A Fine Summer's Day (34 page)

They had never really made peace with each other over Dobson, he and Bowles. Sefton and the Torquay police had done everything in their power to find the man, even walking into darkened cinemas and crowded concerts. They kept a watch on the boats in Tor Bay. They took a dozen men into custody, only to be told by Chasten, rushed to the station each time to look at them, that they'd picked up the wrong person.

Bowles had quietly closed the still open inquiries—the blackened graves, the murders of Stoddard, Tattersall, and Hadley. He'd closed as well the attempted murder of Fillmore Gilbert. But he'd stubbornly drawn the line at Kingston.

When he reached the seaside town with its magnificent ruins high above on the cliff, Rutledge saw that the pleasure boats had vanished, and the fishing fleet was tied up in the harbor. War had come here too.

The trial was to be held in the tiny courthouse. The afternoon before it was to open, Rutledge walked up to the headland and spent an hour in the abbey ruins. He hadn't seen Inspector Farraday. He hadn't expected that he would.

In the morning, quite early, he'd dressed, then eaten his breakfast in the hotel dining room before walking up to the courthouse. There was a throng of people waiting to find seats. He moved through them to the doors and gave his name. Passed through to where witnesses waited, he found himself face-to-face with Mrs. Kingston, her expression smug. She recognized him, but he said nothing to her. He was waiting for Fred Chasten to appear. He hadn't been at the hotel last night, and Rutledge was not certain that he would keep his promise to come.

At the last minute, he walked in, his face pale, the freckles standing out starkly. The bruises had faded. “I didn't want to come,” he said quietly to Rutledge. “I don't want to relive what happened. If it weren't
for the need to keep the bakery going, I think I'd have gone mad. But Terrence told me it was my duty. He drove me here himself.”

“It was good of you to do this,” Rutledge said. And he meant it.

As it was, they spent the day waiting for the summons that never came. The prosecution was presenting its case, and Mrs. Kingston was one of the earliest to be called. Her husband, Tad, came in after she had gone. He saw Rutledge and walked over to sit down beside him.

“I couldn't stop her,” he said. “But once this is over, I will not live with her any longer. I'd told the lawyers that I wouldn't sit in the same room with her. I've been cooling my heels in a back corridor.” He twisted his hat around and around in his hands. “You believed in Mark. I know that. But public opinion has been against him. Benjamin Clayton and his family are well liked. If I hadn't taken my cousin to his father that day, he wouldn't have seen him at all.”

“Was he forgiven?” Rutledge asked, finding he really wanted to know.

“He was. It was too late to change the will, but Mark told his father he'd begun a new life in Scarborough, and didn't think he'd make a good farmer. When—if—this is finished, I'll go with him myself to speak to his former employer. Hartle.”

“Good man.”

It was not until midmorning of the next day that the defense was given its turn. Tad Kingston was called first, and soon after that, Rutledge took the witness box.

Kingston looked haggard. He stood in the dock stoically, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Rutledge wondered if he had taken in any of the proceedings.

He gave his evidence clearly and objectively, explaining why he had gone to Bristol, and why it had taken so very long to find out the truth about Henry Dobson.

“Where is Dobson now?” he was asked.

“I wish I knew. He has much to answer for.”

“And you are convinced that Benjamin Clayton was on his list of victims.”

“You have been given a list of the jurors in that particular trial. Clayton's name is there.” He went on, outlining the similarities in the deaths of the other victims. “It's difficult for me to believe, as a police officer, that Benjamin Clayton could have been killed by anyone else. If Mr. Kingston had broken into that house to steal money, he would have killed Clayton quickly and got himself out of there. And where did the rope come from in the first place? Hardly the tool of someone breaking and entering.”

The prosecution tried to trip him up, but Rutledge was prepared for that and stated flatly that he'd warned Inspector Farraday that the inquiry was ongoing and that it would be premature to make an arrest at that early stage.

The neighbor who had met Dobson on the street gave her evidence in a quiet and steady voice.

“I didn't know,” she said, “I didn't know who he was or why he was asking questions. I thought he was a nice young man.”

She was asked if she had ever seen the defendant on the street where Clayton lived. She shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

It was Fred Chasten's evidence that stunned the court. He gave it in the husky voice of a man struggling not to let the memory overwhelm him. “Dobson meant what he said. His threat wasn't an idle one. As I know to my cost.”

When the courtroom had quieted down, Rutledge slipped out. He had no doubt of the verdict now.

And he was right. The jury debated for fewer than two hours before finding Kingston not guilty of the murder of Benjamin Clayton.

It was Michael Clayton who came to speak to him on the street as Rutledge was putting his valise into the motorcar.

“I'll find him,” he said earnestly. “If it takes the rest of my life.”

“And then what? Will you hang for his murder?”

“I'll drag him to the nearest police station so that he can hang like his father before him.”

Rutledge didn't see Fred Chasten again.

He stopped for the night in York, and spent most of it standing at the only window in his hotel room, looking down on the silent city, the Monk Bar Gate looming dark and massive just outside.

When he slept it was peacefully for the first time in weeks.

There were three other people now who could identify Dobson when he was found. Gilbert and the Chasten brothers. The sketch that appeared in newspapers across England wasn't a good likeness in Rutledge's opinion, and so far hadn't produced any trustworthy sightings. There wouldn't be another chance to find him: Dobson had done what he had set out to do, and while Gilbert and the Chastens were still alive, he seemed to feel no pressing need to finish what he'd started. And he was a master at disappearing, as he'd shown so many times before. It was possible the police would never find him. But he would stay on the list of wanted men. Even Bowles couldn't prevent that.

Rutledge slept in his own bed that night.

And the next morning, he went to the Yard, set all his files in order, finished his report on the Clayton trial, and then wrote to Mrs. Hadley, Miss Tattersall, and the vicars in the villages of Netherby and Beecham. He had promised them answers, but he had not taken anyone into custody. Still, he could set their minds at ease by telling them who had been behind these murders and the vandalism that preceded it.

That done, he shut his door behind him and walked down the passage to Cummins's office.

He wasn't at his desk, and Rutledge asked Sergeant Gibson if Cummins was expected back soon.

“Sorry, sir, I believe he's in meetings for the rest of the day. Is it anything urgent, sir?”

“Urgent? No. I'll leave him a note, I think.”

He went back upstairs into Cummins's office, and after shutting the door, he sat down at the desk, found a sheet of paper and an envelope, only to sit there staring at nothing, the pen drying in his hand.

And then he began to write. Without rereading it, he folded the sheet, put it in the envelope, and wrote Cummins's name on the front before sealing it. He left it in the corner of the blotter, where it would be noticed as soon as Cummins walked through the door.

He had left his motorcar close by St. Margaret's Church. Just as he reached it, he saw Kate coming toward him from the direction of Westminster Abbey. She was dressed in black, and he realized that she must have just come from a memorial service for someone. There were more and more of those for the war dead buried in France.

She smiled and waved, hurrying to catch him up before he could turn the crank.

“You're not leaving London again, are you?” she called. “You've just come back.”

“Not at the moment,” he said. “Later, perhaps.”

Something in his face must have given him away. Rutledge saw that at once, and cursed himself for waiting for her. She didn't need to say good-bye so soon to another friend on his way to the Front.

Then he realized that it went deeper than friendship.

“Ian?” she said, stricken. “Please, tell me Jean hasn't convinced you to do something rash. Have you seen the casualty lists in the newspapers? It's been dreadful, all that killing. I don't think I could bear it if—” She broke off, before she could say something she would forever regret. Turning away, she stared in the direction of the river, struggling to recover her self-possession. They could hear the river traffic from where they stood, and feel the cold wind off the water.

Neither one of them spoke.

Rutledge wanted to comfort her, but he knew he couldn't. Shouldn't. To try would only embarrass her more.

After a moment, she looked up at him, shielding her eyes with her hand, searching his face. And then she said, as if it was what she'd intended all along,

“I couldn't bear it if I had to break dreadful news to Jean.”

“It will be all right,” he responded, and reached out to touch her shoulder, a comradely gesture.

After a moment, she added brightly, “I'm sure it will be. I'm sure you'll come home safely to Jean and to Frances.” She stood on tiptoe then and kissed his cheek.

“Godspeed.” And then she was hurrying back the way she'd come, and he saw that several other young women dressed in black, one of them heavily veiled, were just coming out of the Abbey. Kate slowed her pace before reaching them, and he thought she must be giving herself time to recover.

He'd always been fond of Kate. He'd always enjoyed her company.

He had never meant to hurt her.

Cranking the motorcar, he got in and drove away.

It had been a sobering encounter. For an instant, waiting for Kate to come up to him, he'd had a fleeting glimpse of Jean in mourning. It had reinforced his resolve to ask her to wait until he came home again to marry him.

His first stop was the house his parents had left to his sister. Frances was out, busy with the charities and fund-raisers that had begun to transform the London social scene.

There was a message on the table in the hall. She was at a meeting of her knitting committee and would return well before dinner.

He was about to break his promise to her. He'd wanted a chance to explain. But perhaps it was better, perhaps it would be easier this way.

Rutledge left the house and went to find Captain Devereaux.

An hour later he went to tell Jean what he'd done.

She threw her arms around him and held him close for a moment. “An officer. Ian, I'm so proud of you. I can't wait to tell Mama—to
write to Papa. And at Christmas, when we're married, we'll have sabers after all.” Jean laughed, looking up at him. “You don't know how much I love you.”

It could wait until tomorrow, he thought. Asking her to put off the wedding for a bit. She might even suggest it herself. Her father was a soldier. She would know the risks without being told, and understand that it wasn't death he feared. It was returning to England, to her, less a man, maimed and ugly in her eyes.

He was standing there, his arms around her, watching her face, watching happiness brightening her eyes and bringing a flush to her cheeks, when he remembered something Captain Devereaux had said.

“War is a bloody business, Rutledge. But you already know something about that. You'll hold steady when the time comes.”

He learned later that Captain Devereaux had never been to France.

And the man was wrong. Dealing with murder victims, bad as it was, didn't hold a candle to war.

Boxing Day, December 26, 1914

H
eavy gray clouds hung over London, promising more rain, and the Thames was an ugly pewter ribbon running through the city. Even the streets, gleaming in the uncertain morning light, were dreary, and passersby hurried about their business with heads down, as if burdened by their own thoughts.

At Victoria Station, the steam from the locomotive festooned the damp air, with nowhere to go because there was no breeze to move it along. The platform was crowded with families there to say good-bye to loved ones in uniform, trying to find the right words for men bound for Dover and Folkestone and the transports for France.

Fighting had been heavy throughout the autumn, and casualty lists in the newspapers made somber reading. The martial euphoria of
August, when the war had begun, promising to be an easy victory, had not survived for very long. The rush to enlist had become conscription. Like so many others, Rutledge had been glad he hadn't waited, that he had made his own decision to go.

Training was finished. He was a newly minted Lieutenant, with a company waiting for him in France. Highlanders, he'd been told. Good fighting men, so good it was said the Germans feared them. They went into battle in their regimental kilts, pipes skirling. He'd wondered what such men would make of an English officer. At least he'd spent some time in the Highlands, including summers with David Trevor and his son, Ross. He could understand the people who lived in such places.

Now as they made their way toward the carriages, Jean held tightly to Rutledge's hand. He could see that she was fighting back tears.

“Don't cry,” he said, bracingly, smiling down at her, trying to sound reassuring. “You promised you wouldn't. I'll be home before you know it. This can't last much longer.”

But he knew it could now. And very likely would.

The war was fast becoming a stalemate as each side dug in, unable to move forward, refusing to retreat. The lists of dead, wounded, and missing had cast a pall over the holidays, and here in the last few days of the old year, men heading for the Front were no longer expecting to cover themselves with glory and in a matter of weeks, march back into London to the cheers of a grateful nation.

He'd said good-bye to Frances and to Melinda Crawford at the house. They had discussed it and decided it was best that way. Melinda had told him how handsome he looked, and Frances had made him promise to come home safely. He'd read the worry in their eyes even as they tried to hide it.

Jean had been waiting for him outside the station when he got there.

Rutledge led her to a sheltered spot by the canteen door, his arm
and his rank protecting her as the crowd grew larger the closer it came for time to board.

A company of Scots marched by, kilts swinging, and boarded the train. He knew they were new recruits. Their faces were apprehensive, not haunted.

“I'll miss you,” he said quietly. “Don't worry if you don't hear from me straightaway or as often as you'd like. The post is regulated—censors—that sort of thing. It will mean delays. But I promise you I
will
write. Remember that.”

She lifted her head and clutched at him, the finality of enlisting coming home to her at last. “I wish you hadn't volunteered. You needn't have. You were needed at Scotland Yard.”

“You thought it was a splendid idea at the time,” he reminded her, only half teasing.

“Yes, everyone was volunteering. It was exciting, exhilarating. The flags—the music. All the uniforms. I thought it would all be over before you saw any fighting. I thought it was all a lark. And now it's real.” She began to cry. “You must come back to me, Ian. You must promise. I can't imagine life without you.”

“Jean—my dear.” It was he who had insisted that they postpone their Christmas wedding. He knew how much it had hurt her. But he'd seen the wounded coming back to England. He'd visited two hospitals where friends had been taken, and it was a sobering sight. He'd tried to explain, and she hadn't understood that he couldn't tie her to the wreckage he might so easily become. She had wanted to be his wife, and he was grateful, more grateful than he could say. But he also wanted her to have a choice. And if they were already married, that choice would be taken from her. He thought he could stand anything but pity. She deserved so much more.

A whistle blew, signaling that the remaining troops should board.

Rutledge took Jean's hands. “My love.” He kissed her fingers and then her cheek. And suddenly she was in his arms, he wasn't quite
sure how it had happened, and all the pent-up longing and loss swept him. And that kiss was very different.

Afterward, holding her at arm's length, he said huskily, “Good-bye.”

And before she could say anything, or knew what he was about, he turned and walked swiftly toward the train without looking back.

He told himself that it was best for both of them.

T
he landing in Calais went smoothly despite what appeared to be chaos in every direction, made worse by patches of mist that clung here and opened there, a hazard to men and machines, as well as the horses. Troops and stores were being off-loaded, wounded waiting to be carried on board, vehicles of every description clogging the streets near the port, refugees trying to find lodgings. It had been a rough crossing, many of the men seasick, including a few of the Scots who'd never been aboard a ship before.

He'd spent part of the voyage standing at the railing of the ship, watching England recede into the storm clouds obscuring the white cliffs. One of the Highlanders, a man nearly as tall as he was, had come to stand near him. They didn't speak. Not until France loomed ahead, a blur of coastline.

There had been a spot of trouble below, but neither of them referred to it now.

Above the sound of the sea, they could hear the guns. Artillery. He couldn't be sure whether it was British fire or German.

The Scot glanced at him. “Our turn, soon enough. Good luck to ye, sir.”

“The same to you, Private MacLeod.”

He'd just come down the gangway and was searching for his transport when he saw the man.

He was being helped out of an ambulance and onto a stretcher. He had a heavily bandaged foot and wasn't able to walk.

Rutledge recognized him straightaway.

Dobson must have felt his gaze, for he turned his head and their eyes met.

The man on the stretcher scowled but said nothing.

Just as Rutledge was turning away, a shot rang out, startlingly loud even in the chaos of the port, echoing against the cliffs above and sending the gulls into swirling flight. Rutledge whirled in time to see Dobson jerk, then fall back on the stretcher.

Soldiers were already hurrying to search the quay for whoever had fired the shot. In the mists he could be anywhere. Orderlies were still working feverishly over Dobson, but it was too late. There was nothing they could do for him. Even as Rutledge walked on, he saw one of them shake his head, then reach for the edge of a blanket, drawing it over Dobson's face.

Rutledge didn't stop. He was no longer an Inspector at Scotland Yard. He was a Lieutenant in the British Army.

Cummins would see Dobson's name in the listings of dead and wounded, and know it was finished. He had searched the lists since Dobson had disappeared the last time, without much hope of ever finding his name there.

He was just stepping into his transport when something made him turn and look back.

Michael Clayton, in the uniform of a medical orderly, was leaning against the side of a shed that had once been used by French customs and was now a staging area for the wounded. At his feet was a jumble of kits waiting to be taken down to the quays and loaded aboard. Not two yards from him was a soldier slumped against the same wall, head to one side in an exhausted sleep. His rifle lay across his knees.

It was a little backwater, no one else around, but it had an excellent view down to where a cluster of men stood, looking at the crumpled body lying at their feet.

How had he known—?

Then Rutledge realized that Clayton must have been among the
orderlies who had just helped unload the train of wounded. There would have been a tag around the neck of every man, with his name, his rank, his regiment, and his wound. Easy enough to read. A word, a whispered question, and Clayton would have seen the reaction. Would have known he had the right man.

Scotland Yard had no authority here.

Rutledge got into the lorry, greeted his driver, and they began the long journey to the North and the waiting war.