A Fine Summer's Day (30 page)

“Can you tell me if he defended one Evan Dobson against a charge of murder?”

He gave Simmons the date and the details.

Simmons shrugged. “God knows. We've got his files somewhere. Barry—my clerk—could probably put his hands on them.”

“Would you ask him to have a look? It's rather important.”

“I can't see how that will help you. It's ancient history.”

“I'm sure it is. But there may be something in the file that will help me understand the dead man's son.” And perhaps explain, he added silently, why Gilbert's daughter was at risk.

Simmons rose and came around his desk. “Very well. Let's get on with it.”

Simmons had been right about his clerk. The man led Rutledge into a back room where the firm's history was shelved by name and date.

In twenty minutes' time he'd pulled down the box that held what Rutledge wanted.

He was given the clerk's desk to use as he sorted through the file. The papers from the Bristol chambers were yellowed, the ink fading in places, but he could read the lot.

The elder Simmons had had no illusions about his client's guilt or innocence. But he did what he could to convince the jury that there
was
doubt. Enough that a clear conviction would be impossible.

And here, amongst these papers, was something that Lucy Muir hadn't discovered, or hadn't realized was important.

Atkins, the greengrocer's son, had been represented by the elder Simmons in another case five years after the Dobson trial, for his role in a drunken brawl. The note pointed the reader to that file, describing Atkins as “now a resident of Wells.”

Five years after Evan Dobson was hanged, young Atkins had already sold the greengrocer's shop and moved away from the village of Beecham to the town of Wells.

Rutledge finished the file a few minutes before the clerk came in to ask if he wished to keep the box out for a second day. It was a polite way of telling him that Barry was ready to go home, and Rutledge was keeping him from his dinner. He passed the box to the clerk, saying, “I believe I'm finished. Can you tell me if anyone else has looked at this material recently?”

“I don't believe anyone had looked at it since the elder Mr. Simmons—the present Mr. Simmons's uncle—died in 1903.”

“Not even when someone broke into this office?”

“Nothing was taken. Nothing seemed to be disturbed.”

But Tattersall's box was here, and Evan Dobson's as well. And Dobson's son had known where to find them.

Rutledge said as he watched Barry restore the box to its rightful place, “Why would a man of Simmons's standing in the legal community agree to take on an indigent leatherworker as a client? I'm certain the Dobson family had very little money at the time Evan Dobson was tried.”

The clerk led the way out of the storeroom and locked it behind them. “Mr. Simmons felt it to be his Christian duty to represent the poor. He often took on at least one such case a year.”

“Do you know anything about a Thomas Atkins? He moved from Beecham to Wells in the 1890s,” Rutledge asked as they walked to the door. “He was something of a troublemaker. The elder Mr. Simmons represented him at least once.”

The clerk's eyebrows rose. He repeated the name. “Odd that you should ask, sir. Thomas Atkins fell out of the loft of his barn and impaled himself on his own pitchfork only last month. A nasty business that. And not too many days before Mr. Tattersall was found dead.” Barry was careful not to use the word suicide.

Rutledge remembered Inspector Holliston's words when first he'd called on him about the inquiry into Tattersall's death. He'd been listing the reasons why he'd sent for the Yard in the Tattersall case. He'd already had his hands full.

A hanging. We haven't decided if it's suicide or murder. A man killed in his farmyard, but we aren't certain whether it's murder or an accident. Fell out of the loft window onto his own pitchfork. A drowning that could be suspicious. There were enough people eager to kill the bastard. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them did it. And now Tattersall's death.

Rutledge had had reason to believe that Holliston had wanted to stay clear of anything to do with the solicitor Simmons. There had seemed to be no reason for the Yard to inquire into the other cases.

A departure from Dobson's usual method of dispatching his victims? He had chosen a brutal way to see to Atkins. What's more, it hadn't drawn the Yard's attention. The connection with Tattersall and Henry Dobson hadn't been discovered, to cast a new light on Atkins's death.

Rutledge thanked Barry, said good night, and walked on to the police station.

He found Holliston just leaving his own office, on his way home to dinner.

“Rutledge,” he said, grimacing. “I thought we'd seen the last of you. I'd heard Joel Tattersall's death had been put down to suicide, but out of courtesy to the man's sister, that hadn't been listed as the final verdict.”

“It's still open to question,” Rutledge replied. “Meanwhile, there's another matter of interest to the Yard. Thomas Atkins's death.”

“How the hell did you hear about that?” Holliston stared at him.

“You told me yourself. While giving me the reasons you had handed the Tattersall case to the Yard. You never mentioned a name—even if you had, it wouldn't have mattered. I didn't know Atkins existed at that stage. He was involved in a murder in Beecham some years ago. I don't think the fall from the barn loft was an accident. Someone had found him and killed him. Very likely around the time of the break-in at the solicitor's chambers.”

“I don't know anything about that,” Holliston said. “Come inside, this is no place to discuss Atkins.”

They went into Holliston's office, and he paused to light the lamp. “The days are drawing in,” he said as he sat down at his desk. “About Atkins. His death was determined to be an accident. He was alone at the time, and he often worked in the barn. There was no evidence to lead us to believe anything else. His tenant was in Wells, looking at a bull to improve the herd.” He shrugged. “Not that anyone was surprised. Atkins had taken to drinking some years ago. That's why he couldn't afford more help. And there was a bottle in the barn, half empty. All in all he was a troubled and troublesome man. He bought that farm with money of his own, but he wasn't suited to it. His wife left him, he'd been involved in a number of schemes that never worked out the way he'd hoped, and that's when the drinking started. There were bruises on the body that weren't consistent with the fall, but Atkins was always resorting to his fists if he thought he'd been crossed. All right, I've told you what I know about Atkins. Now it's your turn to explain what this is about.”

When Rutledge had finished, Holliston whistled.

“Are you certain about this?”

“As certain as I can be.”

“But there was alcohol in Atkins's stomach. Not laudanum.”

“In this case, perhaps laudanum was too gentle a weapon.”

Holliston rubbed his face with both hands, then looked across at Rutledge.
“The inquest brought in its verdict. That will have to be changed to murder. Where is Dobson now?”

“We don't know. Possibly on his way to Portsmouth. I'll keep you informed.”

“Thanks.” They walked out together into the dusk. Holliston added, “I'll speak to the doctor again. About those bruises and abrasions. See what he can tell me in light of this information.”

“A good idea.” Rutledge turned to crank the motorcar. “I wish we knew where Dobson was tonight. I'd rest easier. And so would Fillmore Gilbert.”

B
y the time Rutledge reached Swan Walk, it was nearly dawn. He stopped by the closed gates. All was quiet. More bunches of flowers had replaced the wilted ones, and the huge crepe bows fluttered in the light wind, black splashes like great spiders in the web of the iron pattern.

He debated waking the household, decided against it, and drove on to Melinda's house where he knew he had a bed.

She was happy to see him, and his room, as always, was ready. She insisted that he must have a plate of sandwiches and something to drink, and he humored her while she filled him in on the news from Belgium.

“They are the bravest of the brave,” she said, sadness and pride mingled in her voice. “They've stopped the advancing German Army at Liège. No one thought it was possible. But they can't hold forever, Ian. It's a question of when, not if, the Germans smash their way through. Meanwhile, London is flooded with refugees, those who can flee are leaving, for fear of retribution, once the Germans capture the country.”

“And what are we doing?” Most of the British General Staff knew Melinda Crawford. Rutledge was reminded once more of Gilbert's comments about the Army as a family.

“Scrambling to put together an Expeditionary Force,” she said. “We're spread thin, and I expect Kaiser Wilhelm knew this. I expect he believed he'd have France—Paris at least—before he could be stopped.”

“And the French?”

“It's a long border. Colonel Crawford tells me the Germans intend to use the Marne Valley to lead them straight to Paris, while another force secures the Channel Coast so that the French can't be reinforced or resupplied from Britain. Effectively cutting France off.”

If Colonel Crawford was worried, Rutledge thought, there was good reason for it. Melinda's cousin wouldn't alarm her unnecessarily. Rutledge had met him a number of times at Melinda's house, and he knew Crawford was an experienced and steady man, with a clear understanding of strategy and tactics.

“There's something else, Ian. Most of our generals are accustomed to a very different kind of war. What everyone took to calling ‘Victoria's little wars.' The Indian Mutiny. South Africa. The Mahdi. Nasty enough, whatever you wish to call them, but nothing on the scale of what happened under Napoleon, when all of Europe was engaged. And in the end, of course, we were bound to win, however bloody it was. I'm not so sure, here. Napoleon was a superb general. We can only pray that the Kaiser isn't.”

It was unlike her to be pessimistic.

Rutledge said, “Then this rush to enlist might well be a blessing after all.”

She studied him for a moment. “You aren't planning to do anything rash?”

He smiled. “My hands are full with Yard business at the moment.”

“See that they stay that way. I've lost a father and a husband to the Army. And I'm afraid Simon Brandon will be called back to active duty. You remember Simon. I should hate to lose that young man too. Or Ross. When last I saw him, he was talking about the Royal Navy.
And so many others I know. Even Ram was asking permission to go back to India and enlist. I ask you! At his age.”

Ram kept her motorcar in perfect condition. Rutledge had had a look at the motor, and he'd told Melinda later that he'd nearly been blinded by the gleaming brass and copper.

Rutledge shook his head. “Temporary madness. It will pass.”

But she wasn't convinced.

Later, he tried to call the Yard, using Melinda's telephone. But Gibson hadn't come in, and Cummins was in a meeting. Rutledge was told to call back later.

He went up to his room and slept.

I
t was late morning before Rutledge could reach Cummins at the Yard. And even then Cummins was brief.

“I'll ring you back at this number, shall I, in five minutes.”

Rutledge agreed and waited, impatiently pacing the passage before finally walking out to the terrace.

Hearing the telephone bell at last, he raced back inside.

Cummins said, “Sorry. Everyone could hear me. Bowles is out for the morning, and I've commandeered his office so that we can both speak freely.”

Rutledge asked, “Has Gibson traced either Chasten or Taylor?”

“Both, as a matter of fact. Taylor is in a Bristol hospital with pneumonia at the moment. Chasten on the other hand lives in Torquay. I've been trying to reach someone in the police force there.”

“Damn! I was just in Portsmouth, speaking with Gilbert's daughter, Claudia Upchurch. I wish I'd known.”

“Where are you now?”

“Back in Kent. I'm on my way to call on Mrs. Hadley.” He gave the Chief Inspector a brief summary of what he'd done. “The younger Atkins, the greengrocer's son, is dead. There's no proof, but I'd guess that Dobson got to him early on.”

“That just about rounds it out, doesn't it? I've sent word to the Chief Constable of Kent that we want to know if a man with a gunshot wound shows up anywhere for treatment. He'll see that the word is passed.”

“We don't know how far he was able to travel.”

“Still. Never hurts to be sure.”

Rutledge said, “I needn't go on to Aylesbridge, then. Tell me more about Chasten. That's where I'll find Dobson. He can't reach Taylor until the man is out of hospital.”

Cummins gave him the information, then said in a different tone of voice, “There's a problem here. For one thing, I've been talking to Bowles. The evidence is clear enough. Dobson's victims, save for Atkins of course, drank that milk of their own accord. It wasn't forced down their throats, they weren't under physical duress. If Henry Dobson was present, it's damned macabre, but I don't see how that will convict him of murder. Look at it from the Chief Superintendent's point of view, Ian. Even if you bring in Dobson, he can claim that he's not accountable for these deaths, that he'd come to ask about his father's trial and that guilt drove these men to suicide. There's a very good chance he can make a jury believe him. And laudanum is quieter than a revolver.”

Rutledge could feel a surge of anger at Gilbert, lying in his bed, his face to the wall, refusing to help the police. Refusing to tell what he remembered about the night he nearly died.

“Go on,” he said. The telephone had one advantage, he thought in another corner of his mind. Cummins couldn't see his face, read his eyes.

“And then there's the Hadley murder.” Rutledge could hear Cummins
take a deep breath before going on. “Watson, the man in Kent, is pressing for us to have another look at Peggy Goode, the housemaid who found the body. He's convinced that with Mrs. Hadley in Canterbury, Hadley could have made advances, and she tried to stop him by drugging him. Only, the dose was fatal.”

“She would be more likely to scream the house down. What's more, she found the body.”

“He thinks she came in to see if the drug had worn off, and if he was angry.” Cummins cleared his throat. “She was terrified to find him dead. Simple answers are the best. That's the Chief Superintendent's motto. You know that.”

Rutledge needed to pace, to think, but Melinda's telephone closet was too small. “What should I do? Let Kingston stand his trial and hope a jury will refuse to convict him? Let Gilbert die without speaking, as he wishes to do? And give up on Hadley? I can't do any of that. I'm going to Torquay to find Terrence Chasten before Dobson does. He may know something.”

“For my part, I think you need a spot of leave. I have no way of knowing what my men do when they aren't on duty. Do you think Sergeant Gibson grows roses?”

Rutledge laughed, breaking the tension between the two men. Then he sobered. “Arrest will terrify Peggy Goode. And even if she's not convicted, she'll be marked for life. Mrs. Hadley might not want her back. How is she to earn her living? Try to convince Inspector Watson to hold off. Tell him—tell him we're evaluating new evidence.”

“I don't know if I can persuade him. You'll have to give me something to use as an argument.”

“God knows. Or—all right, tell Bowles and Inspector Watson that I'm waiting for a list of the hop workers, to interview them. And that will take some time. It's possible Hadley left those study windows open because he was expecting someone to come that way. Certainly not Peggy Goode.”

“It might work. But hurry, Ian. We're dealing with Bowles.”

Rutledge put up the receiver and went back to the terrace. Melinda was waiting for him, sitting in her favorite chair.

“It's Torquay. That's where our next victim is. And then possibly back to Bristol, when Taylor is well enough to go home.”

She held out her hand to him, and he took it.

“Good luck, my dear. And somehow find the time to write to Jean. She'll be unhappy if she doesn't hear. To Frances too. She still hasn't agreed to a companion. At least your housekeeper is a sensible woman. That will help.”

G
ibson had discovered a good deal about one Terrence Chasten.

Chasten had owned a Bristol foundry that specialized in toolmaking before broadening its trade as the city grew to include manufacturing scientific equipment. Some years later, he sold out to a competitor for a good price and moved to Torquay, where his brother lived. His brother owned a thriving bakery there, catering to the carriage trade. According to Gibson, the shop had moved to its present location five years ago, and Fred Chasten, the brother, had taken on more staff to keep up with demand.

Torquay, on Devon's southern coast, had been built to the north of the broad expanse of Tor Bay, once an anchorage for the Royal Navy. Now a popular seaside resort, it was still busy this late in the season.

Rutledge failed to find Chasten at his house, on a side street above a narrow wooded park, where modest villas had been put up before the turn of the century. A constable at the local police station gave him a description of the man, suggesting that he might be in the town at this time of day.

Rutledge finally ran him to earth just as Chasten was coming out of an afternoon musical concert in the domed confection of the Pavilion.

A tall, thin man with reddish hair and freckles that hadn't faded
with age, he frowned at Rutledge and said, “Scotland Yard? What could you possibly want with me?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“I have a small room for business above the bakery. Will that do?”

The two men walked along the shaded streets to the heart of town, where the large baker's shop stood between a stationer's and a bookshop. The bakery was busy, and the women who came and went were prosperous and well dressed. Gibson had been right about the shop's popularity.

“We're thinking of adding a tea shop,” Chasten said as they crossed the street toward it. “That's if we can convince the stationer to sell. We'll see.”

Instead of entering through the main door, as Rutledge had expected, Chasten led him down a narrow service alley that ran between the bakery and the bookshop. A door toward the rear opened into a room piled with sacks of flour and sugar and tins of lard. A stairway to one side led up to the first floor. “The previous owner lived above the shop. My brother uses the space for storage and an office. This way.”

They climbed the steps and came out into a passage with several doors opening off of it. Rutledge could smell spices, and Chasten, looking over his shoulder, smiled. “I'm used to it, but I'm told my clothes reek of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. That room over there is where they're stored. Ever since that business in Sarajevo, with the Archduke, I've doubled our orders of everything that has to come in by ship. The Germans have a sizable fleet of submarines. We'll find ourselves blockaded soon enough, mark my words.”

The room he called his office was small, littered with bills and ledgers and even possessed a typewriter.

“I've taken over the bakery's accounts. The baking I leave to my brother and his staff. Fred doesn't have a good head for business, and retirement no longer suits me.”

“You lived in Bristol before coming here?” Rutledge asked as he took the chair in front of the cluttered desk.

“I did. I was made a good offer for my firm there, and it seemed foolish not to take it.”

“Are you married?”

“No. I never really had time to find myself a wife.”

“While you were living in Bristol, did you serve on a jury?”

Chasten's face closed. “Why do you ask?”

“I'll take that as a yes. You needn't be concerned. It isn't the trial I'm interested in. However, it's the trial where all this began. Were you aware that Evan Dobson had a young son at the time he was charged with murder?”

“Dobson's wife was in the gallery. I didn't know that until when the verdict was read and she fainted. I wasn't aware of a son.”

“His mother died in June of this year. Since then Henry Dobson has disappeared. And that's our problem. It appears that he's trying to right what he perceives to be a wrong—or he may view it as simple revenge. If that's true, you're very likely the next person on this man's list of victims. When he leaves your house, you'll probably be dead by your own hand.”

“You are worrying me, Mr. Rutledge.”

“And so you should be.” Rutledge gave him a concise account of the other murders, holding very little back.

Chasten listened without expression, then shook his head.

“I have a difficult time believing that four able, intelligent men would calmly sit there and drink down a potion that they knew would kill them. There must have been something else to account for what they did. And you said yourself that in each case the Yard was prepared to accept another plausible explanation for what happened. Until, that is, you uncovered this connection to a trial.”

Rutledge wondered then if Henry Dobson's other victims would have told him the same thing. That a warning would have done little
or no good. He persevered. “It's an easier death than many choices a man might make. It's also quieter, which I think is one of the reasons it was chosen.”

“If he doesn't believe his father was innocent, why does he want to kill the judge and jury? Besides, there was nothing about the trial that was unfair or questionable. The evidence, as I recall, was straightforward. We did question among ourselves what role the dead man's son might have played. But he wasn't the one who raised a fist to the older man.”

“The son, Atkins, fell out of the loft of his barn directly onto a pitchfork. Coincidence? Or Dobson's doing? Remember, no one ever paid for that bridle. And there must have been very little money for Mrs. Dobson and her son to live on after his father's arrest. A child can grow up to hate when he watches his mother shunned and suffering.”

“All right, he feels he must kill the greengrocer's son. That makes a little more sense. But the jury? We didn't ask to serve, after all.”

“The logic of a man of business, who has never gone to bed hungry or done menial work to put food on his table or clothes on his back. That could be precisely what Dobson sees when he looks at the list of names. With the possible exception of the Alnwick schoolmaster, a good many of you went on to happy, uneventful lives.”

“Well, I thank you for the warning, Mr. Rutledge. I will most certainly be on my guard.”

“If I could find you so easily, Dobson will be able to do the same. He will come at night when he can be sure you're alone. I expect he watches, and bides his time.”

“I understand.”

But Rutledge didn't believe Chasten did. Chasten was arrogant. He'd built a company, sold it for a profit, and come to Torquay to lead a more leisurely life. Before very long he'd begun to take charge of his less successful brother's bakery, as he himself had said, leaving the baking to the staff. Even setting up an office for himself in the unused
rooms above. How long before his brother found himself managed into a position of having very little say about his own shop?

There was nothing more he could do here. Rutledge rose, thanked Chasten for his time, and found his own way out.

Walking back to where he'd left the motorcar, he asked himself what more he could have said to convince Chasten to pay attention to his warning.

Exasperated with the man, Rutledge spent the next hour and a half driving the streets of Torquay. He'd seen Dobson walk, he'd seen him run. Broad shoulders, a slim build. Was he limping? Carrying his arm stiffly? Or already fully recovered from his gunshot wound?

He got nowhere. In the end, he sought out the police station and described for the sergeant on duty a man that the Yard considered a person of interest.

“If you find Dobson, he should be taken into custody at once, and Chief Inspector Cummins at the Yard should be notified. He'll send someone down to question the man.”

“What's he done, then, that the Yard wants him?”

“He's a witness to murder,” Rutledge said. “We want him badly.”

The sergeant looked at his notes, and said bluntly, “This could describe any number of men. I don't hold out much hope.”

“He has a Somerset accent. It's likely he uses a bicycle to travel. And he suffered a gunshot wound fairly recently. That should help.”

The sergeant looked up at that. “I'll put out the word.”

Rutledge went back to his motorcar and found a hotel where he could spend the night.

He slept for an hour or two, then dressed and walked to the tree-lined street where Chasten lived. Solidly middle-class and comfortable, number 21 sat at the top of a half dozen steps. There were hydrangeas and smaller plantings on either side of the short walk to the door.