A Lonely Death (15 page)

He walked out the door without waiting for an answer or looking back to see how Mrs. Farrell-Smith had taken his suggestion.

He was halfway down the passage when he heard her call his name.

But he kept going, and she didn’t call a second time.

From the school he went to collect his motorcar, and drove to Hastings.

There was a telephone available in the offices of the Pierce Brothers Brewery, but the favor Rutledge expected to ask of Sergeant Gibson was not something he wanted to be overheard by anyone in Eastfield.

11

H
amish was vocal as Rutledge drove to Hastings. “Ye’ve got nowhere,” he reminded Rutledge. “And ye’ve annoyed yon brewer and the woman. They’ll have ye recalled. It wasna’ the chief superintendant who sent you here. Ye ken, he willna’ stand by ye.”

“I understand,” Rutledge answered him aloud, the wind whipping his words away as he descended into Hastings. “But either Daniel is the danger—or he’s in danger. Either way, I’ve got to find him.”

“He’s one man. There’re six ithers at risk. Six ithers closer to hand.”

“I know.” He had reached The Stade at Hastings Old Town. The sound of waves rolling in was regular and soothing, with no wind or storm to drive them today. He pulled to one side and watched the sea for a time. The whisper of the water just before it turned to race back into the sea was soft and seductive.

Rutledge had always liked the water. He’d learned to row at an early age but had never had the opportunity to sail. If the war hadn’t come when it did, he thought he might have taken the time to learn. His life had stretched before him then in measured decades, and he had been happy. Marriage lay ahead, and with luck, children. He would have grown old with them, and watched their children in turn take their first steps toward a life of their own. It would have been enough. But that had never happened. He wasn’t sure whether he missed it, or was glad that it had only been a dream. Broken dreams were easier to walk away from than broken lives.

He watched as sunlight danced across the water, and far out to sea a smudge of smoke marked the passage of a ship. Lines from O. A. Manning’s poetry came to mind and he was unaware that he’d spoken them aloud.

“I look now and then at the sea

And the reflection of myself is there.

Restless sometimes

Or calm, or angry,

Or even uncaring.

But never happy.

I remember then I came from the sea,

And someday must go home.”

Oddly enough, he had never liked the idea of drowning. The revolver was swifter and the darkness came faster. Max Hume had known what he was about.

Hamish said, “Aye, but first ye must write a letter to your sister.”

That jarred him. What would he tell Frances that she would understand?

And that had been Max’s dilemma and why he had not written to Rosemary.

Rutledge put the motorcar in gear again and drove west into Hastings New Town until he found a sizeable hotel. “There ought to be a telephone here,” he said under his breath and found a place to leave his vehicle.

The White Swans was built with a wide balustraded terrace across the main front, warmed by the sun and sheltered by a projecting wing on either side. A great deal of architectural detail, reminiscent of a wedding cake, gave the three-story hotel an elegant air, and judging from the handsomely dressed families sitting under broad pastel umbrellas as they finished late breakfasts, it was expensive as well.

Rutledge took the shallow stairs that led up from the road two at a time, crossed the terrace, and entered the high-ceilinged lobby filled with chairs and potted plants and an air of style and grace. Reception was to one side of the ornate staircase, and he asked for a telephone. He was directed down a passage to a glass door. Inside was a leather chair and a small table with a telephone, a lamp, and an enameled tray holding a pen and hotel stationery.

He put through a call to Scotland Yard and was relieved when Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone almost at once.

“Sir? Any news?” Gibson asked. In the background, two men carried on a conversation, low-voiced, the words indistinguishable. Rutledge thought they were standing in Gibson’s doorway or just outside.

“Not yet. I need information on a Farrell-Smith who died before the war, leaving a widow who is now in charge of the Misses Tate School in Eastfield. He went to public school in Surrey and was there at the same time as Anthony Pierce and his brother, Daniel. That’s all I can tell you. But you should be able to trace him through the school.”

“Do you know which school it was?”

“No, but you might try Whitefriars first.”

“Indeed, I will. Where am I to find you, sir?”

“Send your reply by post to The Fishermen’s Arms in Eastfield. I don’t want to be overheard taking this call in the brewery office.”

There was a moment of silence. Rutledge had assumed that Gibson was writing down the particulars of his request and also where he could be found.

Instead the sergeant had been waiting for the men outside his door to walk on down the passage, for as the voices in the background faded, Gibson said rapidly, “There’s been a complaint. The Chief Constable spoke to the Chief Superintendent not half an hour ago. Rudeness and unprofessional conduct.”

Rutledge said grimly, “The woman, Mrs. Farrell-Smith. She has not wanted the Yard to take this case away from the Hastings police. Is Bowles viewing this seriously?”

“Early days, sir. But is it wise to be looking into her family’s background, under the circumstances?”

“She’s a suspect. I can’t give her special consideration just because she complains about me. And the best way to protect myself is to find out what it is she’s afraid of and either strike her from the list of suspects or charge her. Go ahead with the queries. I’ll accept the consequences. Just be as discreet as possible.”

He rang off, sitting there in thought for several minutes before opening the door and stepping out into the passage.

As he did, he realized that a man was standing at Reception, waiting for the clerk behind the desk to return. And the man was staring at Rutledge with concentrated interest. Their eyes met.

“He kens who you are,” Hamish warned. Rutledge was already striding toward Reception.

The man quickly turned his back and hurried out of Rutledge’s line of sight. By the time Rutledge reached the lobby, the man had disappeared. Rapidly scanning first the staircase and then the lounge, Rutledge realized that the only direction the man could have taken was through the hotel door and out to the terrace.

He hastily surveyed the terrace, but the families and couples who were sitting beneath their pastel umbrellas seemed not to have noticed anything amiss. And on the street below the broad steps there was only a woman walking with a small child.

He went down the steps and stopped her, asking, “I just missed my friend. He came out of the hotel and I didn’t see which way he was going.”

Startled, she looked up at him. “A man? Um, I think he went that way,” she told Rutledge, gesturing east. “No one has come by me going in the other direction.” She inclined her head toward the west, the way she had come.

He thanked her with a smile that brought an answering smile, and then he was walking east along the Hastings Road.

But it was hopeless, there were more people on the walk now, and one man could easily have disappeared among them or popped into one of the small shops that catered to holidaymakers. He would need half a dozen policemen to help him search them all.

Standing to one side so as not to obstruct pedestrians coming toward him, he waited, on the off chance that the man, thinking himself safe, might reappear.

But his quarry was far too canny. And even though Rutledge returned to The White Swans and sat for a time in the quiet lounge, facing Reception, he never returned. Rutledge even spoke to the desk clerk, but he had been busy putting a jewelry box into one of the hotel guest safes, and never noticed the man waiting at Reception for him.

Rutledge drove back to Hastings Old Town and stopped where he had before, near the net shops. Even this space was more crowded than it had been, but he closed his eyes and tried to recall his brief glimpse of the man’s face before he had turned away.

What had he seen? What could he be sure of?

How many times had he asked witnesses to describe someone?

The man was of a little above medium height, broad shouldered, hair a medium shade of brown, eyes indeterminate, but Rutledge thought they must be light rather than dark. Gray, possibly, or a pale blue.

Hamish said into the silence in the motorcar, “Gray eyes. Ye ken, he was wearing a gray suit.”

It was true.

“What else?”

“He moved well.”

That was true. That swift turn, almost on the thought, so that Rutledge could no longer see his face. And he was able to leave the hotel and cross the terrace without creating a stir, even when he was hurrying.

And he had fit in, at The White Swans. Clothing and appearance in keeping with the clientele. Nothing to make him stand out or seem memorable in a crowd. Even the woman with the child, when questioned, had paid him little heed, because he attracted no attention.

Rutledge gave it another few minutes, but there was nothing else.

He got out and started the motorcar and then for a moment debated where to turn. Not to Inspector Norman. Constable Walker, then.

He set out for Eastfield, his mind busy.

He would like to believe that the man was Daniel Pierce. But how could Pierce recognize him on sight? Rutledge was aware that he too had fit into the hotel scene, comfortable in his surroundings and in no way attracting attention to himself. No one had walked past the telephone room while he was making his call. He was certain of that, for he could see clearly through the glass doors. The man couldn’t have overheard part of his conversation, then. Their first contact came as he was stepping out of the telephone closet and starting down the passage. The man must have looked up, seen him, and in that same instant known who he was.

Hamish said, “Unless he followed you into the hotel. And wanted a better look.”

“That’s unlikely.”

But was it? Where had the contact begun? In Eastfield, for instance? Had someone stalked Rutledge just as he’d stalked his victims, to take the measure of his opponent? There were enough dark corners and darker alleys, someone standing silently in the shadows could have escaped Rutledge’s notice. But could he escape Hamish’s?

There was no way of knowing. Before, when he had walked half blind out of the Hastings police station, he might well have attracted the notice of someone during that hour of helpless wandering. Still, he wanted to believe that it was unlikely. He didn’t care for the feeling of vulnerability that being followed at such a time gave him.

Reaching Eastfield, he left the motorcar at The Fishermen’s Arms and went on foot to the police station. Constable Walker was just leaving to eat his midday meal.

He saw Rutledge’s face as he came through the door, and said immediately, “Something’s happened.”

Rutledge answered, “I’m not sure. Describe Daniel Pierce for me.”

Walker said, “Pierce? Let me see. Not as tall as you. Dark hair, light blue eyes. Slim. At least he was the last time I saw him. He’d just come home from France. He may have filled out since then. Why?” He frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve found him!”

Was it Pierce?

Hamish said, “The sun could ha’ lightened his hair.”

That was true. But was it Pierce?

Or had he caught a glimpse of the murderer, who would have every reason by now to know what the man from London looked like.

Better to let it go. Rutledge said, “I was probably mistaken.”

“Or wishful thinking,” Walker replied with a grin. Then it vanished as he added, “Despite what his father says, I don’t know of any reason for Daniel to be living in Hastings, within a stone’s throw, you might say, and not keeping in touch with his family. If you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, Daniel Pierce is living in London, where he’s his own man. It’s what I’d do, in his shoes.”

R
utledge was sorely tempted to ask Tyrell Pierce if he kept a photograph of his sons at the brewery, but better judgment prevailed. It was not yet the time to let the man at The White Swans—if he was indeed Daniel Pierce—know that he’d been identified.

On the other hand, there was a question he wished to put to Theo Hartle’s sister.

He went to the Winslow house and knocked at the door. He was almost certain someone was inside, and he waited. Eventually, Winslow himself opened the door, his face sour.

“I’m not up to visitors today,” he said plaintively. “You must come back another time.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. It was your wife I wished to see.”

That brought a grunt from the man in the chair. “She’s not here.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

As he walked back to the Hastings Road, which formed the main street of Eastfield, he asked himself where Mrs. Winslow could be found at this hour of the day. The greengrocer’s, the butcher’s, the bakery?

He stepped into each shop, but didn’t see her. Not doing her marketing, then. He paused outside the police station and thought about it.

Her brother was dead. The rectory. He turned and walked toward the churchyard.

Hamish said, “Aye, she wouldna’ wish to have her husband with her.”

And Rutledge saw that she was indeed standing in the churchyard, pointing to a space next to two stones. Hartle’s wife and child?

The rector and Mrs. Winslow looked up as he approached across the freshly mown grass of the churchyard.