A Fine Summer's Day (13 page)

“You've been running a quiet campaign with an eye to discrediting Simmons,” Rutledge told him then. “Your personal affairs are none of my business, but ruining the man's chances with Miss Barclay is abuse of your authority.” Rutledge was curt. “In my view, you and Miss Barclay deserve each other, but what you've also done is muddy the evidence regarding Tattersall's death. I'm going back there now, to do what I can to sort out truth from fallacy. Any further use of your position for personal gain and you'll find yourself reduced to rank of constable, if not dismissed from the police altogether.”

He turned on his heel, leaving Holliston standing there. It wasn't until he reached the outer door that he heard the man call his name, but he didn't turn. And Holliston didn't follow him.

R
eturning to Stoke Yarlington, Rutledge sought out Constable Hurley and asked if there had been any strangers in the village in the past weeks.

Hurley was just finishing his tea, and he wiped his hands as he considered the question.

“I don't think there's been anyone of late. Not since early June, and that was an itinerant peddler selling ribbons and lace and the like. He didn't find the ladies here very eager to buy, and he moved on. Short
man, graying hair, missing a tooth in front. I don't know that he had anything to do with the Tattersalls. He wasn't likely to call at their house. His custom came mainly from young girls and a few of the younger maids he encountered on the street.”

“No one else. Not someone passing through who attracted little attention to himself?”

“If there was, I never saw him, nor did anyone mention him to me.”

So much for that line of questioning. He went back to Tattersall's sister.

Rutledge asked her much the same questions that he'd put to Hurley, but she was unaware of anyone who might have shown an interest in the house.

But when asked, Mrs. Betterton said, “I was leaving one night about a week before Mr. Tattersall's death, and there was a man some twenty yards from the gate, repairing his bicycle tire. He didn't look up as I came round the house and walked down the path. It was getting on toward dusk, but I'd stayed late to hang the new curtains, helping Miss Tattersall get them to fall just right. I haven't thought twice about the man since then. He seemed to be just an ordinary sort.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was wearing coveralls and a blue shirt. Middling tallish, as far as I could tell, and slim. He didn't strike me as the usual run of beggars, and so I didn't give him a second's thought. I did notice the bicycle appeared to be new, and thought what a pity it was he'd already had a flat.”

“Did you see his face?”

“He was wearing a cap, and bending over the tire, putting on a patch. I walked on into the village, and he didn't pass me. I expect he'd been heading the other way.”

He turned to Miss Tattersall. “Did you or your brother see this man?”

“No, Inspector, I expect we were having our dinner. It was rather
late that night because of the curtains, and my brother was anxious to dine.”

“Did you make the curtains yourself?”

She gave him a withering look that said he knew little about such matters. “No, certainly not. I ordered them from London, and when they came, I thought it was not impossible to hang them myself, rather than have someone in to do it. My brother never cared for people traipsing, as he put it, through the house.”

Which brought Rutledge back to Bob, the handyman.

It was Mrs. Betterton who told him where to find Bob.

He lived in a small stone cottage down a narrow lane that crossed a little stream. There was a wood just beyond the cottage, and the ground rose on the far side of the stream.

Bob was in the kitchen of the cottage, apparently staring at the walls when Rutledge was ushered in by the woman who had called herself “Bob's wife.” She was a few years younger than her husband, a pretty woman who had retained her looks into middle age.

Bob by contrast had the broad shoulders of someone who had been a laborer all his life, and strong, square hands.

He looked up as Rutledge came into the room, saying, “Who may you be?” in an irascible voice with a heavy Somerset accent.

“Dear, he's a policeman, come to speak to you about Mr. Tattersall, I should think.”

“I've already spoken to two policemen, Hurley and that fool from Wells. What does this one want?” He addressed his question to his wife, all the while watching Rutledge.

“I'm from London, Mr. Bryant. Scotland Yard to be precise. I've taken over the inquiry into the death of Mr. Tattersall. I was wondering what you could tell me about that day and whether or not you have any suggestions about who might have wanted to see your employer dead.”

“I didn't live in his pocket,” Bob retorted. “I cut his lawns and took care of his flower beds and pruned the bloody shrubs and trees.”

“You had worked for him how many years? In all that time, you
never formed an opinion about Mr. Tattersall, or speculated on his activities?”

“Twenty-some years, I expect. More like twenty-five. And it wasn't my place to form opinions or speculate. I was there to see to the grounds and argue with him when we disagreed on the most sensible way of doing that.”

“Did you argue over anything else?”

“No. Nothing else was my responsibility.”

“Will you continue to keep the grounds, now that he's dead?”

“I don't see any reason not to.” He looked at his hands, at the earth caked under the nails and the calluses on his palms. “Miss Tattersall has said nothing to the contrary.”

“And I don't expect she will. Who did you see loitering around the grounds one day?”

Bob frowned. “I never saw anyone hanging about. Who says there was?”

“Mrs. Betterton saw someone repairing his bicycle tire, just outside the gate to the path. Did you see him?”

“Here, I never did. If she says I did, she's lying.”

“I'm asking if you saw him,” Rutledge replied patiently.

“No. I start work at seven, leave just at four twice a week. Those were the terms that old fool and I agreed to, and then he set about trying to change them every chance he got.”

“That's not fair, Bobby, dear,” his wife put in. “He was very good to you, and he even paid the doctor's bills, when you hurt your foot.”

“Was the injury severe? Did it require stitches, laudanum for the pain?” Rutledge asked Mrs. Bryant.

“My heavens, no,” she answered, smiling. “Dr. Graham put a plaster on it and that was that. But Mr. Tattersall insisted he go back to be sure it'ud healed properly.”

“He disliked me and I him,” Bob said stubbornly.

“Then why did you work for the man?” Rutledge asked, letting his impatience with Bob show.

“I needed the position. Besides, I thought, given his age, he'd leave me to it. Old fool that he was.” But there was something in his voice that belied his words, a lack of force, as if he'd said such things for so many years he couldn't retreat from his position. As if, underneath the gruffness, there was a feeling of loss he didn't know how to deal with.

Rutledge glanced at Mrs. Bryant. She was watching her husband with fondness in her gaze and some sadness as well. As if she too knew how much he was hurting.

“And you know of no enemies or anyone who might wish this man dead?”

“I've told you. He was a difficult man to deal with. His enemies might be legion—but I know nothing about them.”

Mrs. Bryant said, sadly, “He never bothered anyone. Why should he have enemies? Why should anyone want to kill the poor soul?”

Which was the question he carried with him as he left.

If Bob had wanted Tattersall dead, he could have taken the pruning shears to him, or a hammer, any time in the five-and-twenty years of employment. An overdose of laudanum was not the sort of weapon he'd have used. Indeed, how would he know how much was an overdose? It was Mrs. Bryant who would see to such things. But he called in at Dr. Graham's surgery to be sure.

Rutledge spent the next several hours interviewing Tattersall's neighbors, seeking out the vicar of the little church, and speaking to the postmaster in the tiny booth set up in the greengrocer's shop.

The vicar put it best. “There has to be a reason for killing, isn't that true? I don't think Mr. Tattersall ever raised his voice to anyone, with the exception of Bob Bryant. And then it was more a game than anything else. He was never unkind, and if there were parishioners in need, I'd find extra money in the poor box that week, left there anonymously, but of course I could guess where it came from. He worried about his trust, for fear he'd outlive it, and so he watched it carefully.”

“That may be the man you know now. But what about ten years ago? Twenty? Thirty?”

“A wild youth? Mr. Tattersall? I think not. He did his duty, he voted in every election, and he paid whatever he owed. You've met his sister. They were very much alike.”

“And no problems between them? They've lived in the same house for how many years?”

“Wild horses couldn't have forced her to do anything against her conscience.”

Rutledge was to remember those words in the weeks ahead.

H
e spent two more days in the village, taking his inquiry farther afield, even interviewing farmers' wives who came in to market. But neither the shopkeepers nor the farmers had taken on anyone new in the past year, and no one had inquired about possible work. Stoke Yarlington was far enough off the main road to Wells that it saw very little traffic from the outside world.

And he was no closer to the truth than he'd been when he drove down the High and looked for the police station that first morning.

Constable Hurley was unconvinced that Simmons was clear of any suspicion. He held on to the whispers of gambling and the accusation of embezzlement in Tattersall's unfinished letter. The doctor was of the same opinion. His son, who lived in Wells, had passed the story of drunkenness on to his father, and Dr. Graham believed him.

Irritated with their intransigence, Rutledge suggested they read the entire letter for themselves.

He went back to Wells to speak to Simmons, found him out of the office for the next hour, and walked on to the cathedral. With its exaggerated west front and wishbone pillars holding up the roof, it was a beautiful building, and the swans on the moat by the bishop's palace moved majestically in the shadows cast by the trees overhanging it.

He was reminded of Jean's wish for a lake and for swans. He wondered what she was doing on such a lovely day, and missed her more than he'd thought possible.

On his way back to Simmons's chambers he decided to make a detour to find a telephone, and when he had, in the largest hotel in town, he called the Yard. It took several minutes before Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone, his voice rumbling down the wire with its usual brusqueness.

Rutledge identified himself and asked Gibson to speak to the headmaster at Eton, where Tattersall had gone to school. “Any trouble there? Any problems that might spring up years later?” When the conversation ended, he went to find Simmons.

The man looked tired. “Trying to scotch rumors is the devil of a task,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I'm a drunkard who has squandered his clients' money on horse racing and cards. Holliston has tried to make things right, but it will take years to undo the harm done. And Miss Barclay is not speaking to either of us.” He shrugged ruefully. “Well, at least Holliston's chances are as dead as mine now.”

“Serves him right, don't you think?” Rutledge asked.

“I feel no sympathy for him, if that's what you mean. Any closer to solving Tattersall's murder?”

“The inquest brought in the verdict of person or persons unknown. I've found no reason to dispute that.”

“It would help me if you found Tattersall's killer.”

“I'm sure it would.” Rutledge shifted in his chair. “There's something we're missing. There must be. But I've found nothing. I shall have to tell the Yard as much, and ask if they wish to send someone else in my place to close the inquiry.”

“I don't relish digging all this up again.”

“I wish I could have avoided it.”

“Well, we have larger worries, it seems. The news from Europe isn't improving.”

Rutledge recalled what Major Gordon had said, that the Army was keeping a close eye on events. “It's the middle of July,” he agreed. “Russia will have to choose—if she backs down, lets Austria punish Serbia as she sees fit, there won't be any war.”

“Friends in London are saying that if the Germans cross the Rhine into France, the Government will consider it a purely European war and try to act as a broker of peace instead. You're from London. Any truth in that?”

“God knows. I can't afford to await events. I have a murderer to find.” Rutledge rose. “I'm running up to London. There are several matters I need to look into. You're still on the suspect list, in the eyes of Constable Hurley in Stoke Yarlington. Both Dr. Graham and his son feel the same. I'd watch my step, if I were you.”

“Thanks for the warning. I've volunteered to help out in the church fete. God forgive me, it was the only way I could think of to mend fences. At least for a few of my clients, this will appear to have the Church's blessing.” He grimaced. “And to be honest, I'll be very glad to see the end of you. Every time you walk through my door, there are those waiting to see you drag me out in chains.”

“Then they'll be surprised to see me drive away without you.”

With a nod to Mr. Barry in the clerk's room, Rutledge left.

He stopped in Eton, found a telephone, and put in a call to the Yard. Gibson had elicited the information he needed, and he walked into the headmaster's rooms in Eton, to ask if anyone recalled a student by the name of Tattersall.

Apparently the man had not left a strong personal impression, but his marks were high and he appeared to have been liked by his fellow students. His sport was cricket, and he had been a good batsman.

The playing fields . . .

They had made men who helped rule the Empire. But Tattersall had been content to return to the village where he'd been born and to live out his life there. He'd surrounded himself with books rather than people, and yet he had done his duty when called upon to do so.

There was nothing in his record here to account for his murder some forty years on. Or his suicide.

Rutledge drove on into London, intending to confer with Chief Superintendent Bowles. But he had gone to a conference in Oxford and wasn't expected back until the next morning.

Rutledge went home, spent an hour with his sister, and then drove to Jean's house.

He rang the bell, only to be told by the butler that Miss Gordon and her parents had gone to Warwick to visit a cousin. They weren't expected back in London until the weekend.

More disappointed than he cared to say, Rutledge thanked Simpson and turned to go.

Just then Kate came down the stairs and called to him. He waited for her, and she smiled at the butler. “Thank you, Simpson. I'll see to him.”

And to Rutledge she said, “I'd just stopped by to borrow Jean's lavender gloves.” She held them up like a trophy. “If you like, you can drop me in town.”

“I'll take you to lunch. And you can tell me why you require lavender gloves.”

“Lovely.” She closed the door behind her and followed him down the short flight of steps to his motorcar. “I thought you were in the hinterland chasing murderers.”

“I was. But the Chief Superintendent is away today, and so I must wait for him.”

“Ah. Well, Jean's misfortune at missing you is my good fortune at finding you. Dear Ian, would you mind terribly taking me to the theater tonight? We've got up a party, and we're well chaperoned by the Merrimans. But I lack an escort, and I shall have to beg off.”

“What happened to your escort?”

“Timothy's grandmother is quite ill, and he's accompanied his parents to Canterbury to look in on her.”

“Yes, of course. Is this why you needed the gloves?”

“It is, and I was desperate enough to consider asking Teddy to take me, when you appeared like a gift from heaven. Besides, you know everyone who is invited.”

He laughed. “A gift from the Yard.”

“We won't quibble. Now. Where is the most interesting place to have our lunch?”

“We'll go to the Monarch Hotel. The dining room there is perfectly proper.”

And so he took Kate to lunch, and later called for her to escort her to the play. He could tell she enjoyed it immensely, although it was a Shaw revival. She looked quite beautiful in a white gown with the lavender gloves and shoes with a sprig of silk lilac flowers in her hair. The play lived up to its reviews, and Rutledge found he was enjoying himself.

They went as a party to have a light supper afterward, and then Rutledge squired Kate to her door. Her family lived two squares over from the Gordons, and her maid was waiting up for her.

She thanked Rutledge for saving her evening, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and then went inside, shutting her door.

He drove back to the house. Frances had also been out most of the evening, and over a pot of tea that she made, they exchanged accounts.

“I do like Kate. I hadn't met her before the party. She's great fun,” Frances said. “My evening was lovely as well.” She hesitated. “Richard was there. He asked me to say hello.”

“He's to be married soon,” Rutledge reminded her. He recalled that this was the second time.

“Yes, of course he is. He's still allowed to speak to other women.”

He went up to bed soon thereafter. It worried him that Frances had neither parent nor aunt to chaperone her here in this house. But there was no one to call on but Melinda Crawford. And he wasn't sure
whether she'd leave her beloved Kent for London even for Frances. Still, he'd write to her in the morning for advice.

When he arrived at the Yard shortly after eight, he found Chief Superintendent Bowles already there. He was surprised to see Rutledge.

“I thought you were in Somerset. Or was it Devon?”

“Somerset, sir.”

“Indeed. Have you made any progress there?”

“Not as much as I'd have liked. The case is proving to be difficult.”

Bowles considered him, his eyes narrowing. “You got nowhere in Moresby. Are you telling me that you haven't made an arrest in this inquiry?”

“I've been as thorough as possible. But the victim, Tattersall, appears to have lived an exemplary life. I'd appreciate any views on the matter.” He recounted what he'd learned thus far, but Bowles shook his head.

“What's wrong with you, man?” Bowles snapped. “You're sent out to do your duty, and instead, you rush back to London on the smallest excuse, pleading confusion. But my wife saw you at the theater last night, roistering with that party in the boxes. You've let your personal life overtake your good sense, and I'll have no more of it.”

“Hardly
roistering,
sir. But yes, I was waiting to speak to you this morning, and in the interval, I went out with friends,” Rutledge snapped. He had done nothing to deserve a dressing-down.

“Everyone speaks of your brilliant rise at the Yard, how you never fail to find the evidence and bring in your man,” Bowles went on ruthlessly, ignoring the interruption. “‘Brilliant,'” he repeated, as if the word had caught in his throat. “And now you're engaged, and you can't find your hand in front of your face. No, don't tell me that has nothing to do with it. I have the proof before my eyes. Well, you'll have to make a choice, Inspector. The Yard or this social fling you've been putting before everything else.” He didn't wait for Rutledge to reply. Instead he went on with rising anger, “Now get yourself back to Stoke Yarlington or Wells or wherever it is you ought to be instead of dawdling in my office, and bring me back a killer.”

With that he picked up a file, opened it, and began to study it assiduously, leaving Rutledge with no alternative than to leave.

He had come to Bowles to talk over the facts in the inquiry and look for new insights he might have missed. And he had learned a hard lesson. In the future, he would find his own way. Bowles be damned.

H
e got out of the Yard without encountering anyone or having to control what was left of his temper.

Stopping at the house for fresh clothing, he left a note for Frances, and then set out for Somerset once more.

It took a good two hours for him to calm down. He wasn't sure whether Bowles's antipathy was personal or professional—or both. He'd had glimmers of it before, but never such a bald display of what Bowles was feeling.
Was
it his engagement? Or was the engagement a convenient weapon to use against him? He resolved to keep his life as private as he could from now on. There were one or two men he could trust—Chief Inspector Cummins, for one. And that was the end of it.

He'd had no idea that Bowles's wife had gone to the theater last night. As luck would have it, she had spotted him, but Rutledge hadn't noticed her.

Because he'd been relaxed, enjoying himself, off duty as it were? There had been no reason to scan the sea of faces in search of friends or suspects.

What's more, he'd had nothing to hide. He'd enjoyed the evening with Kate. He had no regrets.

R
utledge saw the headlines of a newspaper when he had stopped briefly for petrol. Affairs in Europe were looking increasingly ominous.

He'd begun to think that Paris was not the best choice just now for a wedding journey. There was no certainty that these rumblings
of war would end anytime soon. It might be a wise idea to ask Major Gordon what he'd recommend. His father-in-law appeared to know more about the situation abroad than the newspapers.

Back in the motorcar, his Thermos filled with fresh tea, he concentrated on the case in hand.

He'd made very little headway by the time he reached Stoke Yarlington.

Beginning with Miss Tattersall, he said, “I want to go over your brother's life day by day, if need be. We're missing something.”

“But I've told you everything,” she replied, “I've hardly had time to mourn, thinking about his death. I'm tired, I can't give you what I don't have, myself.”

Rutledge smiled encouragingly. “Let's begin with Eton. Did he enjoy his years there? I understand he was quite good at cricket.”

Astonished, she said almost accusingly, “You've been digging.” As if it were ill-mannered.

“I have indeed, Miss Tattersall. But you're the only person left who shared your brother's life. And so I must see the bare facts through your eyes.”

“All right, yes. He enjoyed Eton. His interest in so many things stemmed from those years. History, mathematics, art, music. Our father was a plain man with plain tastes. I've always thought he'd have made a fine monk. His life given over to contemplation and prayer, only in his case, it was his interest in his books. It was fortunate that he didn't have to earn his daily bread. He wouldn't have been good at it. My mother ran the household and my father. Without any fuss or dramatics. She just got on with it.”