A Fine Summer's Day (23 page)

“Yes,” Rutledge admitted. “Still. What happens if someone else is killed while I'm going through the motions in Kent, to satisfy Bowles? Besides, I've met Peggy Goode, the housemaid in question. If Hadley had made advances, she would have run screaming through the house instead of calmly plotting to be rid of him. And how did she convince him to stop and drink a glass of milk, if he was intent on raping her?”

Cummins turned. “I must ask. Are you sure it wasn't what you viewed as the wrongful arrest of that young man in Moresby that sent you down this road?”

A hot retort formed on Rutledge's lips, only to be replaced almost at once by a wry shrug. “It's a fair question. The answer is, yes, that's still troubling me. But the possibility grew out of the same exercise you and I tried when we were talking about the Davies inquiry. The first and second deaths were slightly different. By the third, I could see a pattern. I looked into the Stoddard case, which Martin had investigated, and that made four. The next question was what had these victims shared? They hadn't been to the same schools, they hadn't served in the military, they weren't related, they didn't have the same solicitor or doctor or tutor. But there was Bristol. We don't usually consider a jury as forming a bond among men. They serve at the pleasure of the court, are dismissed, and are expected never to speak to anyone else of what they did. Not their deliberations, their decisions, their findings. And unless a trial is scandalous in nature or attracts the attention of the gutter press, it's forgotten in six months' time. And yet for those few days, twelve men are extraordinarily important to the prisoner in the dock, whose future rests with them. And just as important to the prisoner's family.”

“Dobson would have been old enough to attend the proceedings?”

“I very much doubt it. I find it hard to believe that his mother didn't attend the trial. But the verdict touched both of them deeply. It had to.”

“Yes, I see that. But where is Dobson now?”

“God knows.”

Cummins sighed. “You've got yourself a very interesting possibility, Ian.”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “I have someone searching for information on the jurors. The next step is to discover a means by which Dobson found his quarry. And I must find a sighting that proves Dobson was in the vicinity of each murder. Even though I myself don't
know what the man looks like, I've got only a general description to be going on with. But I think it can be done, with time and perseverance.”

“Good. Meanwhile, get yourself back to Kent and speak to the local man. I'll keep an ear to the ground here.”

Rutledge rose. “Thank you, sir.”

“If war comes, will Major Gordon be returning to active service?”

“There have been whispers that he will.”

“Then spend some time with your Jean today before you leave for Kent. She'll be worried. God knows we all are.” He picked up a pen, looked at it as if he'd never seen it before, and then said, half to himself, half to Rutledge, “What am I to tell these hotheads eager to go out and get themselves killed?”

“To wait and see. Germany might well pull back. If they don't, then give the Army a chance to do what they've been trained to do. If Germany comes through Belgium, it will be facing the French as well as the British. And the French have fought them before.”

“Our regiments are scattered throughout the Empire. If the French can't hold Germany long enough to get them here, then we'll need every man we've got.”

“Germany has to contend with three armies. The Russians, the French, the British.”

“With respect to the Tsar, I don't know that the Kaiser is particularly worried about his eastern flank. I
am
rather surprised that he's baiting the British by massing an Army on the Belgian Frontier. Or perhaps it's a feint, and he's trying to keep France guessing. I can't see why he would wish to bring us into the war if he could avoid it.”

“His sights are set on Paris, not London. And he might not believe that we'd go as far as war on Belgium's behalf.” Rutledge put his hand on the door. “The problem is, if he tests us too far, there will be no turning back.”

He took Cummins's advice and went to call on Jean. It was just as well not to be under the Chief Superintendent's feet at the moment, he thought wryly as he lifted the knocker at the Gordon house.

Jean, he was told, was upstairs lying down with a headache. But as soon as she was informed that he'd called, she asked him to wait and hastily dressed.

“Ian, what a wonderful surprise,” she said, lifting her cheek for his kiss. “Let's walk in the garden, where it's cooler.”

She was wearing a white dress inset with lace panels in the bodice and around the line of the hem, and there was a blue sash at her waist and a blue enameled locket at her throat. He had never seen her look lovelier and told her so.

She smiled. “I was going out walking this afternoon, but it's far too warm. This is much more comfortable. You look tired. Is it the war news? Young officers have been running in and out of the house all morning, until Mama banned them from coming more than once. I found it quite thrilling and dashing, but I daresay she's worried about Papa. Everyone is dancing on the Kaiser's convenience, which is silly, if you ask me. Lieutenant Rodgers calls him Mad Willy. I don't see why we shouldn't simply send our Army to France and block his way. He'll retreat quickly enough then.”

It wasn't as simple as that. But he let her chatter on, happy to walk arm in arm with her and listen to her.

“And the Humphreys have canceled their ball tonight. I was glad, since you weren't going to be here to accompany me. But now you are, and I'm of a mind to tell Sarah Humphrey that she's ruined my evening.”

“It would have been a crush,” he said lightly. “You know you wouldn't have enjoyed that.”

“No, that's true. Oh, Ian, I've found the loveliest design for my wedding gown. I do wish I could show it to you. Or even describe it to you. But that would invite all manner of bad luck, so I must simply wait, until you can see it for yourself.”

“It will be the finest gown in England,” he said, smiling down at her. “You'll be wearing it, and that's all that matters to me.”

She squeezed his arm. “Will you enlist, if war comes? Our footman
is already excited about going. And the Nevilles' chauffeur, and even the Haldanes' son-in-law is considering doing the same.”

“I've far too much work to do at the Yard,” he told her. “I'm a policeman, not a soldier.”

“But you'd fight for King and Country, wouldn't you? If it comes to that?”

“Are you saying the Army is in such dire straits that it needs me? I doubt it.”

“I just don't want to be the last person who is sending someone to France,” she said, and he saw she meant it. “Yesterday, after the church service, it was all everyone was talking about.”

“Jean. I'm not going to make a fool of myself, rushing out to enlist. By the time half these men have been trained sufficiently that they can sail for France, the war will be over.” But even as he spoke the words, he wondered. Europe had gone up in flames so quickly—barely five weeks had seen the worst happen. Before that there had been peace for such a long time. And now everyone was mad for war. As if the excitement was all they saw.

“If you feel that way,” she said angrily, “then I'm going inside.”

“Jean,” he said again, but in a different voice. “I won't quarrel with you over this. You've no idea what war can be like. Neither do I for that matter. Your father can tell you, he was in the Boer War. People die. People are maimed. It's not all parades and bands and uniforms, it's cruelty and misery and destruction. When the lists of the dead come in, will you be quite so happy to find your friends' names there? Or the footman, or the neighbor's chauffeur? The men you've danced with and played tennis with won't all come back, you know.”

She turned away. “You make it all sound so dreadful.”

“It is dreadful. I'm sorry, but there it is.”

She turned back to face him. “Please don't tell anyone what you've just said to me. Particularly not Papa or my friends. Pretend, a little, that you're eager to fight. I don't want everyone thinking you're a coward.”

J
ean's words stayed with him all the way to Kent.

Rutledge told himself it was her upbringing, her father's career, but he was reminded of something that Gilbert had said, that the Army had its own circle of obligation. It was truer than he'd been prepared to believe at the time.

The young officers who were Jean's friends would see the darkening clouds in Europe as a chance to cover themselves in glory. Promotion was notoriously slow in peacetime. Even Major Gordon had seemed very pleased to hear he'd be expected to serve again. He himself was happy to leave them to it. Not out of fear for himself, but from the knowledge that war was what they were trained for, just as he was trained for police work, and just now, with Dobson on the loose and four dead men to account for, adventuring in France as a lark to prove his mettle was not something he dreamed of.

Still, the words had stung. Would she realize that and take them back? He thought it was very likely she would. And he held on to that thought.

When Rutledge was shown into Inspector Watson's narrow office, the man on the far side of the desk considered him, then said, “You've taken your time coming to see me.” He was older, experienced, and competent, with steady gray eyes and a strong square chin.

“You laid the groundwork for this inquiry with thoroughness. I didn't need to speak to you until now.”

“Still. It would have been a courtesy.”

“It would have been,” Rutledge agreed, “but we have reason to believe this isn't the first time our man has killed, and it's likely he's going to kill again. I've been trying to stay ahead of him.”

“And have you done that?”

“So far I haven't located him. The question we're wrestling with now is how he found his victims. That might help us narrow down the search.”

“You're telling me they were chosen, not picked at random?”

“I believe so. In all fairness, there are those at the Yard who don't.”

“Who are the other victims?”

Rutledge took a deep breath and launched into an account of what he'd uncovered so far. “Meanwhile, someone in Bristol is searching for a list of those involved in that particular case. If there are more victims, we can warn them in time.”

“All well and good. But you haven't explained why Hadley drank that glass of milk. I knew the man. It's not like him to sit there meekly and let himself be killed. And even if he was told that he'd helped convict an innocent man, why should he believe a word of it? He was practical, clearheaded. He wouldn't beat his chest and fall on his sword.”

“I don't have an answer there. Yet.”

“Your notion is interesting, but it doesn't stand up to scrutiny.”

“Then tell me why
you
believe Hadley drank that milk?”

Watson frowned. “I don't know. Unless he was offered a choice? Laudanum or a far more painful death. It might even go deeper than that. If you are right about this man, he could well know more about his victims than we do. Blackmail that allowed the killer to arrange a quiet little murder, with a long night ahead in which to escape.”

Rutledge rose from his chair and went to lean against the office wall. “Do you know something about Hadley's past that the killer could have used?”

“Not here in Kent. But he lived in Bristol before coming here. It would have to be something that happened in Bristol. Besides, there hasn't been any gossip about him here. If there was, I'd have heard it by now.” Watson cleared his throat. “I'd give much to know why his wife went to Canterbury alone. Visiting friends, she said, but why didn't he go with her? There was no pressing reason for him to stay at the farm. Were there strains in that marriage that we haven't heard about?”

Rutledge remembered the Chief Superintendent's suggestion that Hadley had tried to force one of the housemaids. Was this the source of his suspicions?

“In my conversations with her and with the servants, there was no hint of trouble. According to Dr. Wylie, she was devastated when he gave her the news.”

“That could be true enough. Well, time will tell.”

T
he interview with Inspector Watson had not been very satisfactory, but Rutledge himself took most of the blame for that.

Once more he chose to spend the night at Melinda Crawford's house.

And after dinner, he asked her, “How would you go about finding an old friend from India, if you didn't know where she was living now?”

“I'd ask a mutual friend for her direction,” she answered promptly.

“Let's say she's remarried and your mutual friend has also lost touch with her.”

Melinda, her head to one side, examined him. “Are you purposely making this difficult?”

“I am.”

“Then I expect you won't like my next answer. I'd call Richard Crawford and ask him if the regiment knew where my friend was.”

“But her husband wasn't an Army man. He was a solicitor.”

“If I mailed a letter to her at her last known address, I'd hope that the present residents would forward it to her.”

“But then you'd be waiting for her to decide to contact you. If she didn't wish to for some reason, you'd have no way of knowing that your letter ever reached her.”

“I'd leave it to the telegraph office to find her.”

“Possible, but again, if she doesn't respond, you'd have no way of knowing if she received your telegram.”

She gave the matter some thought. “There must be a way. I can't seem to find what it might be.” Her face brightened. “I'd ask the vicar in the last place she lived.”

“Ah, but he's a new man and never knew your friend.”

Melinda frowned. “Has this person you wish to find lived in the same place for very long time?”

“As it happens, he has.”

“Is he on the telephone?”

“I shouldn't think he is.”

“Ian!”

“Try again.”

She stared at him, her mind busy. “Is my interest in finding my friend, malicious or friendly?”

“Possibly malicious.”

“Then I'd have kept up with her somehow.”

Rutledge said, smiling, “You have hidden depths, Melinda. You
should have been a policeman. How would you go about keeping up with her?”

“If I were really intent on knowing her business, every year I'd send a Christmas note. Everyone has friends or relatives they hear from quite regularly but don't know from Adam. I'd scribble a name to the card, and if someone received it and opened it, it would tell them nothing. But I'd have a
poste restante,
where the letter could be returned to sender if they'd moved away. It would cost me a few pennies, but it would be worth it. And then if I decided to speak to this person, I'd send someone to their door with a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers, and if my gifts were accepted, I'd know I was safe to do more.”

Had Mrs. Dobson kept up with twelve jurors over the years? But how?

“Someone would remember the arrival of flowers or chocolates, surely?”

“Ian, I could stand on the doorstep with anything in my hand, and make up a name. If you know what you're doing, you can persuade the person at the door to divulge any amount of information.” She went on, changing her voice, “‘Is this where Mrs. Cranford lives? I have a delivery for her.' And the reply would be, ‘I'm afraid you have the wrong house. This is the Crawford residence.' Or if he were uncertain of the address, he might stop at a neighboring house, in which case the maid would answer, ‘I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawford lives in the next street, at number two.'”

Rutledge was intrigued. In each house, the victim had been the only male resident of the right age. Michael Clayton had left Moresby for York, but even if he hadn't, he wouldn't have been mistaken for his father. Nor Hadley for the footman, Tom.

He rose, kissed her on the top of her head, and said, “Don't wait up for me. I'll let myself in when I get back.”

“Nonsense. I'll be sitting here waiting for you to return. And then you'll tell me what this is all about.”

He drove through the late evening afterglow to the Hadley farm and asked for Mrs. Tolliver.

She was downstairs in her small parlor. “Inspector,” she said, rising as he was shown in, “I hope there's nothing wrong.” She glanced at the pretty little clock on the chimneypiece. “It's quite late, I'm sure Mrs. Hadley has retired.”

“I've a question to ask you. If you can't answer it, I'd like to summon the rest of the staff and ask them.”

“The older ones have already gone up. I think the younger ones may be sitting out by the kitchen garden. What is it you need to know so urgently?”

“Did anyone bring a parcel to this house in the week before Mr. Hadley was killed, only to be told he'd come to the wrong address?”

“I don't remember any such caller,” she said. “And either the maid or the footman would have informed me of it.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Oh, yes. It could have been a parcel for a visitor either Mr. or Mrs. Hadley expected to arrive.”

“Will you ask the staff, all the same? I'll call tomorrow to find out what you've learned.”

“I will do that, Mr. Rutledge. But don't pin your hopes on it. I can't think when we last had someone at the door.”

He thanked her and prepared to leave. She accompanied him up the stairs and to the main door to see him out. She was about to shut it after him but stopped and said into the night, “What was in the parcel? It might help if I knew?”

“Very likely nothing. It would have been an attempt on someone's part to elicit information. The contents of the parcel aren't important.”

“Indeed, sir?”

He had been about to turn the crank on the motorcar. Straightening, he said, “It needn't have been a parcel. Flowers, perhaps. A query about a lost dog.”

“I see. Well, I will ask. Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening.” He had cranked the motorcar and taken his seat behind the wheel when the door opened again, letting a shaft of light fall across his face. Mrs. Tolliver stepped across the threshold and said, “Inspector?”

“Yes?” Her face was in shadow, but something in her posture as she leaned toward him made him cut the motor.

“The only stranger I recall coming here shortly before Mr. Hadley was—before it happened—was the poor man looking for work. But he came to the wrong farm. One of the maids gave him a glass of cold water, and told him how to find the other lane.”

“Did you see this man?”

“Actually I did, because we thought it was the fishmonger at the kitchen door. He came half an hour later.”

“Can you describe the man looking for work?” He realized he was holding his breath, waiting.

“I didn't get a good look at him. The kitchen maid had just finished mopping the flagstones by the door to the kitchen garden when he came up. She said he doffed his hat and asked if this was the farm looking for someone to do the mucking out in the stables. He thought this was Pennythrift Farm. The maid said afterward that he didn't know Kent very well and had likely taken a wrong turning. He'd put his cap back on by the time I reached the door. He was footsore and dusty by the look of him. But tidy enough, good shoulders, polite. Middling tall. He drank the water, thanked the maid, and went on his way. I didn't give him another minute's thought. This time of year there are any number of people looking for seasonal work.”

“Is there a Pennythrift Farm?”

“Oh, yes, it's on the far side of the village.”

“And you haven't seen this man before or since?”

“No.”

All the same, late as it was, he found Pennythrift Farm and asked the middle-aged woman who came to the door if they'd taken on a new
stableman in the last few weeks. They had not. Nor had they advertised for one. What's more, the man claiming to be looking for work there had never appeared at Pennythrift.

Feeling much himself again, Rutledge drove back to Melinda's house.

Good to her word, she was waiting in the sitting room where she kept all her treasures from her travels. It had seemed to be Aladdin's cave to an impressionable boy brought to visit by his parents, and was his favorite room in the house.

She looked up as he came through the door. “There you are. I was about to give you up. Shanta is bringing us tea. Sit down and tell me if you've found someone delivering parcels?”

“No,” he said slowly. “But I did find an itinerant laborer looking for work.”

By the time they had finished their tea and were ready to go up to bed, he'd told her what he'd learned and why he'd been looking for ways to trace an old friend. Or enemy. And Melinda, who had looked death in the face as a child, never flinched as he described what he'd learned about a killer's mind.

“That's very clever of you, Ian,” she said as they were mounting the stairs on their way to their beds. “Seeing the link with a jury. But I expect Chief Inspector Cummins is right. You will require hard evidence before you convince the naysayers.”

“I'd give much to know where Dobson is now,” he said, turning to walk down the passage to his room.

“You must pray that he isn't already stalking his next victim.”

T
he next morning after a brief conversation with Mrs. Hadley, Rutledge left for Stoke Yarlington, outside Wells, driving straight through without stopping in London.

In every village he passed through, there were little clots of people
standing in the streets, talking. He'd been in the middle of many inquiries where small groups stood as close as possible to where the police were working, asking in hushed tones for information in the aftermath of a crime. This was different, worried faces turning to stare at him as he drove on, wondering if he'd heard more than they had.