Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford (4 page)
Read Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford Online
Authors: Charles Todd
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #British Detectives, #Historical, #Traditional Detectives
“Know it, do you?”
“One of my flatmates has spent a summer there.” I hesitated. “I brought my motorcar down from London. It’s less noticeable than a police motorcar.”
But he insisted that we use his transportation, and in the end, it was just as well.
As we were walking out to it, the doctor caught us up and said, “I was just coming to find you. That poor girl was stabbed with a pair of scissors.”
Inspector Robbins looked at me, and then said to the doctor, “A very timely bit of information, sir.”
Thanks to the Hastings police, we found the house where one Martin Worrel lived. And he was not there. His sister, a tall woman with pretty brown hair, informed us that he was in Oxford, staying with friends. She denied all knowledge of Sarah MacRae’s whereabouts, saying that the girl had refused to go to Oxford with her brother, and the last they’d seen of her, Sarah MacRae was at the Hastings railway station, intent on returning home.
Glancing at the open sewing basket on a small table beneath the parlor window, I said, “What is your brother’s birth date, Miss Worrel?”
She stared at me as if I’d grown horns.
“Miss Worrel?” Inspector Robbins had taken out his notebook and was referring to it as if the answer were written there.
She turned then and ran, shoving me aside and reaching the door to the front steps when a waiting constable stopped her. Whipping around, she raced toward the kitchen passage, and we heard the banging of doors as she went. But Inspector Robbins was a careful man. Another constable was waiting for her there, having slipped down the narrow alley between her house and the next. She was brought back in his grip, her face flushed with anger and fright.
She was taken into custody, to help with inquiries. The police in Oxford were searching for her brother. If that’s what he was. There was a smooth spot on her ring finger where a wedding band would fit very well.
I had to leave for London the next morning, and I asked Inspector Robbins if he would keep me informed about the murder.
He promised, and there was a letter from him waiting for me on my next leave.
It said simply that Sarah and Martin had quarreled, presumably over the lost inheritance, and he’d stormed out, telling her to go home where she belonged. A lover’s quarrel that might have blown over. His “sister,” in fact his companion in crime, Lucy Edwards, had agreed to take Sarah MacRae to the railway station that evening. Instead, she’d stabbed her as she was packing her valise, driven the body to the churchyard in Eastbury, where she’d pulled on Martin’s boots and carried Sarah out to the strand. That explained why the footprints weren’t deeper—tall as she was, Lucy weighed far less than a man. She had been afraid that as lovers do, the two might make up. Sarah was very pretty for an heiress, and likely to be competition for Lucy. Inspector Robbins had also found the other earring. There was a strand of Sarah’s hair still caught in it. Lucy had intended to keep both as profit, but lost one while carrying the dead girl.
And so Sarah had identified her murderer for us. That bit of paper—we never discovered how that followed her to the beach—and that earring had sealed Lucy Edwards’ fate.
At the end of his letter, Inspector Robbins had written, “And how did you enjoy your role as a police consultant?”
I returned a humorous reply. The truth was, I had felt a kinship with Sarah MacRae. She wasn’t just a girl dead on a beach and left for the tides to take her. Or an opportunity for me to play at policeman. Although I’d never known him, Captain MacRae had served in my father’s old regiment—it was in that scrap of obituary I’d read. And so I had felt strong ties to him and to his daughter.
An Inspector Ian Rutledge Story
I
T WAS HOT
this far down in the tunnel. Here, at the very end, there was only room for the three of them—Lieutenant Rutledge, the officer in charge; a private by the name of Williams at the left wall already passing over his bayonet in favor of a small knife as he scraped quietly at the chalk surface to enlarge the space; and Corporal MacLeod listening for sounds from the enemy burrowing their way toward the British lines in a counter tunnel, the stethoscope in his hand moving gently over the walls and ceiling. He glanced at Rutledge from time to time with a shake of his head.
Nothing.
It was an ominous silence.
A runner had just brought Rutledge the news that a German prisoner had been interrogated and there was the very real possibility that the enemy was working on its own tunnel, and that it could in fact parallel their own. If he was farther ahead, if he’d already packed his charges in his forward chamber, similar to the one that Rutledge and his men were still enlarging at their end, then chances were that the enemy’s would go off first, burying the three of them alive.
The Germans had already used tunneling to fearful advantage. It was very simple: dig a tunnel that burrowed deep below No Man’s Land to reach a spot beneath the British or French trenches opposite, then pack the final chamber with high explosives, set off the charges, and wreak shockingly effective havoc in the lines. And then launch an attack while one’s opponent was still reeling. It was a variation of one of the favorite ways of breaching castle walls, something medieval armies had excelled at. Only instead of blowing up a trench, it weakened and brought down enough of the massive fortifications to allow the attacking army to rush inside. Dangerous work then, dangerous work now.
The Allies had had no choice but to use the same strategy as the Germans—and they were still learning. A team of miners from South Wales had been brought in because they were experienced men, capable of digging as well as shoring up the tunnel as they went.
The problem was, once the Welshmen were close enough to the German lines to be heard, picks and shovels had to be replaced by tedious, nearly silent scraping, inch by inch. Otherwise the enemy would hear them and take deadly countermeasures.
Rutledge had been sent down to relieve the officer in charge of the chamber, standing his eight-hour watch with his own corporal, Hamish MacLeod, whose hearing was particularly keen. And in place of the Welsh coal miners, Private Williams had been given the task of carrying on as quickly as he could without making a sound. He was a slate miner from North Wales, and it was clear several of the Welshmen from the South had resented the choice. He had been what was called a rock man, who drilled and set the explosives to bring down the great slabs of slate, and his touch was delicate. Fair for a Welshman, nearly as tall as Rutledge and MacLeod, he was a quiet man who kept to himself.
The knife picked away gently at the surface, filling the pail with surprising speed without a sound. The larger the chamber at the end of the tunnel, the more explosives that could be packed into it.
Two feet still to go, before the Royal Engineer overseeing the work would be satisfied.
All at once Hamish MacLeod held up a hand. Rutledge touched Williams’ shoulder in the same instant. The Welsh private stopped, knife in midair, hardly breathing. Rutledge waited.
MacLeod took out a bit of paper, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Rutledge.
Not digging
, it read.
Packing
.
The Germans must be worried that the prisoner had talked, and taking no chances, they were preparing to blow up their own tunnel as soon as possible, which meant they were already under the British lines. What MacLeod had heard was the soft footfalls of men carrying charges forward to stow in the already completed chamber.
Rutledge signaled to Williams and MacLeod to precede him back along the dark worm that was the British tunnel, and they carefully made their way to the main shaft.
Captain Marsh was standing there, a frown on his face. “Why have you stopped?”
“They’re packing,” Rutledge said. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re to set off our charges before they finish and set off theirs.”
“Damn,” Marsh said. “Are you quite sure? There’s no time to send for the Royal Engineers to verify this.”
MacLeod stood his ground, holding up the stethoscope. “I’m sure,” he replied.
“I don’t trust those things,” Marsh snapped, considering the young Scot. “The old pan-of-water system was more reliable. When the water
moved
, you knew for certain.”
“Nevertheless,” Rutledge said, “the runner warned us that the Germans were ahead of us.” If Captain Marsh refused to believe Corporal MacLeod, or sent them back to the unfinished chamber while he consulted the Royal Engineers, then Rutledge and his two men would be the first to die as they frantically worked at the walls. If the explosion didn’t kill them outright, they would be buried alive and then slowly suffocate.
“Yes, all right.” Marsh looked up the shaft, calling softly to the men waiting there.
It was a matter of minutes before the charges were being brought down. Five men followed, carrying them barefooted down the tunnel to the end. Williams, eyes narrowed, watched them go.
“I’ll set the fuse,” he offered, a little too casually.
And Rutledge, who had been an inspector at Scotland Yard before the war had begun, in 1914, had the strongest feeling that the man didn’t trust a coal miner to do the work properly. The question was,
why
? Private Lloyd and Private Jones had been chosen because they were experienced men.
His time at the Yard now seemed like years ago, not just a matter of months. Still, dealing with murder inquiries, he’d learned to trust his feelings, his instincts. And something about the way Williams had spoken had caught his attention.
Marsh went back down the tunnel, overseeing the placing of the charges. It would be a full load, and by the time the space at the end was packed and the bags of chalk were piled against the charges to make sure the blast was contained and didn’t blow back into the British lines, the Germans might well catch them all like rats in a hole. A risky business, but they all knew that.
Rutledge stood to one side, cautioning the men passing the charges to mind what they were about and to be as quiet as possible. Twice he saw the one of the miners glare at Williams, but whatever the problem was, it would have to wait. When the last charge had been laid, the bags of chalk were taken down and packed tight, and then it was only a matter of setting off the blast. Williams collected his gear and prepared to connect the fuse to the blasting caps.
But Marsh didn’t send for Williams.
Instead, it was Private Lloyd who set the fuse. The last man out, he came racing down the tunnel, grinning broadly as he passed Williams.
Everyone scrambled up the shaft, out of harm’s way, grateful for the night that covered their movements. The sector closest to them had kept up a desultory fire, to be sure the Germans were well occupied, and the rifle flashes lit No Man’s Land with brief bursts of brightness.
The caps were crimped onto the fuse and set off.
The seconds ticked away.
Rutledge glanced at his watch, counting them.
The fuse should have reached the charges by now. Standing beside him, Marsh stirred, well aware of time passing.
“It was all right,” he said. “Private Lloyd set it, while Private Jones stood by. They’re good men.”
But blasting caps could be uncertain. The crimp at the fuse could be bad. The fuse could have gone out for any number of reasons.
Rutledge checked the caps. They appeared to have worked.
“Why didn’t you summon Williams?” he asked over his shoulder as Marsh watched him.
“Time was short. Lloyd said he could deal with it. He and Jones. They’ve done it before.”
Rutledge straightened, turned and walked toward the tunnel shaft. “There’s no time to discuss it. The fuse has to be checked.”
Any delay meant that the German tunnel would blow first. And no one was precisely sure where under the line of British trenches it ended.
Captain Marsh peered around in the darkness. “Lloyd? Where are you?”
“He’s gone to the latrines,” someone answered. Rutledge thought it was Private Jones, but he couldn’t be certain where the voice had come from
“Williams, then,” Marsh pointed to him. “Go with Rutledge, man.”
Rutledge took the bulky stethoscope from MacLeod, who was protesting, saying he should be the one to go, but Rutledge shook his head and was already letting himself down the shaft, not waiting for Marsh or Williams.
The two men, officer and private soldier, bent their heads and ran down the tunnel, not worrying about noise until they were within twenty feet of the chalk barricade. Slowing, the two men crept forward, Rutledge’s torch searching for the fuse.
“It’s gone under the bags of chalk,” Williams said in a whisper. “Look.”
They stopped short. The fuse had burned to this point. Was it still lit? Or had it gone out, accidentally snuffed by the lack of air or the weight of the barrier?
Rutledge could feel the cold sweat breaking out as he stepped cautiously over the fuse and knelt by the sacking just above it. Hearing only his own heart beat as he put the stethoscope in his ears, he pressed the bell against the lumpy chalk surface and listened.
The fuse was still burning.
And there was no telling now how much time was left.
“Run!” He was already on his way, Williams ahead of him, both men silently counting off the distance to safety. They had barely reached the shaft, out of breath and already grabbing at the ropes, when the air seemed to be sucked out of the space around them, and the charges blew.
The ground shook beneath their feet, and across No Man’s Land, a vast plume of earth rose high in the air then rained down like black sleet. Rutledge could hear it even as he threw himself to one side, but Williams was caught in the ropes, dangling like a puppet.
And then Captain Marsh was there, pulling Williams up, shouting to Rutledge. In that same instant, the German charges blew, shattering the night with their thunder as a second plume of earth went straight up, blotting out the stars, this time tearing apart half a sector of the British line and finishing off the British tunnel.
There would be no charge tonight across No Man’s Land to follow up at the weakest point of the line, where the tunnel had torn apart its defenses. The damage on both sides was too great.
The Welsh miners and their officers, Rutledge among them, lay where they’d fallen, dazed, half deaf, covered in the stinking earth, and then they were scrambling to their feet, racing for the trenches to pull out the British wounded and dead. Men had been tossed every which way, some of them still unaware they’d been hurt, others deafened or stunned by the shock waves, staring up at their rescuers with blank eyes.
It was five hours later, the wounded dealt with, the dead carried out, repair work already underway in the damaged line of trenches, when Rutledge collected Corporal MacLeod, Captain Marsh, and Private Williams, then sent for Privates Jones and Lloyd. They went to stand at the head of what had once been the shaft to the blown tunnel.
He was very angry as he faced them. Captain Marsh had already refused to lay the blame at anyone’s door, insisting that fuses and explosives were undependable down in the tunnels, that delays had occurred before.
But Rutledge wasn’t satisfied. Too many men had died to sweep the delay under the proverbial rug. And he was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened on his watch.
“That fuse was too long,” he said. “As a result, it allowed the Germans to set theirs, and fire their own charges. We lost good men because of it. They weren’t sappers, they were
my
men, in
my
sector. I want to know what went wrong.”
Marsh cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. Rutledge grimly waited for someone to answer him.
“It was the right length,” Private Jones said finally. “I was present when Aaron—Private Lloyd—cut it. And I saw him crimp the fuse to the caps. It was done the way it should be.”
Private Lloyd stared straight at Rutledge. “There must have been a problem with dampness. Sir.”
The two Welshmen were very much alike, dark haired, dark eyed, broad shouldered from years in the collieries, coal dust still deeply ingrained in their faces and hands. Lloyd, the handsomer of the two, possessed a cockiness that bordered on insolence, only just falling short of defiance.
“It was three minutes late,” Rutledge retorted. “It was still burning as Williams and I reached the chalk bags. It should have gone off well ahead of the German trench. It should have smothered their fuse.”
“It was the right length,” Lloyd repeated stubbornly. “I knew what I was about.”
Captain Marsh interrupted. “It comes down to my fault. I didn’t check it. We were working against the clock. It
looked
all right.”
Williams couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “We were nearly killed. Lieutenant Rutledge and me. We shouldn’t have had to go down there once it was lit.”
Private Jones glared at him. “I tell you, the fuse was all right. Private Lloyd here knows what he’s about. We measured
right
.”
It was the word of Private Jones against Rutledge’s own observations. And it was true, they had had to work in haste.
There was something he ought to remember about these two men, Lloyd and Jones. But he was tired and it escaped him. Something he’d been told by the officer who had brought them up to the front lines.
He said, “Captain Marsh?” Hoping his superior officer would back him up.
But he didn’t. Marsh had no experience with explosives, only the tunneling itself. “We were unlucky,” he said finally. “The Germans were farther along than we knew. I’m sure that’s the answer.”
Fighting to bottle up his anger, Rutledge said, “I don’t believe it is.” He turned and walked back to the lines and his sector. He realized halfway there that Private Williams had followed him. He slowed so that Corporal MacLeod could precede him.