Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (31 page)

“She was young, Miss Hutchinson. Surely you felt a personal responsibility.”

“I was young once, Inspector, with only my brother to take care of me. Our parents left us very little. I’m well aware of the pitfalls and dangers of being a woman without protection. We lived in lodgings, we were dependent on his officer’s pay. We were shunned by people who now respect us. I wore gowns I’d refurbished myself because I couldn’t afford new ones. If I survived, I believe she was clever enough and determined enough to survive as well. If she didn’t, if the body was hers after all, you must look elsewhere for her murderer.”

And yet Fallowfield, in Ely, had believed Hutchinson had been left comfortably fixed by his parents. A claim to wealth and position to conceal his struggle to keep up appearances? Judging by the bitterness in Miss Hutchinson’s voice, he thought her version of their past was very likely the truth.

“Now,” she was saying, “I should like to finish my lunch in peace. Good day, Mr. Rutledge. Good day, sir.”

She turned back to her plate, ignoring them. But Rutledge had got what he wanted.

Leaving her with a curt nod, he walked out of the dining room and said to Thornton, “All right, now we can go north.”

“I don’t see what you learned here.”

Outside, cranking the motorcar, Rutledge said, “The Hutchinsons were rather cavalier about the disappearance of Miss Beaton. Her grandfather would have considered that unconscionable. But would it have driven him to kill Hutchinson? Quite possibly. On the other hand, Swift did everything that was in his power to see that this position was safe and responsible.”

“Did MacLaren know that?”

It was a very good question. The young girl he had allowed to live in Glasgow had matured and decided to test her mettle in London. And something had gone wrong. Had she turned to Swift? Or tried to reach Scotland? Or had she died, an anonymous death in a city where life was cheaper than she knew? The London police had closed that case.

And where did Thornton fit in? He’d asked that before, and was still undecided. It was time to take him to Ely and arrange for a search warrant before the man could destroy any evidence. Inspector Warren could see to that.

Again Thornton seemed to know what he was thinking.

“You won’t cut me out of this inquiry. Good God, it’s my life that’s on the line. I’m your only suspect. And I’ll be damned if I won’t see this through to the finish.”

Rutledge remembered what Belford had said about Thornton’s presence:
Unorthodox—but effective.

Tired as he was, Rutledge knew he dared not sleep in this man’s company. To sleep would mean to dream, and to dream would mean betrayal. Of himself, of Hamish.

The sooner he reached Ely, the sooner he could rest.

They were on the outskirts of Cambridge when Rutledge heard, as if from a great distance, Thornton swearing and grabbing his arm, then the wheel.

Rutledge came awake with a start to find the motorcar running down the low embankment that led to a shallow farm pond. He pulled on the brake almost reflexively, and the motorcar juddered to a stop on the brink of the water’s edge, sending ducks and drakes scattering in a loud cacophony of angry quacks.

Thornton said, “If you have a death wish, I don’t. Let me drive. I slept for three hours out of London, remember?”

But the shock was enough to wipe away that leaden need for sleep. Rutledge backed up with great care until the tires were on the high road once more. What had he been dreaming? Something about ambulances—avoiding ambulances as he and his men marched along the rutted stretch of muddy track toward the front lines.

They drove on, Thornton finally asleep again at his side. But it was impossible to reach Ely. They ran into a heavy storm just beyond Newmarket, black clouds pushing toward the coast. He could hear the steam pumps clattering away, straining to keep up with the incessant downpour, and ditches were running strong with rainwater, threatening to overflow.

He pulled into Wriston, still well short of Ely, noticed that there had been hail here as well as rain, and drove on to the police station. McBride wasn’t there, but he took Thornton, arguing angrily, back to the single little cell, leaving him there. By the time he’d reached The Dutchman Inn, he was wet to the skin. Priscilla Bartram opened the door to him, and with apologies, he barely made it up to the room set aside for him. Stripping off his wet clothes, he fell across the bed and slept for nine hours.

When he woke, he knew what it was he had to do. Dressing, he went down to find tea and breakfast waiting for him, although it was nearly six o’clock in the evening. He ate it to please Miss Bartram, who was eager to learn why that nice Mr. Thornton was in custody. Gossips were already busy.

He avoided the question and ten minutes later was walking up to Miss Trowbridge’s cottage.

The rain had stopped, a watery sun was out, and there were standing pools in the ruts of the High Street. Most of her garden was beaten down by the force of the wind, and there were petals scattered along the walk, bruised and wet.

She came to the door, acknowledged him with a nod, and then as an afterthought, invited him inside.

Clarissa stood up in her bed by the hearth, stretched, and came to inspect his shoes and trousers.

“You’ve been away,” Marcella Trowbridge said, gesturing to a chair.

“To London. I find that you can help me with something that has been puzzling me.”

“I can?” she asked, surprised and then wary. She’d been about to sit down, then thought better of it.

“You told me once about the windmill keeper. That he was a Scot.”

“Angus?”

“What was his surname?”

“Do you know, I never heard it. He was always—Angus.”

“Where was he from? What part of Scotland?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? I told you, he must be dead by now.”

“Let me tell you a story. When Herbert Swift was in Glasgow, he took on a young girl to keep house for him. When the war ended and he was returning to Wriston, she chose not to come to Cambridgeshire with him. She was old enough then to know her own mind, you see, and she wished to go to London. The only training she had was in service. And so Swift found her a position that he believed to be safe. But it wasn’t. Months later, she left one night late, bag and baggage, without the wages due her. And she disappeared. Her grandfather tried to find her. But there was no trace. It’s likely that she’s dead. The police concluded she was. Still, she’s the only connection I’ve found between Swift and Captain Hutchinson. For it was his house she left that night.”

“Dear God. You don’t believe Angus—but he had no granddaughter. No daughter. He never married.”

“Was he in the Boer War?”

“I—yes, I believe so. Does it matter?”

“When he left here, did he return to Scotland?”

“I have no idea. I’d known him all my life. But he didn’t tell me where he was going. That’s odd, isn’t it? I just never thought of it in that way until now.”

“Your grandmother lived here before leaving the cottage to you in her will. Did she know anything about his past?”

“I can’t think she would. She liked him, of course. As did I. He was an interesting man. But except to speak to him, I doubt she knew him any better than I did.”

But a child couldn’t have judged what an older woman knew and felt unsuitable for young ears. All the same, it couldn’t have been shameful, or she would never have let the child meet the man, much less become friends with him.

Where to go from here?

“And you’ve heard nothing from him since he left here?”

“Nothing. Except once, when I’d just come home from visiting friends in Bury. I found Clarissa in a basket on my doorstep. She was tiny, with a blue ribbon around her neck. There was no card, no message. I asked Priscilla and the constable and everyone I could think of, but no one seemed to know anything about her. It wasn’t long after Angus had left. And I wondered if perhaps he’d brought her to me. She’s been such great company.”

Rutledge thanked her, rising to leave. She asked, “Will you be looking for Angus? Because you think he’s got something to do with these murders?”

“I have to be thorough, Miss Trowbridge.”

“I refuse to believe any such thing. Still—if you should find Angus, will you ask him? About Clarissa?”

“Yes, I promise.”

W
hen he reached the police station the next morning, Rutledge found Thornton fuming and pacing his cell.

“Let me out of here before I go mad. I’d confess to killing Caesar if I thought it would buy my freedom.”

Rutledge had once been shut into a cell. He remembered the claustrophobia it had brought on.

Rutledge smiled grimly. “I’m going to look at Swift’s house. There was nothing of interest there earlier, but we know rather more now than we did then.”

“Let me go with you. He was a classical scholar. As I am. There might be something you’ve overlooked.”

“Or something you can destroy.”

“Damn it, man, I kept my word. All the way to London and back.”

“So you did. All right, I’ll take you with me.”

Rutledge had got the key from McBride, who had all but insisted that he come as well. But Rutledge was not ready to tell the constable or anyone else what he was searching for.

The rooms were still, musty. Thornton searched through the bookcase, an occasional comment escaping him as he found a particular volume. Rutledge concentrated on the desk. But there was no correspondence from the grandfather of Catriona Beaton. Frustrated, he went through the drawers a second time, then went to search the bedside table. Swift must have read before he went to sleep, for there were several books perched precariously between the lamp and a small carriage clock.

Rutledge had thumbed through them before and found nothing. In the drawer of that table was a well-worn Bible, and Rutledge took it out, leafing through the pages a second time. He was about to put it back where he’d found it when he spotted a small handbill in the back of the drawer.

It advertised the shoemaker in Soham. He was about to put it in the drawer once more when he saw that something had been scrawled in pencil on a blank space on the back, and he held it up to the light to read it. The words had faded, almost to the point that they were illegible.

You’re no better than he is. So be it.

For some reason, Swift had shoved it out of sight rather than toss it into the dustbin or the fire.

Rutledge called, “Thornton. Do you know of a shoemaker in Soham? Someone by the name of Morton?”

“Only that he’s no longer in business. He must be all of seventy.”

“Who has taken over his shop?”

“I don’t think anyone has.”

“Then let’s have a look.”

They had reached the motorcar after returning the key to McBride when a motorcycle came roaring down the street, stopping in front of the police station. He handed McBride a message as they watched, and McBride hailed them.

“For you, Inspector. From Inspector Warren.”

“It can wait. I’m driving to Soham.”

“Sir.” McBride stood watching as they drove away.

“You could have asked him, you know. About the shoemaker.”

“I’d rather see for myself.”

When they arrived in Soham, Thornton directed Rutledge to the shoemaker’s shop. It was on the outskirts, not far from the cooper, Ruskin. The sign above the door was faded, and peering in the single dusty window, Rutledge could see bundles of reeds stacked in a corner or lying spread across the floor to dry. Certainly not the tools of a shoemaker.

“He’s the hurdle maker,” Thornton said in surprise. “Try in the back of the shop.”

They walked around to the rear of the shop, where they could see stacks of hurdles in the open shed. Wooden frames where reeds or withies had been woven to form a barrier for a gate or a garden or a pen for animals. Rutledge remembered hearing Priscilla Bartram describing such a one in the prow of the flat fowling boat her father and grandfather had used.

No one was there. A bicycle stood propped against the back wall of the shop. That was the only sign of life.

“He cuts the osiers and the reeds and the withies in the spring, prepares them, and then makes the hurdles as needed. People come and buy what they want.”

“Then where is he today?”

Thornton said with some surprise, “It’s Sunday. The shop would be closed.”

“So it is. Where does he live, this hurdle maker?” He remembered something McBride had said about the hurdle maker. What was it?

He couldn’t bring it back.

“I have no idea. I leave such matters to the man who keeps my gardens.”

“Ruskin’s shop is just up the street. The cooper. He may know.” He’d hardly said the words when he remembered. It hadn’t been McBride, it had been Ruskin, giving an account of the night he’d been drunk enough to run riot with the side ax. It had been the hurdle maker he’d been chasing, unaware of what he was doing.

But Ruskin’s shop was closed as well. He lived with his wife somewhere else. That too Rutledge remembered. They walked on, leaving the motorcar, looking for someone to question. This was a street of craftsmen. The cooper, the hurdle maker on this side, there the brick maker, and then just beyond, the wheelwright. A cabinetmaker had his shop where the lane met the street, and Rutledge could smell aged wood as he passed. It wasn’t until they had reached the street that they met a young couple walking out together.

“Hallo,” Rutledge said, smiling. “I’m trying to locate the hurdle maker. Or failing that, Mr. Ruskin. Can you tell me where to find them?”

They directed him to the cottage where Ruskin lived with his wife, and there Ruskin told them how to find the hurdle maker.

“Do you know his name?” Rutledge asked.

“He’s generally called Lovat. He came here about the time the shoemaker died. The family let him have the shop for less than what it was worth. It ’ud been closed for several years as it was. No one else wanted it. The carriage trade seldom comes as far as the lane these days.”

“Where can I find him?”

“There’s a stream on the far side of Soham, where he finds his materials. Sometimes he makes baskets with the reeds. The greengrocer sells them for him.”