Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (24 page)

“And the other man?”

“He came to Warwickshire once to plead with her, to beg her to change her mind. But the Captain was exciting, charming. She thought that was what she wanted. A pity she was wrong.”

Newmarket was only a matter of a few miles from the Fen country.

“What was his name? This man. Do you remember?”

“I should. Of course I should. But I can’t bring it back. He took Miss Mary to a party at Warwick Castle, and I went along as chaperone. That was the only time I met him—”

The door had opened and one of the maids was standing there, beckoning to Miss Newland.

“I’m wanted, Mr. Rutledge. I must go. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you more. I’d have done anything for Miss Mary, and she knew that.”

“How did she die?” he asked quickly, before she could turn away and go back to her duties.

“Miss Mary? She cut her wrists. In the bathtub. There was a picture in one of the books in her father’s study. A man during the French Revolution did that, and he was painted lying in that tub full of bloody water. She’d had nightmares about it as a child. I expect she remembered.”

And then she was hurrying back to the house.

Rutledge knew the rather dramatic painting. Marat lying in his bathtub. But he hadn’t slashed his wrists. He’d been stabbed by a woman. Rutledge searched for the name. Corday. Charlotte Corday. But she hadn’t been shown in the painting. Only the dying man. The child had remembered what she saw—but not what it meant.

When the door had shut behind Miss Newland, Rutledge went back to his motorcar and turned toward London.

He faced the same problem as before. Miss Hutchinson would either insist on sitting in on the interview—or would forbid it altogether.

Leaving the motorcar at the far end of the square, he walked back to Number 7, and this time went down the steps beside the iron railing to the tradesmen’s entrance.

A scullery maid answered his knock and informed him that the housekeeper, Mrs. Cookson, was presently upstairs discussing the next day’s menu with Miss Hutchinson.

“But you could wait in the housekeeper’s parlor, if you like,” she said with a cheeky smile.

He smiled in return and was led through the servants’ dining room and down a short passage to the housekeeper’s small parlor.

It was tastefully decorated with what must have been cast-off furniture from upstairs. There was a small table desk, a tea table with matching chairs, and a more comfortable chair next to a bookshelf holding cookery books, household hints, a volume on etiquette, and an older edition of
Debrett’s Peerage,
well thumbed. He wondered if that had been a discard from upstairs.

He was still standing at the bookshelf when the door opened and Mrs. Cookson came in.

“May I help you?” she asked coolly. She was graying, her hair glossy and piled high on her head. There was a cleft in her chin, and her full lips were pursed in disapproval.

“My name is Rutledge. I’m from Scotland Yard. We’re investigating the murder of Captain Hutchinson. I’d like to ask you several questions.”

“The police were here the day after he—died.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were very helpful.” He smiled disarmingly. “But other matters have come to our attention since then.”

“And they are?”

“How well did you know Mrs. Hutchinson?” he began.

Surprised, she said, “But she died during the early days of the war.”

“I’m aware of that. Please answer the question.”

“I was hired when the house was opened, while the Captain and Mrs. Hutchinson were on their wedding trip. I hadn’t known her before that time. But she was quite lovely to work for, and I was as sad as anyone when she—she died.”

“Why do you think she killed herself?”

“I—the inquest concluded she had cut herself in a fall. There was broken glass beside the tub.”

“She brought her maid with her from Warwick. Did you know her well?”

“Miss Newland kept herself to herself. We were polite to each other, but not what you might call friendly.”

And yet they had corresponded.

“Why did she leave?”

“After the funeral, she was given what was due her in Mrs. Hutchinson’s will, and she chose to retire.” Her voice was strained as she said the words.

He could hear Hamish telling him that she was hiding something.

“That’s not what Miss Newland has told me.” And Miss Hutchinson had said she had her own lady’s maid . . .

“It was—there was some trouble about Mrs. Hutchinson’s personal effects. I was told that Miss Newland claimed certain items as promised to her.”

“What happened?”

“I wasn’t there. Miss Hutchinson said afterward that Miss Newland was a thief and she’d told her to get out.”

“And did she leave without a character?” Miss Newland had said nothing about the circumstances surrounding her departure. Was Mrs. Cookson given to exaggeration? Or had Miss Newland concealed the real reasons for being dismissed?

“She did. That very afternoon. I was sent to oversee her packing, as there had been the trouble over Mrs. Hutchinson’s things. And she was blee—” She broke off, turning red.

“Bleeding?”

“I could only think that Miss Hutchinson had slapped her. One of her rings cut into Miss Newland’s cheek.” Without thinking, she touched her own face, where Rutledge had seen the deep scar on Miss Newland’s.

The only way a ring could have cut that deep, he thought, was if Miss Hutchinson had struck her with the back of her hand.

“But she left, and that was the end of that.”

“I did keep up with her. From time to time.” Mrs. Cookson was walking the very narrow line between honesty and truth.

“In spite of the fact that she was accused of thieving.”

Mrs. Cookson bit her lip. “She had known Mrs. Hutchinson since she was a small motherless child. Sometimes things are said. ‘I’d like you to have this one day,’ or ‘It was my mother’s. I’ll leave it to you in my will, shall I?’ Whether they are
meant
or not. I can see Miss Hutchinson’s point as well. It was her brother’s house, and he wasn’t here to tell her his own wishes. There was no proof of promises on either side. Miss Newland must have been upset, close as she was to her mistress. She would have liked to take some small memento with her. In the heat of the moment, things are done and regretted later.”

Mrs. Cookson was trying to be fair. Rutledge, reading her expression and listening to the tone of her voice, could see that she had had to side with her employer’s sister, but she had been inclined to believe Miss Newland.

“I don’t see why it should matter that Miss Newland left us when she did,” she added, realizing that she might have said too much.

“It’s not always possible to see the links. Tell me about the young woman who was taken on as maid at the end of the war. The one from Scotland.”

“Catriona Beaton? You know about her as well? One of the maids left to be married, when the footman in Number 12 came back from the war. We advertised of course, and this young woman had excellent references. She was here some months. Nearly a year. She’d come down to London to make her fortune, and I wasn’t convinced that service was the right choice for her, but I changed my mind in the end. A hard worker, never any trouble, knew her duties. And then one morning she was gone. Not a word, no request for a reference, not staying out her notice. Just—gone. I couldn’t believe it.”

“And you haven’t heard from her since then?”

“I told you. Not a word.”

“Why do you think she left?”

“She was young, eager to get on. I thought she’d found something better. That’s why she didn’t need a reference.”

“There’s more to it than that,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Cookson took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It was the Captain. He’d been away, and he came home for a fortnight. She’d been here two weeks by that time. Even I could see where this was going. He’d never spared a glance for the staff before. I doubt he could recognize any of us on the street. Now he seemed to know which room she was working in, when she’d be coming to make up the fires or turn down the beds. I was worried, I can tell you that. He’d talk to her. About her afternoons off. About Scotland. About what she wanted to do with her life. I don’t know what all. She asked me once what to do about him, and I told her, if he began to make her feel uncomfortable, I’d speak to Miss Hutchinson. One day she did come to me, saying that he’d asked if she’d have dinner with him one night. She didn’t know how to refuse him. And so I went to Miss Hutchinson. She must have had a word with her brother, but it didn’t do much good, I can tell you that. The night before she left, Catriona came to me, frightened and in tears. She wouldn’t tell me what had happened. She just said she was afraid. The next morning, when she didn’t come down, I sent one of the other maids up to wake her. And the room was empty. She’d gone.”

“What did you think had happened?”

“That he’d offered to set her up in a house somewhere. As his mistress. I think she decided that the best way to cope with the situation was to leave.”

“Had he set her up?”

“When he discovered she was gone, he went mad, accusing me of sending her packing, accusing his sister of the same thing, frantic to know if she’d left a forwarding address. And then one night he came in, and he was himself again. It was as if he’d never set eyes on her.”

“He’d found her, then.”

“No, I don’t think he had. He’d just come to his senses. Or realized that he couldn’t marry such a one. I don’t know who it was spoke to him. Someone must have done.”

Or he’d found her—and had it out with her.

What had become of the girl?

Hamish said, “He could ha’ throttled her for leaving him.”

The voice seemed to echo around the small room. Rutledge said quickly, “What do you feel became of her? She was here nearly a year. You got to know her well enough to judge her character.”

“I was always afraid she’d done herself a harm. She was owed her wages, you see, and she never collected them. A girl like that? She wouldn’t lose nearly a month’s wages, if she could help it. And what about a reference?”

It was typical of the housekeeper to see the girl’s death in such a light. She wouldn’t want to consider that her late employer had driven a second woman to suicide.

Chapter 14

A
s Rutledge was opening the tradesmen’s door, he glimpsed a motorcar just pulling up in front of the house.

He stopped where he was, waiting.

A man stepped out of the motorcar, walked to the door, and lifted the knocker. Rutledge could hear it clearly from where he was standing, the brass plate sounding sharply.

After a moment, the maid who had let him in greeted the caller and invited him inside, and the door closed behind him.

Rutledge stayed where he was, for the motor was still running.

Nearly five minutes passed, then the door above him opened again and Miss Hutchinson swept out, followed by the visitor. The chauffeur was standing by the rear door now, holding it open as the man helped Miss Hutchinson inside, then followed her.

The chauffeur shut the door smartly and went back to take his place behind the wheel.

And then they were gone.

Rutledge breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a near run thing. He didn’t want Miss Hutchinson to see him again, not coming out of the downstairs servants’ quarters. It was better for Mrs. Cookson if she didn’t have to answer questions about his visit.

Leaving the area stairs, he walked back to where he’d left his own motorcar.

Hamish said, “It’s a’ verra’ well to learn about the past, but it doesna’ have a bearing on the murders.”

It didn’t. Rutledge had to admit it. But he’d discovered that there were at least two secrets in Captain Hutchinson’s life. What were the others?

It was time to call on Mrs. Harris’s cousin Alice Worth.

He found the card given him by Mrs. Harris, and discovered that Alice Worth lived in a tall, handsome house in one of the most fashionable squares in London. A dinner party was in progress when he knocked at the door—he could hear voices and laughter. What’s more, the maid who answered his summons was uncertain what to do with the policeman on the doorstep.

She left him there, went to find her mistress, and in a few minutes he was whisked down a passage to a small morning room done up in pale peach and cream. Mrs. Worth swept in shortly afterward. A slender woman with fair hair and china blue eyes, she was wearing a very becoming evening gown of lilac and silver.

“I have guests, as you can see,” she said abruptly. “I’m sure this could have waited until the morning.”

“I’m afraid not,” Rutledge replied pleasantly. “I’m inquiring into the death of Captain Hutchinson. Mrs. Harris, in Burwell, told me you could provide information about his late wife, Mary.”

Her manner changed at once. Quietly shutting the door behind her, she said, “She was driven to her death. I’m convinced of it. If her husband wasn’t guilty of killing her, he most certainly was morally responsible. I’m glad he’s dead. I see no reason why I should help you find his killer. The man is to be congratulated on his good sense.”

“Do you know who killed Hutchinson?” he asked, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

“I am not required to answer your questions,” she told him. “I’m not a suspect, and I have no proof. Therefore I will make no accusations.”

“You do realize that whoever he is, he’s killed another man, and a third is at this moment fighting for his life.” It was only a slight exaggeration. But he could read her eyes, and she was unaware of what had happened to Swift and Burrows.

“Then I was mistaken,” she said. “The person I suspected would not have done such a thing.”

“Not even if he had been driven mad by Mary Hutchinson’s death?”

“If he had been driven mad, as you put it, he would have found Captain Hutchinson and killed him a very long time ago. No, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

“Revenge is best savored cold,” Rutledge reminded her.

“Revenge or justice, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t kill him. Good evening, Mr. Rutledge.”

With that she was gone, and the maid who had admitted him escorted him to the door and shut it firmly behind him.

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ make her tell.”

“She told me more than she realized. That whoever was in love with Mary Hutchinson is still alive and still has feelings for another man’s wife. The question is, how well did she know this man? It’s one thing to see Mary Hutchinson and whoever he is as star-crossed lovers, but Mrs. Hutchinson made her choice.”

Still, it was frustrating to have come this far and be met with a stone wall. The letter sent to Mrs. Harris had given him the impression that Mrs. Worth was eager to see justice for her late friend. Instead she’d turned a policeman away.

Now the question was, should he make an appearance at Scotland Yard—or avoid it?

Looking at his watch, he realized that Acting Chief Superintendent Markham had long since left for the day. He found somewhere to have dinner, and then looked at his watch again.

The night staff would have taken over. Sergeant Gibson had most likely gone for the day as well.

But there were questions he needed to ask, and answers he needed to hear.

He drove on to the Yard, left his car some distance away, and walked in. His office was as he’d left it, several files still waiting for his attention. Nothing there from Gibson.

Dealing with the files quickly and efficiently, he carried them to Sergeant Gibson’s desk and set them in the box for completed files. Then he swiftly searched the sergeant’s desk.

He found what he was after and flipped through the pages, scanning the information they contained.

Gibson had found nothing new to report. And if Gibson couldn’t, then very likely there was nothing more to be found.

Fallowfield, Lowell, Burrows, Swift, and his half brother Anson—they were all there along with Brenner and Montgomery, several with a mark by their names indicating the search for information had been conducted and the information conveyed to the Inspector who had requested it. In this case, himself.

Rutledge put the file back where he’d found it.

He was disappointed that nothing of interest had been discovered about Ben Montgomery, who had joined the Army and never returned to visit his family in Cambridgeshire, or about Jeremiah Brenner, he of the cold eyes and the need to drink to forget. They had been promising leads.

And then he left the Yard as quietly as he’d arrived.

Rutledge slept in his own bed that night and started for Cambridgeshire early the next morning. He stopped by the house that had belonged to his parents, where his sister Frances lived presently, and found her just having her first cup of tea in the small room overlooking the garden.

“Darling Ian, what a surprise. Sit down and I’ll have Molly bring you some breakfast.”

“I haven’t time,” he said. “Is there fresh tea in that pot?”

“Yes, help yourself. You know where to find the cups.”

He did, and joined her at the table. “You’ve been away,” he said.

“And so have you. I came round to call on Monday. Where have you been?”

“Cambridgeshire. The Fen country. And you?”

“I went to see Melinda in Kent. I wanted to tell her my news.”

Rutledge smiled. She was engaged to be married now. Melinda Crawford was an old friend of the family, his parents’ friend and now theirs. She would be one of the first people Frances would wish to tell.

That made it official. Real. He wanted nothing but happiness for his only sister. But when she had told him she was thinking of marriage, it had seemed that the bottom had unexpectedly fallen out of his world. It had taken all the will he possessed to smile and tell her he thought she’d made a good choice.

He had begun to come to terms with her engagement, but it had not been easy.

He drank his tea, listening to Frances’s account of the visit to Melinda Crawford in Kent.

“She keeps asking me when you’ll come to see her.”

But he couldn’t. Melinda had come from a military family, married into another, knew war and soldiers. He would betray himself, and she would know what haunted him. He cared too much for her good opinion to risk it.

Rutledge forced a smile. “The Yard takes most of my time.”

“You could take leave, surely. You work too many hours as it is. A few days away from the Yard would be good for you.”

“I’ll try,” he promised, and changed the subject.

Ten minutes later he was heading out of London, already considering where to look next.

Newmarket. Mary Hutchinson had fallen in love there. Who was the man? And how had he dealt with the breaking off of their engagement, after Mary had met Lieutenant Hutchinson?

Where was that man now? A loose end, and one that could matter. It was possible he’d not been free to pursue his revenge until now. If he’d returned to live in Newmarket, he could have killed Hutchinson in Ely and easily gone home without attracting attention.

Hamish was reminding him that a man who had loved Mary Hutchinson would have no reason to kill two other men, even if he’d shot her widower. Had Swift died only to distract the police from the real purpose of the crime?

That brought him back to why Captain Hutchinson had to be the first to die. The real target . . .

If that was true, then why shoot Mr. Burrows? An unnecessary risk, surely. And another dead end.

He spent the night in Cambridge again and arrived in Newmarket early in the morning. Horses were just coming in from their morning gallop, walking single file, their riders hunched in their saddles, thinking about breakfast.

The better part of the day, Rutledge and the local constable, an affable man called Henry, went searching for any evidence of Mary Hutchinson’s presence here with her uncle before the war, any news of Herbert Swift, or proof that Captain Hutchinson had visited the town.

Swift, they learned, occasionally followed the horses, but he was generally the guest of an Ely solicitor, a man named Baron.

Captain Hutchinson had come once or twice in 1919, but always with a group of other young Army officers. No one could recall meeting him in 1914.

If the two men had crossed paths, there was no record of it.

As for Mary Hutchinson’s uncle, Thaddeus Whiting, a few of the older trainers and jockeys remembered him and spoke warmly of him. Several recalled meeting his niece, but if she’d formed an attachment for anyone she’d met in Newmarket, they were unaware of it.

“Does anyone from Burwell or Wriston or Isleham frequent Newmarket?” Rutledge asked Michael Flannery, one of the trainers.

He smiled. “Of course they do. When they can. But they’re not big punters, they come for the day, enjoy themselves walking around looking at the horses, and then go home. It’s London and the shires that keep us afloat.”

Rutledge thanked Constable Henry for his time and prepared to drive on to Burwell to look in on Burrows.

Constable Henry said, “I’ll keep an ear to the ground, if you like, sir. You’ve given me the names. Where can I find you?”

“Wriston. Or Ely.”

“That’s fine, then, sir. Safe journey.”

A safer one than his first visit to the Fen country, he thought as he drove into Burwell late on a windy afternoon.

Dr. Harris was pleased with the progress Burrows was making. “But it was a near-run thing. Infections like that can be very stubborn. Are you going his way? I’ll release him if you are. He’s to keep that face clean and dry. If he does, he’ll be fine.”

Rutledge waited while the bandages were changed and Burrows was given instructions about the care of the wound. And then the man came out. He looked better, his face less swollen and his eyes clear. He greeted Rutledge with a nod, turned to thank the doctor, and walked out to the motorcar. His daughter had already returned to Wriston to oversee the farm.

Waiting until Burrows was out of earshot, Rutledge said to Harris, “If you will, thank your wife for me, and tell her I did as she asked. But I’d like to know the name of the man Mary Hutchinson was engaged to before her marriage. If she can discover that, I’d be grateful. I’ll be in Wriston until this inquiry is finished. Or in Ely.”

“I’ll pass the word. Thank you for listening to her worries. I don’t know that it was helpful to you, but it will make my own life more comfortable.”

Rutledge smiled. “I daresay.”

Burrows was taciturn until they were well out of the village and on the road toward his farm. Even then his conversation turned to what he must do to make up for lost time and how well his daughter had managed in his place.

There were two questions Rutledge wanted to ask the man, and the first was the most innocuous.

“I see these fields,” Rutledge said, gesturing to either side of the road. “You can’t manage them with a handful of men.”

“In the planting and the harvesting, I take on day labor. They know when to come. Some have been stringing the hops in Kent, or harvesting them. Others need work to put food on the table for winter. A few are Travelers—gypsies—who do whatever’s to hand. I keep my eye on them. They’re not to be trusted. But there’s not much to steal. This year we’ve been lucky with the barley. The weather has held, save for the storm the other night. But it’s time to bring it in.” He touched his face. “Bloody man! He’s cost me.” It had been his own intransigence over keeping his wound clean that had sent him to Dr. Harris, but Burrows was having none of that.

“I assume you know many of the people who come to work. They’re here year after year. Anyone among them who might have something against Herbert Swift?”

“I can’t see why. They’re in the fields all day, these workers. They don’t go to the pubs, although sometimes they bring in beer without my knowledge. There’s no time to waste in the villages. One or two of the young rascals, yes, but where would they come by a rifle, even if they’d wanted to shoot someone?”

“From their fathers in the war.”

“Pshaw. That’s as likely as my daughter shooting him. Except,” he added hastily, “I don’t have a rifle. But you have my shotgun.”

“It’s in the house now. You’ll see it there. I’d put it away if I were you.”

“All well and good.” Burrows sat back. “I’ll be getting myself one of these motorcars. One day. I’ve been saving for it. A good harvest this year will see me clear.”

“Do you often go to Newmarket?”