A Lonely Death (33 page)

Impossible to say. Still, Marshall might still be alive. He’d learned, as a policeman, that people held their secrets close, and the common good often failed to have any bearing on that need to protect them.

“Must this come out, if Summers is arrested?” she asked after a moment.

“I’m afraid so.” And then he said, “Mrs. Farrell-Smith, where is Daniel?”

The shadow of an old grief settled over her face. “I wish I knew. He’s loyal to my husband, you see. They were friends at school. He thinks my husband killed himself because he was jealous of me.”

“Did he have cause to be?”

She shook her head impatiently. “You don’t understand. Michael didn’t kill himself because Daniel loved me. He killed himself because Daniel didn’t love him.”

“And you never told the police this?”

“I didn’t mind suspicion falling on me. It was Daniel I didn’t want to drag into the inquiry. Besides, it would have crushed any hopes I harbored in that direction.”

“Did Anthony know you loved his brother?”

“Not in the beginning. When I did tell him, he warned me that Daniel wasn’t the sort to settle down, and he wished me luck. I think Daniel still has the war on his mind, if you want the truth. But I’ve waited six years. I can wait six more if I must. And I’ll be here, in Eastfield, if he ever decides to come home again.”

She returned the garrote to the envelope and locked it away again. “Don’t let me down,” she said as she came around the desk to see him out. “Find Summers. I don’t want another scandal keeping Daniel away. I don’t want another cloud over our names.”

At the door, Rutledge said, “If your aunts knew what was going on, why in God’s name didn’t they protect young Summers? Or punish his tormentors? Why did they allow the bullying to continue for so long?”

She frowned. “They were old-fashioned. They believed that a boy should be able to take care of himself. Sticks and stones and all that. They felt that it was important for him to develop a backbone, stand up to his tormentors. But when one is so young, one doesn’t have the skills to face down a bully and teach him a lesson, does one?” She considered Rutledge for a moment, then added, “In my opinion there was something else as well. Their father— my great-uncle, the Frenchman who founded the school—would have considered Tommy Summers slovenly and unfit. He’d have taken him in hand and made a man of him. My aunts weren’t capable of that, and they must have felt that Tommy was a rebuke.”

And so five men had died.

He left, then, letting himself out, and as he walked back toward the hotel, Hamish said, “Do ye believe her?”

“I’ll have the answer to that when I catch Summers. For all I know, she hates Daniel Pierce and sees this as a way to punish him for his rejection of her.”

At the end of the street, he stopped and looked back at the school, feeling as if he were being watched.

Mrs. Farrell-Smith was standing at her window, as if to be certain he had left the premises.

He was about to walk on when out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow at a window above hers.

He kept going, showing no sign of having noticed.

The school was closed for a week. Was it Daniel Pierce waiting for Rutledge to leave, or was it Tommy Summers back in Sussex and using the empty building to hide from the police?

Out of sight of the school, Rutledge stopped and considered how best to extract Mrs. Farrell-Smith without alerting whoever it was at the window above hers. Surely she would remain in her office a few minutes longer. He had a little time.

Moving quickly, he went down a list of people he could trust. Constable Walker would arouse suspicion, coming on the heels of Rutledge’s visit. Mr. Ottley, from St. Mary’s? Neither seemed to be the best choice. Summers would be on alert.

Coming toward him was Mrs. Winslow. She was walking with her head down, eyes on the road, but she carried a marketing basket over one arm.

He thought there was a good chance that Mrs. Farrell-Smith would let her in. But with what excuse? She had no children in the school. No reason to call.

Just behind her was Tyrell Pierce’s clerk, Starret, hurrying in the direction of the brewery with an envelope in his hand.

Rutledge touched his hat to Mrs. Winslow and after she had gone on her way, stopped Starret.

“Sir?” the man asked, looking up at him.

“I need a favor, Starret. Will you go to the Misses Tate School and hand a message to Mrs. Farrell-Smith? She’s there at the moment. I’d like it to appear that Mr. Pierce has asked to speak to her.”

“But he hasn’t, and I have this account to return to the brewery office.”

Rutledge smiled. “I’d like to invite Mrs. Farrell-Smith to dinner. But we got off on the wrong footing, and I’m afraid she won’t see me. Perhaps you’d help me lure her out of the school where I could speak to her. I’ll explain the subterfuge when I see her.”

“I really can’t oblige you, sir. Mr. Pierce was most strict in his instructions.”

Rutledge said, “And I am most strict in mine.” He reached for the envelope in Starret’s hand, and as the clerk expostulated, he wrote on it,
I must see you at once. Please come.
He signed it simply
Tyrell
, and prayed she couldn’t recognize the man’s handwriting.

“Inspector—”

Rutledge lost patience. “The sooner you deliver this, the sooner you can return to the brewery,” he said. “And make it look as if you really came from Pierce. If you fail me, I’ll have something to say to Pierce about your conduct.”

The man gave him a reproachful look, and then walked on without a word. Rutledge watched him go.

Five minutes passed, time enough, Rutledge thought, to deliver the message. But neither Starret nor Mrs. Farrell-Smith appeared.

He thought, “If it’s Summers, I’ve given the man a second hostage.”

But there had been no choice, as Hamish was pointing out.

Another five minutes passed. Rutledge paced impatiently, ignoring the stares of passersby.

It was time to take action, he thought. And prayed that he hadn’t sent two people to their deaths. He was just turning away when around the corner came Starret, with Mrs. Farrell-Smith at his side.

Rutledge breathed a sign of relief.

She saw him waiting, and at once called, “Did you speak to Tyrell? I thought I could trust you!” She was very angry.

He nodded to Starret, dismissing him, and when Mrs. Farrell-Smith reached him, he took her arm and led her toward the hotel. “Don’t say anything more,” he commanded in a low voice. “Just come with me.”

She stared at him, about to pull away from his grip on her arm, and then something in his face alerted her.

“You’ve found Daniel,” she began, anger fading, hope taken its place.

“I’m afraid not. At least I don’t think I have. When I left the school, I saw you standing in the window. There was someone else by the window on the floor above you.”

She stopped stock-still, and he urged her on.

“Not here. The hotel. We’ve drawn enough attention already.”

She relented and said nothing more. He took her into the hotel lounge and found a chair for her.

“Are you sure?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “A trick of the light, perhaps? I’d have sworn the school was empty. I’d have heard someone walking around. I know every sound!”

“I’m not mistaken. Are you certain there’s no one else in the building? And the greengrocer’s son isn’t working today?”

“No one should be there. The only reason I was there was to return some papers to my office, and then I decided to spend half an hour working.” She shivered. “What if I’d encountered him when I went to Sixth Form for the marks? My God, he knows the school inside and out, doesn’t he?”

“How many doors are there in the main building?”

“Let me think. There’s the main door, of course. And the side entrance you know about. The door to the kitchen gardens. The terrace, with French doors, where we hold our teas, and of course, one into the coal cellar. That’s too many—he’ll be out through one as soon as you enter another in force.”

“We must wait until dark. It will take that long to collect enough men from Inspector Norman to cover the school.”

“Will there be—damage to the school? I answer to the trustees, they’ll hold me accountable.” She twisted a ring on one finger. “My aunts thought I was too young to have sole responsibility. And I was. But now . . .”

From Reception came the sound of voices, and he looked up. It was Inspector Norman in search of him.

Rutledge excused himself and went to intercept him.

“We’ve just finished searching the tunnels beneath the castle ruins, but he’s not there. Still, I think you ought to come and see what we’ve found in one of the caves.”

“Yes, give me five minutes.” Rutledge returned to Mrs. Farrell-Smith. “I must go. Is there someone you can stay with? Where you’ll be safe? I don’t think it’s a very good idea to go home.”

She was frightened, her face pale. “Surely you don’t think he was in the school to kill me? I wasn’t even there when he was taunted.”

Rutledge said, “Under the circumstances, it’s best if you come to Hastings with us. If you don’t mind sitting in the Inspector’s office, you’ll be safe if not precisely comfortable.”

Relief washed over her face, and she went with him to where Inspector Norman was waiting.

“I’ll explain on the way. At the moment, Mrs. Farrell-Smith is in protective custody.”

Norman said, “Just hurry, that’s all.”

They left for Hastings, and after dropping his charge at the police station, Rutledge went with Inspector Norman to the caves that ran under the cliff on which William of Normandy had built his first castle. There was a warren of the caves, spreading out from shorter tunnels, and Rutledge was reminded of what lay under Dover Castle in Kent. Nature had contrived them, but man had made use of them.

At the mouth of one such cave, a man had set up a sideshow to accommodate the curiosity of holidaymakers looking for something to do on a rainy day. A painted donkey, crudely made from wood and plaster of Paris, was harnessed to a wooden cart laden with packets of silk and tobacco, kegs of whisky, and other contraband. On the wall behind was a painted canvas drop showing smugglers off-loading an array of goods from the decks of a French fishing boat drawn up close into the shore. Goods were passed from hand to hand by men standing knee-deep in water, then shouldered to carry to similar carts waiting to take the contraband to the caves.

Norman led Rutledge quickly past the other exhibits, continued beyond a barricade blocking the way, and soon came to a small offshoot of the main cave where a constable stood guard over a lamp-lit scene.

A small camp bed, a flat-topped chest bearing a lantern, and a chair stood out against the surrounding gloom. The smell of damp mixed with the cave odors of stale air.

Norman stepped forward into the shallow area and opened the chest. It was obvious as he shone his torch at the contents that he’d seen them earlier, before summoning Rutledge. Dark workmen’s clothing, a pot of what appeared to be black grease paint, rags, and a Thermos of water lay inside. A pair of chimney sweep brooms stood in a corner, and a workman’s lunch pail hung beside it.

“He could come here, change his clothes, and go out again as a different person,” Norman was saying. “A laborer on his way home, a sweep with brooms over his shoulder, whatever little vignette he chose. Not a very clever disguise.”

But effective. Rutledge could feel his claustrophobia mounting, but he held up a shirt, gauging the size. “Yes, it could be the man I saw. Medium height, medium build. How does he come and go?”

“I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult after dark to get through the lock the showman has put on the grille across the entrance. This exhibit isn’t officially allowed, but the man does no harm, and his presence here deters others from using these tunnels for more nefarious pastimes.”

Rutledge turned to leave, fighting down rising panic. “Summers could hardly walk into The White Swans in these garbs. But he’d be equally suspicious wandering about Eastfield in a gentleman’s clothing. Did you find the garrote?”

“No, damn it. He’d be a fool to leave it in plain sight.”

“More importantly, he probably has it with him.”

“For that matter,” Norman pointed out, “there are no identity discs here. Blank or otherwise.”

“He must have taken those as well. I think he’s preparing to kill again. At the end of the war, he was on burial detail. Did you know? He’d have seen enough of the discs then to copy them exactly. As for names, he could have collected them from any soldier he met. He didn’t want the names of the dead—ghosts don’t kill. And he wanted us to search half of England looking for those men. Dust thrown in our eyes. But I think I know where he is. And I’ll need your help getting to him.”

Norman nodded to the constable on guard, and the three of them left the shallow depression.

Back into the sunlight again, Rutledge told Norman what he suspected.

“I can bring enough men to cover the entrances. But who’s going in? We don’t know if he’s armed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is.”