Ian rutledge 13 a lone.., p.25
Ian Rutledge 13 - A Lonely Death, page 25
part #13 of Inspector Ian Rutledge Series
The description would have fit a dozen men Rutledge had seen on the streets of Hastings. Except for the thinness, it fit the man he’d seen at The White Swans.
“I don’t understand why you should be asking about Pierce?”
“I’m curious about anyone who lived in Eastfield at one time and who isn’t here now,” Rutledge answered easily. “There was someone in the churchyard last night. Before Marshall was killed. I never got a good look at him, but he didn’t move like a heavy man.”
“Yes, I see,” Gooding replied, but Rutledge didn’t think he did.
They left the surgery and went back to the police station.
Constable Walker said, “You’ve asked a good many questions about this Summers boy. And now you’re asking about Daniel Pierce. Have you made up your mind that the killer isn’t someone in Eastfield?”
“I haven’t made up my mind about anything,” Rutledge countered. “But if Carl Hopkins isn’t our killer, who is?”
“There are the other survivors of the Eastfield Company. I asked my nephew just last night if he could make head nor tail of this business, and he refused even to consider anyone from the war. Unthinkable, he said. He’d served with them, they’d gone through too much together in France. Besides, if one of them believed he was still in France killing Germans, he’d have used a shotgun.”
“That’s probably true. And I understand what Tuttle is telling you. Battle is a man’s testing ground.”
Walker nodded. “Well, then I asked him about Tommy Summers, and he laughed. Summers wouldn’t have been able to overpower Theo or Hector. Or even Jeffers.”
“People change,” Rutledge reminded him. But Walker shook his head.
“Inside sometimes, outside seldom.”
Rutledge didn’t argue. “I’ll collect Kenton, and we’ll go to Hastings to bring back Carl Hopkins.”
“I’d leave him there a little longer,” Constable Walker said. “He’s safer.”
But Rutledge remembered the bleak cells, and shook his head.
“Where does our murderer go, between killings?” he went on. “We need to find out. He can hardly be staying in Eastfield. Under the circumstances, a stranger would have caused considerable comment.”
“I’ve wondered about that,” Constable Walker agreed. “There’s no derelict building he could hide in. No castle ruins or such. For that matter, no rough land. He must come up from Hastings. Or over from Battle. There you can wander the abbey grounds at will, you know. Still, someone hiding there would attract notice.”
“What about these smugglers’ caves in the Old Town?”
“Well, that’s possible. Not all of them have been explored. Although boys must have poked about in them long before this and never said anything. Caves and treasure—irresistible. My own father told me the caves were still in use when he was a lad. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not—he might have been making certain I never ventured into them.”
“It might be wise to have a look, if Inspector Norman can spare the men. By the way, he’s letting us have Constable Petty for the duration. On his terms, of course. But we need an extra pair of eyes.”
“It didn’t do a hell of a lot of good last night, did it? Our watch. The devil’s determined, and he finds a way.”
“The question is, why was he in the churchyard, if he’d already set his sights on Marshall?” Rutledge looked at his watch. “I must go back to Hastings. I’m expecting a telephone message from the Yard—”
Mr. Kenton came down the street, hurrying in their direction. “I say. There you are, Rutledge!” he hailed them.
Rutledge turned to him. “Just the man I wanted to see. You had a clerk some years ago, by the name of Summers. He left for another position. Do you recall where he went?”
Caught unprepared, Kenton said, “What? Summers? My God, that was fifteen or more years ago. Somewhere in Staffordshire, I think. Or was it Shropshire? Yes, it must have been Shropshire. A firm of wardrobe makers. The name escapes me. Never mind Summers! I’ve come about a far more important matter. I’ve just been told about Hector Marshall. I want Carl out of that jail, do you hear me? I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I was just going down to Hastings. Follow me in your own motorcar and you can bring Carl back to Eastfield.”
Kenton spun on his heel and went back the way he’d come.
Watching him go, Walker said, “He’s happy. Mr. Pierce won’t be.”
Carl Hopkins was almost dazed with relief when he was brought to Inspector Norman’s office.
“They say I’m free to go. Has there been another murder, then?”
“Hector Marshall,” Kenton said.
“Dear God.” Hopkins shook his head. “When is it going to stop?”
Inspector Norman said, “Yes, it’s a good question, Rutledge.”
He ignored the taunt.
After the formalities were complete, Rutledge walked with Hopkins out of the station, followed by Kenton.
“I didn’t think I could manage another night in that cell,” Hopkins was saying. “I’d started to imagine things. Is there any news on Inspector Mickelson?”
“Nothing new,” Kenton said from behind them.
Hopkins sighed, looking up at the blue sky. And then his jaw tightened, and he said, “Do I still have a place at Kenton Chairs?”
Kenton had the grace to look ashamed. But he said, “I never doubted you, my boy. You must believe me.”
“Then why didn’t you come to see me? Why didn’t you bring me books—some writing paper?”
Rutledge walked away, leaving them to sort out the changes in their relationship. He drove to The White Swans and asked at the desk for any messages. There were none.
After a brief hesitation, he went up the stairs to the room belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce.
The maid was just closing the door after cleaning the room, and Rutledge said to her, “I just wish to leave a message.”
She looked uncertain, but he handed her a few coins, and she pocketed them almost before her fingers had closed over them. “I’ll just be across the way, then,” and she gave the door a little shove to open it again.
Rutledge walked in. The room had been serviced, and there wasn’t much to see. It was well appointed, in a French Provincial style that was suited to a bridal suite. Long windows overlooked the street, and beyond that, the strand, and he remembered someone opening the curtains last evening. He walked over and looked out.
It was indeed a beautiful view, far out to sea. Sunlight glistened on the water, sparkling as the waves rolled inland, and the salt-tinged air blew the lacy curtains against his face.
Turning back to the room, he considered it. A wardrobe. A desk. Tables on each side of the bed, drawers below. One could hardly hide a garrote and a supply of identity discs here, and risk having a maid or one’s bride stumbling over them.
Crossing to the desk, he picked up the scrolled silver frame that stood there and looked at the man and woman standing by the white swans that guarded the terrace. They looked happy, carefree, holding hands and smiling for the camera.
He recognized the man at once. A high brow, strong straight nose, firm chin. He’d seen him before, only not as clearly as here in the photograph. The first time, he’d been standing at Reception, staring, when Rutledge had stepped out of the telephone closet. And he was the man Rutledge had followed to this room only last night—or early this morning to be more precise. Had he also been in the churchyard last evening? Hard to say. Yes, possibly.
Daniel Pierce looked nothing like his brother. A good face but not attractive, as Anthony had been even in death.
Hamish said, “The second son.”
Second in all things.
The woman beside him was fair and very pretty, dimpling into a smile that made her seem almost beautiful.
He recalled hearing his sister Frances saying something about all brides being beautiful, and here it was certainly true.
At her feet was a little dog, tongue out as he panted in the warmth of the summer’s day. Of indeterminate breed, fur overhung his dark eyes in a fringe that was almost frivolous, and he looked up adoringly at his mistress. Her dog, then.
Rutledge walked to the wardrobe and looked inside. There was a pair of suitcases, without monograms, her clothes and his, side by side, shoes below, hats on the shelf above.
Shutting the wardrobe doors, he saw the small dog basket next to this side of the bed, and in it, folded into a square, was a blanket hand-embroidered with the name Muffin.
Leaving everything as he’d found it, he walked out of the room and shut the door. The hotel maid smiled at him as he passed, and he thanked her again.
Outside in the bright sunlight, he decided to put in a call to Sergeant Gibson and turned back into the hotel. But the sergeant was not at his desk. Rutledge didn’t leave a message. He’d learned his lesson.
He went back to The Stade, and looked again at the strange black towers that held the drying fish nets.
How long would it be before Gibson found his man? The sergeant was very good at what he did, always thorough. Rutledge debated going to London to see what he could learn for himself. But he knew that would get him nowhere. And he wasn’t prepared yet to deal with Chief Superintendent Bowles or face the curious glances of everyone at the Yard. The story had got out, it was bound to, and he knew any shouting match with the Chief Superintendent was sure to feed the rumor mill. He was still furious about the charges brought against him, and even if he could rein in his temper, he would be hard-pressed to pretend that he didn’t know why they had been brought: because Bowles was suddenly afraid that his machinations had led to murder.
And Meredith Channing was in London as well. He didn’t want to know the answers to the questions that wouldn’t go away. Not now.
Inspector Norman came up, looking with him at the odd black structures. “You’re no closer to the truth than you were when you left. And men continue to die.”
“Are you saying that Inspector Mickelson didn’t make it?”
“As far as I know, he’s not out of danger. Nothing has changed. Look, if it wasn’t Carl Hopkins—and it appears that he isn’t our man—then bring the rest of that Eastfield Company in, and keep them there until someone admits the truth. They work for their living, every one of them. They can’t afford to stay cooped up in a cell indefinitely.”
Rutledge thought about Mrs. Marshall asking for help to feed the pigs. Every one of these deaths had created a hardship of some sort. “It’s tempting. But I think they’re as much in the dark as we are.”
“I can’t believe that. If you’ve fought side by side with a man for four years, you learn very quickly what he’s made of.” It was an echo of Constable Walker’s words.
“Why would the survivors keep their mouths shut, when one name would make the rest of them safe? These murders are as deadly as sniper fire. Men are picked off at will.”
“Because there’s something none of them wants to come out. What’s the worst crime a soldier can commit?”
Thinking about Hamish, Rutledge said, “Desertion under fire.”
“They’d hardly cover that up. Shooting prisoners? Shooting one of their officers in the back?”
“Then why did Anthony Pierce die? He wasn’t in their company.”
“Point taken. I’m glad you were sent back here. I won’t have to face the blame for coming up empty-handed on this one. That’s in your future, not mine.”
Would this become the case he couldn’t solve? Like Cummins and the murder at Stonehenge? He’d already considered that possibility.
“I’ll let you know. You’ll be happy to come and gloat.”
Inspector Norman laughed. “If we weren’t so much alike, we could be friends.” He turned and walked away.
Rutledge watched him for several minutes, then went back to the motorcar. The leather seats were hot from the sun, and there were holidaymakers strolling along the promenade and The Stade. The lush grassy slope of the East Hill spoke of peace and plenty. He watched three young girls flirting with a young man their own age. Carefree, pretty faces shaded by parasols. They were dressed to suit the fine weather in white or lavender or palest green. If he squinted his eyes, he thought, he could almost pretend it was 1914, and the war was only a shadow to come.
And then Hamish said something, and the image was shattered.
He went to see Mrs. Jeffers, and found her in her kitchen, bottling plums.
The child who had answered the door and conveyed him there went skipping out into the kitchen garden, chasing butterflies.
“They can forget, for a time. I wish I could,” she said, her gaze following her daughter. She had auburn hair that had been pulled back out of her way, and her hands were red from working with the boiling water and hot jars. “I have to keep at this, or they’ll spoil,” she told him. “To tell the truth, I don’t know what good talking to me will do. I wasn’t there when Will was killed. And I can’t think he had any enemies. How could he have? He hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of. He was a good man. I don’t know how we’re to get on without him.” Her eyes filled, and she wiped at them with the cloth in her hand. “I tell myself I can’t possibly cry any more, and the next thing I know, I’m crying again.”
“Did your husband know Tommy Summers well?”
“Tommy? I doubt anyone did. He was not easy to know. I think his feelings had been hurt so many times that he just locked himself deep inside and let nobody else in. It was a crying shame how the boys treated him, Will among them. I sometimes thought, if he dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, who would care? His father, or maybe his sister. But that’s all.” She sealed two jars and turned to fill a third. “Now his sister I liked. A pretty girl, and sweet natured. She was younger than most of us. Her mother was dead, and I was sometimes paid to keep an eye on her after school. I’d have done it for free, if it hadn’t been for Tommy, always lurking about, as if he was spying on us. I wrote to her for a time after the family moved away. I thought it a shame she had such a wretch of a brother, but then I was a child myself and hardly knew better. Now, thinking back on it after such a long time, I can see that he wasn’t nearly as bad as we liked to make out. He had this look about him of having bitten into something bitter. Sour, that’s what it was. I didn’t trust him.”
“Do you still have those letters?” Rutledge asked, realizing that he might find the sister faster than Sergeant Gibson would.
“Oh, I never kept them after I got married. I didn’t see any point in it, did I? We hadn’t seen each other in so many years we’d have been like strangers when we met, with nothing to talk about but the weather and our children. But I did think about inviting her to my wedding. It wouldn’t have worked out, but when you’re happy, you want everybody to know it, don’t you?”
“Do you remember how to get in touch with her?”
“Oh yes, it was such an odd name. Regina Summers, Old Well House, Iris Lane, Minton, Shropshire. I couldn’t think what an old well house must look like, and my sister said it must be a hole in the ground because Tommy the slug would live in a hole. She thought it was funny, but I didn’t.”
“Was your husband friendly with Daniel Pierce?”
“Mr. Daniel? Whoever told you such a thing? Will knew him of course, we all did. But Mr. Daniel’s father had money, and our fathers didn’t. That’s a great barrier to friendship, even when you’re young. Not that Mr. Anthony or Mr. Daniel put on airs, it was understood. They were different, even when they were doing what we were doing.”
As he thanked her for her time, Mrs. Jeffers said, “Finding Will’s murderer is the only thanks I need.”
Leaving a brief message on Constable Walker’s desk with a schedule for the nightly patrols, he packed his valise, left The Fishermen’s Arms, and set out for Shropshire.
He had fewer than three days to find an answer.
Rutledge stopped in London for clean clothing, and found a letter waiting for him from Reginald Hume.
I’m still with Rosemary. The thought of this empty house filled with Max’s ghost was too much for her, I think, and caring for me has given her something to do. I’m no trouble, and I stay out of her way as much as possible. The doctors here are trying to persuade me to go to America and a place called Arizona. They believe the dry air there may help, but I don’t believe I could survive the journey at this stage. And I have something to do before I die. Just wanted you to know that Rosemary is beginning to accept. But there’s a long road ahead.
And then he was on the road north and west, to find Minton, Shropshire.
19
It was late when he neared his destination. Rutledge had had to stop and ask for Minton half a dozen times before he finally learned that it was the next village over but one.
He stayed in a small inn that boasted no more than five rooms, and the next morning drove on to Minton.
He’d always liked Shropshire, sitting on the Welsh Borders. The River Severn divided the rolling land to the north from the southern plains, and just below Buildwas was the tiny village of Minton. It looked down on the tree-lined river and huddled together, as if half afraid of disappearing if it spread out.
Iris Lane was just that, a short track edged its entire length with beds of iris, the broad green swords of their leaves unmistakable, although there were no blooms now. Old Well House was a pretty cottage, windows open wide to the morning air and a line of wash already hung out at the side of the kitchen garden.
Rutledge tapped lightly at the door, and a young woman came to open it. Her face was flushed, as if she’d hurried down the stairs.
“Oh,” she said, encountering a stranger on her step. Looking over his shoulder she saw the motorcar. “I thought you might be—well, never mind, you aren’t. Have you got yourself lost?”
