A Fine Summer's Day (25 page)

He turned toward the center of the little town, expecting the constable to continue on his rounds. Instead, the man fell in step with him, walking briskly at his side.

“A fine morning,” Rutledge said.

“It is that, sir.” The sun was warm on their faces, and the sea shimmered.

They went the rest of the way in silence, the constable staying with him until he opened the door to the police station and stepped inside. Was he under escort?

Farraday was at his desk, and it was clear at once that he'd been waiting for Rutledge.

“Nice of you to stop in and let me know you were on my turf. Still smarting over the arrest of Clayton's murderer?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Rutledge pulled out the chair next to the desk and sat down.

“There has been a connection with another inquiry I'm pursuing,” he said easily. “I came to Moresby to find out if we might be looking at Kingston for another murder.”

Farraday wasn't expecting that. He sat there, rearranging whatever was on his mind, and finally said, “Indeed? And why wasn't I informed?”

“Because at the moment there's more work to be done before we muddy the waters of Kingston's trial.” He kept his face and his voice bland.

“Care to tell me what it is you're after?”

“I asked Miss Clayton if there had been an unexpected visitor to the house before her father was killed.”

“And?” He was already jumping to the conclusion that this might have been Kingston.

“She said there was not.”

“This is what you were doing when Constable Blaine found you?”

“It was.”

“Why was it important enough for you to come all the way to Yorkshire to ask a question one of my men could have answered for the Yard?”

“Because I am on my way to Northumberland to ask a similar question.”

Farraday considered him for a long moment. “Well.” He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a telegram. Rutledge could see that it was already open. Farraday held it for a moment, then tossed it across the desk to him. “This will change your plans.”

Rutledge's name was on the envelope. He lifted the flap and drew out the sheet inside.

The telegram was brief.

And the name at the bottom was unexpected.

It read simply
Cummins
. Without a title.

“Personal or professional?” Farraday was asking, his gaze sharp.

“I expect there has been a development in the inquiry I've been pursuing,” Rutledge said, giving the impression he was resigned to his orders. “The Yard has been waiting for other information to come in.”

But his mind was racing. What had happened in London that had made Cummins try to find him? The answer was, it could be anything, including Bowles demanding to know where Rutledge was. And it had been a risk on Cummins's part to send a telegram here. Farraday was no friend. Unless Bowles had already guessed where he might be? Rutledge had made it clear enough that Kingston's fate concerned him.

“They'll ask me when I reach London. Has a date been set for Kingston's trial?”

“As a matter of fact it has. The third Monday in September.”

“As a matter of interest, did Kingston's father agree to see his son before he died?”

“I don't know,” Farraday replied with some relish. “That had nothing to do with the inquiry, did it?”

“It was what had brought Kingston to Moresby.”

“So you said. There is a witness who claimed he was intent on setting aside the will by claiming to have reformed. But of course he hadn't reformed, had he?”

“His cousin's wife. Why doesn't that surprise me?” Rutledge rose. “I'll be on my way. Good morning, Inspector.”

He was not going to argue Kingston's case here and now. Not until he could be sure he was right about Dobson. To try would do more harm than good. He left the office door open as he walked out, and behind him there was the sound of a fist coming down hard on the solid wood of a desk top.

Rutledge drove farther than he'd intended, reaching Lincoln before stopping for the night. He made an effort to close his eyes and rest, but his mind was busy with speculation. In the small hotel not far from the cathedral where he usually stayed, he'd had difficulty finding a room because so many men had come into the city to enlist. Several of them had come down very early to breakfast, as soon as the dining room had opened at six-thirty, unable to sleep for the excitement of what they were about to do.

He put their ages at nineteen, and from their conversation, he gathered they worked on neighboring farms and appeared to know each other well. They had decided that joining the Army was far more exciting, and they had walked this far only to find the recruiting office closed for the evening.

One of them asked Rutledge where he was from, and when he told them London, they bombarded him with questions he couldn't answer. What was the war news? Were they still in time? Did the fact
that the recruiting office was closed indicate that the Army already had as many men as it needed?

He wanted to tell them to go back home and await events. But their excitement was high and reason didn't interest them. They had told everyone they were leaving to fight the Kaiser, and if the Army would have them, it was what they meant to do.

“They'll be sending seasoned troops to France first,” he told them as he finished his meal. “Not raw recruits. Even if you manage to take the King's shilling today, you'll need to be trained before you fire a shot, and by that time, the Germans could well have decided to back off.”

But they wouldn't hear of it, demanding to know if he intended to enlist as soon as he reached London.

Rutledge ignored the question, asking instead who would work the farms they'd left behind while they were away.

“There are enough men to bring in the harvest,” one of them said. “And if we're home by Christmas, there will be plenty of time to think about next spring's planting.”

He wished them well and went on his way. But he thought about them as he drove south. Three of how many hotheads on their way to join an Army they wouldn't have considered a month ago? Drawn by visions of glory and the chance to kill Germans. And how many young Germans and Frenchmen and Austrians and even Russians had rushed out to do the same? What had happened to this quiet, peaceful summer? What had brought on such madness? Not just the assassination of an Austrian Archduke. It was as if a plague of blood lust had spread on the wind, infecting everyone it touched.

He was young enough to feel the pull of adventure. To feel the blood run hot with excitement. He wasn't immune to the plague. But he'd seen his share of bodies in the course of his time as a policeman, and there was nothing glorious about death. Parades and bands and banners were all very well, but after these had passed by, the dead didn't
rise up and go on with their lives. They were collected and buried, the hero together with the coward. And medals handed out by a grateful country did nothing to comfort the bereaved the dead left behind.

War was best left to the Major Gordons of the world, who were prepared and trained to deal with it.

Trying to shake off his mood, he picked up speed and made an effort to think about London, and why he had been summoned.

T
he first person he encountered when he walked into the Yard the morning of the second day was Sergeant Gibson.

“You're back,” he said. “Sir. There's a file on your desk. Chief Inspector Cummins asked that you look at it first thing.”

“Is the Chief Inspector here?”

“He's at a meeting in Bloomsbury. There's been trouble over German waiters at a restaurant there. Spy fever. He's trying to make people see sense.”

“I don't envy him. All right, thank you, Sergeant.”

He found the folder placed conspicuously on his desk so that he couldn't miss it.

Setting his hat on the top of the file cabinets, he sat down and stared at the plain cover. Clipped to it was a small square of paper where Cummins had written,
URGENT
.

Rutledge opened it and stared at the name of the victim. It seemed to leap out at him.

He must be dead, Rutledge thought, and not of natural causes. Not if his name was in a file at the Yard.

He forced himself to go through the file logically, familiarizing himself with the details.

One Fillmore M. Gilbert of Swan Walk, Kent, had been found in his study by his housekeeper, unresponsive and to her eyes dying, his breathing so shallow she couldn't be sure she could see it.

She had sent for help, and Gilbert's physician had come posthaste. He had done what he could, then sent Gilbert to Tonbridge and hospital.

“The man's got the constitution of an ox,” the doctor had said in his preliminary statement. “He should have died.”

He had taken an overdose of laudanum. But because Gilbert took small amounts quite regularly, he hadn't died.

Rutledge stopped there, and went to ask one of the sergeants on duty if Cummins had returned. He hadn't.

And there had been nothing in the file to indicate whether Cummins believed this to be Dobson's work or had left the file for him, knowing Gilbert's connection with the Rutledge family. What's more, the local police hadn't requested the Yard's assistance.

But family connections wouldn't account for that urgent telegram. Rutledge went back to stand by his window looking down at the canopy of leaves below.

“Gilbert claimed he hadn't prosecuted that particular case,” he said aloud. “He couldn't remember anything about it.”

Catching himself, he turned back to the file.

Rutledge came to a decision. Cummins wasn't available. The file was on his desk. He could swear he believed it was a request for assistance, not a routine notification in the event the Yard had an interest in the man or the situation.

He flipped the folder closed and took his hat down from the top of the cabinet, walking out of the office and down the passage. It was no more than thirty miles to Tonbridge. He could be back before the end of the day, if he hurried.

Traffic was heavy as he left London but thinned as he turned south. He passed a carriage of young men, waving their hats and cheering,
clearly on their way to enlist, and flushed with a precelebratory drink, no doubt. And on the road were other men walking purposefully toward the nearest town.

What would the Army do with them all?

When he arrived at the hospital, he was told that Gilbert had regained consciousness and insisted he be taken back to Swan Walk. The doctor's carriage had left not half an hour before.

Rutledge stopped for sandwiches and a cup of tea, then drove after the carriage. It had already arrived by the time he reached the house, the horse standing there quietly, swishing his tail at the flies and waiting patiently.

He knocked, was admitted, and told that Mr. Gilbert was not accepting visitors today.

“Please tell Dr. Greening that this isn't a social call. I've come from Scotland Yard.”

Dr. Greening himself came down then. He was younger than Gilbert but not by much. “Whatever business you have can wait,” he said testily from the stairs. “My patient needs rest.”

“I'm afraid my business is official and urgent.” He gestured in the direction of the room where he'd talked to Gilbert on the night of the storm. “But I have no objection to beginning with you, sir. Shall we?”

He led the way without waiting to see if the doctor was following. And then he heard the footsteps coming the rest of the way down the steps and after the briefest of hesitations, turning toward the passage.

The maid who had admitted him was still in the hall. He heard her close the outer door and cross the floor in the direction of the servants' stairs. That door opened and shut as he waited for the doctor to catch him up.

“There is no need for this,” Dr. Greening said stiffly as he walked into the study and faced Rutledge.

“A file was waiting for me today. I must presume it was placed on my desk because it has been reported that Mr. Gilbert had attempted suicide.”

“As a matter of fact, one of the staff had mentioned that you had called on Mr. Gilbert fairly recently. Inspector Williams in Tonbridge felt that Mr. Gilbert's decision to kill himself might have been a result of your visit.”

It was not what he expected to hear. After a moment he said, “Sit down, this may take some time.”

“My patient—”

“Is he stable?”

“Well, yes, but his age is a matter for some concern.”

“Then you can spare me ten minutes. Why should my visit have led Gilbert to a decision to kill himself?”

“His mind is rapidly failing. He skates the issue rather well, but it has been causing increasing distress. That's why as a rule he doesn't go out or receive visitors. Did you press him? Make him feel the loss more particularly?”

“We talked about an old case. He told me he sometimes confused the older trials, but he most certainly still understood the law. That last was clear enough. And he gave me a list of other barristers practicing at the period of time in question. It's possible one of them will remember the information I need. In the scheme of things, the trial I'm after was rather commonplace. Certainly nothing that would disturb Mr. Gilbert or drive him to suicide.”

“Yes. Well, he's quite good at concealing his ailment. There are days when his memory functions remarkably well. And others when he is sadly muddled.”

“Tell me what happened here, what sent him to hospital.”

“He often sits up at night. He doesn't sleep very much, and he finds it easier not to make the effort to go up to his bed. I think he breathes a little better as well. Where was he when you saw him?”

“Where you are sitting now. Only the chair had been turned to face the open window.”