Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (23 page)

“Burwell.”

“Then let’s get him into the motorcar. The sooner he’s there, the better.”

But Burrows was rising to his feet, and the dog stood by him as if daring anyone to touch him. “I’m thirsty. I think I’ll have a little water before I go up.”

“Papa, we need to go to Burwell. To the doctor. Come with me, won’t you?”

“I don’t need a doctor,” he said testily. “I’m all right. Just tired. What time is it?”

Rutledge stepped forward. “Mr. Burrows. Your daughter isn’t feeling well either. I think we ought to take her to see a doctor. Will you come with us? I think she would be more comfortable if you did.”

Burrows frowned as he looked at Rutledge. “Who are you?”

“I’ve come from London, Mr. Burrows. We need to hurry. Will you go with us?”

“All right,” he said docilely. “If McBride thinks it best. Stay, Hector.” The dog subsided, although it seemed uncertain.

“I do, I most certainly do,” the constable said quickly.

Between them, Miss Burrows and McBride got her father outside and down to the motorcar. The dog followed as far as the door, then stopped.

Burrows, turning to look at it, exclaimed, “Here. Where’s my shotgun?”

Rutledge answered him quickly. “It’s in the boot.”

“Well, then.” He got into the motorcar, and Rutledge could hear Hamish in the back of his mind.

It was difficult reversing, but soon they were on their way down the dark drive, the headlamps trying to pierce the fog and getting nowhere. Behind them they could hear Hector howl once, and then he was quiet.

Burrows turned to his daughter, and said, “There’s a mist coming in.”

They managed to reach Burwell without mishap, but twice McBride had to get down and find the road ahead. All the while Burrows was complaining querulously that he was tired and wanted to go home. Passing the churchyard and then the Church of St. Mary’s, where Major Clayton’s services had been held, Rutledge said quietly, “McBride?”

“Down that street—to your left. Yes, that’s right. Turn left again at the next corner.” After a moment, he added, “There. The house just there. Dr. Harris.”

“Go to the door. He’ll know you, I think. Miss Burrows and I will bring her father as soon as the doctor answers.”

It was nearly two minutes before a light came on, and then a figure appeared in the doorway.

“What is it? What’s the emergency?” a man’s voice asked.

“We’ve a sick man here, Doctor.” McBride turned as Rutledge coaxed Burrows up the walk and to the door. Harris opened it wider to allow them to pass, and they stepped inside. In the lamplight, he stared at Burrows’s swollen face.

“What happened?”

“He was shot,” Rutledge said. “And neglected the wound. He’s delirious.” He quickly explained the situation.

“This way.” Harris led them down a passage to the door that opened into his surgery. “Let me light the other lamp.”

As the light flared, Harris said, “All right, Mr. Burrows. Let me have a look at your face.”

But in the end, Rutledge and McBride had to hold the man in his chair while Harris examined the wound. Miss Burrows, stifling sobs, stood in a corner out of the way.

“The wound’s badly infected,” Harris said. “I need to clean it, and then we’ll see what’s to be done.”

He worked steadily while Burrows assured him that all was well, he didn’t need a doctor. Fifteen minutes later, he said, “I think he ought to stay here for what’s left of the night. I can’t take his temperature, as agitated he is, but it’s high enough. I’ll give him something for that, and also to help him sleep.” He took out two powders, put them into a glass of water, and said, “Are you thirsty, Burrows? Drink this, if you will.” When the glass was empty he added quietly, “Wait here.”

He came back shortly and said, “The room’s ready. I’ve prepared a bed for Miss Burrows as well. It will help her father if she stays.”

By this time the sedative was beginning to take effect. They got a drowsy Burrows to the narrow room made up for him and put him to bed. Leaving Miss Burrows to sit with him until he was fully asleep, the doctor led the way back to his examining room.

“When was he shot? Tell me the details.”

Rutledge gave him an abbreviated version of events, and Harris nodded. “It’s going to be touch and go. I dressed the wound with a septic powder, but we’ll know by tomorrow if it will work. Are you staying in Burwell?”

Rutledge said, “No, there’s something we must attend to. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Very well. I’m glad you brought him in when you did.”

He saw them to the door, and when McBride had turned the crank and joined Rutledge in the motorcar, he said, “Where now?”

“Back to the house. First of all to take care of the dog. As soon as it’s light, we’ll see if there’s a body there. Or if Burrows was just firing at shadows.”

McBride took a deep breath. “Think he’ll be all right?”

“It’s anyone’s guess. Harris was worried.”

By the time they had reached the Burrows house the mist was beginning to lift, helped by a light predawn breeze.

Hector was reluctant to let them in, but Rutledge finally managed to calm him.

They sat in the front room, McBride dozing in his chair, until the dawn had brightened, no more than a dull glow in the shredding mist, and then they went out to search.

It didn’t take long. Hector, allowed outside, ran nose to the ground around the perimeter of the house and outbuildings, then trotted back to Rutledge and McBride.

“No body, then,” McBride said. “It was all his fever, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not sure,” Rutledge said. “Look there.” He pointed to where Hector was sniffing with particular interest in the thicker grass that grew around the tree nearest the house. He knelt for a better look. “Is that blood?” Reaching out, he touched one of the drops Hector had found. His fingers when he turned them over were a rusty red. “He hit something. Or someone. I wonder who . . .”

B
urrows was no better in the morning. Rutledge had waited until full daylight to leave the farm because he wanted to look for more signs that Burrows had actually shot someone. But if there was anything to find, it had been so diluted by the damp ground that it was all but invisible. The first spots had survived only because they were by the trunk of one of the trees and well enough protected.

He and McBride took Hector back to his owner, watching the huge dog nearly twist himself in knots with joy at the reunion. Then Rutledge drove Constable McBride to Wriston, before turning back to Burwell.

Dr. Harris couldn’t tell him with any certainty what the outcome of the infection would be.

“It could spread. Once in the soft tissue, it’s harder to kill. I had one man come in with a small scratch, the infection got into his bloodstream, and there was nothing we could do. But Burrows is healthy, he has a chance. My wife is looking after Miss Burrows. She’s been too upset to eat, but I’ll give her something a little later to help her sleep. She won’t do Burrows any good collapsing over his bed.”

“I think when Burrows fired his shotgun last night, he hit someone. You haven’t seen any wounds of that sort, have you?”

“Not so far. No. I’ll report it if I do.” He paused for a moment. “You know, I’m sure, that Captain Hutchinson was here for the funeral of Major Clayton. Earlier in the summer, that was.”

“Yes, I’ve been told he was in Burwell. Only for the day.”

“I don’t like to spread gossip. But the man was murdered. You’re here to conduct the inquiry. All the same, I wouldn’t have sought you out. But now you’re here . . .”

“Is there something you know about Hutchinson?”

“Not really. No, not about Hutchinson. My wife’s cousin lives in London. Apparently she knew Mary Hutchinson rather well. They grew up in the same village.”

“Mary Hutchinson? His sister?”

“His wife.”

“I believe she’s dead,” Rutledge said, not sure where the conversation was heading.

“Yes. I wonder—I wonder if you’ve looked into that.”

There had been no reason to look into Mary Hutchinson’s life. Or her death. She had been a part of the background of the victim.

“What can you tell me about her?”

“That’s just it. I can’t. It’s my wife who told me. When her cousin Alice learned about Hutchinson’s death, she wrote to my wife. She’d said nothing for all these years, but with Hutchinson dead, she felt free to speak. It seems she’d been very worried about Mary for some time. There was a letter that Mary wrote to Alice shortly before she died. Alice sent it to my wife to read.” He coughed in embarrassment. “This is awkward. Perhaps you should speak to my wife.”

“Perhaps I should,” Rutledge said, “if she can shed any light at all on these murders.”

“I doubt she can do that. Just go through the passage there, turn left, and knock at the first door you come to.”

Rutledge thanked him and followed his directions.

When he tapped lightly on the closed door, a woman’s voice called, “Come.”

He entered a small sitting room where a woman was working at a desk. She turned. Mrs. Harris was small, trim, and pretty, with the calm demeanor of a woman who knew her own worth. She said, “Mr. Rutledge,” and rose to cross the room.

“Your husband tells me you know something about the late Captain Hutchinson.”

Her mouth tightened as she gestured to the chairs by the hearth. “My cousin Alice is nobody’s fool,” she said after a moment. “I’ll tell you that in the beginning. I’ll also tell you that I met Captain Hutchinson when he was here for Major Clayton’s funeral. I wanted to meet him, you see. To discover for myself what sort of man he was.”

“What did you learn?” Rutledge asked.

“That my cousin was probably right about him. Charming and manipulative. He neglected his wife—Alice’s friend—terribly. Mary was quite wealthy, you see. And her death was under questionable circumstances.”

“What sort of circumstances?”

“To put it bluntly, suicide. It was decided that she had been grieving for her child, who was stillborn. But Alice believed that she regretted her marriage and couldn’t go on with it. The charming man she thought she was marrying didn’t exist. Mary was—how shall I put it?—Mary wasn’t a very pretty woman. And the Captain was a very attractive man. She wouldn’t be the first to be captivated by such attentions.”

“Go on.”

“I wrote to Alice to tell her I’d met the Captain, but it wasn’t until he was killed that she sent me a letter she’d received from Mary only a few weeks before her death. I think you ought to read it.”

She went to the desk, found the letter, and held it out to Rutledge.

“Are you sure your cousin wouldn’t object to my seeing it?”

“Not at all.”

Lifting the flap of the envelope, he took out the folded sheet inside.

It was very brief.

Darling Alice, I’m so sorry I haven’t written. I’ve been ill. It has not been an easy pregnancy. I think that was because I’ve been dreadfully unhappy. If this child lives, it will give me something to live for. If it dies, then I’ll have nothing. And I don’t know if I can go on. No, don’t listen to me, it’s that this business of having a baby is so trying. Did you feel so down when you were having your first? Tell me you did. It will cheer me to know that I’m not alone in this.

It was signed simply with an
M
.

“She appears to have been having a very difficult time. But I can’t see that her death could be laid directly at the Captain’s door. Nor does it explain these murders.”

“No, perhaps not. But you’re investigating the Captain’s death. This shows you an entirely different view of the man from the effusive obituary that appeared in the Ely newspaper.”

She went back to her desk and retrieved a card. “This is where my cousin lives in London. Perhaps you ought to speak to her. Alice Worth is her name.”

He took the card and thanked her as he gave her back the letter and took his leave.

But as he was driving out of Burwell, Rutledge found himself thinking that Mrs. Sedley and Mrs. Harris had seen through the carefully cultivated facade that was the public Captain Hutchinson. Mrs. Sedley because she had watched him insinuate himself where he thought the greatest advantage lay. Mrs. Harris because she had wanted to find out whether her cousin had been right in her assessment of the man.

The question was, What did this have to do with Herbert Swift’s death?

Or for that matter, the attempted murder of Mr. Burrows?

Chapter 13

R
utledge spent the rest of the day going through the list he’d made of ex-soldiers, this time in Wicken, but without any luck.

The constable there, a man called Lark, said, shaking his head, “I can’t see that this is getting us anywhere, sir.”

But somewhere, Rutledge thought, out here in the Fens or in a town close by, is the man who knows how to use a rifle and, more important, how to make himself invisible.

“Someone who came for the shooting?” Lark went on. “The autumn visitor. Or the winter. Miss Bartram over in Wriston knows who they were. Not many of them come now. But she must still have the names.”

Rutledge said, “I can’t see a connection to Swift and to Captain Hutchinson. Hutchinson hadn’t come here until this summer.”

“But he did come. And so the killing began.”

It was an interesting way of looking at the murders.

“When did Swift come back from Scotland?” Rutledge asked. “Do you know?”

“Late 1918, as I remember. Constable McBride can tell you for certain.”

“Close enough. Two years ago. And nothing happened to him. Then Hutchinson came to Cambridgeshire. The first time there was no time to plan. But when the Captain came again, he was killed. Then Swift, because he was already here, already available.”

“But how does Burrows fit in?”

That was the problem.

Rutledge thanked Constable Lark, and turned back toward Wriston.

Where was the connection among these men?

Hamish said, “Swift would ha’ left for London, if he’d won yon seat in Parliament.”

“But his killer is here, not in London. And for some reason he can’t go there.”

“He couldna’ carry the rifle with him.”

That made sense. He could hide it here. He knew the land.

By the time Rutledge had arrived at The Dutchman Inn, he’d made up his mind.

The next morning, he left the Fen country for London, stopping in Cambridge for petrol.

I
t was late when he reached the city, and later still when he walked into his own flat.

On the long drive south, he’d decided where to begin. Captain Hutchinson’s sister.

She had lived with her brother in a house in one of the elegant squares that had seen their heyday in the 1890s. Number 7 was, like its neighbors, large, well kept, still handsome. There was black silk on the knocker, a reminder that it was a house of mourning.

The middle-aged maid who answered the door told him that she would inquire if Miss Hutchinson was receiving visitors. When she returned, she reported that Miss Hutchinson was resting.

“Please tell her that Scotland Yard would like to ask her some questions about her brother’s death.”

It was several minutes before he was led to a sitting room where Miss Hutchinson was waiting.

She was tall and slim, a striking woman rather than a pretty one. She kept him standing as she said, “Inspector Rutledge? Have you found out who killed my brother?”

“Not yet, Miss Hutchinson. I wish I could tell you otherwise. Did your brother know someone named Swift?”

“Swift? I don’t believe so. I didn’t know most of his friends. He was, after all, a serving officer in the Guards.”

“I understand he lost his wife in the early years of the war.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That’s true. What does that have to do with what happened in Cambridgeshire?”

“I don’t know. But somewhere in your brother’s past something occurred that may have brought about his death. Tell me a little about Mrs. Hutchinson.”

She turned away. “Mary was from Warwickshire. She met Gordon at a ball. It was love at first sight, I’ve been told. She was about to become engaged to someone else, and broke it off to marry my brother.”

“Did she come to regret the marriage?”

“No, of course not. That’s a terrible thing to suggest.”

“But there was some question about her death.”

“I assure you, this had nothing to do with Gordon being shot in Ely. I wrote to Jason. I told him that this business must be some terrible mistake. That my brother had had no enemies.”

“Was Captain Hutchinson in England when his wife died?”

“He was in France. The war was just becoming a stalemate, he couldn’t leave. He wasn’t even here for her funeral.”

But an officer serving in France would have been given compassionate leave if his wife and their child had died. If he’d asked for it.

“How well did he know Major Clayton? I understand he attended the services for Clayton in Burwell.”

“He’d met him in hospital, on a visit to the wounded that Gordon made with Colonel Fisher.”

“Was it Colonel Fisher who traveled to Burwell with your brother?”

“I don’t believe it was. I didn’t know the Claytons, and so I didn’t go with Gordon. You’re grasping at straws, Inspector.” She was impatient now, a little sharp.

“Did your brother know someone in the Fen country by the name of Burrows?”

“Was he in the Army?”

“No. He’s an older man. A farmer.”

“Well, then, I doubt it. Really, Mr. Rutledge, I can’t see where these questions are leading. ”

“Was this house yours, Miss Hutchinson? Or your sister-in-law’s?”

She flushed slightly. “It belonged to Mary’s family. It had been closed since her parents’ deaths. My brother brought her to London and opened the house. She was pleased. She’d always liked it.”

“And it’s yours now?”

“Sadly, yes. As my brother’s heir.”

Hamish was reminding him of something. Mary Hutchinson’s house . . . He said, “The staff here. Who hired them?”

“I suppose my brother did. It was fully staffed when he sent for me.”

“There was no one who came to London with the new bride?”

“Yes, there was her maid.”

“Where is she now?”

“Pensioned off, when Mary died. I already had a personal maid. There was no point in keeping her on.”

“I’d like to speak to her. Can you tell me where to find her?”

She was exasperated with him. “Really, I don’t know what Miss Newland could possibly tell you about something that happened in Ely.”

“Nor do I. But I intend to find out. The address, if you please.”

She went to the desk, found a small leather-covered book, looked up a name, and wrote the information on a sheet of stationery. Folding it, she turned and handed it to him. “I think you should leave now. There must be something you can do to find my brother’s murderer. Searching out old servants doesn’t seem to be very useful.”

Rutledge smiled. “Scotland Yard prefers to be thorough,” he answered and took his leave. She was frowning as he closed the door.

If Hutchinson had possessed great charm, most certainly his sister had none, he thought, driving toward Wiltshire. Perhaps with her brother providing for the two of them, she hadn’t needed any.

When he arrived in Abbot’s Green, he was surprised to find that the direction Miss Hutchinson had given him was a large, handsome brick house set back off the road on the far side of the small village.

He’d expected a pensioner’s cottage, but it appeared that Miss Newland had found another position.

And this presented something of a problem. If Scotland Yard came calling, the mistress of the house would very likely insist that he interview Miss Newland in her presence. If he insisted on speaking to her privately, it would cast suspicion on the lady’s maid. What had she to do with the police?

He drove up to the Georgian door, knocked, and asked for Miss Newland.

The maid who had come to the door said, “Who is calling?”

“My name is Rutledge. I’m here,” he said blandly, “about a small legacy left to one of the staff at her former place of employment. I should like to trace that person, and Miss Newland might be able to tell me where to find her. A private matter, I’m afraid.”

He was left to his own devices while the maid went to find Miss Newland. After perhaps five minutes, a woman in the severe black of her position came to the door.

“Mr. Rutledge?” she asked tentatively.

She was nearing forty, he thought, with fair hair that fought against the severity of the style that suited her dress, repressively impersonal. There was a small scar, round and rather unusual, on one cheek, near her mouth. It detracted from a pretty face.

“Yes.” He looked up at the house. “Could we walk here in the drive for a few minutes? I’d rather not be overheard.”

Mystified, she said, “You mentioned my former employer . . .”

“Mrs. Hutchinson. Yes. Will you walk with me?”

Reluctantly she came down the short flight of steps and followed him to the faun fountain that graced the circle created by the loop in the drive.

Certain now that he couldn’t be overheard, he said quickly, “I’m from Scotland Yard, Miss Newland. I’m investigating the murder of Captain Hutchinson.”

Shocked, she stared up at him. “Captain—but who—I didn’t
know
.”

She wouldn’t have seen the London newspapers. He explained what had happened. “And we have very little evidence to help us with our inquiries.”

Her face hardened. “Good luck to him, whoever he is. I hope you never find him.” She was about to turn away and go back to the house when he stopped her.

“Miss Newland. I need your help.”

“I told you. I wish whoever it is well.”

“Perhaps you do. But he’s murdered another man, and shot a third. We need to find a killer.”

“I haven’t seen the Captain since I was let go. After Miss Mary’s death. What can I possibly know that would be useful to you?” With one hand she shielded her eyes from the sun, searching his face.

“I have no idea,” he said truthfully. “But a woman whose cousin Alice Worth knew your former mistress suggested that I look into her death. I called on Miss Hutchinson, and she was less than helpful.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. She didn’t care for the woman her brother married, and he only married Mary for her money. He wanted that lovely house and the position the address gave him. Once he had what he wanted, he changed toward her. Mrs. Worth—the Alice you spoke of—was her only friend. He’d discouraged everyone she’d known growing up from visiting her. It wasn’t convenient—she didn’t feel well—they’d made other plans. After a while, they stopped asking to see Mrs. Hutchinson.”

“Was he that cruel?”

“I don’t think it was cruelty. He didn’t care for them, you see. They could give him nothing he wanted. He brought his own friends round, and they entertained lavishly. Miss Mary enjoyed that. They were invited to teas and concerts and the theater, to dinner parties and weekends in the country, but these were people the Captain—he was a Lieutenant then—wished to impress. He expected Miss Mary to use them as he himself did. To cultivate them and curry favor, to do small things to put them in her debt, whatever he thought would serve him best. She wasn’t comfortable using people in that fashion. The only times I saw him angry with her were over small things she’d failed to notice or do. He accused her of not caring, of letting him down. But she hadn’t. It wasn’t her way to look for opportunities to put herself or her husband forward. She hadn’t grown up in that kind of life, she had a position, she didn’t need to push so hard for recognition. It was just that he wanted even more fashionable connections.”

“And when the war came?”

“He was in his glory then. He expected to end the war as a Major at the very least. But he never seemed to find the right opportunity to shine. He could be very brave when he had to, but he wasn’t a good leader. Do you know what I mean? Miss Mary said to me once, ‘He climbs on the backs of other people. He’s never understood that.’ ”

“Were there other women?”

Frowning, she considered the question. “Oh, he charmed them, when they were useful or related to someone important. It never went beyond that. Well, there
was
one, perhaps, if you believed the rumors. The housekeeper wrote to me that he’d taken a fancy to one of the maids. This was after he’d come home from France. The spring of 1919. I never knew him to look twice at one of them, so I was quite surprised. And I told her so in my next letter. But Mrs. Cookson claimed he was besotted with the girl. And then one morning she was gone. Her things with her. Just like that. I expect she wouldn’t stand for what he wanted. God forgive me, I remember thinking that it served him right, to be disappointed.”

Some men considered the staff in their houses as natural prey. A pert maid, always underfoot, smiling . . . it could be tempting. But pretty or not, a servant girl was seldom related to a Colonel or someone in the Cabinet.

And then Miss Newland’s next words changed his mind.

“Mrs. Cookson told me she was a Scottish girl, pretty as a picture, with the most charming accent. Even the tradesmen who came round wanted to hear her speak. But an excellent worker for all that.”

“And that’s all you know about this girl?”

“It’s all that she wrote.”

“Where can I find Mrs. Cookson?”

“I should think she’s still at the London house.”

“Do you recall someone by the name of Swift coming to the house? Or Burrows?”

Miss Newland shook her head. “I never met the guests.”

“Tell me a little about Mrs. Hutchinson’s life before she met the Captain.”

“She was not the prettiest girl in Warwick, but she was well liked. And she had a way of putting people at their ease. I never knew her to be a wallflower. She always had partners at any balls or parties. I was over the moon when I was told I would be her maid. It was the best position anyone could ask for. We went to Newmarket for the races—her uncle was mad for the horses, and he’d spend a week before the flat racing calendar, going from trainer to trainer, looking over the field and deciding where to bet. He was good at it too. There was a man she met at one of the dinner parties. She pointed him out to me once. I was certain she was in love with him, and he with her. It would have been a fine match. She said they were well suited to each other. But her uncle felt she was too young, she should wait a year, and before that year was out, she’d met the Captain.”

“What was her uncle’s name?”

“Thaddeus Whiting. Sadly, he died soon after Mary’s death. I think it broke his heart.”