who are you? What do you want?”

“To say hello. For old time’s sake.”

“You’ve got the wrong man, then,” Tuttle answered and began to walk swiftly toward the far gate and the better-lit Hastings Road, careful to keep on the smoother ground between rows of gravestones.

He passed within ten feet of where Rutledge was standing, but his attention was wholly on the man behind him as he listened for the telltale squeak of the rectory gate. He began to pick up his pace now, anxious, clearly beginning to realize the danger he was in. The Hastings Road was safety—doors he could pound on, people who would hear him shout for help. Even the sanctuary of The Fishermen’s Arms, if he was quick enough.

Behind him, Rutledge saw the killer vault the wall rather than use the gate, landing lightly, in a crouched position. Then he straightened and started forward.

Rutledge turned his head. Tuttle by this time was some fifteen feet from the main gate, and he cast a worried glance over his shoulder, unable to see where in the shadows his hunter could be. The wind up now, he made a frantic dash for the gate and was through it, into the Hastings Road, running for the hotel.

“ ’Ware!”

It was Hamish who saved him.

In an instant, Rutledge realized that Summers must have caught a glimpse of him there amongst the trees watching Tuttle walk on, and on the spot changed course, altering his intended target to the one at hand.

There was a fleeting movement of air, a sound that had barely registered, before Rutledge dropped to his heels, out of reach of the garrote intended for his throat. It scraped across his head, and he heard the man behind him swear.