Cold Comfort (3 page)

“Then tell me what you saw that night, when you were shot. Let me charge whoever did this.” Rutledge gestured to the bound shoulder.

“My word against theirs? No, it won’t save me. Can I be moved to another hospital?”

“By the time the paperwork is completed, it could be too late. I’ll see if I can persuade Matron to put you on the next convoy to England.”

But Matron shook her head after Rutledge had made his request. “We have far more serious cases than this one. Private Williams is healing well. I can’t justify sending him back.”

“His life could be in danger, if he stays here.”

“Surely you exaggerate, Lieutenant. We’ve had no trouble at this hospital. The men who are here need care, and there’s no time for or thought of private quarrels.” She looked at a list. “What’s more, I don’t even have a record of the two men you’ve mentioned. Private Aaron Lloyd, Private Taffy Jones. It could be that you are entirely mistaken.”

But she didn’t know Private Lloyd or his half-brother. It was worrying that they hadn’t been treated yet—where were they? And Williams’ willingness to believe in the danger facing him was further proof that he wasn’t satisfied that the two Welshmen had finished with him.

Rutledge went to have a final word with Williams. “Matron won’t consider England. Still, I’ve warned the Sister in charge of this ward that you have enemies. It’s the best I can do. I’ve also asked one of the orderlies to watch for Lloyd and Jones, and report to Matron. It’s possible they won’t turn up here, that they’re waiting for you come to them. I wouldn’t go walking far, if Sister asks you to start exercising your legs again.”

“I’m grateful, sir. Truly I am.”

Rutledge stayed at the base hospital another day, walking through the wards, speaking to the patients, keeping an eye open for Private Jones and Private Lloyd. On the third day, his ambulance was set to leave for the Front and he had no choice but to be aboard, if he was to rejoin his company.

He spoke to Williams a last time, and five minutes later he was settling himself in the uncomfortable seat beside a different driver when he heard a commotion in the ward he’d just left.

“Wait for me,” he ordered the man as he got out and sprinted back the way he’d come.

He found a Sister bleeding from a blow to the face, and down the ward, where Williams had been lying just minutes before, he could see an overturned chair and bedclothes dragged out into the aisle. Men were sitting up in their cots, shouting to Rutledge, pointing back the way he’d just come.

He bent over the Sister, asking her, “What happened here?”

“Two men—they took away Private Williams. I couldn’t see their faces. They were wearing hospital masks. I don’t know where they’ve taken him.”

He shouted for help, but didn’t stay to explain to the staff rushing to the Sister’s aid, his mind already busy with the problem of where the three men might be. Had his own presence at the hospital precipitated this attack? Or the fact that he was seen to be leaving?

And then he heard one of the ambulances roaring into life, men shouting, and someone firing a shot.

He raced toward the line of ambulances he’d just left, saw his driver lying on the ground, dazedly trying to raise himself on his elbow. An orderly was already kneeling beside him. Rutledge ran on to the second ambulance in the line and called to the driver, “We’ve got to stop them.”

But the driver leapt out of his door, shaking his head. “They’ve got a weapon.”

Rutledge took his place behind the wheel, gunned the motor, and pulled out of line, turning in the direction of the fleeing ambulance heading fast toward the main road to Calais.

The ground was wet from recent rains, and he could feel his tires slipping and sliding in the viscous mud. Holding grimly to the wheel, he drove as fast as he dared, and then, when he saw he was making no headway, faster than was safe.

He was gaining, even as the ambulance bucketed across what passed for a road, narrowly missing a column of men marching toward the Front. He could hear the big guns behind him, opening up for another punishing marathon of shelling. And then the ambulance ahead of him skidded wildly, spun around, and missed a yawning ditch by inches. The driver got control again, but it had given Rutledge his chance. Praying that the tires would hold, he rammed his foot down on the accelerator and came up even with the fleeing vehicle.

Someone swung open one of the rear doors, and Rutledge could see Private Lloyd kneeling there. Behind him lay Williams. Lloyd was raising a revolver, pointing it toward Rutledge. But Williams somehow managed to use the rigid brace on his shoulder to spoil the man’s aim just as he fired. Furious, the man backhanded him, sending Williams hard against the metal side of the ambulance, just as Rutledge sped past, cut in front of the vehicle, and forced it into the low wall that was all that was left of what had been the approach to a French barn.

The ambulance hit the wall at speed and came to a jarring stop, throwing Private Jones, the driver, into the wheel and then the windscreen. By the time Rutledge had braked and got out, he could see blood running down Jones’s face. But it was the man with that revolver who was his main target.

He ran to the back of the ambulance and flung open both doors. Williams and Lloyd lay on the floor in a jumble of legs and arms.

Rutledge could hear another vehicle coming after him, but there was no time to wait. He climbed into the ambulance and pulled the unconscious Williams out, setting him against the stone wall. And then he went back for the armed man.

But Private Aaron Lloyd had broken his neck in the crash, his head striking the metal rim of the upper berths that held stretchers in place. He lay where he’d fallen, the revolver still clutched in his hand.

Leaving him, Rutledge went to look at the driver. Jones was badly hurt but alive, his nose and cheekbones broken by the impact with the windscreen.

“What the hell were you trying to do?” Rutledge demanded, pulling him from behind the wheel and leaning him against a wing. “Was it worth it, this abduction? Your half-brother is dead!”

“Williams ran off with my wife,” Jones tried to answer, his voice muffled by his bleeding nose. “Then he left her in Manchester to die penniless and alone.”

“Was he a trades union man? This Williams?”

“Aaron thought it likely. He came to the village where Sarah was staying with her sister. There was trouble with the colliery owner, and the man had to get out. When he left, Sarah went with him.” He closed his eyes. “Williams was the right man. I swear he was. My brother told me. He recognized the bastard.”

“Williams is a slate man. From North Wales. He had nothing to do with your wife.” Rutledge was watching the approaching ambulance come to rescue them. “Your brother lied to you.”

“Aaron never lies. Williams is from Manchester.”

“Then why didn’t Lloyd try to stop Sarah—or call you to come to Manchester to fetch her back? Where was he all this time, watching and doing nothing, letting her die alone?”

Jones stared at him through bloodshot eyes. “He said he tried. He said he even followed them to Manchester, but Sarah wouldn’t listen.”

“Apparently Aaron was a great one for
saying
. Where was
he
?”

“He was ill, bad lungs. He was sent away to recover. Away from the coal dust.” After a moment he added unwillingly, “To the same village. That’s how he knew.”

“And he didn’t warn you? He didn’t summon you to come and put a stop to whatever Williams was up to?”

The man’s gaze went to the open doors at the rear of the ambulance. He couldn’t see his brother’s body from where he lay. He made to get up, and Rutledge shoved him back down. “He said—” Taffy Jones began again.

“Why weren’t you holding the revolver on Williams? Why was it Aaron? She was your wife. You should have shot him.”

“He said I had no stomach for what had to be done. It’s one thing to be killing Germans. The blood’s up. I’d failed twice, when it came down to it. He said he’d see to it. Are you certain he’s dead? I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t you understand, you fool? I’d wager it was Aaron who ran off with your wife. Abandoned her when he had finished with her. And she was too shamed to come home again. Why else would he have been in the back of the ambulance, with the weapon? He didn’t want you to confront Williams. To listen to him. Why was he so insistent that Williams had to die? She was
your
wife, not his.”

Jones roused himself, putting a hand up to his nose and eyes. As if to fend off what Rutledge was saying.

“He wouldn’t do such a thing. You’re lying.”

“He tried to persuade you to kill an innocent man. For all I know, it was Aaron who shot Williams in the back—for
you
.
Your
revenge.”

In spite of the bloody mask that was Jones’ face, Rutledge could read his eyes. “It’s true, then. Bloody cowards, both of you,” he said in disgust.

“He told me he was a better shot. Doing it in cold blood.”

The other ambulance had caught up with them. An orderly jumped out and ran to Jones, then peered into the back of the stolen vehicle. Another came to kneel beside Williams, still lying against the wall but just regaining consciousness.

A third was demanding to know what had happened.

As Rutledge got to his feet, Jones tried to shake his head but was in too much pain. “I won’t believe you. Not until I’ve spoken to Aaron.”

“Believe what?” the orderly demanded. “Sir, we need to get these men to hospital. And what am I to do about that ambulance?”

Rutledge moved back. “I’ll explain later. Just now I want this man to be held under guard for attempted murder. There will be other charges, but that will do for now.”

The orderly lifted Jones to his feet. Jones looked up at Rutledge. Something stirred in his eyes. And then he lashed out at the man holding his arm.

Rutledge swore as the wounded man broke free of the orderly’s grip and stumbled toward the back of the ambulance. He held on to the doors and leaned in, peering at his brother’s body. “He wouldn’t have lied to me,” he insisted, his voice heavy with grief and pain. “Not Aaron. Not about Sarah.”

Rutledge pointed to the revolver. “Where did he get this?”

“He took it from a dead officer. He couldn’t find Williams in Manchester—he thought the bastard might be in France. And he was. Family honor, Aaron said.” Jones put up a hand and wiped at the blood on his face. “I loved her. I never thought she’d betray me. But when I looked at Williams, it all made sense. She always did have an eye for tall men.”

“Lloyd must have been afraid that you’d find out the truth and go after him instead. And so he tried to persuade you to kill an innocent man. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Family honor indeed.”

“He’d never lied to me before.”

“Have you asked Sarah’s sister? Did she describe Williams?”

“Aaron spoke to her. He said. I was down the mines, you see. I couldn’t go. But he could. What with the pneumonia.”

“You’re a fool,” Rutledge said again. “For all you know, Sarah is still in Manchester, waiting for your half-brother to come back from the war. You have only Lloyd’s word that any of this happened, and under the circumstances, I’d not trust anything he said. And if Williams was killed, you’d have hanged for it. Not Aaron. Didn’t it occur to you that if the Germans didn’t shoot you, your own side would? For murder? Cheaper than a divorce.”

Jones lunged at Rutledge, but the orderly caught him and this time held him.

Leaving them, Rutledge went to search the pockets of the dead man, and stopped, staring at something he’d just pulled out of Lloyd’s tunic.

Stepping out of the ambulance again, he held what he’d found out for Jones to see.

It was a letter. It didn’t require a policeman to realize that Jones recognized the writing. He also recognized the name on the envelope.
Private Aaron Lloyd.

Jones snatched the letter from Rutledge’s hand. Pulling the sheets out of the envelope, he unfolded them and started to read. Halfway through, he crumpled the pages in his fist.

“He told me she was dead! Buried in a pauper’s grave.”

Without warning, he reached into the ambulance, took the revolver from his half-brother’s dead hand, and before Rutledge could stop him, he fired three shots point blank into Aaron Lloyd’s inert body.

And then he dropped the weapon and meekly followed the orderly to the waiting ambulance. Stepping inside, he sank into the nearest cot, his hands shaking.

Rutledge bent down to retrieve the discarded letter.

It had been written only three weeks before. The first paragraph told him enough.

My darling Aaron,

Is it over yet? Please tell me Taffy is dead and that other man as well. And that you are safe, and will come home to me soon. I beg you to take care of yourself and let nothing happen to you. I couldn’t bear it . . .

Rutledge folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. He’d been right about Aaron Lloyd. But it gave him no satisfaction. Still, the letter could be entered into evidence when Jones was tried as an accomplice to attempted murder.

Williams, shaking his head as the second orderly tried to help him back to the same ambulance, said, “No. I won’t ride with that bloody man, Jones. Not after what he did.” And then to Rutledge he said, “Private Lloyd intended to kill me as soon as we were clear of the hospital. ‘Boyo,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit of bad luck for you, but the only way out for me.’ Cold comfort, that.”

Read on for a sneak peek at the next Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery from Charles Todd.

H
UNTING
S
HADOWS

Chapter 1

The Fen Country, Cambridgeshire, August 1920

H
E READ THE
telegram with dismay, and a second time with a heavy sense of loss.

Major Clayton was dead. He’d been in hospital outside London since the closing days of the war, fighting a different battle. Sometimes winning. More often than not losing. They had kept in touch until three months before, when Clayton had been too ill to write, and his sister had been too distressed to write for him.

Dropping the telegram on the table, he gazed out his window. Clayton would be brought back to the Fen country for burial. Services would be held at two o’clock Friday next in the Church of St. Mary’s, Burwell. Only a few miles away.

He intended to be there.

He’d tried hard to put the war behind him. Avoiding weddings and funerals alike, refusing even to deliver the eulogy for men he’d known well. It would bring back too many memories, and he wanted them to stay buried, along with the dead left behind in the torn earth of Flanders Fields. Unable to explain, he’d simply cited ill health as his reason for declining. Burying himself here, he had shut out as much of the rest of the world as he could. He had even stopped reading obituaries. They were too sharp a reminder of the fact that he had survived when so many had not. For the dying had not stopped with the Armistice.

The service for Major Clayton was different. Clayton had saved his life, and in doing so nearly lost his own. The leg had never healed correctly, and in the end it had become the source of the gangrene that overtook first his foot, then his knee, his leg, and finally his body. Dying by inches, he’d called it.

For Major Clayton, he would have to make an exception. He hadn’t been asked by Clayton’s sister to deliver the eulogy, even though he knew the man better than anyone living. And he was just as glad.

Instead the sister had invited a Colonel from London to do that honor. He wondered what Clayton would have made of that, given his feelings for HQ and the generals who had given orders they themselves would never have to carry out. Decisions that sent men to their deaths, maimed them, made them numbers on interminable lists, names and ranks and dates but never the faces or shortened lives that should have reminded the generals that they were dealing in flesh and blood.

Of course St. Mary’s would be full for the service. He reminded himself that he would have to stay well back, where he wouldn’t be noticed.

Only for Clayton, he thought on the Friday as he shaved and then dressed himself with more than his usual care. The Major had been a stickler for appearances; he’d said often enough that if a man respected his uniform, he would respect himself. It would not do to be less than parade perfect even in civilian clothes.

At half past one, he set out for Burwell, planning his journey to arrive shortly before the mourners went inside to take their places. He had no desire to greet anyone, exchange pleasantries or memories. Or to offer condolences to the sister. He barely knew her, and his brief words of sympathy would not lessen her grief.

As it was, by the time he’d reached Burwell and walked on to St. Mary’s by a roundabout way, ending up on the street just above it, the hearse had arrived and only a handful of people were still standing by the west door. He slowed his place, waiting until everyone else had gone inside ahead of him, and listened to the heavy bell above his head toll the brief years of Clayton’s life. Thirty-five. It was a hell of a thing to die at thirty-five with so much to live for, leg or no leg.

He glanced up at the bell and then back at the church doorway. And there, to his utter astonishment, he saw a face he had never wanted to see again. Much less find one day here in this isolated corner of Cambridgeshire.

He brushed a hand across his eyes, certain that in the bright sunlight he’d been mistaken. That in his distress over the Major’s death, other memories had forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. It would be too cruel—

But no. There he was, bold as brass, smiling and chatting with one of the men in uniform next to him. There could be no mistake.

Captain Hutchinson.
What the hell was he doing here?
He hadn’t known Clayton, had he? Why was he among the mourners?

Quickly stepping back into the shadows cast by a large tree overhanging the street, he tried to think.

Hutchinson must have traveled up from London with the Colonel. That would explain his being here. Hutchinson was always quick to see an advantage. Or had he somehow discovered that Clayton’s sister was inheriting everything and fixed his eye on her? There was a well-set-up estate in Gloucestershire, and the older property here in Burwell, presently occupied by a tenant. Both would bring in a tidy income.

It would be like Hutchinson, to curry favor before the will had been read, to prove he was no fortune hunter. But he was.

He felt ill, perspiring in the late summer heat like someone with a fever, his legs trembling.

The last of the mourners had stepped inside the church, the coffin had been lifted out of the hearse and shouldered to follow the Rector down the aisle of the nave. And still he stood where he was.

He couldn’t—
in God’s name he could not now walk inside
. He couldn’t share a roof with Hutchinson. Not even for Major Clayton’s sake. Not with the man who’d killed Mary.

He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.

A woman’s voice came from just behind him.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you,” he said hoarsely, and in spite of himself, in spite of everything, he started moving toward the church door.

But that was as far as he could go.

Turning on his heel, he walked quickly back toward the shelter of the shadows under the tree. It was as good a vantage point as any from which to keep watch.

Standing there during the service only hardened his resolve. He would be absolutely certain before he left Burwell. It was imperative that he be sure his own emotional state hadn’t made him mistake someone else for Hutchinson. But when the service was over and the mourners began to file out, preceded by the coffin, he saw Hutchinson quite clearly. He was
there,
a few feet from the Colonel, his hand on Miss Clayton’s elbow as she walked with head bowed, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

If he had had a weapon of any sort, he’d have used it then, and killed the bastard. He could feel the rifle in his hands, the familiar smoothness of the wood, the heat of the barrel from long hours of use, the weight of it, so real to him that for an instant he could almost believe it was there. And with all his heart he wished it was true.

The procession was moving on toward the churchyard.

But just before the procession turned into it, something happened that held him pinned where he was.

Hutchinson lifted his head, like prey scenting the air, and for an instant he was sure that the Captain had stared directly at him.

It was impossible, of course. It was his imagination.

The moment passed, Hutchinson’s back was to him now, and he almost went down on his knees, to vomit.

He stumbled away like a drunkard, away from the church and the churchyard, and somehow, he was never sure afterward just how, he made it to the sanctuary of his house. The first thing he did was to pour himself the stiffest whisky he’d had in five years. The second was to open the wardrobe door and reach far into the back where he knew the Lee-Enfield was hidden.

Drawing it out, he felt on top of the wardrobe for the cartridges. They were still there behind the carved pediment. He wasn’t supposed to have brought either the weapon or the ammunition back. But he had, because the rifle had become a part of him. And no one searched his kit.

Thank God he had.

He was already loading the rifle, hurrying to reach Burwell and the churchyard in time.

And then he stopped, reason finally overcoming the strain and emotion that were driving him.

Foolish to do such a thing. First of all, it would mar Major Clayton’s last rites. And that would never do. Secondly, he’d be taken up at once and tried and hanged. He would be
damned
if he’d hang for the likes of Hutchinson.

The man deserved to die. But not this way. Not sacrificing himself.

He removed the cartridges and put the rifle back into the wardrobe, shutting the door firmly.

There had to be a better way.

Look at it from a different perspective. God had brought this man to him once. He would do it again. All he had to do was wait. However long it took.

H
E BEGAN TO
read the newspapers, as many as he could find. Cambridge, Ely, Burwell, the
Times
from London. Even the racing news in nearby Newmarket. And he burned them in the grate as soon as he’d finished them, to be certain that once the deed was done, there was nothing lying about that would cause talk or arouse anyone’s suspicion. He traveled as well, to Boston and King’s Lynn, to Bury and Colchester, as far south as St. Albans, looking for anything that might be useful in carrying out his task. He studied people, the way they moved and talked and behaved. It became something of an obsession, the need to survive what he was about to do. There was no satisfaction in it otherwise.

His patience paid off.

Captain Hutchinson was to be a guest at a fashionable wedding to be held in Ely Cathedral in three weeks’ time. His name was there, leaping off the page of the Ely newspaper, even though his was only one of a great many other names. Hutchinson was, it appeared, a cousin to the bridegroom.

The middle of September.

He was ready. He’d already laid the groundwork. Now it was just a matter of fitting the plan to the place. Thinking through each step, finding flaws, looking for opportunities on the ground, and looking as well at possible escape routes. He covered the Fen country on his bicycle until he knew every lane and track, until he felt he could reach any point in the dark of night. And then he walked the length and breadth of it.

The Fens were dangerous for the unwary. Narrow flat fields stretched for miles, where a boot in the rich black soil would leave its mark for the hunter to find. Irrigation ditches, sometimes crossed by a road or a bridge over a pump, where a false step could mean falling in and drowning. And the roads themselves, running arrow straight, so that any movement could be seen, even at a great distance. No trees, no buildings to hide behind until the chase had passed. Indeed, nothing to offer cover at all, unless one had learned beforehand where to find it.

He’d thought he’d known the countryside well all his life. Now he knew it intimately.

He was ready.

And Hutchinson would come to
him
for the killing.