A Lonely Death (29 page)

Eventually he reached the strand and walked down on the shingle hard packed from the heavy rains of the day before. There were others doing much the same, enjoying the morning air, fresh and cool off the water. This was not a bathing center, like the towns along the southern coast, but he, like the others out this morning, enjoyed the smell of the sea, the wind buffeting his face, and the sun just warming his skin. He thought that Darwin had not been too far off the mark—men must remember coming from the sea, whether they realized it or not.

He noticed a dog racing along the strand far ahead, running to greet the handful of hardy souls walking just above the tide line. He watched it for a time, and then it began to strike him as odd that the dog showed no interest in chasing the gulls scavenging for food and starting up in a fluster of wings as humans approached. Instead, the little dog seemed frantic, dashing up to someone, racing around, then moving on to the next walker.

Rutledge started to jog toward it, feeling a growing certainty that he recognized it. And as he grew nearer, and the dog looked his way, he realized that it was trailing a lead.

What was the name on the dog bed he’s seen in The White Swans Hotel, in the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Pierce?

Muffin.

He whistled, and the dog stopped, ears pricked, listening. He whistled again and called its name. The dog stared at him uncertainly, and then came bounding toward him, only to stop, puzzled, as he drew close enough to pick up Rutledge’s scent on the errant breeze.

Rutledge called to him again, and the dog came forward slowly, warily, as if half afraid. Head down, it begged for assurance and had no reason to feel any.

Rutledge stopped, letting the animal come to him, and when finally it did, whimpering, belly dragging, he bent down to fondle its ears.

It was the same dog he’d seen in the photograph of the bride and groom, nestling among the folds of the woman’s skirts. He was prepared to stake his life on it.

After a moment the dog rolled on its back, and Rutledge scratched the animal’s chest. And then it leapt up, half afraid again, and looked past him down the beach toward another couple strolling some twenty yards behind.

It had been abandoned here on the strand, he was almost certain of it, and he reached down to pick up the end of the lead.

If this was the same animal, where was Mrs. Summers?

21

T
he dog refused to leave the shoreline. He struggled against his lead, and even growled as Rutledge lifted him into his arms.

It took half an hour to make any progress with the animal, and even then he thought it was more a reflection of the dog’s growing despair than his own blandishments. The fact that Rutledge knew the animal’s name seemed to weigh, because when Rutledge made to move back toward the road, the dog stood there whining, torn between waiting and going, and finally he came forward, head down, and let Rutledge pet him again.

Still, it was an uphill battle back to The Nancy Bell, and when Rutledge arrived on Sergeant Bell’s doorstep, both he and the dog were out of breath.

Bell, staring at the two of them, said, “And what’s this?”

Rutledge explained, and Bell got down on one knee, ruffling the dog’s ears, then led it to the kitchen, where there was a little roast beef left from the night before.

But the dog was back at the door after wolfing down the beef, scratching the wood paneling and crying to be let out.

“That’s pitiful,” Bell said, watching it. “It’s known only the one mistress, you can see, and wants none other.”

“She may be dead,” Rutledge answered. “I don’t think he would have left her side otherwise. If she were alive, she’d have fought to keep him with her.”

The sergeant scratched his chin. “If they took the boat over to France,” he said thoughtfully, “your man could have told her that the dog had to stay below. And she wouldn’t know, would she, until she landed and went for him that he was not there.”

“Dear God, that’s precisely what he did. I need to speak to the port authorities, and ask them to contact France.”

He left the dog with Bell and could hear it barking frantically as he drove away.

After three hours at the port, being passed from office to office, he learned that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had indeed embarked for France on the channel crossing the preceding day. At first he was surprised that Summers had used their real names, and then it was clear why: there had to be a record of Mrs. Summers leaving England for France, for her solicitors to see later that all was aboveboard, the couple happy and still enjoying their wedding journey.

The harbormaster said, “It was a rough passage, right in the teeth of the storm.” Grinning, he added, “There’d be decks to swab after that one made landfall.”

“While you’re at it, ask the French if there was a small dog with them. Long haired, black and gray, with some white,” Rutledge added.

The harbormaster got in touch with the French authorities, and was told that Mr. and Mrs. Summers had landed safely, although both were the worse for wear from seasickness.

The message ended, “Madame was very ill. Monsieur had given her something to help the nausea, and it was not working. We recommended an hotel in Honfleur, and he told us he felt he could drive there. No dog accompanied them.”

Rutledge left the office, still worried. The fact that Mrs. Summers had landed in France surprised him—a seasick woman leaning over the rail needed only a small push to send her into the sea as the boat tossed and twisted in the storm.

Something was wrong with the picture painted by the French authorities.

“They didna’ see her,” Hamish pointed out. “They saw a verra’ distressed woman.”

And that was true, Rutledge thought as he drove back to The Nancy Bell. She could have been drugged. Or she could have been anyone wearing Mrs. Summers’s clothing.

But there was nothing he could do without authority from the Yard to have the couple taken into French custody. They had left the port by now, and were no longer under its jurisdiction. And they had broken no laws. There was not sufficient evidence to hold Summers at all.

Misdirection. Summers was a master at it.

Rutledge went back again to the Dover police and used their telephone to call the Yard. Explaining the situation to Sergeant Gibson, he added, “I want a watch on all ports for someone coming in under the name Summers or Pierce, or any other on this list.” And from the sheet of paper he’d made out, he read the names of anyone who was associated with this case. “He may return as a single person or as a couple—it will depend on how safe he thinks he may be with an ill wife.”

“That’s a tall order,” Gibson pointed out. “Something will be said about the number of men required for that.”

“Clear it with the Chief Superintendent. This man hasn’t finished. He’ll kill again.”

“I’ll do my best,” Gibson said, doubt heavy in his voice. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you heard what Inspector Mickelson had to say? He regained his senses.”

“There hasn’t been an opportunity to ask anyone,” Rutledge responded. “If he got into a motorcar with his killer, he ought to be able to provide a description.”

“You’d best ask Inspector Norman,” Gibson answered cryptically, and Rutledge had to be satisfied with that.

The problem of the dog was more easily dealt with. Sergeant Bell agreed to keep it until it could be used to identify Summers or reunited with its proper owner. That done, Rutledge turned back toward Hastings.

He had had no sleep to speak of, and he was feeling it. But he drove through Kent back to the Sussex coast. By the time he had reached Eastfield, he knew it was too late to find Inspector Norman in his office. He went to his room at The Fishermen’s Arms and slept for seven hours.

I
nspector Norman met Rutledge at his office door and said, “Let’s walk.”

With foreboding, Rutledge turned to follow him. They left the station and had nearly reached The Stade when Norman said, “I was there when Inspector Mickelson was questioned. He could remember most of what happened before he was struck on the head. He said you had sent a message that he should look at the net shops before dawn, that you had a feeling that he’d find the garrote there. And so he went with the man you’d sent to find him, and when he reached the sheds, something hit him.”

“That marches with what Mrs. Farrell-Smith claimed. She saw two men talking near the church, and they drove away together.”

“Exactly.”

“His first mistake,” Rutledge said crisply. “I can show I was far away from Sussex at the time. I could have arranged to have him lured to Hastings, but I wasn’t there to deliver the blow. It was a trick. And it worked.”

“Inspector Mickelson had Carl in custody but hadn’t been able to lay hands on the murder weapon. Yes, it worked a treat.”

“Was he able to give you a description of the man in the motorcar?”

“A hazy one at best. The reflection from the headlamps cast shadows. Besides, Mickelson was busy trying to decide how you’d worked it out about the garrote when he hadn’t.”

The question had to be asked. “Does Mickelson believe I lured him into a trap?”

“My impression was, he is still of two minds about that. His accident, after all, brought you back into the case.”

“Yes, it did.” Rutledge gave it some thought as they walked along the road above the net shops.

Norman hesitated. “The man in the motorcar told Mickelson his name was Daniel Pierce and that you’d asked him to handle this because his own brother was among the dead. Mickelson had no reason to doubt what he was told. The elder Pierce is an upstanding member of the community, after all.”

“And Mickelson wasn’t intended to live long enough to tell us that. Have you spoken to Tyrell Pierce about this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to hear what you had to say before going to him. You still maintain that this man you’re chasing is not Pierce’s son. I went to The White Swans. Whoever had stayed there registered as Pierce. And the description could fit him, with a little stretch of the imagination. He was never the man his brother was, to look at. It was as if Anthony’s features had been passed on to his brother, only a little blurred, a little less distinctive.”

And Summers had known that. He’d also known that Daniel Pierce hadn’t returned to Sussex for two years. It was a safe enough gamble.

Rutledge related what had transpired in Dover, and Inspector Norman whistled.

“Any chance of bringing him back from France?”

“On what evidence?” Rutledge asked. “Whatever I can prove, it isn’t strong enough to convince the French police.”

“Damn.” Norman glanced up at the headland where Theo Hartle had been found and said, “You make a good case for Summers. The question remains, what do we do about the inquests into these deaths? Now that we know Inspector Mickelson will survive, do we wait until he’s well enough to present his case, or do we look to you?”

“Adjourn them again if you have to. But keep your eye on Eastfield. That’s where our killer will turn up, as soon as he returns to England. Mark my words.” They turned back toward the police station.

Rutledge stood there on the street for a moment, after Inspector Norman had gone inside, debating what to do. Waiting in Eastfield would accomplish nothing. The best course open to him was to return to the Yard and make certain that the watch on the ports was kept in place as long as need be.

W
hen he arrived in London, Rutledge found another letter from Chief Inspector Cummins waiting for him.

Opening it, he lit the lamp and sat down in the chair by the window, although the day had faded into dusk.

Rutledge,

You’re a marvel. I’ve considered everything you’d uncovered, and I decided (having the free time to do so) to drive to East Anglia and visit my grandfather’s house. It was sold shortly after his death, but I remember it quite clearly. The present owners have kept it up amazingly well, even to the gardens that were his pride, and I sat for some minutes in my motorcar, remembering a very happy childhood. The man who lives there now happened to see me as he came back from marketing and he asked if I were looking for someone. I explained about my grandfather, and to my surprise, this stranger invited me inside. I must have an honest face!

He allowed me to walk about and reminisce, then to my even greater surprise told me he had something he thought belonged to me. He was gone several minutes while I strolled in the back garden, and then he reappeared with an envelope. He handed it to me, and I was stunned to see my name on the outside. I asked where in hell he’d got this, and he said that in 1908, a young man came to the door. His mother was living at the time, and said he was quite polite, asking if my grandfather still lived here. She told him that he had died. The man explained that he was looking for me, the grandson of the previous owner, and he asked if he might leave a letter here for me, in the event I came back to the house one day. She told the young man that she’d be glad to take the letter, but considered it was unlikely that I would ever return. But he claimed he might miss me in London, and it would be a kindness to know that one day I’d find the letter and know that he cared. And so, being the trusting soul that she was, she took the letter and kept it. Before she died, she mentioned it to her son—this was nearly ten years later, and the letter was still in her possession—and asked what to do about it. The son wondered if I’d been abroad, and felt that someday if I retired from whatever post it was that had taken me away, I might come here looking for it. And so he took on that charge in his mother’s stead, and she died a few months later. He and his wife then moved into the house, and the letter waited. I could hardly believe anyone would have been that considerate of a stranger’s request, but apparently the mother had been quite taken with him.

At any rate, I left soon afterward, letter in hand, and the man’s last comment to me was, he hoped that I would be in England to stay now. I didn’t open the letter until I reached London. It was a confession, Ian, a confession to that murder at Stonehenge. But the man wasn’t fool enough to give me his name. He wrote that the man who was killed had deserved to die, but in fact, his death had been an accident. Now, Ian, I’d seen the body and that wound. It couldn’t have been more accurate, that knife slipping in. How, pray, could it have happened by chance?

But the writer went on to say that the man had done terrible things, and his death had protected others from further cruelty. I found that self-serving. He did explain that the body had never been identified properly because the victim had been on the point of leaving the country, and everyone just assumed he had, without fanfare. He was not liked well enough for people to wonder why he had moved up his departure, and the feeling was he had not expected a send-off, a farewell dinner, that sort of thing. And so he had decided not to put himself in a position where people might assume he wanted a show of regret at his leaving. There was no one in England he cared for, and there had been some quiet speculation that his continued employment might soon be in doubt. Those who could have spoken out about his private life and assured his dismissal were too frightened to do so. “I was one of them” he wrote at the end of his confession. “I killed rather than endure silently as so many did. I took the knife he used as a desk ornament—someone had fashioned a handle for it, to please him, he said—and struck out blindly. I was astonished to see him fall, and thought it a trick. I left him there and went directly to a trusted friend. For my sake, he and one other person helped me dispose of my victim. I write this to ease my own conscience and to leave a legacy for you, since the crime has not been solved. But the clues I have left were obscure, and I wonder if—even to ease my conscience—I really am ready to face the horror of what I did.”