Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (7 page)

“Most Medieval buildings are. Do you suppose the killer was dressed as a priest or the like, someone who wouldn’t be noticed because he appeared to belong in a church?”

“Carrying a rifle?” Warren went on toward the choir. “But then he could have hidden it in a valise, a musical instrument case. Still, he’d have to open it, wouldn’t he, and assemble the rifle. A grave risk.”

“Was there a published schedule for the guests to arrive?”

“No, none. He couldn’t have known when to be prepared.”

“And so he must remain invisible until he was sure.”

“The organist brought a large portfolio with him. His music. But he was playing when the shot was fired. There are dozens of witnesses to that. The florists brought in long boxes full of flowers for the arrangements. Some of the flowers were quite tall at the back of the baskets. We searched the lot. Even the van they came in. Under the seats. The organ loft. Behind the organ pipes—have you ever looked behind those pipes? I had the altar cloth and the misericords in the choir searched. Everywhere we could think of, in the event he’d hidden his rifle and planned to retrieve it later. But he hadn’t. Or else he’d extracted it before we got to him.”

There was nothing to see, Rutledge thought, but the beauty around him.

He started back toward the West Front. “Without the rifle, there’s no way to learn where he got it. The Army, most likely. But when? At the Armistice? Was he still in France then? A few must have been smuggled into the country without the Army’s knowledge. Still, they were damned thorough.” Then over his shoulder, he added, “Why did Captain Hutchinson have to die? And on that day? Was there a particular order in the two deaths? Was it opportunity or was there a pattern behind the order?”

“I can tell you why that day. Hutchinson had come up from London for the wedding. It was very likely that he’d return to London on Sunday evening at the latest. There were a number of parties and dinners before the nuptials, of course. But they were private and by invitation only. That means that his arrival here at the Cathedral would be his only public appearance, so to speak. The local newspaper carried several accounts of the wedding festivities, mostly after the fact. My wife had read them, and so I looked them up. Hutchinson was mentioned several times. And the wedding in general created quite a stir.”

“Which means our man—the shooter—could be local.”

“Yes, very likely,” Warren said harshly. “More’s the pity.”

“Why was Swift running in the by-election?”

“That I can answer. Swift had been a solicitor before the war. There was no one to take over for him during the war, and his chambers were closed. When he came home again, the view is his heart wasn’t in it. He must have seen standing for the seat of his late MP as offering a way out.”

“What happened to him?”

“Mr. Davidson died of cancer in the early summer.”

“If Hutchinson was related in some way to the bridegroom, was Swift connected to the man as well? However distantly? Grandmothers, wives, great-aunts? Any questionable inheritances?”

“I asked the bridegroom that question. He’s not related to Swift in any way. But whether Swift and Hutchinson are related is another matter.” Warren took a deep breath as they left the Cathedral and stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight. “I can’t walk in there without thinking of that Saturday. Where was I? Oh. For what it’s worth, I think they’re random, these killings. Targets chosen for no other reason than that they are
there,
wherever the shooter wants to try his luck again. I don’t envy you having to get to the bottom of this one. I’ll help you in any way I can.” He began to walk briskly back toward the police station. Over his shoulder he said, as Rutledge followed him, “But the truth of the matter is, with all due respect, I don’t believe you’ll have any better luck than I’ve had. You can see for yourself, it’s hunting shadows.”

Chapter 5

R
utledge took the man’s comments as they were intended, a measure of his frustration. Warren had had nearly ten days to solve the first murder and four to tackle the second. That in itself was trying; add to it the necessity of calling in the Yard, and the man had every reason to feel he had failed in the eyes of his own Chief Constable.

“Do you think the killer is satisfied? Or will he find a new target?” Rutledge asked after a moment. “Now that he’s twice successfully evaded the police?”

“Who knows what’s in his mind?” Warren sounded tired. “The question is, is he moving west, looking for victims? Or is he choosing a village or town and then picking someone? Mind you, these aren’t ordinary folk—the butcher’s boy, an elderly seamstress, the dairyman. Hutchinson had something of a reputation, I’m told—he moved in the best London circles, and all that. Swift was a solicitor, standing for public office for the first time. God knows who might be in this killer’s sights next.”

Rutledge had already considered that possibility. If there was no personal connection between these men, then it had to be something else. And fame, however minor, might draw someone’s attention if he was searching for another target.

They carried on in silence, and when they reached the station, Rutledge stopped by his motorcar. “Anything else I should know?”

“We’ve covered every possibility. Everything but a hot air balloon. But I’m at your disposal if you think of anything. There’s an inn close by the Cathedral. The Deacon. I’ve booked a room for you there.”

“Thank you.”

Warren put a hand on the bonnet of the motorcar, brushing at an invisible speck. “I like tidy murders, if I must have one. Something I can follow through to a reasonable conclusion. Most of them are like that. If I don’t know what’s going on, my constables will, and in the end we’ll find our killer. The wife, the brother, the lover, the husband. Or the jealous neighbor, the childhood friend, the man who owes money he can’t repay.” He stopped.

“This inquiry could turn out to be as simple.”

“Yes, well, pigs fly.” Warren hesitated. “I was never in the front lines. They put me in charge of transport. We ran the gauntlet of submarines, but no one was shooting at us. You said you could have made that shot. Were you serious?”

Rutledge bent to turn the crank. “A good marksman could have done it easily. At any one time I had ten men in my command who could have made either the shot here or the one in Wriston. Hutchinson must have been moving at a walking pace, conversing with friends, and in no hurry.” He nodded. “A woman could have made it as well, if she’d been trained. It’s not necessarily a man we’re looking for.”

Warren smiled, dusting his hands. “You’ve just doubled the number of your possible suspects.”

“Was Hutchinson married?”

“His wife is dead. Has been for a number of years. Early in the war. So I’m told.” Warren hesitated. “You can’t believe we’re looking for a woman.”

“If we can teach shopkeepers and the sons of farmers to shoot straight when they’re being shot at, why can’t a woman learn to do it as well?”

“If I brought a rifle into my house, my wife would run screaming out the door. She doesn’t care for weapons of any kind.”

“Then we should hope our killer has a wife who feels the same way.”

“When you’re ready, I’ve got the names of witnesses you might wish to speak to. A list I’ve drawn up.”

“Now is as good a time as any.”

Leaving the motorcar quietly ticking over, Rutledge went inside the police station. The list was on the blotter of the desk, and Warren handed it to him.

“Tell me what you think after you’ve spoken to them.”

“What about the artillery Major who was so helpful? Lowell, wasn’t it?”

“Nothing there. He didn’t know Hutchinson at all.”

“But he was with the police at every turn. I’d like to speak to him.”

Warren quickly added that name to the list. “Anything else?”

“Just tell me how to find The Deacon. That will do for now.”

H
e was unpacking his valise, putting his clothes into the armoire, when Hamish spoke into the silence. “Ye ken, he’s washed his hands o’ these murders.”

“At least he’s been helpful.”

He crossed to the window and realized that it looked out toward the Cathedral.

“Ye ken, if a woman knows her husband has a rifle, she’s too afraid to report it, for fear of losing him to the hangman.”

“There’s that,” Rutledge agreed. Over the rooftops, the Cathedral’s Lantern gleamed in the late afternoon sun, its windows holding the light. It dominated the town, although Ely was building out from its center, as many prosperous towns were beginning to do before the war and would surely continue to do. Did the killer live here? Or was he a Wriston man? Or had he come from the half-dozen other villages scattered over the Fens where the ground was high enough for habitation.

Where then to begin? He took a deep breath.

The bride and bridegroom. Their marriage had set the wheels of murder turning. Or at least it appeared to have done so.

He shaved and changed his clothes, leaving the wrinkled suit to be pressed while he was out. After asking directions from the clerk behind the desk he decided it was too far to walk and went to his motorcar.

The Fallowfields had returned from a brief wedding trip and were staying with the bride’s family before traveling on to London. The house was in a fashionable part of the town, and when he’d been admitted and asked to wait in the drawing room, he could see that there was old money here.

The furnishings were elegant and the carpet was new, replaced, he thought, for the wedding. The walls were a lovely shade of blue, set off by white trim, and the hearth was white Italian marble. A dark blue vase filled with white roses graced the small table beneath the windows.

Fallowfield had done well for himself, Rutledge found himself thinking as he waited. Was that why the man had expected to be the victim rather than Captain Hutchinson? That his good fortune was too good to last?

After several minutes, the door opened and a young, fair-haired man came into the room.

“Inspector? Jason Fallowfield. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. My wife asks to be excused. She’s tried to put the events that day out of her mind, and it hasn’t been very easy for her.” He gestured to one of the chairs and took another just across from it. “She arrived after the event, there’s nothing she can add.”

“I can understand her distress. A wedding should be memorable for its joy.”

“Yes, thank you. I don’t know how I can help you. But I’m at your service.”

“How long have you known Captain Hutchinson?”

“I saw him from time to time when we were children, and to tell the truth never really took to him. Then we served together in France. At Passchendaele. Sort of thing you don’t forget, surviving that. We kept in touch afterward. Both of us live—lived—in London, and there was the occasional dinner or a weekend where we were houseguests at the same party. Tennis. Golf. The usual sort of thing when you move in the same circles.”

“Tell me a little about his background. We’re looking for anything that could point toward his killer.”

“When I stop to think about it, I realize I didn’t know him very well. And yet I thought I had. He was a private person, you see. He told me his father left him enough to be comfortable, and then before the war he married a rather wealthy woman. I never met her. She died while we were in France. There was some gossip at the time—I’m not precisely sure what it was about, but I gathered it had to do with her possible suicide. At any rate, Gordon should have gone home on compassionate leave, but there was a push on and I heard he was moved to another sector instead. By the time we met again, we were in Paris, of all places, on leave. And when I offered my condolences, he said something that I interpreted as a reference to a stillborn child. That would certainly explain why people believed she’d taken her own life, if she’d died soon after. I had the feeling he’d been hurt by the rumors of suicide. Although I must say, he appeared to be handling it well by that time. God knows, childbearing is a common enough cause of death. As a married man, I’ve begun to worry about it myself. But what can you do?”

“Who were his friends? His enemies?”

“I have no idea. I mean to say, he appeared to be well enough liked. He never lacked for invitations, at any rate. If there was any trouble, it never reached my ears.” He hesitated, then added, “He
collected
people. That was my impression of him. He seemed to know everyone who was important. It was sometimes a matter for amusement, the way he could make friends. Like a chameleon, changing himself to match his surroundings, as it were. It sounds like an unpleasant quality, but in reality he could be great fun and a very good friend.”

“Does he leave any family?”

“Only a sister. I’ve been on the telephone, speaking to her. She’s in London. She couldn’t face coming north alone to accompany the body home. I can’t say that I blame her.”

“How were you and Hutchinson related?”

“Our mothers were distantly connected. To tell the truth, most of my friends never came home from France. I daresay it was true of Gordon as well. Kinship matters then. Sometimes that’s enough to stave off loneliness.”

Rutledge understood what he was saying. Many of his own friends were dead or had gone on with their own lives while he was struggling to rebuild what was left of his.

“Why did you invite him to attend your wedding?”

Fallowfield was surprised. “It never occurred to me not to. I mean to say, we were talking about it one day, and I simply told him I wanted him to come. We were cousins, after all. We’d served together.”

There it was again, that bond between men who had served together. Rutledge understood it well.

“Had your wife met him before the wedding?”

“Yes, on several occasions when she was in London and I escorted her to parties.”

“Did she like him?”

His face flushed. “What are you suggesting?”

“Only that women are often more intuitive about people. They will dislike someone for no reason at all, and only later understand why they felt that way.”

“I don’t think she ever expressed an opinion one way or the other. Certainly when I added his name to the list of wedding guests I gave to her mother, she made no objection.”

“I’m trying to discover any reason why someone should dislike this man enough that when he came to Ely for your wedding, he was killed. Even at the cost of nearly stopping the ceremony altogether. I understand it was several hours before the police would agree to the marriage going forward.”

Fallowfield got up and walked to the window, his back to Rutledge. After a moment he said, “To tell you the truth, I thought at first I myself must be the intended target.”

“Why?”

Fallowfield cast a glance over his shoulder. “Egoism, I expect. I was the center of attention, so to speak, the bridegroom. It never occurred to me that one of my guests might be shot. It’s unheard of.”

“There must have been a better reason than that.”

Fallowfield turned and crossed the room to stop in front of Rutledge. “I was
there
. Not five paces from Hutchinson. With my best man.” His face was intense, his voice tight. “I was expecting to hear a second shot—intended for me. I even turned toward Harry to warn him to move away. And then I realized there
wasn’t
a second shot. It was—harrowing. I came through the war somehow. It flashed through my mind that it would be unthinkable to die on my wedding day.”

“I still don’t understand why you were so certain Hutchinson was not the target.”

He paced away again, too agitated to sit down. “I suppose I never quite believed my luck. I survived France. Barbara was waiting. She waited for
me
.” He turned back, his expression deprecating. “You see, Barbara could have had her pick of suitors. I’ve never quite understood why she accepted me.”

“Is she—I’m sorry, but I must ask—is she wealthier than you?”

“Oh, not at all. I’d say we were about even. But her family goes back to the Domesday Book, and mine made its money in the previous century. In South Africa, with Cecil Rhodes. Hardly an aristocratic background, is it?”

“And you saw nothing, there by the Cathedral?”

“I saw Hutchinson start to fall, just as I heard the shot. I was nervous, for God’s sake—I daresay anyone is, under the circumstances. Will everything go off well, will I muddle what I’m to say, will Barbara’s little goddaughter be sick halfway down the aisle? It’s a very long nave, you know. Especially for an anxious child. What if I drop the ring? What if it rolls under someone’s feet and I’m down on all fours, scrambling after it? I wasn’t thinking about murder. If anything I was feeling grateful that it hadn’t
rained
all day.”

“Your best man?”

“Harry saw Gordon fall. He thought he must have tripped, and then the report followed almost at once.” Fallowfield smiled wryly. “Harry went down flat on his face. He’s done that before, when a motorcar backfired. He’s more than a little ashamed of that. I can’t fault him. I’d have done the same, if I’d had my wits about me.”

Rutledge smiled. His first Guy Fawkes Day after the war had been a nightmare, with fireworks going off right and left. “What can you tell me about the artillery Major—Lowell, his name is—who was so helpful when the police arrived?”

“I hardly know him. He’s older, you see. His father and Barbara’s father went to Eton together. Nice enough chap, career officer. He spent most of his time talking to Barbara’s parents. His father isn’t well, he must be into his late seventies now. I expect he was asked in place of the elder Lowell for the sake of an old friendship.”

“What did he say to you after the shooting?”

Fallowfield frowned. “He hustled me into the building next to where I was standing, and I didn’t see him again until the reception. The usual congratulations then, rather subdued, of course. Harry told me I mustn’t go to Barbara. She’d just arrived, I could hear her crying. He told me I must stay where I was. Bad luck, you know, to see the bride before the wedding. It seemed so silly, in light of what had just happened, but I was terrified the police or the Bishop might not let the wedding go on. Even so, it was a near run thing. If the police had had their way, everyone would have been sent home. Barbara’s father persuaded them that it was unfair to the guests who would be leaving on Sunday.” His voice was wry as he went on. “They remembered to fetch me when Inspector Warren allowed the ceremony to continue. I did hear Barbara’s father say that he was grateful Lowell was there, he’d been a sane voice in the chaos. To tell the truth, I think that my father-in-law would have been glad to see Barbara marry the man, if Lowell had been closer to her age. For the sake of the friendship.”