Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (32 page)

Rutledge finally found the place Ruskin had described. The hut as he’d called it was actually a small house set by the water’s edge, half hidden by a stand of reeds and other tall grasses. It was sturdier than it first appeared.

Turning to Thornton, he said, “Wait here.”

Thornton was about to argue, but Rutledge said, “I want to speak to him alone.”

He walked around the house to find the man he was after sitting cross-legged on a square of canvas, weaving the circle that would become the bottom of a basket. He looked up, greeted Rutledge, and returned to his work.

Rutledge studied him. Tall, slender, but very strong, his short cropped hair an iron gray. His hands, long-fingered and deft, worked with the reeds with the skill of long practice.

“Mr. Lovat?”

The man nodded.

“My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I’ve come to ask you about your granddaughter.”

Lovat looked up, his gaze alert and focused on Rutledge’s face. His eyes were a startling blue.

“My granddaughter?”

His voice was as strong as his body, and Rutledge could hear only the very slightest trace of the Highlands there. Was he being careful, or had time lessened his accent?

“She went missing some time ago. Nearly a year, in fact. While she was a maid in a house in London.”

“I was never married,” the man said. He set the work aside, letting his hands dangle as his wrists rested on his knees.

“Perhaps not. But you had a child, nevertheless. A daughter. And she in turn had a daughter.
Her
name was Catriona Beaton.”

“If you’ve come to tell me you’ve found this girl, I’ll be glad to hear of it. But my name is Lovat.”

“I think not. You were in the Lovat Scouts at one time. But your name is MacLaren. Angus MacLaren. If I found you, I was to tell you that Marcella Trowbridge is grateful for the cat you left at her door.”

The man smiled. “I won’t take credit for what someone else has done.”

“I have only to take you in custody and we will soon discover whether you are a Lovat or a MacLaren. It might be more satisfactory to answer my questions now.”

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“Where do you keep the rifle? And the mask? And the straw disguise you used to shoot a farmer by the name of Burrows?”

Lovat gestured to his house. “You may search, if you like. I’m a poor man. It won’t take you long.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He studied the man’s face. It had aged well, the features still firm, the jawline taut. He’d been handsome in his youth. He was handsome still.

Hamish said, “Ye’ve been verra’ blind.”

“You say you’ve never married?”

“That’s true.”

“But a man can have a child out of wedlock. Who was the mother?”

He saw the flick of anger touch Lovat’s eyes. Instantly it was gone.

Priscilla Bartram and Marcella Trowbridge were too young. Swift’s housekeeper, Susan, wasn’t old enough. Who else, then? Burrows’s daughter? The wrong age again. Mrs. Percy might know. But there wasn’t time to consult her. Leave this man here and he could vanish before the police arrived to arrest him. He had nothing to hold him here.

But
was
he MacLaren? And was Catriona Beaton his granddaughter? There could be other secrets he didn’t want the world to know.

Where did the truth lie? If this man had continued to live in Cambridgeshire, something must have held him here.

Rutledge pictured the windmill in his mind, the house that had burned to the foundations. The Trowbridge cottage close by. The Bower House.

A bower.

A retreat. A hideaway.

From what?

And then he had it. The sophisticated woman who had preferred that lonely cottage near the windmill when she might have lived a very different life in Bury. The woman who had willed it to her granddaughter, not her son.

Had she had a lover—and another child?

He remembered something Miss Trowbridge had said. About her father being the village doctor who bought this cottage for her grandmother when she was a young widow. But had he? Was it her own money? Her grandmother had very likely married well, possibly even an arranged marriage in her day, rather than a love match. Her husband had died, and for some reason she’d not wanted to go on living in Bury. Had she already met Angus MacLaren? Or was that after she came to Wriston to live? She had let her granddaughter make friends with the man . . . Marcella had liked him. Unaware that he must have been her grandmother’s lover for many years.

How had she concealed a pregnancy? She could have gone away for a time, and then left the child to grow up in Scotland with MacLaren’s family. She might even have visited in the summer. No one would question her wish to travel.

And after her death, Angus had stayed by Marcella as long as he could. Beside the cottage he’d known well. Until his grief for her grandmother became more than he could bear, when he’d burned down the windmill cottage and its secrets and gone away. To Scotland? But he’d been drawn back. And he’d left Clarissa to keep Marcella company. It could be checked later, all these details.

Rutledge said aloud, “Marcella couldn’t be your child. There was another one, one that Mrs. Trowbridge couldn’t claim. One who must have been raised in Scotland with cousins. Catriona was that child’s daughter. And you killed two men for not taking proper care of her.”

The man who called himself Lovat lunged to his feet.

“I’ll see you dead if you drag
her
name into this business.”

“You’ll have to stand trial. There’s blood on your hands, MacLaren. The truth will have to come out. Whether you like it or not.”

“I learned to kill in the Scouts. You don’t forget how to do that.”

“No. You were very clever. If I hadn’t discovered something you’d written, hidden in a drawer in Herbert Swift’s house, I’d never have found you.”

“They never found
her
. Catriona. I don’t think they really looked, although they claimed they had, claimed they’d found her body in a wood. One more serving girl. But she shouldn’t have been a servant. She was educated, she had prospects. Still, she was mad to go to London. After all, she had an English heritage. And that was the simplest way.”

“Why did she leave the Hutchinson household? Was it Hutchinson who drove her away?”

“He drove his own wife to suicide. A servant girl would be easier.”

“I can see killing Hutchinson. But Swift?”

“He did nothing. When Catriona went missing, he did
nothing
. I wrote to ask what had become of her. I asked him to act for me. As a solicitor. He told me I should find someone in London.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to the police. But everything pointed to her leaving of her own accord. I knew better, and still they wouldn’t listen. They told me the case was closed. I investigated on my own, but there was no trace of her. No cabbie who had helped her with her valises. No porter at the railway station who had helped her on a train. I knew then she was dead. That he must have lured her away and killed her.”

But Hutchinson hadn’t been in London when Catriona had left the house. And he hadn’t been home when his wife killed herself.

A scrap of conversation came back to him.

What had Miss Hutchinson said?

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.

What if Hutchinson hadn’t tried to seduce Catriona? What if he’d fallen in love with her? And she with him? Even a man out for the main chance might fall in love with a poor girl. Only he hadn’t known, had he, that she came from very different stock.

His wife had died while he was in France. Catriona had disappeared while he was away in Gloucestershire.

Miss Hutchinson hadn’t come north when her brother was murdered . . .

That handsome house on a handsome square.

Rutledge said, “Dear God. I’m not sure that he did.”

“Did what? What are you talking about, man?”

“I don’t know that Hutchinson had anything to do with your granddaughter’s death. It was his sister. And that house. It had belonged to Mary Hutchinson. She was pregnant. The child had died, but there was every likelihood she would have another. An heir. The question is, was she driven to kill herself, or was she murdered?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not sure. But I think both of us got it wrong. It wasn’t Hutchinson who was responsible for her death, although he was self-absorbed enough not to realize his role in it. It was his sister. Any woman Hutchinson married would be mistress of that house. And now Miss Hutchinson is. Because everyone else is dead. Her brother’s wife. Catriona. And the Captain.”

He was still trying to work it out, his mind rapidly sorting through what he knew. But MacLaren was there before him. He picked up one of the lengths of wood that framed the hurdles and swung it with all the strength of his lean body.

Rutledge dropped like a stone, in spite of Hamish’s warning. His guard down, it had taken precious seconds to realize what was happening.

Dazed, his wits scattered, he lay there, fighting to hold on to consciousness. And then Thornton was bending over him.

Even as he did so, he straightened, whirled around, and said, “
He’s taken the motorcar.”

Rutledge struggled to his feet. “It’s MacLaren. He’s on the way to London.”

“There’s my motorcar. But it’s in Isleham.”

Shaking his head, desperate to clear it, Rutledge said, “We don’t have time. Find someone with a motorcar. Quickly.” He put up a hand and touched the wetness on the side of his head. His fingers came away dark with blood.

“You’re in no condition to drive. You need a doctor. Let Warren deal with it. They’ll find him soon enough.”

“Damn it, I’m ordering you. Find a motorcar. You can drive it, can’t you? We can’t let him reach London or there will be another murder. I’ll explain on the road.”

Thornton turned on his heel and ran out toward the street. It was nearly a quarter of an hour later when he came back, driving a well-polished Rolls with a dark green body. Rutledge was standing by the road, waiting.

“I had to twist some arms. Get in.”

Rutledge did. It was a chauffeur-driven car, and they sat up front. Rutledge could smell something but dared not look over his shoulder. Later he discovered a bouquet of wilting heliotrope in the crystal vase on the lady’s side of the passenger compartment. For hours its heavy sweetness made him feel slightly ill.

Gingerly leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and let Thornton drive. After they had passed Newmarket, Thornton said, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“All right.” He told the story slowly, putting it together in his own mind as he did.

Thornton swore. “It wasn’t Hutchinson who killed Mary?”

“I’ve no doubt he neglected her. He was a selfish man, looking out for himself. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if the sister had done all she could to make her sister-in-law wretched enough to believe he didn’t care for her, only for the house and the money.”

“I was there at your last meeting with her. A cold woman. She was sitting at the head of the table, did you notice? Her brother’s chair. Not at what must have been her usual place. What do you think MacLaren will do?”

“I don’t think he has a weapon.” But what about that sharp knife used to cut the osiers and withies, the stiff stalks of reeds and young trees? Easier to carry inside a London house than a rifle.

Thornton was making good time, but they were still nearly half an hour behind MacLaren, and Rutledge’s touring car was probably faster. As it was, they were thundering down the long straight roads. It would be different once they had left the Fens behind. Their speed would have to drop considerably. And so would MacLaren’s.

It was some time after Cambridge that Thornton said, “He killed two people. MacLaren. The wrong two people, as it transpired. He’ll kill her as well. I don’t know that I wouldn’t much prefer arriving too late to stop him. I loved Mary, you know. Very deeply. And there was nothing I could do.”

“Just as well. You’d hang instead of MacLaren. Pull over, I’ll drive now.”

“You’ve a lump the size of a goose egg on the side of your head. I don’t want to find myself in a ditch.”

On the outskirts of London, late into the night, Rutledge said, “I’ll drop you at Scotland Yard. Ask for Sergeant Gibson. If he isn’t there, tell someone where to find us.”

“I told you,” Thornton said grimly, “I’ll see this through.”

“And if he’s there? If he hasn’t killed her by the time we reach the house? Will you stop him—or stop me?”

Thornton considered the question. “I’d rather not hang. That’s the only reason I’d act. But if God is good, she’ll be dead when we get there.”

There was no time to argue, although Hamish was warning Rutledge that he was taking a grave risk. But Miss Hutchinson’s life hung in the balance, and he would have to take his chances with Thornton.

The late traffic was heavy, laden wagons and lorries and vans bringing foodstuffs and flowers and everything else London lacked to stock the markets and the shops for the coming day. They followed a butcher’s van, the back open, great carcasses of beef and pork swaying as it made its way over the uneven cobbles. And then they were in the clear, only a mile or less from the square where Miss Hutchinson lived. As they turned into the street, even in the gray light of a cloudy dawn, they could see Rutledge’s motorcar standing before the house door.

“He’s here.”

Thornton sped down the street, braking sharply as they reached the house. The front door stood open, and they could see a lamp lit on a table by the stairs.

Thornton didn’t waste time pulling in behind Rutledge’s motorcar. He left the borrowed vehicle in the middle of the street and was close on Rutledge’s heels as they raced to the door and up the stairs. Rutledge had no way of knowing which room belonged to Miss Hutchinson. He stopped at the top of the steps, and Thornton nearly plowed into him.