A Fine Summer's Day (16 page)

But it would have to wait. He must finish this interview and keep his mind on what he had come to do.

He said, “Do you think Mrs. Hadley is up to seeing me? I should like to ask her a few questions.”

“She wasn't here—” Mrs. Tolliver began, then went on, “Of course, you'd want to know if anyone had a reason to kill him. For my own part, I'd have said no, that he was the last person to be murdered. I can name a name or two in the village, people who are always causing others hurt or bullying them, who might be more likely. But everyone seemed to like Mr. Hadley. He was that sort of man.”

Like Tattersall. Like Clayton.

She rose, leading him up the steps he'd just come down and putting him in a small drawing room, rarely used except for guests.

Unable to sit still, he paced the floor, oblivious to the pale cream walls and the heavy Turkish carpet under his feet.

If Tattersall
hadn't
killed himself. If Clayton
hadn't
been hanged. Take out the distractions, and look only at the similarities.

And these three cases fit together. Three men killed not at random but as part of a whole.

But what whole?

He didn't have all the pieces. Not yet.

By the time Mrs. Hadley came into the room, nearly a quarter of an hour later, it was all Rutledge could do to conceal his excitement.

He began by offering her his sympathy. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and she looked as if she might have been resting. He felt a sudden distaste for having to disturb her.

A pretty woman with red-gold hair and blue eyes, of medium height and build, she had walked across the room with steady determination, as if to make certain she didn't show any sign of weakness. And yet it was there, the shock of a loss so great that she hadn't managed to absorb it yet.

“I must apologize for asking to speak to you today, but for the fact that the sooner we begin our inquiries, the better chance we have to find the person behind your husband's death.”

She said with a steeliness that surprised him, “It's the one thing in this world I want just now. Other than to bring my husband back to me.”

“You weren't here, of course. But you knew your husband better perhaps than anyone else. I'd like to know if there was anything on his mind. Anything in the present that worried him, or in his past that might have come back to find him.”

“No. He was such a good man. Yes, I know, every new widow says that, and means it at the time. But even saints are human. Jerry looked for the best in everyone, and expected to find it. And so sometimes he did, even when everyone else thought he must be mad even to try.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth as if to stave off tears that were far too close to the surface. After a moment she added, “I don't see what anyone had to gain from his death. And sometimes that's the only reason for murder, isn't it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“I'm his only heir. And as this farm was my father's, that's how it should be. We don't owe large sums of money. We haven't ill-treated our people here, either the household staff or the temporary workers from London. In fact Jerry is rather generous in paying them, with the forward-looking idea that happy people seem to work all the harder. I'm told by Mrs. Tolliver that nothing appears to be broken or stolen. My husband had small treasures in this room and his study, but nothing of such great value that he might have become a target for thieves. We entertain friends from time to time, we've had a few small house parties, but they were always great fun, without any incident to mar them. No one has stormed out in anger.”

It was unexpectedly comprehensive. He thought she'd already gone over and over these possibilities, trying to make sense of the senseless. But he had to ask another question that would surely hurt her.

“Was there anyone else in his life? A woman . . .”

She smiled sadly. “If there were, I'd die of the shock. Ours was a love match. I'd have given my life for Jerry. And he for me.”

“I'm told you didn't live here in this house, just after your marriage.”

“My father wouldn't have been satisfied with the Prince of Wales, much less Jerry. And as a consequence we visited infrequently. And yet Papa left him this estate, when he might have tied it up for me alone. I've always believed it was because he'd come to know that Jerry would be a good husband in every sense. To me, to the land, to the people we employ.”

“Where did you live before coming here?”

“Bristol of all places.” She smiled again at his look of surprise. “Jerry was the heir of his Uncle Thaddeus, and so we lived in a town house there. Quite a lovely old one. We'd met in London when I came out, and I knew straightaway that it was Jerry I wanted to spend my life with. When my father died, we turned the Bristol house over to my husband's cousin and his family. They were looking for a larger home, and so it was suitable for them.”

Bristol
. Even in Moresby, even here in Kent, the road led back to Bristol. Why Bristol?

He asked if she or her husband had by any chance known the Clayton family, or the Tattersall brother and sister. But she shook her head. “Should we have known them? Were they connections of my husband's? If so I don't believe he ever spoke of them or introduced me to them.”

And he believed her.

She considered his question from another perspective. “Are you saying that someone among these families, the Claytons or the Tattersalls, wanted to harm my husband—that this might be why he was so willing to move to Kent, when I asked him to take over the farm?”

“I don't have any reason to think so, no,” he replied. “They were
involved in other cases concerning Bristol. It's a matter of thoroughness, that's all.” He kept his voice level, his expression neutral, but it took all his willpower to conceal what was going through his mind.

Bowles would call it another of his leaps of the imagination, not founded on fact or backed up with evidence. But here were three cases revolving around this singular business of Bristol and a glass of milk. Surely there had to be something connecting them? A killer. Why had he singled out three such different men?

Annie Clayton had left her father in the house. But only for a night. Miss Tattersall had been asleep upstairs, as the staff had been here. How had a killer found his victims so alone?

He tried to concentrate, to finish his interview, but his mind was jumping from one possibility to another.

If these murders
were
connected, Kingston, sitting in a jail in Moresby, couldn't have committed the last two. But did that clear him in the first death? Was one man at the bottom of this, or was it a conspiracy?

He said, “I've kept you longer than I should. Perhaps we could finish talking tomorrow?”

Gratitude flooded her eyes. “Yes, if you wouldn't mind. Unless, of course, what I could remember would speed your investigation?”

“I think we have enough to be going on with.”

“Then would you mind ringing the bell, there by the hearth? Mrs. Tolliver can show you out, and afterward, help me back up the stairs.”

She was pale, and Rutledge wondered if she had eaten or slept since she had been given the news.

He did as she had asked, waiting for Mrs. Tolliver to appear. When she stepped into the room, Rutledge said quietly, “I can find my own way out. I think your mistress needs you.”

He turned to go, but Mrs. Hadley said in a stronger voice, “If you find out who did this to my husband, or why, will you come at once and tell me? I need to
know
.”

Rutledge promised, nodded to her and to Mrs. Tolliver, and left.

Through the still open door he heard Mrs. Tolliver say, “I was afraid it was too much for you. Let me help you back up the stairs.”

And Mrs. Hadley answered, “Too much for me? When Jerry is lying God knows where, dead? I would do anything to find his killer.”

He found himself wondering if she had meant him to hear.

R
utledge finally ran Dr. Wylie to earth.

He was not in his surgery, but his nurse explained that there had been an accident out at one of the farms. Following her directions, Rutledge reached Sunrise Farm, only to learn that the doctor had dealt with the mangled foot and was now on his way to look in on a newborn at Foxhole Farm.

Rutledge had just turned into the muddy farm lane when he saw the doctor's carriage with its smartly stepping black mare in the harness, coming toward him.

Waiting for him, Rutledge looked out across more hop fields, and beyond them to orchards already heavy with late summer fruit.

Wylie was younger than he'd expected, perhaps thirty-five, tall and slender with a shock of unruly black hair and intelligent blue eyes.

“Am I needed?” he called when he was close enough to be heard.

Rutledge introduced himself and said, “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Jerome Hadley's death.”

“It's better for you to join me here than for me to get down. Nellie is not accustomed to motorcars.”

And so Rutledge climbed up beside him in the small carriage.

“What made you suspect it was murder even before you'd done a cursory examination of Hadley's body?”

“I knew he had a sound heart, and although that's never a guarantee of a long life, I couldn't believe it was that. When I saw the glass of milk on the blotter, Mrs. Tolliver told me that he never drank milk.
Some people can't, you know. It upsets their digestive system. And then I smelled the milk—a doctor uses his nose as often as he uses his eyes—and despite the sourness, I thought there was something else in the glass. I tasted it. And I realized at once that it must be laudanum. Where had it come from, and why was Hadley taking it? This was altogether too suspicious for me to say nothing. I told the constable what I suspected. He was worried about contacting Mrs. Hadley in Canterbury, but I must admit I was curious enough that I volunteered to go there myself.”

“Did you suspect her?”

“Not really. No. But I was concerned about the laudanum, and I wanted to ask her if she used it. I'd never prescribed it for her—there was no need, she's a healthy young woman—but women sometimes use it in small amounts to help them sleep, and she might have got it in Canterbury. Women used to take arsenic, you know, to give them that ethereally pale complexion so desirable at one time. In such small amounts, it's not deadly, but there could be an accumulative effect if users aren't careful. As a matter of fact, I
had
prescribed laudanum for the maid Peggy. But it was a dilute solution and a small vial because she was so young. In the night, she might not count her drops properly. Or follow my instructions to call the housekeeper to help her. That's trouble waiting to happen. Or perhaps she decides to rid herself of another maid who has made her life wretched? Young, impetuous, thoughtless.”

“You have an extraordinary interest in murder, for a healer.”

“Not murder. I've been a doctor long enough that nothing surprises me. Human nature being what it is. Medical training shows you the best and the worst of life. You don't deal with only the nice people. There are drug addicts and botched backstreet abortions and abuses that turn your stomach. And attempted murder that winds up on a table in front of us and we have a matter of minutes to determine what we can do to save the poor victim. I've run across more than my
share of laudanum cases. Best way to rid yourself of that elderly aunt sitting on all that money, or a clinging wife who has long since become a burden. Even an unwanted child. The list goes on.”

“How could someone kill a man with laudanum, without leaving any other trace of his presence in a house? As in Hadley's case? If it wasn't someone who lived there?”

“I've pondered that myself. No robbery, no rummaging through the house looking for private papers, no attempt to torture Hadley into giving him whatever it was he wanted. And yet someone went down to the kitchen for that glass of milk. And someone had the laudanum to put into it. I did the post, you know. That's what killed him.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Although it was essential to have that confirmed. Any possibility of an affair? Either partner might have reached a point where he or she wished to be free without the scandal of divorce.”

Wylie shook his head. “They were close, the Hadleys. And very happy.”

“No children?”

“Sadly, no. My wife tells me that's why Mrs. Hadley does so much for the hop pickers and their families.”

“Any idea how the will stands?”

“I was one of the witnesses. There's a Hadley cousin in Bristol, I think, but the property was Mrs. Hadley's to begin with, and Jerome didn't wish to leave it elsewhere. The cousin would have been an absentee landlord, and besides, apparently he's doing too well in the shipping business to think of taking on a farm of this size.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Jerome spoke to him before drawing up the will. He wholeheartedly agreed.”

“Then what happens to the farm?”

“It goes to Mrs. Hadley, of course. And if she dies, it will be sold and the proceeds donated to various charities.”

“So the property isn't at issue. Anything else that might be?”

“I was talking to my wife about that last night. Mrs. Hadley had inherited some rather nice pieces of jewelry, and her husband had given her other bits and bobs. But they were all there. She looked when she got home. That rules out theft. Unless of course the intruder, whoever he was, had no idea they existed. Apparently he never even looked. The bedroom hadn't been touched, any more than the library had. Not so much as a drawer opened.”

“Interesting,” Rutledge said. “I've had two other cases closely resembling this one, each of them separated from the other by quite some distance. Wells in Somerset and Moresby in Yorkshire. And yet threads of both of them led back to Bristol. A shopkeeper, a man with a trust that enabled him to live a life of leisure. And now a farmer.”