Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (12 page)

“Indeed,” she said again. “I shall remember that when we meet again.”

There was nothing for it but to touch the brim of his hat in acknowledgment and drive on.

I
t was a straight run across the built-up embankment that comprised the narrow road to Burwell. He could see trees in the distance, and the church tower reaching above their green tops long before he could pick out the village itself.

Larger than Wriston, and more of a town than a line of cottages strung along a ridge, Burwell was still a village. Trees shaded the streets and filled the churchyard, unlike Wriston, which had perhaps only a dozen trees to its name, and those mostly by the church on the far side of the second green.

He found the church of St. Mary’s easily enough, and began to look for the Rectory. But when he knocked at the door, he was told by the middle-aged housekeeper that Rector was in the church. There had been a death to register.

Rutledge went back to St. Mary’s. There he found Mr. Hurley just coming out the west door.

Greeting the Rector, Rutledge introduced himself.

“Scotland Yard?” Hurley peered over his glasses. “Is anything amiss? What brings you here?”

“Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”

“Yes, of course, my study.” They turned to walk toward the Rectory, and Hurley went on mildly, “You make this sound very mysterious.”

“Not intentionally. No. I’m looking into a death. I’m told that you conducted a funeral some time in the summer for a Major Clayton.”

“Ah. Yes, I remember that one well. A number of the men who’d served under him came. They spoke highly of him.”

“Why did he choose to come back to Cambridgeshire to be buried?”

“He’d wanted to rest next to his parents, even though he hadn’t lived in Burwell for some time. When he made the request several weeks before the end, he wrote that his only ties in London were military. His sister lives there, at least for the moment. But she’s engaged, and when she marries she’ll be living in Norfolk. I expect he thought she might find it easier to visit his grave from time to time if he was laid to rest here.” They had reached the Rectory steps. Hurley turned to look up at Rutledge. “Does this have to do with the Major? Is that why you’re here?”

“No. Not at all. But there were several guests from London, I believe. Not including the men who’d served under him or who knew his sister. Do you remember a Captain Hutchinson?”

“Yes, indeed, he arrived with Colonel Nelson, who was to speak at the service. And quite a nice eulogy it was, I must say. I gathered he’d known the Major personally.”

They went inside, stepping into the dimly lit hall after the bright sunlight outside. Hurley led the way to his study, down a passage from the door, and gestured to the chairs arranged around his desk.

“Please. Hutchinson is the man whose death you’re investigating? Yes, I should have realized. A terrible tragedy, that and Herbert Swift’s murder. I hope you find whoever is responsible,” Hurley continued as he took his own chair behind the desk.

“Do you know if the Captain had visited Burwell before the funeral?”

“I don’t believe so. He asked me about the terrible fire we’d had here some years ago. It too was a tragedy, one most of us would rather forget, as it killed a great many people, all of them family members or friends. No one was spared grief. And of course he was curious about the Fens. Most people are. The Colonel was asking when steam had replaced the windmills.”

“What was your impression of the Captain?”

“I can’t say I formed one. There were half a hundred people here. I managed to speak to most of them, but there wasn’t time for more than the niceties and words of sympathy. I was concerned for Miss Clayton. She was in some distress. But I did suggest that the Colonel speak to Mr. Harvey, who loves nothing better than to discuss our windmills.” He hesitated. “I will add this. The Captain was a pleasant man, and he had a knack for putting people at their ease. Once or twice I had the oddest impression that it was an—an act. Wrong of me to speak ill of the dead, but I must be frank with the police. I’m sure I was quite wrong in my judgment.”

Rutledge understood what Hurley was getting at. That while the pleasantness, the openness were accepted at face value by most people on casual acquaintance, it did not come naturally to Hutchinson.

“He wasna’ born with a silver spoon,” Hamish said quietly in the back of Rutledge’s mind. “He had to make his ain way.”

And yet Jason Fallowfield had suggested that Hutchinson’s father had left him in comfortable circumstances. Was it that Hutchinson had had to learn early in life that to succeed, he must cultivate his betters? And leave the impression he’d come from money? That would have allowed him to move more freely in some circles.

Hutchinson wouldn’t be the first man to learn such a lesson. Not quite ingratiating, not a hanger-on, but making every effort to be likable, accepted. Even when it went against his own nature.

It would be interesting now to hear what Sergeant Gibson had to tell him about Hutchinson’s past. Rutledge made a note to find a telephone as soon as possible.

Hurley could add very little more to what he’d already said about Hutchinson. Shrugging, he smiled wryly. “I never dreamed—none of us did—that it would matter months down the road. Or that the man would be dead before the summer was out.”

“Still, no one thought to tell Inspector Warren about this visit?”

Surprised, Hurley said, “But nothing happened here. It didn’t seem to be important. After all, it was an Ely matter.”

The old way of life, of isolation from one village to the next, here in the Fen country, where water had separated everyone and made foreigners of people ten miles distant. Even draining the land had pitted the old villages making their living from the marshy waterways against the new ones springing up to tend the vast fields and keep the land dry.

As if he’d heard what Rutledge was thinking, Hurley said, “My great-grandfather hated the changes to this part of Cambridgeshire. He told his children that nothing good would come of it, that the land would feed a few generations and then be worn out. He was wrong, of course, but there was nothing to show at the time that he wouldn’t be proven right.”

Rutledge said, “Did you notice any other strangers at the service?”

“One or two. A Miss Bartram spoke to me. Her father and Clayton’s father had known each other years ago. It was kind of her, and Miss Clayton remembered Miss Bartram’s grandfather as well. He had brought a doctor from Ely when the elder Clayton had appendicitis. Then there were the people up from London, strangers to me, but they all seemed to know each other from the Army or they were friends of Miss Clayton’s, here to support her through her ordeal. I don’t recall anything that was said or done that would give even a hint of what was to come. More to the point, Captain Hutchinson was here for only a matter of hours. What harm could be done in such a short period of time?”

R
utledge asked the name of the family with whom Miss Clayton had stayed while in Burwell, and he found Mrs. FitzPatrick at home. She agreed to see him—more, he thought, out of curiosity than to impart any information—and the young maid showed him to a sunny room where Mrs. FitzPatrick had been writing letters.

She was a small woman, perhaps thirty-five, with fair hair and brown eyes. Greeting him, she said, “I can’t think why Scotland Yard should wish to see my husband or me, but of course we’ll be happy to help in any way we can.”

“The Rector gave me your name. I’m looking into the funeral service for Major Clayton, and he tells me that Miss Clayton, the dead man’s sister, stayed with you while she was here in Burwell?”

Frowning, she said, “Yes, of course, but is anything amiss with the service? I can’t think what it could be.”

“There was an Army officer who came up from London with Colonel Nelson. A Captain Hutchinson. Do you remember him?”

“Yes, of course,” she said again, “he’d served with Major Clayton, he said, and he was very kind to Vera—Miss Clayton—on the journey up from London.” Then the frown deepened. “Are you telling me—is this the man who was shot in Ely a fortnight or so ago? I couldn’t imagine it was. My husband agreed that Hutchinson wasn’t an unusual name. I went to school with a Gracie Hutchinson in Kent.”

“I’m afraid it was the same man.”

“Oh, dear. I’m quite shocked. But are you investigating that—that murder?”

“I’ve been sent here by the Yard to look into the Captain’s death as well as Mr. Swift’s,” he said.

“Mr. Swift. We knew
him
, you see. Socially. I was never so shocked as when I heard of
his
death. Who on earth would wish to do him any harm? He was encouraged to stand for the vacant seat, but I don’t think he was very enthusiastic about it. Still, he had a sense of history, and he thought perhaps he might do some good. My husband felt that Herbert—Mr. Swift—found himself surrounded by too many memories when he came back to Wriston after the war, and that that had played a part in deciding to stand. He’d never really recovered from the death of his wife.”

“Did he have enemies? Either personal or through his work?” When she looked confused, Rutledge added, “Not everyone is happy when a will is read.”

“Yes, but you don’t blame the solicitor, do you? And he wasn’t the sort of man to attract trouble, if you know what I mean. Even his opponent had little to say against him. He was a good man.”

“And Captain Hutchinson?”

“He was considerate, charming—very solicitous for Miss Clayton’s welfare. It was very hard for her, you know. Her brother had been in hospital since before the end of the war. In December 1918 gangrene set in, and although they took the foot, it moved slowly upward. The stump never healed properly, according to Vera. In the end, they went up to the knee, and then almost to the hip. After that, it was only a matter of time. He couldn’t leave hospital, but she visited him nearly every day. I’m very pleased that she’s marrying soon. It will be good for her to put the past away.”

“Was her fiancé here for the service?”

“No, he’s been in Canada. His grandfather died just before Major Clayton. But he’s expected back any day now.”

“What was your impression of Captain Hutchinson?”

“My husband didn’t care for him. He thought the Captain was paying too much attention to Vera. He was a widower, after all. But of course, without her fiancé, she was alone through this ordeal. Friends were with her, yes, but I think because the Captain had known her brother, it was a comfort to her. The Colonel was an older man, while the Captain was more her brother’s age. And of course he didn’t stay—he went back to London that evening, which was quite proper.”

“Where did he serve with Clayton?”

The frown returned. “To tell you the truth, I was never really clear about that. It was just—accepted. I did hear the Captain say that one felt the need to support the family of a fellow officer. ‘I would hope someone would do as much for my sister.’ Those were his words. I thought them very respectful.”

“Did Miss Clayton indicate how long she’d known the Captain? Did he come often to visit her brother in hospital?”

“That was months ago. I’ve hardly given the man any thought since then. I did ask Vera if she had met him during her visits to her brother, but apparently he came most often at night, because he was busy during the day with his duties.”

Mrs. FitzPatrick approved of the Captain. Her husband hadn’t. But he, according to his wife, was presently out in the fields having a look at one of the ditches, and he wasn’t expected home before dinner at the earliest.

“Sometimes voles burrow into the earthworks that protect the fields. It’s very trying, because they can do so much damage. He took Bob with him—the terrier—in the event that was the problem. But I don’t think my husband can add much more. We spent only a matter of hours in the Captain’s company, after all.”

Rutledge thanked Mrs. FitzPatrick and took his leave. Walking through the town for a time, he listened to Hamish in the back of his mind, but it was the Rector’s words that seemed to follow him.

What harm could be done in such a short period of time?

There had been no quarrels, there had been no unsettling remarks that would lead to murder months later, Hutchinson had stepped on no toes, and perhaps more important he hadn’t encountered an old friend or an old enemy here in Burwell. He had simply escorted a grieving sister of a fellow officer to her brother’s funeral, and then left, his duty done.

Perhaps it was the Colonel whose company Hutchinson had really sought, and escorting Vera Clayton had been a way of putting himself in the presence of the Colonel and made it possible for him to travel back to London on the same train.

Mrs. Sedley had indicated that Hutchinson had been busy cultivating the bride’s relatives during the events before the wedding. And yet neither in Ely or here in Burwell had the man put anyone’s back up. He seemed to know just how far to go in his push for attention, surely indicating he’d had a great deal of experience over the years.

That brought him back to Hamish’s comment.

It was time to speak to Sergeant Gibson, at the Yard.

Rutledge inquired of a passerby if there was a telephone in Burwell that he could use to put in a call to London, but there was no public telephone, and he hesitated to carry on a conversation about Hutchinson or Swift within hearing of interested ears in a private household like the FitzPatricks.

In the end, he walked again to the church and then went inside. He tried to picture the funeral in his imagination, searching for anything that might help him explain Ely and then Wriston. But that led nowhere. As far as Rutledge could judge, it was nothing more than happenstance that Hutchinson had come to Burwell some months before he traveled to Ely.

He drove back to Wriston in the late afternoon, watching the shadows shift across the long lines of green fields. He stopped halfway there, got out of the motorcar, and walked along the road for some distance. It was a strange land, if you were used to the rolling countryside of Somerset or the Downs of Kent. And yet very different from the marshy coast of Norfolk or the long stretches of reeds and tidal rivers along the Essex coast. No one in sight for miles. Just the heat of the sun, the smell of the damp, rich earth, and a sense of isolation that was in its way claustrophobic.