A Fine Summer's Day (11 page)

“My sister runs it,” Mrs. Reid said, preparing to shut the door. “Just tell her you've taken a room.”

“Where is the police station?”

She regarded him suspiciously. “It's the front room in the constable's cottage. Look here, is it the murder brought you from London? If so, this room's taken. We don't cater to the newspapers or the people they send down.”

“I'm from Scotland Yard, Mrs. Reid. I was asked by the Chief Constable to look into the murder. I'm afraid you must take your objections to him.” It was late and he was tired. His voice brooked no discussion of the matter.

She nodded after a moment, her face uncertain, but she shut the door smartly. He rather thought the news of his arrival would have reached every ear in the village by first light, but there was nothing he could do about that.

After an early breakfast, he went to find the constable. The police station, if it could be called that, was indeed the front room of the cottage, but another room had been added to the rear to compensate for the lost space.

Constable Hurley was in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging down at his sides, when Rutledge knocked at the door, then walked in. Middle-aged, running to weight now, and balding early, he gave the impression at first glance of being incompetent.

Hurley said, “You're the man London sent down? Sir?”

“I am. Tell me about what happened to Joel Tattersall.”

“Surely you've seen the report, sir?”

“I have. But you saw the body, according to what I've read. I'd like to know what else you saw and what you felt when you arrived at the scene.”

“His sister found him. Miss Tattersall. A spinster. She was quite frantic, and I heard her crying for the doctor to come quickly. Dr. Graham is past seventy and slow. I went ahead to see what I could do, and there he was, Mr. Tattersall, lying there on his side just back of the door. She'd seen him as she came down the stairs, thought his heart had given out, and rushed for help, as there was no one else to send. The daily, Mrs. Betterton, hadn't arrived, for it had just gone seven.”

“What did Dr. Graham have to say?”

“He thought it was Mr. Tattersall's heart as well. But he sent for his son, who lives in the next village, and the younger Dr. Graham took Mr. Hurley away to his surgery and told us later that afternoon that he hadn't died of his heart at all.”

“He had died of an overdose of laudanum, according to the report I saw. Why was he taking it?”

“But that's just it, neither Miss Tattersall nor her brother had been prescribed it by Dr. Graham. Mrs. Betterton, who does for them, takes it sometimes to help her sleep because she has a neuralgia in her back. But she never carries it with her to the house.”

“Is Dr. Graham certain of that?”

“He is, indeed, still having all his faculties, in spite of being slow afoot. Laudanum is a freakish thing, Mr. Rutledge, as you well know, sir. It gives the body rest, and frees it of pain, but too much and a person dies. Or can't stop craving it.”

“Who was in the house at the time?”

“Only Miss Tattersall, and she swears the door was on the latch when she opened it to run for Dr. Graham.”

“And what does gossip have to say about Mr. Tattersall's death?”

“He had a falling-out with his solicitor some weeks ago. Sorry to say, no one likes the man. He has chambers in Wells, but his firm has handled the affairs of the Tattersall family for generations. The trouble is, Mr. Simmons has developed an unfortunate taste for gambling. Mr. Tattersall accused him of embezzling certain funds. Mr. Simmons replied that Mr. Tattersall's refusal to listen to reason resulted in poor investment choices.”

“And has anyone spoken to Mr. Simmons since Mr. Tattersall died?”

“He was drunk as a lord when Inspector Holliston went to call on him. Asking about the will, you see. There was no making any sense of what he said.”

“Inspector Holliston is the man in Wells?”

“Yes, sir. It was he who asked that we summon the Yard. I'd not have done it on my own account.”

“Why?”

“We like to do things in our own good time, you see. No offense intended.”

“None taken. What in your opinion happened to Mr. Tattersall?”

“It's possible he took the laudanum of his own accord. He was something of a hypochondriac.” He stumbled slightly, as if the word were unfamiliar to him. “I know it's what Dr. Graham had to say about him, always coming to the surgery with this or that ailment, most of them in his head.”

“But he wasn't prescribed it.”

“And then there's the man who does the outside work of the house. Bob. He and Mr. Tattersall were always at odds over the pruning. Bob having an aggressive hand with the shears.”

“Hardly a reason to murder a man.”

“You don't know how those two fought over the years,” Constable Hurley answered darkly.

Rutledge had seen it before. Men who deliberately tried to aggravate each other, to the point of madness. Something in their personalities, something in their mind-sets that led to bickering and sometimes beyond. Yet the loss of one often led sooner rather than later to the death of the other. But not always.

Rutledge read the statements that had been collected and then nodded. “We'll begin with Miss Tattersall, I think. And then Dr. Graham.”

Miss Tattersall's red eyes spoke of sleepless nights. But she was of a class where duty was paramount, even overruling grief. Tall, slim, with an intelligent face and no pretense at beauty, she was wearing a plain black dress with jet beads at the throat.

Leading them back to a small sitting room overlooking a bed of roses, she offered them tea, but Rutledge politely declined, instead offering his sympathy on the loss of her brother.

Following up on that, he asked gently, “Can you tell me just what happened when you discovered your brother's body? I've read the interview, but it will help me to see that morning more clearly.”

She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and then said quietly, “I came down as usual to put the kettle on. I like the early morning, and I enjoy the quiet before Mrs. Betterton arrives to bustle about. You passed the stairs as you came in. I'd just started down them when I saw my brother lying there at the foot. My first thought was his heart, because he was lying so still. I called to him as I hurried down to him and put out a hand to touch his cheek. It was already cool. Unnaturally so. I realized then that he was still dressed, that he hadn't gone up to bed. That he must have been lying there for quite some time, while I was sleeping. There was no one else to summon Dr. Graham, although I opened the door to see if there was anyone on the street. I was wearing slippers, although I was dressed, of course. I
looked at them for a moment and decided they didn't matter at a time like this. And so I walked quickly down to Dr. Graham's house. He was already awake. I'd been afraid I might have to pound on the door. I told him I feared something had happened to my brother. He could see that I was in my slippers and distressed. He came at once, just stopping long enough to fetch his bag.”

She looked away then, staring out the window where a climbing rose the shade of blood framed the glass, one or two blossoms still visible despite the July heat. Her fingers smoothed the dark blue chintz arm of her chair. Rutledge waited.

After a moment, she picked up the thread of her story. “He asked me—Dr. Graham—if I'd tried to resuscitate Joel. I said no, explaining that his skin was already cool to the touch. But perhaps that was from the night air, and I thought then that I ought to have
tried
.”

Rutledge stopped her. “Had your brother had trouble with his heart before this?”

“No. Not at all. But our mother had, you see. We came to the house, and he asked me to allow him to go in first. I hadn't told him that Joel wasn't in his bed. He was quite surprised to find him lying there by the door. But, of course, there was nothing to be done. Dr. Graham insisted that I go into the kitchen and make both of us a cup of tea. I really didn't want it, but he's an old man, and I thought it might be best to make it for his sake. I even asked if he'd like a little something in it. Joel often took a drop or two of whisky in his tea. But he said no. And so we sat there, with my brother still lying at the foot of the steps, and waited for the kettle to boil. I asked Dr. Graham then if it was his heart. He said he feared it must be. By that time Mrs. Betterton had arrived, and we had to give her a cup of tea as well. While I was occupied with her, Dr. Graham saw to it that Joel was removed to his son's surgery and he also had the floor cleaned where—where my brother had died.”

“And at that time you still felt it was a natural death?”

“Oh yes, anything else never crossed my mind. It wasn't until the constable, here, told me about the laudanum that I knew it was something vastly different. Joel never used laudanum. I don't think he approved of it. But what I don't understand is how it came to be in his stomach. I didn't find a glass by his chair or in the kitchen. Where I'd expect to see one if he'd had something to drink before retiring. I also looked in his room. A little later, however, I found a broken glass in the dustbin.”

“Where is it now?”

“I expect it went to the tip.”

“Was your brother in any pain? Did he have any problems that would make him look for relief, and then swallow the wrong dose?”

“If you're asking if he were anxious, the answer is no. And he never complained of pain. But then he wouldn't. We'd been brought up not to complain, you see.”

And yet the constable had told him that Tattersall was something of a hypochondriac. Was he careful not to worry his sister with imaginary ailments? Or afraid she would make light of them in her blunt, practical way?

“When the possibility of murder was raised, what did you think?”

“I didn't know what to think. I had been asleep just up those stairs. If someone had come into this house, they must have known that.”

“And nothing was taken?”

“Nothing. Inspector Holliston asked me to look, and I did. Not so much as a matchstick was missing.”

He was reminded of the inquiry in Moresby, where nothing had been taken except for a man's life. But Tattersall hadn't been hanged.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished to see your brother dead?”

She shook her head. “No. I'd have said he wasn't the sort of man who would ever be murdered. It's odd—and it's troubling. I find myself looking at people in the village and wondering. But of course
that's ridiculous. I don't know of anyone who would do such a thing to him.”

“Which suggests that someone could have entered this house without breaking in. He could have come through the door and found your brother still downstairs?”

“Yes, sadly, that's true. We thought we had nothing to fear. How foolish we were. But I expect if someone had wanted to come in badly enough, he'd have found a way. We leave the kitchen door off the latch as well, so that Mrs. Betterton can come and go without disturbing us.”

“Why do you think your brother was lying there by the stairs, so close to the door. Was he looking to find you—or to follow someone out? You told the doctor that the door was on the latch.”

“If someone had come in and wanted to harm him, he would try to stop this person. I don't think he would have considered coming up the stairs until he knew I would be safe. Possibly he intended to lock the door after whoever it was left.”

There was a stoicism in her voice that had the ring of truth in it. Setting aside her pain and her grief, she was looking at her brother's last moments as objectively as she could. She was of an age and a class that demanded it of her, and she would not fail in her duty. Mourning would have to wait.

Rutledge thought it very likely that she was right. The dying man's effort to lock the door behind whoever it was who had killed him was a natural instinct to protect his sister. But he'd never reached the door. Then why had she thought it was locked?

Unless the killer had locked it when he came in, and then let himself out the back way, so as not to be seen.

Rutledge asked to see the kitchen door. The back garden, protected by a high wall and shaded by tall trees, ran down to a small shed at the bottom. He went to have a look at it, then tested the wall's height himself.

It was just possible for him to pull himself to the top of the shed
and then swing himself over the high wall. It was a long drop on the far side, but into heavy grass. Beyond lay a plowed field and beyond that a thin copse of trees.

If the killer had left by this route, he must have been tall enough to do what Rutledge had done.

But by the side of the house, there was a narrow passage with a small gate into the garden and flagstones leading across to the kitchen door. The way that the housekeeper arrived and left each day. If the killer had watched the house, he would have seen her regular movements, and perhaps late at night even tested the gate and the back door himself.

Not a random killing, then. A premeditated murder?

D
r. Graham was in his surgery. Rutledge and Constable Hurley waited for some ten minutes before he was free to speak to them.

The man's hair was white, as was the mustache that bristled above his upper lip. His hands were blue-veined and thin, but there was no quiver of age in them as he gestured to two chairs in front of the table he used as a desk. And his gray eyes were sharp, steady. His nurse, who looked to be thirty, had also been steady and unflappable in the face of a visit by Scotland Yard.

Dr. Graham said, before Rutledge could ask his first question, “I never said anything to Miss Tattersall about suicide. But I must tell you that under the circumstances, I've considered the possibility. The problem is, I know of no reason for it. Tattersall was in reasonably good health for his age, and he had no financial worries. Rumors about that sort of thing usually get out sooner or later, and I'd heard
none. Nor was there any note. I looked upstairs in his bedroom while Miss Tattersall was putting the kettle on. And yet murder seems to me to be equally far-fetched.”

“Why?”

“I can't think of any reason for it any more than I can for self-destruction.”

“He came often to your surgery, I'm told, with imaginary ailments.”

“Well, yes, that's true, but I think he was mostly lonely. A good many of his friends had passed on or moved away to live with a son or daughter. We'd discuss whatever problem he claimed to have had, I'd prescribe exercise or avoiding a last cup of tea at bedtime, or simply tell him he was mistaken, that he was not ill. He'd thank me, settle my bill with the nurse, and be on his way. He was never insistent or rude.”

“I've been told he had had a long-standing feud with the man who kept the grounds at the house.”

Dr. Graham chuckled. “So he did. If it led to murder, I'll be hard-pressed to believe it. I have never seen two more stubborn men. But the odd thing is, they were never that way in any other situation. There was something about the pruning that began the feud. Have you see the back garden? Yes? To tell you the truth, I think they rather enjoyed their verbal battles.”

“And his quarrel with the solicitor? A matter of possible misappropriation of funds?”

“There may be some truth to that. The man was no fool when it came to money. Simmons must have been desperate indeed if he tried to embezzle from the accounts of Joel Tattersall. But Simmons might well be guilty of raiding the funds of other clients, if his gambling got out of hand. I've heard that he frequented several clubs in London.”

“And Tattersall might have threatened to tell those other clients, or at least make his suspicions public.”

“That's very possible. And he would have opened the door to
Simmons, if he'd come to eat humble pie. Or pretended to have done. Something to consider.”

“It appears that you and the constable here knew of the problems with Simmons. If others knew, what would be the point of killing Tattersall?”

“We learned of it after the murder. There was the draft of a letter in Tattersall's desk. Holliston read it and told us that it indicated the dead man's suspicions and his intention to call for an audit of the books. Tattersall and his sister enjoyed a considerable trust fund, jointly held. Simmons and his father before him had the administering of it.”

But Rutledge hadn't been told about this letter.

He said as much. Constable Hurley cleared his throat. “The doctor and I felt it best to mention nothing about it until there was time to judge whether it was true or just Mr. Tattersall's suspicions.”

Interesting information. It might even prove motive.

“Could you tell whether or not the house had been searched, as in Simmons trying to find this letter?”

“Miss Tattersall assured us nothing had been disturbed.”

“Why did Tattersall use a solicitor in Wells, rather than one closer to home?”

“It was his father who selected the firm of Simmons and Simmons. Or so I was led to believe by Miss Tattersall.”

“Would she have killed her brother in order to inherit his share of the fund?”

“I can't imagine why. My understanding is that the fund is more than sufficient for their needs now and well into the future.”

“Anything else you've chosen not to share?”

Color rose in the constable's face. “No, sir.”

Dr. Graham added with almost Victorian righteousness, “I didn't wish to ruin a man's reputation without good cause.”

“But you told the sister about the possible embezzlement?”

“Not at this stage. It was unlikely that whoever killed her brother would return to kill her.”

But nothing was unlikely yet.

Rutledge rose. “It might have set her mind at ease. She fears that whoever killed her brother knows she was in the house at the time. And whoever it is might decide at some stage that she can identify him.”

“Still.”

He realized that a man of the doctor's age would have been accustomed to sparing women ugly or sordid details. In matters of illness, he would have told their fathers or brothers how their female relatives should be treated, naturally assuming that the male members of the family would see that instructions were understood and properly carried out. An old-fashioned and outdated point of view. He wondered briefly what the very capable Miss Tattersall would have made of it.

“I'll like to speak to Inspector Holliston and possibly to Simmons. Thank you for your time, Doctor. Constable.”

He turned and left both men in the office, staring after him.

It was not a long drive to Wells, and he found the town bustling in the summer morning sun. Inspector Holliston was easily found in the main police station.

A man of medium height with the springy step of an athlete, Holliston ran his fingers through his fair hair and said, “Sorry to put this matter off on the Yard, but we've had a rash of trouble. The heat, I expect. No relief from it. And so you got Mr. Tattersall.”

“What sort of trouble?” Rutledge asked, curious.

Holliston sighed. “A hanging. We haven't decided if it's suicide or murder. A man killed in his farmyard, but we aren't certain whether it's murder or an accident. Fell out of the loft window onto his own pitchfork. A drowning that could be suspicious. There were enough people eager to kill the bastard. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them did it. And now Tattersall's death.”

“Which you treated as murder from the start.”

“For one thing, he's a prominent man. For another, where did the laudanum come from? Finally, a man doesn't kill himself without good reason. No health issues, no money worries, no enemies. A quiet man living a quiet life. A sister to look after, for that matter. Not a likely suicide. And yet it appears he drank that laudanum himself. No bruising of the lip or tongue. No sign of a struggle. One wonders why.”

On the table behind where Holliston was sitting were three rowing trophies. Rutledge wondered where he rowed, and if they were past or present achievements. The way the sun shone in the window above them, he couldn't read the dates. Or the inscriptions, for that matter.

“Why, indeed. The only change in his life appears to be the problem with the solicitor. The possibility of embezzlement.”

“That's the odd thing,” Holliston said, moving the papers in front of him so that they marched with the border of his blotter. “It appears that there was a break-in at Simmons's chambers not long ago. Nothing taken, but some of his files had been rifled. We've not found out any more about that. But it's worth noting.”

“Constable Hurley said nothing about a break-in.”

“I doubt he knows. It was our patch, not his.”

Rutledge said, “It might have some importance in both inquiries.”

Holliston shrugged. “I don't see how. Besides, Tattersall hadn't written his letter to Simmons when that happened.”

“Then how did he learn of the embezzlement?”

“I expect he was careful of his business matters. In his desk were a number of small ledgers listing various transactions about his and his sister's trusts.”

“Do you think Miss Tattersall was worried about that trust—and poisoned her brother with laudanum?”

“She seems an unlikely candidate for murderer. What's more, given the sums in question, it would have been sheer greed, not necessity. The ledgers indicated that she had more than the usual freedom of access to her monies and spent them as she saw fit. My conclusion
was that the trust was unlikely to have become an issue between brother and sister.”

Unlikely . . .

That policeman's caveat again. And yet Rutledge had to agree. His conversation with Miss Tattersall had given him no reason to doubt her testimony. She was straightforward, almost blunt at times, and gave no impression of hiding anything.

“It's certain nothing was taken during the break-in at the solicitor's chambers?”

“According to Simmons and his clerk.”

“If it was incriminating material, perhaps they preferred not to admit that to the police.”

Holliston frowned. “If it were only Simmons, I might agree with you. That's to say, if the man
is
stealing from his clients. But William Barry, his head clerk, is a different matter. I can't quite see him lying to us. He worked for the elder Simmons, and he has a reputation for integrity and honesty.”

“How can he not know? It's possible he's aware of embezzlement and is afraid of losing his position once he confirms your suspicions.”

“I stand by my belief that he's what he appears to be.”

“Then either Simmons is brilliant in hiding his affairs from his clerk, or it's been a fairly recent problem. And there's his gambling.”

“All right, I'll give you that.”

“I'm told that he was drunk when you called on him to take a look at Tattersall's will. Is this a frequent occurrence? Does Simmons often drink more than he can hold?”

“I've never known him to do that. I was as surprised to find him in that condition as my constable was. And at that hour.”

“Perhaps his conscience was troubling him.”

Holliston raised fair eyebrows. “You're suggesting that he killed Tattersall, and then was overcome by remorse?”

“It's happened before. I think it's time to have a word with Simmons.”

Holliston gave him directions to the solicitor's chambers, and then said, “He's a likeable man. Simmons. I'm not sure where the gambling came from, or why. Unless he fell in with a bad crowd at that club in London.”

“It's always possible,” Rutledge agreed, and took his leave.

He found the tall, handsome house with the brass plate by the door that read
S
IMMONS AND
S
IMMONS
,
and lifted the matching brass door knocker.

The clerk who answered his summons was a plump man with white hair and steady brown eyes.

He invited Rutledge inside and led him to the reception room. “I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, sir,” he said. “Mr. Simmons has gone to see a client, and I was in the back. Can I help you?”

“I've come to speak to Mr. Simmons in regard to the Tattersall trust fund. I understand he administers it for the late Joel Tattersall and his sister.”

“May I ask why you are inquiring?” the clerk replied, giving nothing away as he faced Rutledge.

He gave his name, and after a moment, he added, “I'm from London. Scotland Yard.”

“Ah. I was uncertain whether Mr. Tattersall's death had been determined to be murder or perhaps suicide.”

“Why should he have killed himself?”

“I have no idea. But I have held this position for many years, and if I have learned anything at all, it's that people often do things that one never expects them to do.”

“For instance, your employer's enthusiasm for gambling? I was given to understand that this was a recent—er—pastime.”

The clerk considered Rutledge. “Mr. Simmons is a good man. And a fair man. But he doesn't have the same dedication to the law that his father had. If anything, I would say he took up gambling out of boredom.”

“This is his livelihood.”

“I daresay it is. But there is no law that prevents a solicitor from enjoying himself.”

“None at all, unless his habit of gambling has led him into deep waters, and he finds himself in need of more funds than he's able to raise. Unless he turns to the trust funds that are in his keeping and helps himself to them.”

The clerk never blinked an eye. “To my knowledge, Mr. Simmons has never broken the promise he made to his father, to conduct his business honorably.”

“Then you're saying—”

The outer door opened and a man with dark red hair and sharp blue eyes walked in, interrupting them.

“I say, Barry, can you lay your hands on that inquiry about the—”

It was his turn to break off as he saw Rutledge sitting in the antechamber speaking to his clerk.

“Sorry,” he said, nodding to Rutledge. “I'll be with you shortly.”

But some sort of signal must have passed between Barry and his employer, because Simmons frowned, then said, “If you'll forgive me,” and walked on to the inner door, passing through it without looking back.

Barry excused himself and followed Simmons.

From where he was sitting Rutledge could hear their voices but not what they were saying.

After several minutes, Simmons returned and said to Rutledge, “I can see you now, but I must tell you I have an urgent meeting in ten minutes.”

He showed Rutledge into a large inner room with a desk and several chairs. It was clearly where he met with clients, for the carpet and the window hangings and the dark wood of the furnishings spoke of longevity and trust. Even the paintings, dark and Elizabethan, save for the white ruffs of the sitters, added to the feeling of timelessness and respectability. The only thing out of place in this setting was the bright green blotter on the massive desk.