Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (14 page)

That suspicion brought with it the question: was it curiosity or was there some other motive?

Not that he suspected her of firing the shots. But was she fearful that she might know who had? Or thought she might know?

She turned, reaching for the cups and saucers in the dresser, carrying them to the table.

“Do sit down,” she said, as if his standing there made her nervous. “Or we could carry our cups into the front room.”

“I would feel awkward sitting there, carrying on a one-sided conversation with Clarissa,” he said lightly, and that brought a smile.

“For heaven’s sake, you sat in the kitchen before.”

“I did.” He pulled out a chair. “I’m staying at Miss Bartram’s again. There’s not much I can learn in Ely—” He broke off as she almost dropped the bowl of sugar.

Flushing a little, she set it down on the table and disappeared into the pantry for the jug of milk.

“Why is Ely a—a dead end?”

“Too many people, Miss Trowbridge. They witnessed the—er—murder, but they saw nothing useful. Looking in the wrong direction at the moment the shot was fired. Inspector Warren has interviewed most of them, I’ve interviewed a handful myself, and we’ve got almost nothing to be going on with. But here in Wriston, someone saw the killer.”

“Mrs. Percy,” she said flatly, setting the small jug next to the bowl of sugar. “But what did she see?”

He was intrigued. When he’d first met her, the night of the fog, she had avoided any mention of the murder here in Wriston. Now she appeared to want to talk about it.

“That’s the question.”

“No, I mean, she saw something, a monster. I’ve heard the gossip. But of course there’s no monster running about with a rifle in his hands. What did she really see?”

“I wish I knew.”

The kettle came to a boil. She went to it, her back to him again, and began to make the tea. He wondered if Miss Trowbridge had been waiting for him, the kettle filled and ready to set on the heavy black range in her kitchen. But she couldn’t have known he would walk that way.

Was it someone else she’d expected? He remembered the man in the mist. Where had he been going? Or coming from?

“It makes no sense anyway,” Miss Trowbridge was saying as she brought the teapot to the table. “Killing Mr. Swift, much less that man in Ely.”

“Did you know Swift?”

“Everyone
knew
him. He was the solicitor. But I don’t suppose anyone really knew him well. He’d been away, for one thing, and he wasn’t a gregarious sort. I think he had grown used to his own company and his books.”

“Did he handle your grandmother’s will? Leaving you this cottage?”

“No, that was a man in Bury. She lived here in the cottage, of course, but she was a very private woman and she felt that her business was her business.”

“What do you think was in that dormer window?” he asked.

It caught her off guard. They had left that question behind.

“I don’t know. Someone who wished for a better view of the speech? Everyone leaves his door unlocked—or did. Someone could have gone up to that dormer window and looked out.”

“Were you there, that evening?”

She took a sip of her tea after stirring in the sugar. “No. I really had no interest in the by-election or hearing Mr. Swift speak.”

“But you’d have voted?”

“Yes, of course, one does.”

“Then you’d already decided which candidate you supported?”

“I’d already decided which man would represent us best in London.”

A very different way of putting it.

“If the shot didn’t come from that dormer window, where was the killer?”

“I know nothing about firearms. I expect Constable McBride and the other men present that evening would have a better idea about the direction.” She was toying with her teaspoon. “But does direction really matter? Wherever he fired from, Mr. Swift’s murderer got away.”

“The problem is, we have so little to go on. Anything Mrs. Percy tells us could be useful in tracking him down.”

Miss Trowbridge rose, collecting their cups. “I’m afraid I’m no use at all.”

“It depends. On whether anyone passed your door directly after the shot was fired. It isn’t that far from this house to the market cross. You’d have heard the report, surely, and wondered what it was. You know a few people still come here in autumn and winter to hunt. But this isn’t the season for shooting. Did you go to your door and listen to see what was happening? Or stay here, the door shut tight, because you were afraid to know?”

Color flared in her face. “What are you accusing me of? I will tell you straight out that I had no reason to want anyone dead.”

“But you did hear the shot?” Rutledge persisted. “I can’t believe you didn’t.”

She was standing there with their cups and saucers in her hands. “Yes, all right, I heard the shot. Clarissa was in and safe. I didn’t want to go rushing out to see what it was.”

“Still, you heard someone pass your door. Who was it?” His voice was cold now.

“I was here in the kitchen, putting away the dishes from my dinner. You can’t hear someone passing, unless he’s on horseback or in a motorcar. And not always then.” She crossed to the sink to set down the cups. “I think you should go now. I shouldn’t have suggested tea in the first place. But you were a stranger here, and I know what loneliness is.”

Turning her back to him, she stared out the windows that overlooked her small back garden.

And so he left, walking briskly to the door and closing it behind him.

Chapter 9

W
hen Rutledge reached Miss Bartram’s house, she was waiting for him, calling his name as he came through the door.

“Mr. Rutledge? I thought perhaps you’d like a cup of tea after your long drive from Ely. Or perhaps a small whisky. We always kept a little here for the hunters, coming in cold and wet of an evening.”

“Thank you, Miss Bartram, but I have a long day tomorrow and I think I’ll go directly up.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, disappointment in her voice. And then, as if she couldn’t stop the words, she said, “I noticed half an hour ago that your motorcar had returned.” Unspoken was the follow-up:
Where have you been?

“I was tired, and I thought if I walked for a bit, I’d be ready to sleep.”

“Oh. Then I’ll bid you good night. Breakfast at seven-thirty?”

“Yes, thank you very much.” With a smile, he turned and went up the stairs.

The next morning he paid an early visit to the police station and found Constable McBride just opening the door.

“You’re still here, Mr. Rutledge,” he said as Rutledge walked up.

“I’ve a question about the night that Swift was killed. You’ve told me that most of the village was present. What about those who weren’t, someone living on the outskirts of Wriston. Did anyone there notice someone leaving the village while most people were rushing to see what could be done for Mr. Swift? Did they hear a motorcar passing, or a horse?”

“No one saw or heard anything unusual. Or if they did, they aren’t speaking up.”

“But surely the sound of the shot reached every house in Wriston. Did no one hurry to a window or a door to see what the matter was?”

“The only way the killer could have gone was toward the mill. He’d have been seen if he’d chosen to go past the church instead. It’s too open. We did question everyone in Wriston. Those present for the speech, and those who stayed at home.”

“Even the person who lives out by the mill? The cottage with the gate?”

“Miss Trowbridge? She couldn’t help us. No one came that way as far as she could tell.”

“The killer couldn’t have vanished. Or had he disappeared across those fields?” Rutledge asked impatiently.

“If he knew what he was doing, he could follow the narrow path along the top of the hummock that separates the edge of Wriston from the fields.”

Rutledge had seen such a mound at the end of the lane beyond Mrs. Percy’s house.

“You’re saying that a stranger couldn’t depend on the path taking him to safety.”

“I should think if he came here to shoot Mr. Swift, he would have reconnoitered an escape route. He must have done, to decide he could use that dormer.”

“And yet no one saw a stranger walking about, looking out for such places.”

“He could have done six months ago. No one would remember him now.”

Or he could have come at night, Hamish suggested. When he could be sure he wasn’t seen . . .

“What about Anson Swift? He wouldn’t need to explore. He knew Wriston well enough.”

“How did you hear about Anson?”

“The question is, what became of him?”

“He left here and never came back, to my knowledge. I did hear a rumor that he went to Australia. I expect it was just that. A rumor. And if it was Anson, why would he kill the Captain in Ely? Just to frighten his brothers?”

Rutledge could sense how defensive McBride was. The man had done everything he could—everything he could think of doing, and here the stranger from London was questioning him as if he had somehow failed in his duty.

“I was hoping we’d missed something, that’s all.” Rutledge smiled. “This killer manages to appear and disappear like a magician. I thought perhaps he’d disguised himself as a priest in Ely, where he wouldn’t be noticed coming in and out of the Cathedral grounds. The question is, what disguise would work here?”

“That seems to point to someone local,” McBride said, not at all mollified.

“It could. But more likely it’s someone whose presence wouldn’t draw comment. Take myself, for instance. Scotland Yard, every right to be here asking questions. No one would take issue if I went into the church or called on the constable or sat by the duck pond to eat my lunch.”

“We’ve had no weddings this past six months. Only one funeral. Three christenings. Are you saying that someone came here to look around Wriston and find out what he needed, all the while pretending to be a mourner at the funeral or one of the family at the christening?”

“I know, it’s far-fetched. On the other hand, if I were a quarter of an hour early for something like a christening, I could wander freely around Wriston, passing the time, and no one would look at me twice—or remember me after I’d gone.”

“Six months ago no one knew Mr. Swift would be standing for Parliament or for that matter, that Captain Hutchinson would be attending a wedding in Ely.”

McBride was taking his suggestion literally. Rutledge let it go for the moment.

“Well, it was worth pursuing. Anything might trigger a memory that could help us.”

McBride nodded. “I haven’t had to deal with murder these past five years. And then it was straightforward. A drunken brawl that ended in a killing. I don’t like the feeling that we’re vulnerable. I don’t like to think of someone planning murder on my patch and then getting away with it.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. Inspector Warren feels the same.”

“I’d say the connection starts in London, not here. Only Mr. Swift hadn’t been to London. He hadn’t been elected.”

“If it wasn’t London, it was somewhere else. The problem now is to find out just where the paths of these two men crossed that of their murderer.”

R
utledge left the police station and walked toward the church, Hamish busy in his mind. It was the frustration of dead ends, he knew that, but Rutledge felt the past creeping into the present, and he knew that the safest thing to do was find a place where he could let it happen, out of the public eye.

The inn wouldn’t do. Not with Miss Bartram hovering . . .

Reaching the churchyard, he scanned the tombs, the trees, anything that would offer shelter, privacy. There was nothing, only the tombstones and one mausoleum with an iron gate in front of the iron door. He could just make out the name carved over the gate, but it would not help him now.

Pressed for time, he opened the church door and stepped into the dimness, cool and quiet. Above his head was a wooden ceiling similar to many in this part of England, beautifully carved, dark wood, barrel-vaulted.

He quickly searched the small church, but it was empty. Sitting down on the stone steps of the pulpit, worn smooth by centuries of feet climbing up them to deliver homilies and eulogies and sermons, he pressed against the stone so that it was a bar across his back. It was the nearest he could come to hiding himself.

He waited.

Just as the darkness came down, he looked up and saw the face.

The Green Man. The carving that Miss Trowbridge had watched on Sundays, a child sitting through the long service. It was the decorative knob where the ribs of the ceiling crossed each other.

It was still there some twenty minutes later as the darkness and the sounds of battle slowly receded. He was trembling, his mouth dry, his heart beating rapidly.

He concentrated on the carving until his heart rate and his breathing steadied. The guns faded, the shouts and screams, the firing that had seemed to reach a crescendo in his head.

And then it was over. He took a deep breath and, badly shaken, buried his face in his hands.

This had been one of the worst daylight relapses into darkness that he could remember in some time.

Getting to his feet at last, he was about to turn and walk back up the center aisle when a voice said, “My son, are you all right?”

Rutledge froze. He’d been alone, he was sure of it. Where had this man come from? And what—
in God’s name, what had he heard?

Realizing in that same instant that he must be facing the Rector of the little church, he said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “I’m all right. A—a touch of sun.”

The elderly man came toward him. “Does it happen often, this return to the war? For surely that must be what it was.”

The man couldn’t have heard the guns or the screams or the shouted orders . . .

But he was saying, “I’ve seen it before, you see. And you needn’t worry, I have no intention of giving you away. You’re the man from London, aren’t you? The Inspector from Scotland Yard. My name is March. Andrew March.”

Rutledge didn’t give his own name. Instead he replied, “I’m all right.”

“You are now. Yes. Come with me, we’ll find a place to sit.”

He led the way to the nearest pews, not looking over his shoulder to see if Rutledge was following. Sitting down, he patted the wooden bench, as if inviting a child to sit with him. Rutledge leaned against the nearest pillar, watching him.

“Have you lost your faith? Is that it? Or is it just the unbearable past that haunts you?”

“A little of both, I think,” Rutledge answered against his better judgment. Part of him was urging flight, getting out of this church as quickly as he could, his secret intact. Another part of him wanted the peace of confessing. And that was denied him. He moved inadvertently, still rattled by what he’d just been through.

The Rector nodded, misinterpreting it as a need to go. “Yes, it happens. Well, they say that time is the healer. But it isn’t, always. If you want to come to the Rectory and talk, you can generally find me there.”

And he turned and walked toward the altar, leaving the way clear for Rutledge to reach the west door unhindered.

H
e walked out into the sunlight, blinking a little, and then went to where he’d left the motorcar.

For the rest of the morning he drove through the Fen country, stopping in each village and walking, as he had done in Burwell, learning the landscape.

Soham, with its larger mill and handsomer church and quiet streets. Tiny Isleham with its beautiful church set apart in its churchyard like a grande dame presiding over her charges. And then back to Wriston, and dead ends.

The journey hadn’t done much to sweep away any lingering cobwebs, but he was hungry now. He found a small shop that served sandwiches and ordered the first item on the pretty hand-printed menu.

The middle-aged woman who served him said as she brought his meal, “You’re the man from London. Scotland Yard.”

“That’s right. Were you standing by the market cross when Mr. Swift was shot?”

“I was. I shut my eyes almost at once. It was the most horrible thing I’d ever seen. One minute he was speaking and the next his head had just—fallen open.” She shivered at the memory. “I couldn’t sleep that night, or the next either.”

“And so you didn’t see anything—who was shooting or from where.”

“No, I didn’t even know what had happened at first. I didn’t recognize the sound of the shot because it was so sudden, just everywhere all at once. Deafening. Echoing.”

Shaking her head, she added, “He was dead. Just like that. People were screaming.”

“Do you think anyone else besides Mrs. Percy saw the man with the rifle?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I’m sure they hadn’t.”

But it was too fast, almost as if she wished to shut off speculation or questions. Confirming his suspicions, she turned to move away to greet an older woman who had just come into the tea shop.

Rutledge touched her arm, stopping her.

“There wasn’t a monster,” he told her. “The flickering torchlight, the movement of the smoke, and the sudden shock produced him. Even the most ordinary person looks different in such circumstances. Remember that.”

She stared at him for a moment, then almost tripped over a chair at the next table in her haste to go.

Hamish said, “It will be all o’er the village by sunset.”

Yes, Rutledge silently answered him. That was the point.

When he’d finished and paid his bill, a younger woman came to the counter to help him. The middle-aged woman was studiously wiping down a table by the window.

It was time to call on the ironmonger. He should have done it earlier, but when the darkness came down, he had had to accommodate it.

Walking through the shop door, Rutledge was met with that familiar, slightly metallic scent that seemed to be a part of such places.

The shop was empty, except for a portly man with black hair liberally streaked with gray and the shadow of a heavy beard. When he looked up and saw that it was Rutledge, he came hurrying toward him.

“Mr. Rutledge, is it?” he asked, a slight echo of Wales in his voice. “My name is Ross. Martin Ross.”

“I’d like to have a look at your dormer window, if you have the time to take me upstairs.”

“I’d thought you might come to speak to me first thing—Constable McBride told me you were in Wriston.”

“I came as soon as I could. I understand that you weren’t at home that night, that you’d gone out to hear Mr. Swift speak.”

“Yes, yes, my wife and I and our grown son. The shop was closed, but the house was open. I mean to say, we hadn’t thought to lock the doors, back or front. I feel responsible, somehow.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen that someone would use your house in such a way. He could easily have broken in.”

“That’s true enough. But people seem to be avoiding the shop. It’s worrying. Both Constable McBride and the Inspector from Ely, Warren his name is, both of them went through the house inch by inch. There was nothing. No spent cartridge casing, not even a mark on the sill of the window. He hadn’t tracked in mud or stopped to help himself to the biscuits in a box on the kitchen table. And yet he was
here
. At
my
window. Where else could that shot have come from, I ask you?” His words spilled over each other with barely suppressed anxiety, a man caught in a situation he didn’t know how to cope with.

“He left no traces of himself in Ely,” Rutledge reminded him. “I wouldn’t have expected him to betray himself here.” He said nothing about the gray thread still folded into his handkerchief.