A Fine Summer's Day (22 page)

She grinned as he kissed her cheek. “I shall try my best. But you shouldn't make such promises.”

The front room of the cottage was tastefully decorated, a smaller version of a Welsh dresser against one wall showing off a fine display of china figurines, and the tea table was certainly Queen Anne. But she took them through that room and up the stairs where the smaller of the two bedrooms had been turned into a study of sorts. Windows at both eaves let in the summer air, and he saw that besides a small desk and chair, the room held mostly papers—on shelves, on the floor, on the windowsills, and even under the cat's bed, raised two feet off the floor. A black cat with golden eyes stared at them, then lost interest, going back to sleep.

“We needn't sit up here—well, there's really no place
to
sit, is there?—but if you will tell me what you're looking for, we can take what I need downstairs again.” She smiled up at him.

Rutledge found himself wishing he could ask her about anything but a murder trial. It seemed to be far too ghoulish a subject for this pretty cottage on this sunny day. But he said, “There was a trial in Bristol, I think. Some twenty-five years ago. In 1888? I don't know who the accused was. But I believe I know the names of several of the jurors. Or at least I hope I do. I desperately need to know the name of the man who was tried for murder, if I'm to find a record of his trial. And I must find that record in order to prove a case. It sounds like a hopeless task. I hope it isn't, because this is an urgent matter.”

Lucy frowned. “Murder cases. Yes, they would be over here.” She walked to a low stool set where the cottage roof sloped almost to the floor and retrieved a sheaf of papers.

With them in hand, she nodded to the door. “Let's go back downstairs.”

They followed her and sat in the front room. She glanced at the papers, refreshing her memory.

“Beecham hasn't had many murders. In 1792, 1848, 1860, 1867, 1870, and 1888, 1897, and 1901. Most of these, interestingly enough, were committed by the same family. The first five, at least. They were highway robbers, and sometimes killed their victims. The highwayman was not as romantic as he's been painted. People were terrified of them, and nobody talked. That allowed them to continue their way of life until the Lord Lieutenant in 1867 took it upon himself to rid the neighborhood of them. And he quite ruthlessly did. That leaves us with only local murderers.”

She looked up at her two guests. “Shall we try 1888, then?”

Rutledge said, “Yes. Please.”

She shuffled through the pages to find what she was looking for.

“Here it is. One Evan Martin Dobson. I've grown accustomed to my own scrawl, so I'll read it to you. Mr. Dobson, who was a leatherworker by trade, had a falling-out with the son of the greengrocer in early April of that year. No one is quite certain what the falling-out was about. There was some feeling that it was wages owed for a new bridle with silver buckles that Mr. Dobson had made for the greengrocer's son. The greengrocer's son—here's his name—Thomas Atkins—saw himself as something of a dandy, but of course his father wasn't the squire and couldn't afford his son's extravagances. Atkins and Dobson had a falling-out over the harness, and in the end, Mr. Dobson applied to the father for payment.”

She turned the page she'd been referring to. “The father refused, saying that it was his son's purchase and his son would have to settle the account. Two nights later, the greengrocer was set upon on his way home from church. He died of his injuries without ever regaining consciousness. The maker of that bridle was taken up for questioning, and he swore he had nothing to do with the beating. There was some evidence to the contrary, the print of a boot in the muddy lane where
the assault happened, and a copy of Dobson's account lying under the body. The inquest found Mr. Dobson as the murderer, and he was bound over for trial.”

She looked up at Rutledge. “Does this sound in any way familiar?”

“I never knew the details. But it's possible that Dobson is our man.”

The vicar said, “He's interesting, is Dobson. The son, Henry, that is. His mother was buried in our churchyard at the end of June. Dobson left the village as soon as she was buried. He was a quiet sort, rather dogged. But devoted to his mother.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She struggled to put food on the table. The previous vicar felt no compassion for her or her child. He held rather Victorian views about sin. In her last illness, I contrived to have her medicines put on my account, but it was to no avail. She was simply worn out from overwork and unhappiness.”

“And the son?”

“Henry? He was rather stiff-necked about charity. When I was still new here, I once offered him work in my garden, to help him make a little money, but he felt it was pity and not his skills that moved me. Sometimes helping the least of His children is not as easy as it ought to be.”

“How did he earn his keep?”

“His mother took in washing and ironing. For a time he ran errands for the greengrocer—the new man—and picked up whatever other work he could find. He helped in the lumberyard when he was older, and tried to take up his father's trade, but there were too many who remembered the bridle, and what it had led to.”

“His mother is buried in the churchyard?” Rutledge repeated the vicar's words, considering the possibility that that was why the other graves were defaced—because those lying beneath them weren't fit to lie in hallowed ground with Dobson's mother. A first step in a murderous journey.

“Yes, as I said. Henry told me there and then that he would be sending me the money for a proper stone. He wanted something with a sunrise in the upper part, and her name and dates. The next morning, when I went to the cottage to look in on him, he was gone. He'd taken everything that mattered to him, I expect, and just abandoned the rest. No one seemed to take notice of his departure. I doubt most people even knew he'd left, except when he failed to show up for work. Sadly, there was no one at the burial but Henry and myself.” The vicar sighed. “I count him as one of my failures, but truly his path began long before I was ever here.”

Lucy Muir had been listening intently. “I didn't know. I'd gathered this material about this man's father, and I had no idea—it's more personal somehow that I could have passed him on the street how many times?—and yet never connected him with the man who went to the gallows for murder.”

“He probably preferred it that way,” the vicar said.

“Why did he stay, if life was so unbearable?” Rutledge asked.

“Money. His mother. Where were they to go?” the vicar answered.

“Do you know if she took her husband's death hard? If she, for instance, told her son that he was innocent?”

The vicar shook his head. “I don't think she considered guilt or innocence. He had done the work on the bridle, he hadn't been paid because he was caught up in the argument between the greengrocer and his son. And he needed the money. The boy must have been very young at the time. The silver buckles alone would have cost Dobson dearly. I'm not excusing what happened, but from his wife's point of view, the greengrocer and his son destroyed her family.”

“Then why didn't Dobson think in terms of righting that wrong?”

“Atkins was dead. His son sold up a year or so later and left the village. What wrong could he right?”

“Is the Dobson cottage occupied at this time? I'd like to see it.”

“No one has shown any interest in it. It's probably just as Dobson left it. I'll take you there.”

Rutledge turned to Lucy Muir. “What is your interest in the history of the village?”

“I needed something to do when my grandmother was ill. And I came to like living here. When the visitors' brochure is finished, I'll stay on.”

“How did you find so much material?”

“My grandmother. Her friends, who must have been at least her age if not older. Gossip at the Women's Institute or at teas and flower committee meetings. The church records—some of the early vicars were quite chatty. And I've used my father's name to gain access to newspaper files in Bristol.” She shrugged ruefully. “They refused unequivocally to allow a woman to search those files. It's amazing what they thought important to publish at the time. There were stories of runaway bulls, of gypsies suspected of stealing a little boy who later turned up safe and sound, of the miller being accused of mixing chalk into his flour, and someone who went around stealing pansies from graves and gardens. That thief was never found, nor were the pansies. My view is that they were sold to unsuspecting gardeners in another village.”

“Do you think you could find out more about the trial of Evan Dobson in the newspaper files?”

“I could try.”

“I'll pay your expenses. Gladly.”

“Done. I shall treat myself to a short stay in my favorite hotel. Where shall I send whatever I find?”

He gave her his home address, not that of the Yard. “I'm not always in London,” he said in explanation. “I don't want it going astray because I wasn't there to receive it.”

She rose, indicating that the interview was over. “Then I must be getting back to my work. Shall I send you one of our little visitor books when it's completed?”

Surprised, he said, “Yes, I'd like that very much.” And he found he meant it.

“That will be six pence in advance.” She held out her hand, and laughing, he gave her sixpence.

“If I don't receive my copy, I'll have the Yard bring you to justice for misleading a policeman and swindling him into the bargain.”

Her head to one side, she considered him. “You wouldn't be willing to tell me why you're so interested in the Dobsons? It might lend a little excitement to the story I'll write.”

Rutledge shook his head. “It won't be a good story for another fifty years,” he said.

She saw them to the door and told the vicar she would speak to him later about going into Bristol.

“Thank you, Lucy,” he said as he waved good-bye. In the motorcar, driving back toward the village, he added, “She's a remarkable young woman. Her grandmother thought her brilliant. I don't believe Lucy knows it yet, but Beecham will soon be too small and provincial for her. She'll find another place to live and new work to do. And I shall miss her cheerfulness and her brightness.”

Rutledge turned to look at him. “You're fond of her.”

“I am. But I'm no fool, Rutledge. She treats me like a favored uncle, and I'm happy with that.” And then on a lighter note to show that his heart wasn't breaking, the vicar added, “One can't keep a butterfly in a glass jar. However lovely it might be to dream about it. Besides, think what she'd be like as the vicar's wife. Half the women in the village would turn on her, and the other half would feel sorry for her. No, I need a plain and kind woman who will support the church—and me—and raise no hackles amongst the ladies of the parish.”

There was nothing Rutledge could say. They drove in silence to a farm track on the far side of Beecham, and at the end of it was a small cottage that had seen better days twenty years before. It needed paint and new thatching and better glazing in the windows. The door was closed, and although the vicar offered to take him inside, Rutledge contented himself with looking through the windows.

The furnishings were much like the exterior. Plain, hard used, worn. A poor man's dwelling, and probably filled with bitterness as well as hopelessness.

“Can you describe Dobson for me?”

“He's rather ordinary. Light brown hair, blue eyes, a little above medium height—good shoulders—and while he knew to keep his place, he was a stiff-necked man.”

Rutledge changed his mind then and asked the vicar to open the door. Walking from room to room, looking at the dust, the large wooden washtub in the little addition on the back, the lumpy mattresses and hand-me-down curtains, he felt a surge of sadness. Dobson and his mother had been made to pay every day of their lives for what the father had done. Guilt by association, wearing away at them like drops of water on stone until it must have scoured the soul. Until they couldn't forget the past, even if they had wanted to.

But it was in the little shed that he stopped and knelt.

On the floor was a smudge of something black. Hardly more than a speck, but his sharp gaze had found it. He scraped at the spot with his fingernail, then gave up.

He said nothing to the vicar, but to himself it was a different matter.

Rutledge would have been willing to wager his life that whatever had stood here only a few months ago must have been a pail or even a pair of them, filled with a thick black, tarry paint, rancid fat, and chimney soot.

T
he vicar offered Rutledge lunch, and he accepted the invitation. They ate their meal in the sitting room where a small table had been drawn up to the window.

“I often dine here,” the vicar said. “The dining room is by far too large for one poor clergyman.” He waited, making general conversation, until his housekeeper had served them and gone back to the kitchen to enjoy her own meal.

And then he said, “You haven't told me much about the business that brought you here. Was it the blackened grave stones? Yet you seem to feel that Dobson is a killer. Like his father before him. I could judge that by your questions.”

“I'm afraid that may be the case.”

“I find it hard to believe. Or rather, I find it painful to believe. Perhaps because I feel young Dobson never had a fair chance at a decent life.”

“I'm sure he didn't. Still, who knows what drives people to choose to do murder? He could have started a new life in Cornwall or Herefordshire where no one knew of his past. I daresay many of the villagers living in Beecham today don't remember the whole story—only that Dobson was a murderer's son. Not why.”

“That's probably true.” The vicar shook his head. “Villagers have long memories.”

“How ill was his mother? Do you know?”

“She was in some discomfort at the end. Her heart simply stopped. But according to the doctor, she had a tumor in her breast that spread. It was too late to try to do anything about it. She refused even to consider a doctor's care for months. I think she worried about the cost, but she very likely didn't wish to hear the truth.”

“Was she given something for the pain?”

“Yes, the doctor was quite liberal there. Laudanum.” He was helping himself to the pudding and didn't see Rutledge's sharp reaction. “And she took a long time to die, poor woman. Her spirit simply wouldn't admit defeat. As if she hadn't finished with life. I sat with her sometimes, but I don't think she believed in God any longer. My presence made it possible for her son to leave for work. That was what mattered to her.”

Had she too thirsted for revenge? Or feared that her son did? Rutledge started to ask the vicar what he believed, and then thought better of it.

As he was leaving, the vicar said again, “You won't forget to keep me informed?”

“I will do my best.”

He nodded, and turned to go back inside, his shoulders slumped, as if under a burden too heavy to bear.

R
utledge drove on to Netherby, stopped at the barbershop, and had to wait ten minutes while twin boys were given matching haircuts.

He sat in the chair without being asked this time, and let Lolly trim his dark hair again. And as the barber worked, he asked his question.

“We spoke before. When I was here about Benjamin Clayton. Do you recall?”

“I do.”

“While he lived here in Netherby, was he ever summoned to Bristol to serve on a jury?”

The scissors stopped while Lolly stared at Rutledge. “Now how did you come to know that?”

Rutledge swallowed a surge of excitement. “I didn't. But I've encountered two other men who had once lived in or near Bristol in the same period that Clayton was still here in Netherby. They served on a jury, and it was possible that Clayton had as well, since he had very likely met these men at some stage in his life.”

“You're the clever one then.” Lolly was still staring at him.

“Not clever, Lolly. Used to finding connections between people and events.”

“Yes, well, it was true. He was summoned, but he was reluctant to go. He never spoke about it again—at least not to me—except to say that it was an experience that troubled him, and he wished he'd never been a party to it. I'll say this for him. He wasn't a man to judge others, Benjamin Clayton wasn't. Always trying to see both sides.”

“Do you know when this was?”

Lolly laughed. “When he served? Now I must think about that.” He frowned, considering. “I'd say it was no more than a matter of months before he sold up and went north to be married. If that.”

How old was Benjamin Clayton then? Twenty-seven? A young man, engaged, looking toward the future. A man much like himself . . .

He paid Lolly for the haircut and thanked him for the information.

H
e spent the night in Bristol, then set out for London. He was, he thought, finally ready to speak to Bowles. He didn't have proof,
but he had sufficient evidence now that his thinking was correct, that there was indeed a connection among the victims that pointed to one killer, not four. And certainly not suicide. He should have been able to discuss his conclusions with the Chief Superintendent and receive his blessing to continue searching. But Bowles wasn't given to encouraging his men. Unlike Chief Inspector Cummins, he measured those under him on their results, not their insight.

As it was, Rutledge would have to be very careful not to let Bowles know the support Cummins had provided in this quest. And that meant any consequences would fall on his shoulders alone. He was prepared to accept that.

Passing through villages and towns along the road to London, Rutledge could see apples ripening on laden trees, corn heavy with golden heads in rolling fields, livestock grazing peacefully. A Sunday morning alive with promise and beauty. He tried to enjoy it, but his thoughts kept returning to Dobson and whether or not he was capable of killing. The vicar had pitied the man, but how much had he really known about him, when it was all said and done? That cottage was proof enough of the suffering a child and his mother had endured. And suffering could turn a mind toward vengeance.

It was late when Rutledge reached the city, but he stopped by the Yard anyway.

The passages were quiet, doors closed, the only sound of voices coming from the night staff. Neither Chief
Inspector Cummins nor Chief Superintendent Bowles was there. Even Sergeant Gibson had gone home, although there were those who swore he had no home to go to.

In the morning, then. He was almost glad of it.

Frances was already in bed, the rooms downstairs dark and stuffy, although the lamp burning in the hall welcomed him.

He walked into his father's study and poured himself a small whisky. Draining it in two swallows, he went upstairs to his own bed.

There was no chance in the next morning to confer with Chief Inspector Cummins, but when Rutledge asked for a meeting with Bowles, he requested that Cummins sit in on the conference.

It was taking a risk, and he knew it. Without a prior meeting, Cummins wouldn't be able to back his position. On the other hand, Cummins's presence could mean that Bowles would at least listen.

As they walked into the Chief Superintendent's office, Bowles said irritably, “I hope this meeting is to tell me you'd made an arrest in Kent.”

“I think it's very likely that we can, and soon,” Rutledge began confidently. It was the best way to handle the Chief Superintendent. He had a knack for scenting weakness as soon as it stepped through the door. “Meanwhile, I've discovered a strong connection between the Tattersall murder and the Hadley inquiry.”

“I thought we'd discussed the likelihood that Tattersall was a suicide. With the Yard's blessing, the reconvened inquest agreed.”

“So we believed at the time. It wasn't until I was in Kent that I learned that Hadley and Tattersall had once served together on a Bristol jury. A capital case that ended in conviction. What's more, it appears that Benjamin Clayton, who later went to live in Moresby, was also a member of that same jury.” He was choosing his words carefully. And he'd already decided not to include the schoolmaster Stoddard. Not until he was more certain of his ground. “Here are three men who lived ordinary, blameless lives, respected and respectable, who share only two things: their connection with Bristol and having been summoned to serve on a jury there. And yet they were murdered in similar circumstances within a matter of weeks of each other. The surprising thing is, those men whose grave stones were recently desecrated, the case that Inspector Davies was called to investigate, could very well be connected to this inquiry. I'm waiting for information that will confirm the names of all twelve jurors.”

Bowles was glaring at him impatiently, purposely being obtuse. “You're reaching for straws, in the hope of making bricks. If it was a capital case, either the accused was found not guilty—in which case
he would have no quarrel with the men who set him free—or he was convicted and hanged, and not likely to be your murderer so many years later.”

“Evan Dobson was hanged in Bristol in 1888. I'm looking for his son, Henry. Mrs. Dobson died at the end of June this year, in poverty and despair. Henry left the family home as soon as she was interred. And very shortly thereafter, the killing began. What's more there is evidence that Henry Dobson had access to laudanum prescribed for her.”

“All very well and good. Now explain to me how this man Henry, poor and no doubt with only a village school education if that, managed to trace his victims? With luck he might have found Tattersall in Stoke Yarlington, but you claim he reached Aylesbridge and Moresby as well.”

“He worked at various times in a greengrocer's shop and a lumberyard. He knew people of his own kind, poor and making their own way as best they could,” Rutledge responded. “Such a man could cadge lifts to any part of England. It's not how he got there that troubles me. It's the question of how many names are left on his list—if those damaged stones aren't connected to Dobson, then it's a long one.”

Cummins cleared his throat, speaking for the first time. “In late June, early July, there was a rash of breaking and entering at greengrocers along the southern coast. Three pounds taken here, five there—someone was even lucky enough to find ten on one occasion. The seaside has been quite popular this summer, and crime has taken a holiday there as well. A London pickpocket was just apprehended in Brighton, and two well known housebreakers were taken into custody in Lyme Regis and Plymouth respectively only last week. I daresay there are other instances of petty theft elsewhere. Sufficient for a determined man to put food in his stomach, find a bed for the night, and even pay his way if necessary.”

That was news to Rutledge, but Bowles ignored his Chief Inspector.

“Then tell me how this killer of yours managed to find men he'd
never seen, or seen only as a small child—several of whom had long since moved some distance away? It's far-fetched, Rutledge, even you must see that.”

“I haven't explored that yet,” Rutledge answered frankly. “The first step was to ascertain whether I was right about the jury. It's not impossible to find someone if the pursuer is determined enough.”

“For us at the Yard, perhaps. But an untutored man? It's a good theory, Rutledge, I grant you that. But there are too many holes in it. The tarred grave stones? I wouldn't doubt you could be right there. It's something a man like this Henry Dobson might do out of spite. Inspector Davies will be happy to hear of it if that's true. And that confounded vicar as well, who made such a fuss about what was done. Besides, we've got our man in Moresby. The trial is coming up in late September.”

Rutledge opened his mouth to say something but caught Cummins's eye and shut it.

Bowles went on without interruption. “And as for the inquiry in Kent, there's the maid who found Hadley's body. Statement says she had access to laudanum. You need to sort that out.”

“Dr. Wylie has confirmed that it was not full strength and certainly not a lethal amount.”

“Yes, well, it might have given her the idea. Search out the chemist's shop that sold it to her. Hadley wouldn't have been the first man to try to take advantage of a pretty young housemaid while his wife was away. If he pressed her too far, she could well have considered getting rid of him before Mrs. Hadley came back and gave her the sack. It's even possible she only intended to put him to sleep, so that he'd leave her alone, but got the amount wrong.”

“You haven't spoken to Mrs. Hadley—” Rutledge began.

“The wife is often the last to know in these matters. But the housekeeper might have an inkling. Speak to her. Make certain before you pursue this Henry Dobson that you aren't blind to what's right there under your nose.”

It was final. And arguing with the Chief Superintendent was the surest way of making him dig in his heels.

Bowles reached for a sheet of paper on his desk. “While you've been running about chasing hares, that Inspector in charge of the Kent murder is wondering where you've been. You haven't kept him informed. See that you do. The sooner the better.” And then he turned to Cummins. “I've had two men in here this morning, threatening to enlist if we go to war. Cates and Johnstone. They've run mad. Have a word with them, if you please, before this gets out of hand.”

Reports indicated that the Kaiser's forces had entered tiny Luxembourg, no match for the invaders, and were now poised on the Belgian Frontier. Whitehall had sent a stern warning to Berlin. Germany could field whole armies, while Belgium had hardly more than a hundred thousand men under arms to defend her. However gallant a fight she waged, it would be impossible for her to hold out.

There had been prayers in churches across Britain on Sunday, solemn pleas to the Almighty to make the combatants see reason and asking that the King and the Government be given strength and wisdom during this ordeal. These had been comforting to many people.

Rutledge and Cummins were dismissed. They walked out together, not speaking as they moved down the passage.

They reached Cummins's office, and he beckoned the younger man inside. When the door had closed behind them, he walked to his window and stood looking out, hands clasped behind his back.

“Interesting possibility,” he said after a moment. “But perhaps a little premature in expounding it.”