Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (3 page)

Chapter 4

London, September 1920

R
utledge stepped into the office of the Acting Chief Superintendent with some trepidation.

He had had a loud and vituperative argument with Markham at the end of his last case, accused of following his own instincts rather than official direction. The fact that in the end Rutledge had been proved right had added to Markham’s displeasure. He was a hardheaded, straightforward man who viewed intuition with suspicion and put his faith in the obvious. The dressing down had been personal as well as professional.

Keeping his own temper with an effort, Rutledge had drawn a deep breath, asking himself if every inquiry in Yorkshire, where Markham had come from when Chief Superintendent Bowles had had his heart attack, ended in a tidy packet tied with righteous ribbons. He had grimly withstood the storm, and then Markham had calmed down sufficiently to ask him if he was absolutely convinced of his facts.

He was. And said as much. Markham had thanked him and then dismissed him.

This morning Markham was finishing a report as Rutledge crossed the threshold, and looking up, he nodded in greeting.

“Cambridgeshire—the Fen country. Know it?”

“Around Ely? Yes, a little.”

“Someone’s walking around up there with a rifle, and so far he’s killed two people. A Captain Hutchinson who was about to attend a wedding, and a man named Swift who was standing for Parliament—just as he was beginning a speech.”

“A rifle?” Rutledge frowned. “They were turned in before we left France.”

“Then someone failed to do as he was ordered.”

“Are the two victims related in any way?”

“If Hutchinson was his intended target, no. If he got Hutchinson by mistake, we don’t know. The wedding that afternoon was to be attended by prominent churchmen, members of the government, a number of the aristocracy, and military men. If his target was one of them, it will take weeks to interview them and find a connection.”

“Was Swift a wedding guest as well?”

“He was not.”

“Are we certain the killer was a soldier?”

“We’re certain of nothing but the fact that we have two men dead, and too little to go on. Which is why the Yard has been asked to take over the inquiry.” He paused, considering Rutledge. “It would not do to hear of a third murder by this madman.”

In short, a swift conclusion to the inquiry was expected.

“I’ll remember that,” Rutledge said, not smiling.

Two hours later, he’d cleared his desk, packed his valise, and set out for Cambridge in his motorcar.

He spent the night there and the next morning headed north.

The sunny weather of yesterday had changed to damp, lowering clouds that obscured the unmade road, and the motorcar’s powerful headlamps bounced back at him from the soft, impenetrable wall of mist. At the crossroads, the narrow boards giving the names of villages in each direction appeared and disappeared like wraiths, and sound was muffled, confusing. At one point he could hear a train’s whistle in the distance but had no idea how far the tracks might be from where he was.

He drove with care, for the country could be treacherous. Lose one’s sense of direction in this flat, featureless landscape and the motorcar could plunge into one of the many drainage ditches that ran arrow straight across the Fens. A missed turn could land him into a field of soft black earth, miles from the nearest house. For that matter, he hadn’t seen a dwelling, much less another vehicle, for nearly half an hour.

The sounds of the train faded, then vanished altogether. It was, he thought, as if everything he knew, all that was familiar to him, even his senses, had been taken from him, leaving him to cope in a silent emptiness that had no yesterday or tomorrow, only the obscure present. Rather like death . . .

It was beginning to aggravate his claustrophobia.

Some time later, when he thought surely he must be nearing Ely, out of the mist came a strange sound, a clacking that he couldn’t place. A hay wain? No, because he couldn’t hear the jingle of harness or the familiar thud of hooves on the hard-packed roadbed.

Slowing, he peered through the windscreen, then stopped altogether. The last thing he wanted was to hit someone or something. Getting out, he walked forward a step at a time. He could see fewer than three paces ahead.

In the back of his mind, a voice was warning him to beware, but he had to know whether he was still on the road—or not.

Out of the gray mist, something stirred, then disappeared. He waited. In time it stirred again, creaking. He frowned, listening before going forward. But now there was silence.

What the hell was out there?

He moved on. Suddenly there was grass beneath his boots, where there had been road before. He turned and realized he couldn’t see his motorcar.

In the same instant, the creaking seemed to come from directly above him. His immediate reaction was to duck.

A breath of air touched his face, and it pushed aside the veil of the mist for a few seconds. Something loomed just above his head, and he tensed.

He stood stock-still, waiting for whatever it was to reveal itself. And again there was the faintest rift in the white curtain, and he realized that he was standing only a matter of feet from a windmill. Its sails, laden with damp, were creaking as if complaining of the weight.

A few more steps and he’d have collided with the nearest sail.

But where the devil was he? Surely he’d already passed Soham. Many of the windmills had been replaced with steam pumps, ugly black fingers of chimneys reaching skyward. But Soham’s still stood.

The sail above his head creaked again. Listening, he thought he could hear a pump somewhere in the distance.

A voice came through the mist.

“Who’s there?”

“A visitor,” Rutledge answered. He couldn’t make out the accent. “I think I’ve lost my way.”

“Do you need help?”

“Only to be told where I am. What is this mill?”

“Wriston Mill.”

And how the hell had he got to Wriston? It lay south of Ely, and a little west. Where had he missed his turn?

The voice said, “Are you walking? On a bicycle?”

“I have a motorcar. I left it back there. I didn’t know what the creaking sound was, and I got down to investigate.”

“Yes, well, you’d be better with a horse out here. They know what they’re about.”

“I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I’m—from Cambridge.”

“Schoolmaster or don?” the voice said, and from the tone of it, either occupation was equally to be despised.

“Neither. I’m trying to reach Ely. On a matter of business.”

“Well, you won’t make it alive in this. Foolish to have tried.”

“That may well be,” Rutledge answered. “But here I am.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Rutledge heard footsteps walking away.

Swearing to himself, he stood where he was, peering through the fog, trying to find something besides the windmill to serve as a landmark. This kind of mill stood by water, a pump, and he dared not choose the wrong way.

And then he heard the footsteps returning.

“Your motorcar is safe enough where it is. Follow me.”

But Rutledge couldn’t see him. All he could do was walk in the direction the footsteps were taking now, and that was a risk. His hearing had always been acute, not as sharp as Hamish MacLeod’s had been in the trenches, but more than sufficient to serve him now.

He couldn’t go wrong if he watched each stride, looking no more than one or two ahead. And so he followed the sound and soon was off the grassy sod, back to a road that seemed to be no better than a lane. They were walking along it now, he could hear the difference in the footsteps leading him. When he had gone some thirty paces, he knew he couldn’t possibly have returned to his motorcar again. He stopped and said, “Where are you leading me?”

“Just along here. Another twenty or so feet. There’s a house. You can shelter there until this passes.”

The voice was odd in the mist. Distorted. He wasn’t sure he could recognize it again in more ordinary circumstances. All he could do now was to trust it.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. He’d gone the twenty feet. He stopped.

The footsteps ahead of him stopped as well.

“To your left. There should be a gate.”

Rutledge turned, reached out. His hands touched nothing. He put out a foot. Ah. There was indeed a fence here—iron, he thought. Leaning forward, his groping fingers found an iron picket, the top shaped like a flower. As he moved closer, he could just make out more of them. And there, just beyond, was the gate. His ghostly guide had been right on the mark.

Rutledge called, “Thank you.”

But no one was there. That sixth sense so many people possessed told him so, and yet he hadn’t heard the man leave.

He walked up what appeared to be a short path and found himself at a blue door. There was a knocker with a brass footplate. He lifted it and let it fall.

After a moment the door opened. A woman stood there, and even against the lamplight that made her appear to be no more than a silhouette, he could see her surprise.

He wondered fleetingly if his unseen rescuer had just come from her and she had expected—hoped—he’d returned. Or was she expecting another caller? The man in the mist had questioned him. Looking back, Rutledge wondered if he was waylaying someone.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling. “I’m rather lost. Somehow in the fog, I made a wrong turn. I was on my way to Ely.”

She blinked, as if his answer was unexpected. “Were you walking in this? I’m astonished you didn’t fall into one of the ditches. Come in, then.”

As she stood aside to allow him to pass, he said, “My motorcar is somewhere near Wriston Mill.”

As if that explained everything, she said, “Just as well to leave it where it is. I was about to make a pot of tea. Would you care for some?”

In the lighted room he could see that she was quite pretty, dark haired and dark eyed. She was studying him as well. Behind her the front room contrived to look both smart and comfortable. A small fire burned on the hearth, and on a rug beside it a white cat lay curled up and asleep.

“That would be very kind. Yes.”

He followed her through to the kitchen. It was a pleasant room, warm and friendly, but the windows showed only blankness beyond the panes. He felt suddenly anxious, claustrophobic because he couldn’t see a world outside.

She was busying herself with the kettle and the tea. “You’re a stranger, aren’t you?”

“I drove up from Cambridge this morning.”

“At the university, are you?”

He wouldn’t have pegged himself as an academic and yet twice now he had been asked if he was. He was briefly amused. No Oxford man cared to be mistaken for a Cambridge man. “No, sorry. I have an engagement in Ely. This afternoon. I expect I shall miss it.”

She glanced at the windows.

“It might clear,” she said doubtfully. “But I shouldn’t like to raise your hopes.”

“Is there anywhere I could stay the night? If this doesn’t lift, it would be foolish to press my luck.”

“Indeed it would. We’re hardly more than a village. But there’s a small inn where hunters came in season. For the waterfowl. The hunters haven’t been here since the war. I hope the shooting won’t start up again. I don’t like the sound of the guns. And it’s cruel to hunt the birds. There’s been some talk about protecting them. It’s been done in other places.”

The kettle was beginning to boil. From a shelf she took down two cups and saucers, two spoons, and the sugar bowl, setting them on the table. Then she went through a door next to the large dresser, returning with a small jug of milk. “There.”

While the tea was steeping, she said, “I’ll take you to the inn. Priscilla will be glad of the money.”

“If you tell me how to go, I’ll find it myself. You shouldn’t be out in this mist alone.”

“You’d find it very easy to be turned around. I’m used to it.”

“You grew up here?” he asked as she lifted the teapot’s lid, stirred the leaves, and let them settle again before pouring.

“I lived here as a child. My father was the village doctor. We moved away when I was seven or eight. My mother was insistent that we live in a place with better schooling. And so we went to Bury St. Edmunds.”

“But you came back.”

She frowned. “Yes, I suppose I did.” It was an odd answer, but he didn’t press.

They sat across the table from each other, and an awkward pause followed.

“I don’t know your name, Mr. . . . ?”

“I’m sorry. Ian Rutledge.” He smiled. “You really shouldn’t invite strangers into your home. It isn’t wise. But I’m grateful you did.”

She nodded. “Marcella Trowbridge.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Tell me about Wriston,” he said. “I know where it is on a map of Cambridgeshire. Besides the inn, what else is there?”

“Shops and houses, of course. An old market cross. Cromwell took a dislike to it and destroyed the top. I’m told there’s a very nice drawing in Christ Church in Cambridge showing how it once looked. One of the early abbots at Ely kept a journal, it seems, recording his travels. We owe him a great debt, because he described the village. It was hardly even that then. Our church was only a pilgrimage chapel in Saxon times, but as Wriston grew, so did it. There’s a Green Man on one of the ceiling bosses. A very old one. As a child I used to stare up at it, certain that it was staring back at me, watching to see if I was behaving.” She smiled whimsically, remembering. “The abbot must have been taken with it as well, because he mentioned it in his journal along with one of the gargoyles. The windmill, on the other hand, has been here since the reign of James the First, although it’s been rebuilt many times. It’s one of the few that haven’t been replaced by steam, because it’s really all but redundant. Drainage elsewhere stole Wriston’s thunder, as it were. But in heavy storms, we’re still grateful for it.”

She realized all at once that she had given him more information than perhaps his question had intended. Shrugging a little, she added, “Otherwise it’s rather a small, unprepossessing village.”