There was no one else in the back garden, yet Mrs. Forsby still had an air of looking over her shoulder, even without turning her head, as if every nerve ending were attuned to movement around them.
“I am married to Harold Forsby, who owns the ironmonger’s shop. We have a house just up the way from there,” she said, busying herself with her cup so that she didn’t have to meet his eyes. “I’ve been concerned for some time—you see, I’m often occupied with the children—they’re four and eight, very active, they are. Which has made for some difficulties between myself and my husband.” Her cheeks flushed, but she went on resolutely into his interested silence. He wasn’t sure where this was leading, but a policeman quickly learned that patience was a valuable tool.
“I don’t quite know how to say this, Inspector. But Hazel Dixon mentioned that you were interested in Mrs. Wyatt’s activities. I thought it best to speak to you myself, since I was in a position to tell you some things others might not have thought it necessary to pass on. Mrs. Wyatt is—well, to put it bluntly, she is a woman who attracts the eye of a man, and she knows it. Very French, she is, and that does seem to add to her appeal. That slight accent, and the way she dresses. Well, I can only imagine what her relationship
is with her husband, but a woman who is promiscuous often has a very—er—jealous nature. She doesn’t like competition! I’m sure that’s why she persuaded him to give up standing for Parliament and take on this silly museum of his! Such a waste, wouldn’t you say? We’ve had Wyatts representing us for ever so many years, he’s so suitable for the task!”
“Promiscuous?” he asked, moving directly to the key word.
“Oh, yes, I can’t imagine that any decently behaved woman would attract so much attention to herself if she was not—well, of that nature. She can’t be ignorant of the looks cast her way! A married woman neither invites nor encourages such bold notice. It’s neither proper nor genteel. And with Mr. Wyatt so busy with this museum of his, he hasn’t taken steps to put a stop to it!”
Her mouth tightened until the lips were a thin, short line.
The third stone was being cast at Aurore … .
“What has this to do with my investigation, Mrs. Forsby?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, picking up his cup and burning himself with the scalding tea. He realized that there was no sugar, no cream in his. Setting it down, he remedied that, courteously waiting for Mrs. Forsby to answer.
“If I were a woman like that,” she said after a moment, “and another very pretty woman came into my household, I shouldn’t like it! I suppose it’s a natural jealousy in someone who prefers to be the center of attention at home as well as in the neighborhood. The talk was, they’d find a male assistant for Mr. Wyatt, someone from one of the colleges. Mrs. Wyatt would have preferred
that,
I’m quite sure, another besotted male in the house. It might have kept her from straying farther afield, at least for a time. But it didn’t turn out that way, did it?”
“Are you telling me that Aurore Wyatt has taken lovers in Charlbury?”
She put down her own cup and said, “I don’t know about lovers, Inspector, I can’t speak for Mrs. Wyatt. I think—at
the moment—that it’s probably her deep need for male attention. But you know where that leads in the long run! I’ve seen the way Harold looks when she comes into the shop, and I’ve seen Denton at the Arms and Bill Dixon, and even Constable Truit hanging on every word she utters, their faces wreathed in silly smiles, their eyes avid, and God alone knows what’s going through their minds! It may not be true adultery yet, but it’s only a matter of time. She’ll tire of their admiration and want more. No, I don’t think Mrs. Wyatt would have liked to see competition under her roof, and I’m sure if you don’t act soon, something will very likely happen to Miss Napier as well. I’m not suggesting that it will, but one must do one’s duty before something terrible happens, and not in hindsight. Well, there you have it!”
It was a tangle of jealousy and envy, with no reason behind it but a woman’s need to retaliate, to strike out at the interloper.
“Are you saying that I should arrest Mrs. Wyatt for murder? On what evidence? And the murder of whom?”
She lifted an impatient hand. “Miss Tarlton, of course. Mrs. Dixon swears she saw Mrs. Wyatt in the car driving Miss Tarlton to Singleton Magna. I’m sure she’s not the only one to notice the car, if the truth be told. And I’ve just explained to you why I believe Mrs. Wyatt could have done such a terrible thing. I don’t speak up lightly, Inspector! I came to you after considerable thought and prayer. But if a person breaks one of the commandments, it isn’t such a great step from breaking others, is it?”
“But you’ve no proof that Mrs. Wyatt has betrayed her husband?”
She smiled tightly, then drank her tea. “What proof do you need? If that woman they found just the other day is Betty Cooper, then you ought to consider that Mr. Wyatt was thinking of taking her on as a second maid. Edith is rather plain, but Betty had a way with her. Mrs. Wyatt wouldn’t have liked her about the house, flaunting herself! It was not long afterward that Betty disappeared. No one
remarked it at the time, but it’s very likely she met the same fate.”
“The woman found at Stoke Minster has been dead for only three months or so. Betty Cooper left Dorset long before that.”
“Did she? She left Mrs. Darley, right enough! She may even have gone to London for a time. But in the end she came back, didn’t she? And wanted that job Mr. Wyatt had promised her. If she came to the Wyatt door on Edith’s day off, and Mrs. Wyatt answered, what do you think could have happened?”
It was an interesting theory.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “If Mrs. Wyatt has, as you say, an eye for the men in Charlbury, why should she object if her husband took a fancy to Margaret Tarlton or Betty Cooper? I should think that would provide Mrs. Wyatt with more opportunity to indulge in her own affairs.”
“But I just told you!” Mrs. Forsby said. “She wants to hoard them all, Mr. Wyatt, my Harold, any man with eyes in his head to see her—even you. I’ve watched her with her hand on your arm, smiling up at you like Miss Innocence herself! Even a London inspector from Scotland Yard is fair game for that one!” She finished her tea, her face pink with a sense of righteous triumph. “Mrs. Wyatt got her hands on Mr. Wyatt in the war, even when he was engaged to Miss Napier. It’s not right, it’s not proper. And if she had no respect for a man already promised to someone else, then she won’t let marriage vows stop her.”
It was Hamish who put the thought into his head. That Aurore Wyatt had escaped a war-ravaged country by marrying Simon.
“Did you or anyone else see Betty Cooper after she disappeared six months ago? Did anyone see her come back to Charlbury? Hearsay won’t do, we need hard evidence. The body wasn’t found in this village, after all. It could be unrelated to Margaret Tarlton’s death. It may not have anything to do with Aurore Wyatt.”
She touched her lips with the serviette in her lap and
folded it neatly before laying it beside her empty cup. “Nobody said she was a fool. And she’d have to be, to leave bodies lying about on her own doorstep! What I ask myself is, who else had any call to harm Betty Cooper? Or this Miss Tarlton. Can you tell me that? No, I didn’t think so! And where’s it all to stop? I ask you.”
Rutledge walked with her to the door of the Wyatt Arms. Denton nodded to him as he passed, but Daniel Shaw was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Forsby was still talking about how difficult it had been to come forward, as if she wanted his reassurance that she’d done the right thing. But the air of triumph was still there.
He thanked her and watched her walk back the way she’d come, with a neck stiff with righteousness beneath her summery hat.
But Hamish was pointing out, with some force, that Aurore had tried her charms on him, and it had worked.
“You canna’ fault a woman like yon, for wanting her own back on the foreigner who takes her husband’s eye, when she has a husband of her own.”
He was angry all the same. Defensive, for Aurore’s sake. Surely Wyatt had some inkling of the feelings that were rampant in Charlbury! Or was the man so blinded by his own pain that he couldn’t see what was happening?
“You’re no’ her champion,” Hamish reminded him. “You’re a lonely man who’s lost the one woman he thought cared for him. You see the loneliness in her, and it turns your head. But it’s no’ the same—your Jean walked away and is marrying anither man in your place. Yon woman already has a husband!”
“I’m not in love with her!”
“No,” Hamish said thoughtfully, “I’d no‘say you were. But she can pull the strings, and you dance like a puppet at the end of them! Because she’s hurting as much as you are. And like calls to like. It’s no’ love, but it can light fires all the same in a man!”
Rutledge swore, and told Hamish he was a fool.
But he knew that Aurore cast spells. Except over her
husband. Whatever he’d felt for his wife in France when he’d married her, it was quite different now. And for all he, Rutledge, knew of it, Aurore herself had changed as much as Simon had. That was the centerpiece of their marriage—change—and it might not have been all on one side.
If Aurore’s marriage was empty, she might well be frightened of other women catching Simon’s eye. If Simon neglected her, she might well be driven to having an affair, to point out to him that others wanted very badly what he chose to cast off.
Which might explain why the husbands of Charlbury were besotted and the wives were prepared to see Aurore Wyatt hang, if it took her away from there.
R
utledge was halfway to his car when he saw Hildebrand coming out of the Wyatt house. The Singleton Magna inspector saw him as well and signaled Rutledge to wait. When he reached the car, there was a nasty gleam in Hildebrand’s eyes. For a moment he studied Rutledge, and then said, “Well, you can pack your bags tonight and leave for London in the morning. I’ve got the Tarlton murder solved. Without the help of the Yard, I might add. You’ve been precious little help from the start, come to that.”
“Solved? That means an arrest, then.”
“Of course it does. Keep my ear to the ground, that’s what I do. Truit tells me what he doesn’t tell you—well, no reason why he should, is there? You were here to find the children. And they’ve been found, haven’t they?”
He was gloating, his face gleaming with it, his manner offensive but just short of insulting. He paused to let Rutledge respond.
“That’s good news,” he answered.
Hildebrand still waited and, when Rutledge had nothing more to add, went on with malicious pleasure. “I’m having a search warrant brought. We’ll find the murder weapon and that suitcase you were so fond of throwing in my face. And when we do, I’ll have my murderer. Ever seen a woman hang? Delicate necks, over swiftly.”
Rutledge felt cold, not sure whether Hildebrand was telling him the truth or trying to rouse him to anger. “Stop beating about the bush, Hildebrand!”
He held up a square hand, the back of it toward Rutledge, and began to tick off the points, bending down each finger as he went. “Witnesses saw Mrs. Wyatt driving the victim to Singleton Magna, even though she denies it. Mrs. Wyatt wasn’t happy about the Tarlton woman coming here. Jealousy, I’m told. Mrs. Wyatt could wash up after the murder at that farm of the Wyatts’, and nobody was the wiser. Handyman didn’t see her leave and didn’t hear her return. That’s where she tucked the murder weapon and probably the suitcase as well, out of sight into the hay or under one of the sheds. Who’d notice a worn spanner or an old hammer in that yard full of rusting junk?”
“Why did you change your mind?” Rutledge forced himself to ask. “I thought you were convinced that Mowbray had killed Margaret Tarlton, mistaking her for his wife.”
“I was fairly sure of that, given the evidence. But we found something else interesting today. I sent one of my men to Gloucestershire, where the Tarlton woman’s relatives live. They were that upset, to hear she was dead, not just missing. They asked my sergeant if she’d left a will, and he was smart enough to go to London to find out. Lawyer wouldn’t let him see it, but Miss Tarlton had left everything to her young godson, the cousin’s child, we got that much out of the old fool. And her house to Simon Wyatt. There’s the motive right there! Miss Napier may’ve thought she was engaged to Wyatt, but she wasn’t the only string to his bow. Must have put both their noses out of joint, when he came home with that French wife! And must have put his wife’s nose out of joint when she discovered his mistress was coming to live with them!”
“I don’t think—” Rutledge began through the clamor Hamish was raising in his head.
“You aren’t paid to think,” Hildebrand said, unconsciously quoting Old Bowels. “You’re paid to find murderers. Stay out of my way until this is finished, I’m
warning you!” He strode off, marching purposefully toward the car waiting for him at Truit’s house. Watching him go, Rutledge swore.
Hildebrand had hardly passed from view, on his way back to Singleton Magna, when the Napier car came down the same road, making for the inn. Rutledge assumed it was Benson, going to fetch Elizabeth Napier, then realized that there was a man seated beside him.
The car pulled up in front of the inn and Rutledge saw Benson pointing in his direction. Benson’s passenger nodded and got down, walking toward Rutledge. The distinguished face, the trim beard, the broad shoulders told him at once that this was Thomas Napier.
Napier said, as soon as he was within hearing, “Inspector Rutledge?”
“That’s right.” Rutledge had been in his car on the point of leaving, but killed the engine and got down to take the hand Napier held out to him.
“Thomas Napier, from London. Is there any place where we can speak privately?” he asked, looking around. “That bench over there by the pond, I think?” he went on, unconsciously choosing the place where Rutledge had questioned his daughter. The ducks had gone, leaving the surface of the pond like a mirror, reflecting the sky.
They walked in silence in that direction, and Rutledge let the older man choose his own time, his own words. But curiosity was rampant, and the tension in the other man had stirred Hamish into questing life.
“I don’t trust that fool Hildebrand,” Napier began. “Miss Tarlton’s solicitor called me today. He said that one of Hildebrand’s people had come to ask about Margaret’s will. There’s a clause in it that could cause a good deal of trouble for a good many innocent people. Margaret’s memory as well. I’ve spoken to Superintendant Bowles, and I’m not overly impressed by him either.”
They had reached the bench, and Napier sat down, scanning
Rutledge from head to foot. “You look like the sensible sort. In the war, were you?”
“Yes,” Rutledge answered, obeying Napier’s gesture and taking the other end of the bench. “I was.” The words were more curt than he’d meant.
“Hmm. Then I daresay you’ll understand when I tell you that Simon Wyatt is a man living on the edge, as it were. He’s my godson, I care deeply about him. The war came damned close to breaking his spirit, and he hasn’t been able to recover the balance of his mind. I’ve not encouraged him to stand for office, I’ve felt that he was probably better off working on this museum of his, finding his feet again in his own good time. Dorset is quiet, a healing place, as I know myself.” The tone of voice was fatherly, concerned. It was as if the rupture caused by Simon’s marriage to Aurore had never occurred.
“I understand, but I don’t see that this is important enough to bring you from London to tell me.”
“Simon may not know some of the terms of Margaret’s will. They may need explanation. But they have nothing to do with this murder, and they have nothing to do with Margaret’s affairs. Simon’s father was kind enough to arrange a loan for her when she needed it, and that was that. He wasn’t involved with her in any way, he simply felt that she deserved a measure of independence, and helped provide it. You never knew Margaret, but she was a very able young woman, very charming, very attract—”
His voice broke, and for several seconds he fought for control. “She was all that a man might want in his daughter,” he ended lamely. “I would have done the same for her, if she’d asked me, but she no doubt felt it was improper, since she lived in my house. It was the sort of arrangement that could have political repercussions, and she was astute, politically—”
“Unsafe for you—but safe enough for Simon’s father?”
Napier turned to look at him. “Don’t be purposely obtuse!”
“No,” Rutledge answered. “All right, then, you don’t
want Wyatt to know why the house is left to him. But that’s out of my hands. Hildebrand is going for a search warrant for Wyatt’s farm. He apparently believes Aurore Wyatt killed Miss Tarlton because she was under the impression that Miss Tarlton and Wyatt had had an affair. That Simon Wyatt bought the Chelsea house. And that Simon Wyatt might well be the father of the child Miss Tarlton bore. She could hardly want his mistress moving in with them.” It was a mixture of fact and fiction, but Rutledge was interested to see how well this balloon flew. And what reaction it provoked. He might have only this one opportunity to confront Napier … .
The expression on Napier’s face was a mixture of shock and horror. “How do you know all this? About the child? And why should Aurore Wyatt know of it? It wasn’t Simon’s, he was away at war—”
“Was it his father’s?”
“God, no! Whatever you think about Margaret Tarlton, I assure you she—”
“Then who was its father? Daniel Shaw? You? I’m not interested in Miss Tarlton’s child. I’m only interested in what bearing it might have on her murder.”
“The child is dead—it was born dead! It has no bearing on anything!” There was an undercurrent of wild grief behind the defensive words. A wrenching pain.
“Mr. Napier, if Hildebrand learns of it, it could send a woman to the gallows. It gives her a clear motive, don’t you see that, to kill a suspected rival.”
“No. I’ve met Aurore Wyatt several times. She isn’t my concern; she can take care of herself, she’s clever and resourceful and strong. Simon is very vulnerable. Whatever this fool Hildebrand is trying to do, he’s wrong. I think Margaret was the unwitting victim of that poor sod they’ve got in the jail at Singleton Magna. There’s no more nor less to it than that. What I want from you is the assurance that my daughter—and Simon Wyatt—won’t be dragged through the newspapers on the whim of an incompetent policeman!”
“Mr. Napier, I don’t believe Bert Mowbray killed Miss Tarlton. I think that her murder was no accident, it was a deliberate attack on her personally. And I suspect that there has been another murder of a young woman, some months ago. How they’re related I can’t say at the moment—”
“Do you believe Simon is guilty of either of them?”
“No, why should I—”
“But one of them might be set at the door of his wife? Possibly both?”
“As to that, I can’t tell you—”
“Then find the answers, damn you! I came to warn you that I don’t want my daughter’s name dragged into this. I’m taking her back to Sherborne at once. And I don’t want to read about Simon in the papers either, nor about that house in Chelsea, nor about any child that might or might not have been born.”
Rutledge said, “Margaret Tarlton’s murderer has covered his tracks quite cleverly. Still, there’s an answer somewhere. Ferreting it out may open the Wyatts to speculation and some scandal. I’ll avoid that if I can, I’ve always tried to shield the innocent. But in the end there may be nothing either of us can do to protect them. The other woman who may have died by the same hand—”
“I’m not concerned with another woman! I want you to stop this fool Hildebrand from walking in heavy boots through the life of a man who is very easily destroyed. Personally, professionally. Do you hear me? If any of this touches Simon Wyatt, I’ll hold you personally responsible. I’ll see to it that you suffer the consequences. I want this business cleared up without damaging Simon or Margaret, I want Margaret’s killer hanged, and I don’t want any foulness from this affair touching my daughter in any way. You would do well to believe me, Inspector! I am a man who never makes idle threats.”
Napier got to his feet and stood looking down at Rutledge. Whatever he read in the other man’s face, he changed his tactics abruptly.
“There’s that fellow, Shaw,” he said roughly. “He was
in love with her in the war, and he’s still in love with her for all I know. If Mowbray didn’t kill her, then Shaw probably did. Find out, and make an end to it.”
Rutledge felt himself welling with anger as Napier walked away. Napier had protected his own, he hadn’t cared about anyone else. He had willingly sacrificed Mowbray, he had callously abandoned Aurore to the mercy of the police. Even Daniel Shaw was expendable. Politicians made difficult decisions; Napier was used to sacrificing one good for another. But this was ruthlessness.
Walking away from the pond, Rutledge toyed for a moment with the possibility that Napier had killed Margaret himself, out of jealousy or anger at her refusal to carry on with an affair that she may have considered, in the end, was taking her nowhere. But Napier was too well known in Dorset—even whispers of his involvement would ruin him. This was, possibly, what drove him harder than his concern for Simon Wyatt. If he’d wanted Margaret dead, surely he’d have killed her anywhere but here.
By the same token, to be fair, Napier had been unable to show his grief, his love, his loss, in public. He had had to stand aside and let strangers bury Margaret, turning whatever it was he felt inward, to fester and rankle. He may have made his threats out of love for her rather than any fear for Simon.
They were still threats, and Rutledge took them very seriously.
“It’s no’ in your hands,” Hamish reminded him. “Whatever Napier has said. But either way, ye’re sacrificed as well.”
“Not if I can help it,” Rutledge said as he turned the crank and brought the car to sputtering life. He got in and drove to the Wyatt farm, his mind full of Hamish:
“If you no’ can finish this business, you’ll be back in yon hospital, crouched in a dark corner of your soul. It’s got to be finished, look you, and not for the woman’s sake, for your own!”
Jimson was working in the yard, mending the wheel on a barrow, his gnarled hands deftly shifting the shaft to bring the worn place within reach. He didn’t look up until Rutledge’s shadow fell across his shoulder and onto the dirtstained wood of the long handles.
“Lord, you know how to startle a man!” Jimson said, straightening up and dropping the shaft. “Now look what you’ve done,” he went on in an aggrieved voice, his face twisting to see Rutledge against the brightness of the sun.
“I need your help,” Rutledge said. “I can’t go to your master or your mistress, the police from Singleton Magna are coming soon with a search warrant. But I want to go through the house and the barn. Now. Before they get here. Will you walk with me?”