Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (30 page)

Rutledge waited until they had given their order to the man who was serving them, and then he answered.

“Perhaps I can be more objective. You have Mary Hutchinson’s letter. Still, you don’t know what was in her mind at the end, when she was dying. It’s also possible that the last thing she expected of you was to waste your own life in avenging her death.”

Thornton pressed his hands against his face, then dropped them. His eyes were haunted. “Is that why I never acted until Hutchinson came north? Because I was afraid it wasn’t what she wanted?”

“Only you can answer that.”

But Thornton said no more. He changed the subject by asking about Rutledge’s war, and they spoke of other things until the outskirts of London.

Dawn was rising in the east when they turned into the street where Rutledge lived.

“You’ll need a shave and a fresh shirt,” he said. “I can offer both.”

Thornton’s hand rasped as it brushed across his chin. “My God, aren’t you tired?”

“I can’t afford to be tired.” He pulled up in front of the flat and got out.

Thornton followed him, and twenty minutes later, they were leaving again, this time for the house where Hutchinson had lived.

Thornton stared up at it with interest. “This was Mary’s. This house. I never came here, although she spoke of it often. She liked London. Her uncle preferred the country, but he brought her out in London. I didn’t know her then. I’d have lived anywhere that made her happy.”

“I’d rather not let the occupants know that you had anything to do with Mary Hutchinson. Can you keep your head—and your temper—or must I handcuff you to the motorcar?”

“I’d like to go inside.”

It was early to make a call. The household was awake and already about its duties, but Miss Hutchinson, they were told, had not yet come down for breakfast.

They cooled their heels for half an hour in the drawing room. And still Miss Hutchinson hadn’t come down to speak with them.

Angry, Rutledge went out to the stairs. Short of bearding her in her bedchamber, the next possibility was to find the Hutchinson housekeeper on his own.

He and Thornton walked unhindered to the door to the kitchen and made their way down the twisting steps.

A scullery maid looked up from cleaning carrots for the midday meal. Startled to find two strange men coming toward her, she dropped her knife and fled to find the cook, or failing the cook, anyone else of sufficient authority to deal with the interlopers.

The housekeeper, frowning in disapproval, came hurrying down the passage toward them.

It was on the tip of her tongue, Rutledge could see, to tell them the tradesmen’s entrance was outside. Then, realizing that Rutledge had been here before, asking questions, she wiped the frown from her face and asked coolly, “How may I help you?”

Rutledge said pleasantly, “I see you remember me, Mrs. Cookson. Could we speak to you in your parlor, please?”

His expression, belying his voice, brooked no objections. She said, “This way, if you please,” and led them to the small room where he’d interviewed her before.

“Is this about the late Mrs. Hutchinson?” she asked, offering them chairs.

“In a way. I’ve come to ask about the young woman Catriona Beaton. Can you tell me what her references were, when she came to you?”

“I don’t know that Miss Hutchinson would ap—” she began, but Rutledge cut her short.

“I’m sure she would approve of your helping Scotland Yard. To be sure, I can ask for a search warrant, but she might not care for that added unpleasantness.”

Mrs. Cookson, still standing, said, “I have the box just there.”

She indicated a large flat box on a shelf behind him, and he passed it to her. Inside were packets of envelopes, each packet tied with a ribbon and each one including a small card indicating the name of the servant in question. She thumbed through them quickly, finding the one he’d asked for. Taking it out, she untied the ribbon and began to look at each of the envelopes.

“Here is the recommendation.”

Rutledge took it from her and withdrew the sheets of paper inside.

He scanned them quickly, then went back to read the pertinent parts.

I cannot recommend her highly enough. She’s intelligent, quick, willing, and eager to serve in a larger household than mine. I believe you’ll find her a very fine addition to your staff.

The second page of the letter was more to the point.

She has grown up in my house, and I feel responsible for finding her a suitable position. You will understand that I should like reassurances that she will be cared for with diligence and that the distance from her home to London will not be viewed as relinquishing our duty. Her family will expect no less.

It was most certainly to the point. And the signature was what Rutledge had expected to find there.

Herbert G. R. Swift

Swift had written the recommendation and the Hutchinsons had accepted Catriona Beaton into their household on the burden of that recommendation.

But who the devil had set out to avenge Catriona Beaton?

Chapter 19

T
urning to Thornton, Rutledge said, “What do you know about a Catriona Beaton?”

“Catriona Beaton?” he repeated, frowning. “I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

Rutledge was returning the sheets to their envelope and handing it back to Mrs. Cookson, but his eyes were on Thornton’s face.

“There’s another letter here. From her grandfather,” the housekeeper said. “It came after she had left us.” Taking it out of the packet, she handed it to Rutledge.

He opened it and found a very brief message inside.

We have heard nothing from you for the past two months. Whatever is wrong, we will help you, you must know that. Just write. For the love of God, write.

It was signed,
Your loving grandfather.

“Did no one answer this man, when the letter came?”

“She’d left of her own accord,” the housekeeper protested. “We didn’t like to write and tell him so.”

“Did he ever come to the house?”

“If he did, he never identified himself as a relative of hers.”

Then had the grandfather found his missing granddaughter?

If he had, there was surely no reason to hate either Herbert Swift or Captain Hutchinson.

Or was there?

He looked at the envelope in his hand. The return address was MacLaren, Trahir House, followed by an address that Rutledge thought must be north of Stirling, in Scotland. A man of substance, this grandfather, not a simple clansman.

Thanking Mrs. Cookson, he left, and Thornton said, as they went out the door and down the steps to the motorcar, “What the hell was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” Rutledge said. “But I intend to find out.”

He sat for several minutes in the motorcar, staring across the road at the grassy expanses and tall trees of the square, enclosed by its iron fencing. That reminded him of Marcella Trowbridge’s cottage. Setting the memory aside, he considered his position.

No doubt Sergeant Gibson could find the information, given time. But that would mean going to the Yard. And explaining Thornton. It had perhaps been a mistake to bring him, but by the same token, keeping an eye on him was paramount until a proper search of the man’s house could be made. So far there had been no time for Thornton to dispose of anything incriminating. Including a rifle . . .

Who else, then?

Mr. Belford came to mind.

But did he, Rutledge, wish to be beholden to the man?

They had worked together—in a manner of speaking—on another case. And neither man had quite trusted the other. Rutledge had looked into Belford’s past while Belford had explored Rutledge’s. An uneasy truce had been declared.

But there was the fact that Belford had probably worked for Military Intelligence, even though his curriculum vitae showed he’d spent the war in the Military Foot Police. It was as good a cover as any. His contacts went beyond any information that Gibson had access to, and time at the moment was important. Something had to be done with Thornton, and soon.

Hamish said, “It’s haste driving ye. And you’ll find yoursel’ owing the Devil his due.”

It was a risk. He knew that. But what choice did he have?

Taking a deep breath, Rutledge turned the motorcar toward Chelsea.

It was very likely, he thought, that Belford wouldn’t be at home. But as luck would have it, when he knocked at the door, a footman told Rutledge that he was in.

A few minutes later, Rutledge and Thornton walked into Belford’s study.

Nothing on the desk would indicate what the man had been working on before Rutledge came to the door. It had been cleared away with swift precision, and somewhere in this room, he thought, would be a drawer designed to hold whatever had been there.

“Mr. Rutledge,” Belford said, rising from his desk. A tall, trim man, he seemed to be a gentleman of leisure, not a master of information. “What brings you here? And who, may I ask, is your guest?”

“This is Mr. Thornton, a suspect in a double murder. If you don’t mind, I should very much like to lock him in a room while we talk.”

Thornton said, “Here—!” and stepped back as if expecting to be taken away.

Belford said, “If we are circumspect, no harm done. Let him stay.”

Rutledge smiled. Did nothing catch this man off his guard? Taking one of the chairs pointed out by their host, he said, “There were two deaths recently, one in Ely and another in the nearby village of Wriston. A Captain Hutchinson and a Mr. Herbert Swift were shot by someone using a rifle. Suspects had a good reason to kill one or the other, but not both. Unless of course the second man was a—er—distraction from the real target. Until yesterday I could find no connection between these two men. Now it appears that one of them, Swift, employed a young girl, Catriona Beaton, as housekeeper while he was working for the Admiralty in Glasgow. When the war ended, the young woman, as she was then, decided she preferred to seek employment in London. In due course, she went to work in the house of Captain Hutchinson. And in due course, she went missing from this house, and no one seems to know where she went. Or indeed if she is still alive. A body was found later, the identification uncertain. The only connection we have with her past is her grandfather, a man by the name of MacLaren, who lived at Trahir House in Scotland, somewhere north of Stirling, if I remember my geography. He could well be dead. If he isn’t, he could possibly tell me what became of his granddaughter. And whether the police ever told him about locating her remains. And whether or not she could have been the reason these two men were killed.”

“You think someone in her family could have been out for revenge.”

“It’s a long way from Scotland to Ely.”

“And Mr. Thornton here?”

Thornton spoke before Rutledge could answer. “I knew Hutchinson’s wife. I was to marry her. She chose Hutchinson instead. It was not a successful match, and she killed herself.” It was bald, emotionless, and yet there were brackets of pain—or anger?—around his mouth. “I would have enjoyed being the one to kill Hutchinson.”

“In short, you’re the first string to Rutledge’s bow?”

“I believe I am.”

Belford turned back to Rutledge. “Is there a good reason why Mr. Thornton is here and not in gaol in Ely?”

“There hasn’t been time to search his house for the murder weapon.”

“And so he’s here, meanwhile? Rather unorthodox, but effective.” Belford toyed with the inkwell on his desk. It was surmounted by a rather handsome eagle, and Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it had once belonged to the Kaiser. “I do happen to know of a MacLaren. I expect he isn’t your man. He was in the Lovat Scouts—the Boer War. One of their finest shots. My uncle delighted in telling us tales of his prowess. But he resigned when the war was over. And was never heard of again. It was generally thought he’d gone back to Scotland.”

Thornton said, “His children would have been MacLarens. But his grandchildren could have borne any name.”

“I don’t believe he ever married,” Belford responded. “That was said to be the reason why he took on the most dangerous assignments.”

“Nevertheless,” Rutledge returned.

“I’ll look into this matter. He shouldn’t be difficult to find.” Belford glanced at Rutledge. “Are the resources of the Yard no longer available?”

“They are—if one wishes to be found out by a superior who is anxious to see this inquiry closed,” Rutledge retorted.

“Ah. Markham, is it? He had something of a reputation in Yorkshire. But then he knew his turf, and he was seldom wrong. London is a very different matter, I should think.”

They rose, and as Rutledge moved toward the door, Belford added, “Where can I reach you?”

“My flat. I’m sure you know where that is.”

“Quite.”

As the door was closed behind them, Thornton said, “Remind me never to cross that man.”

Rutledge grinned sardonically. “One sups with the Devil when one turns to him.”

“I shouldn’t think the Yard would approve.”

Rutledge didn’t answer him.

They spent the rest of the morning and half the afternoon in Rutledge’s flat. Thornton paced the floor like a caged lion, back and forth, back and forth, while Rutledge sat by the door and waited, fighting sleep, which kept threatening to overwhelm him.

It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when a messenger arrived with an envelope.

“Rutledge?”

“Yes.”

The man handed him the envelope, turned back to his motorcycle, and was gone in a roar.

Rutledge sat down again, hesitating before he broke the seal.

I was right. MacLaren was in the Lovat Scouts. And quite a dangerous man with a rifle. He acted as a sharpshooter in several matters where it was deemed necessary to—er—take certain measures. He never married.

However, it is reported that he had one child out of wedlock, and she in turn had one daughter. The mother of that child was killed in an accident when the girl was five. Her father died in France during the war. Her name was Catriona Beaton. MacLaren has not been seen at Trahir House for some years. It’s thought that he is dead. The house is now occupied by his brother’s family. I did not speak to them, leaving that to you.

I shall collect my fee for this information at some future date.

It was signed with a
B.

Hamish said, “Aye, you’ve made your bargain. It willna’ sit well at the Yard.”

Making an effort to ignore the voice, Rutledge considered the problem of this man MacLaren. He could worry about Belford later. Where, he asked himself, was this Lovat Scout? And how much did he love his granddaughter? He was alive when she vanished. But a Scot in Cambridgeshire would draw attention the instant he opened his mouth. And someone would remember . . .

And what was he to do with Thornton while finding out?

As if he’d heard Rutledge’s thoughts, Thornton said, “Don’t mind me. I’m enjoying this quest of yours. It’s likely to clear me.”

Rutledge turned to him. “Were you a sniper in the war?”

The question came out of nowhere, and Thornton wasn’t prepared. His face betrayed him before he could school it to show no reaction.

He didn’t need the War Office now to tell him the truth. But verification would serve the K.C. to prepare his case.

“A battlefield promotion. You must have done something extraordinary to deserve that. What was it?”

“That’s none of your damned business.”

“But it is. Anything to do with you is my business. Did you bring your rifle home with you? Against all orders?”

Thornton was prepared this time. He said blandly, “What use would I have for a rifle in waterfowl country?”

“It was your closest companion—no one else except your commanding officer accepted what you did as brave. Shooting from cover? And there was Hutchinson. Did you think it might be useful one day to kill him? It was your weapon of choice. Not the Gurkha knife. Nor the thuggee garrote.”

“I wasn’t ashamed of what I did. It saved lives, my skill.”

As it had done. Rutledge took a deep breath. “All right. Let it go. But if I find you’ve armed that old man and sent him out to do your dirty work for you, I’ll have you up as an accessory, to hang beside him.”

“Did you know that the windmill keeper was a Scot?”

“The windmill—the one in Wriston?” And he remembered. Discussing Hogmanay with Marcella Trowbridge, who knew the man as a child. Who had told him that Angus was likely to be dead. McBride had suggested he’d drunk himself to death after the fire in the windmill cottage. But had he? And if he had, where was he buried? More urgently, was he a MacLaren?

Rutledge sprang to his feet, weariness forgotten. “We’re going back to Cambridgeshire. Now.”

He was on the road before he thought of something. He’d been mulling over all the evidence as he threaded his way through the London traffic, and he turned around, heading back into the city.

It was Miss Hutchinson who knew the answer, and he would see her this time if he had to break down her bedroom door.

Thornton, alarmed, said, “What the hell? I thought we were going to Wriston.”

“Not yet. I want to speak to Miss Hutchinson again.”

This time he found her at a late lunch, sitting at the head of the long table in the splendidly proportioned dining room. The table, he thought as he was ushered in by the housekeeper, would easily seat twenty-four.

She looked up in annoyance at the interruption, recognized Rutledge, and said, “I thought you’d left.”

“I had. Another question occurred to me. Where was your brother when Catriona Beaton left this house?”

“Where he always was. He’d just returned from France, where the ministries were meeting to discuss the treaty. Where power was, there my brother could be found.” There was pride mixed with bitterness in her voice. “That week, he’d gone to Gloucester with some Colonel or other. I think that’s why Beaton chose to leave then.”

“Because she knew he would follow her and possibly find her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I daresay she found this household too restrictive for her—er—tastes. London had changed her. Once she had left, she was no longer our responsibility.”

“Who did she know in London? Where could she have turned until she had found a new position?”

“Without a reference, she wouldn’t have found a new place. No, she was most likely on her way to Scotland, where she came from. If she’d saved her wages, she could have taken the train. There was no certainty that the body the police found was Beaton’s. We made the assumption, of course, but there you are.”

The housekeeper had said she hadn’t collected her last month’s wages.

“Yet two months later her family had had no word of her. Or from her.”

“I’m not aware of any correspondence from her family. Or that she had any family living.”

“Mrs. Cookson received such a letter.”

“Did she? She’s responsible for the staff, of course. I leave such matters to her.”

“Which tells me that her family was left to wonder what had become of Catriona.”

“I remind you again that
she
chose to leave. Ending our duty to her as a member of this household.”