A Lonely Death (27 page)

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.

H
e 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

I
t 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?”

She was of middle height, with soft fair hair done up in a knot, and she wore a damp apron. He wondered if he’d caught her at the washtub.

“I’m Inspector Rutledge, from London. Scotland Yard,” he began.

“Dear heaven, they’ve found Tommy!”

“Was he missing?” Rutledge asked, surprised by her shock.

“He never came home from the war. Well, not really. He was in hospital for a time, but then went back to France in October of 1918. I had a letter or two from him, and after that, nothing.” She realized she was chattering on the doorstep and said, “I’m so sorry, please do come in.” She led him to the front room. “You’re from London, you said? That’s a long way to come to bring me word of my brother.”

“As a matter of truth,” he said, “I’ve come to ask you about your brother. You lived in Sussex, when you were young?”

“Yes, and I cried for days when we left, I was so sad. My father had a better position, but I sometimes thought he’d left because of something else. My mother is buried in St. Mary’s churchyard, you see. I thought perhaps he wanted to leave his memories behind.”

“How did your brother like moving across England?”

“He was so excited. I thought, it will be the same, he’ll annoy the other lads, and they’ll play tricks, and then he’ll be unhappy again, and nothing will change.”

“It was his fault that he didn’t get along with the boys in Eastfield?”

She frowned. “He didn’t try. I’m sure he didn’t. Other boys managed it, didn’t they? That one—what was his name?—whose legs were crippled. He was the same way, never trying. A smile would have helped, or a willingness to be friendly. But Tommy surprised all of us, didn’t he? He lost several stone of weight, his face cleared up, and he got along just fine. And I told him, it’s wonderful how you’ve changed. He said the oddest thing then—he said, ‘I had to change. And I hated it.’ You would have thought he’d been forced to do something awful.”

“How did he fare in the war?”

“He was a good soldier. He did everything that was asked of him. He told me he had learned that others wanted to make him over in their image, and so he did it for them, only it was merely on the surface, and they were too stupid to see.”

“And after the war?”

“He was wounded in late spring of 1918, and he went to a clinic in Bedfordshire. I saw him there, and he seemed to be excited about what he’d done in the war. He was eager to go back. He admired the Ghurkas. Those dark little men from Nepal. He wrote that they were the best at what they did, which was killing people. He would have liked to be a Ghurka officer. They had English officers, didn’t they? He stayed in France for six months after the Armistice. When he did come back it wasn’t to Minton. He was searching for his nurse from the Bedfordshire clinic. It was closed, of course, the remaining men sent elsewhere, and no one knew just where she was. Such a pretty girl. I was happy for him, I hoped he would find her. That was in 1919. And after that, there has been nothing. It was as if he’d vanished. I reported it to the police in Buildwas. They asked me if I suspected foul play, but of course I had no reason to think any such thing. He was just missing. They were polite and kind, but they did nothing.”

“Perhaps he found his nurse and together they left England.”

“He’d have told me, wouldn’t he? He’d have wanted me to be happy for him.” Her eyes filled. “I was beginning to think he could be dead. People sometimes aren’t identified straightaway, are they?”

Rutledge said gently, “We make every effort to find a name. Do you have a photograph of him? It would help.”

“He didn’t like being photographed. There’s one with my mother, but he was only a year old.” She smiled shakily. “You wouldn’t be able to tell what he was like as a man, would you? And I’d rather not part with it anyway, I don’t have many photographs of her.”

Rutledge cast about for a better way to broach his next question, but there was no way to soften it.

“I’m curious. Did your brother harbor any hard feelings toward his schoolmates in Eastfield? Did he talk about them or wish he could—um—punish them for the way he’d been treated? Or didn’t it matter, after he’d grown used to another life?”

“I asked him that, once. He told me it was all right, that he’d cursed them. I suppose it made him feel better, but of course that’s all it did. Their lives went on, and I doubt they’ve given him a thought in all these years. He didn’t matter as much to them as they did to him, you see. You’ll keep looking for him, won’t you? I’m to be married soon. My father’s dead. It would be lovely if my brother could give me away.”

He promised to do his best, and left.

She went with him to the door and watched as he reversed down the track.

Regina Summers was serene in her certainty that her brother bore no ill will for whatever had gone wrong in his childhood. And perhaps he didn’t. But men’s lives were in the balance.

Rutledge stopped the motorcar, got out, and walked back to the cottage door.

“Your father,” he said. “Do you think he saw how wretched his son was, and decided to take him away from Eastfield?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “That never occurred to me. For Tommy’s sake? Oh, no, Tommy never told him about the things that went on at school. He never told the Misses Tate, either. He thought they would see. And they never did.”

“Why not? Surely, someone recognized the situation? After he nearly fell off the cliff at East Hill.”

“My father was so busy mourning my mother he saw very little. And as for the school staff, no one liked Tommy. He didn’t fit in. The Misses Tate saw him as a troublemaker.”

“And you did nothing?”

She smiled sadly. “I was too young to understand. I just knew that people liked me and they didn’t like my brother. I was glad they liked me, and I didn’t want to lose that.”

“Did Daniel Pierce take your brother’s part when he was being bullied?”

“Sometimes he did. I think it was to be contrary, not because he liked Tommy. My brother saw Mr. Daniel after the war. He told me in his last letter. He expected Mr. Daniel to remember him, and his feelings were hurt when Mr. Daniel didn’t. But he said Mr. Daniel had changed, that he was thin and not himself. He thought he’d been ill.”

“Do you know when this was? Or where?”

“May or June of 1919. In London, I should think.”

He thanked her and walked back to the motorcar.

Hamish said, “This is a verra’ fine cottage, with yon flowers, and a’ just as she likes it. She only needs her brother to walk her doon the aisle, no’ here.”

But if that brother was the killer, what, after all these years had set him on this road?

H
is route south and east took him within striking distance of Chaswell, and Rutledge decided he could afford half an hour out of his way to call on Rosemary Hume. Although he’d received Reginald’s letter, his duty to Maxwell was personal.

As Reginald had noted, some of the sharp edges of the anger that had made her bitter had been blunted, and when Rutledge was shown into her sitting room, he could just see the telltale redness around her eyes from tears shed in the night.

Still, she greeted him with cool civility. He hadn’t been forgiven.

“You find extraordinary excuses to come by Chaswell. I thought you had been sent to Sussex. That’s a fair distance, if I recall my
Baedeker
.

He didn’t take offense. “I think you’ll find that Wales and Shropshire are in your vicinity. But yes, it was Sussex business that took me there.”

She had never been comfortable with the fact that he was a policeman and not a solicitor or even a barrister if he chose to deal with crime at all. It had seemed to be a step out of character and out of class.

Relenting, she smiled and asked if he cared for tea. It was too early, she suggested, to offer him a drink.

“Thank you, but no. I must be on my way. Is Reginald still with you?”

“If you stopped in London to retrieve your mail, you will know that he is. I posted a letter for him not three days ago.”

“I’m glad. He seemed in great distress at the funeral. I think Maxwell’s death is partly to blame, and his lungs the rest.”

“Stupid war,” she said with some heat. “And where did it get us? Poorer than we were, and the world changed beyond our wildest expectations.”

“It isn’t Reginald’s fault that he was gassed,” he reminded her. But he knew what was in her mind: that her husband’s cousin should have been the one to kill himself, not Max. Anyone but Max, anything but this drastic alteration in her world. “Do you think he would wish to see me, while I’m here?”

“He’s in the garden. You know the way. You’ll forgive me, won’t you, for not walking out with you.” She rose and held out her hand. “It was good to see you, Ian. Thank you for coming by.”

He took her hand, held it for a moment. “When Reginald is—gone, if you need me, I’ll come.”

“I—thank you.”

He turned away before she could know that he’d seen the tears welling in her eyes.

Reginald was sitting in a deck chair in the shade of a large maple. He appeared to be asleep, but the painful rise and fall of his chest told Rutledge he was not.

“You’ve become quite the man of leisure,” Rutledge said as he came nearer, so as not to startle the ill man.

“This is a surprise! Hallo, Ian, it’s good of you to come. Have you seen Rosemary?”

“Yes, just now. She thinks I’ve mistaken my
Baedeker
—Chaswell is nowhere near Sussex.”

Reginald began to laugh, and it was cut short by a spasm of gasping for breath that was painful to watch.

When he had control of his breathing again, he said, “I’m glad you will be looking in on her. I’m not doing as well as the doctors had expected.”

“Nonsense,” Rutledge began in a rallying tone.

“I saw the doctor this morning. Doctor Bones, I call him. He is forever telling me that I shan’t make old bones. But he’s right. It’s more and more of a struggle. And one day, it will be over. I could be at peace with that save for two things. Rosemary is one of them.”

“And the other?”

“I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want Rosemary to have to face it with me.”

“I’ve already promised—”

“I know. But there’s the Yard. Your time isn’t your own. I’ve left instructions in a letter my solicitor keeps for me. And if you aren’t here, there’s another letter meant for you. For old time’s sake.”

“I’m glad you told me. I shall be here, if it’s at all possible.”

He rose and took Reginald’s hand. “Would you prefer to be at home?”

“No, no. I think the decision to stay on here was a good one. Whether she wants to admit it or not, sometimes when I rattle about the place, she can pretend that Max is just in the other room, or upstairs, or sitting out here in his favorite chair. He’d taken to smoking a pipe out here, every afternoon, did you know? Smelled like the very devil, but he thought it might steady his nerves.”

Rutledge said, “Then you’ve done the right thing.”

He left soon afterward, wondering if he was likely to see Reginald alive again. But he’d meant his promise, and he would try to keep it.

Hamish was his companion on the rest of the drive back to Sussex, and they debated the whereabouts of Tommy Summers and Daniel Pierce, before the discussion moved on to Reginald and the war. Rutledge could feel the tension mounting as the voice grew louder in his ears, and he could feel himself slipping back into the waking nightmare of the trenches. He couldn’t remember much about the last one hundred miles, but it was late when he rolled into Battle, passing the great gatehouse of the abbey ruins. Eastfield was not far away. He dreaded to hear that there had been another killing. Tuttle or one of the others.

Where the bloody hell was Tommy Summers?
He knew where to lay hands on Pierce.

N
o one had died in his absence.