London, Late Summer 1920
I
t wasn’t an inquiry that Rutledge relished. A man had been killed in Chelsea, not far from the house where Meredith Channing had lived.
It was closed now. Had been since he’d escorted her to Bruges, in Belgium, where the man she believed to be her husband—he’d gone missing in the war—had been discovered, ill and unable to care for or even name himself. Rutledge had not been convinced that she was certain the man was Channing. She’d been searching a very long time, and her need to believe it was and make her peace with her husband had been stronger than her usual sound judgment. He’d had no choice but to walk away and leave her there, cutting short whatever closeness might have bloomed between them in different circumstances. The attraction had been there. He himself had tried to pretend it hadn’t.
She was in Belgium still, although he was the only person who knew her whereabouts. Most of her friends assumed she was visiting in Scotland—or Yorkshire—or possibly Devon. It was not his charge to enlighten them.
He had been sent to the scene by the Acting Chief Superintendent with the comment “Bloody motorcars. The sixth death in London this month, by my reckoning. And not likely to be the last.”
“I should think a traffic death would be handled by the Metropolitan Police,” Rutledge had answered.
“As a rule,” the Acting Chief Superintendent had agreed. “But Constable Meadows felt the circumstances were a little odd. For one thing, the vehicle didn’t stop. For another, there are no witnesses. Not even a milk van, mind you.”
Someone should have seen or heard something, in spite of the fact that the accident had occurred in the predawn hours. The motorcar braking suddenly, the force of the bonnet or the wing striking the victim, even if there had been no time for him to cry out.
Sergeant Gibson, just coming up the stairs as Rutledge was leaving, greeted him with a nod and then said, “The doctor’s been and gone.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Injuries consistent with being struck by a motorcar, but he put the time of death closer to midnight than dawn.”
Rutledge thanked the sergeant and went on his way. He had noticed, but had said nothing about it, that Gibson was himself again. And he was happy to see it.
Chief Superintendent Bowles’s sudden illness had caused drastic upheaval at the Yard, compounded by frantic jockeying to fill his shoes and the temporary assignment of several Acting Chief Superintendents until Bowles’s condition had been clarified. When the new man had been brought in from Yorkshire and appointed to take his place for the foreseeable future, there had been a settling out.
As shocked as anyone about what had happened, Gibson had withdrawn into a strictly by-the-book mode that had made him prickly and unhelpful, as if by holding himself to Bowles’s standards now, he believed he could assure that no one would guess his true feeling about the man or the number of times he’d gone behind the Chief Superintendent’s back. But like good resolutions at any time, this one had been short-lived. Everyone was weighing the new man, but no one had uttered an opinion. Rutledge had already formed his own.
Constable Meadows was still standing guard over the body, waiting for the undertaker to arrive. Behind him, Rutledge could see two more constables, brought in for the purpose, canvassing either side of the quiet street. If the neighbors were curious, they were keeping indoors and watching events from their windows. But then Huntingdon was not the sort of street where residents or servants stood and gawked.
Meadows was a thin, quiet man of perhaps thirty-five, and he said as Rutledge approached, “Scotland Yard?”
“Inspector Rutledge.”
“Yes, sir. I was asked to wait until someone arrived.”
“I understand you felt the circumstances surrounding this accident were odd?” Rutledge stooped to lift the blanket that had been placed over the victim’s body. The man appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, slim and well dressed, brown hair matted with blood from the wound where the back of his skull must have struck the uneven edge of the street, one arm at an angle that would be unnatural in life, and trousers torn at the ankle.
Meadows reached down and turned the body a little so that Rutledge could see where the man’s coat was torn near the collar and covered with dust and bits of stone and grass. There was a long scrape down one side of his face. “It appeared that he was dragged some distance. The doctor’s estimate was close to ten feet, until the coat or even that edge of his trousers tore away. But if you look in the road there’s no sign of anything dragged.”
Rutledge let the blanket fall back into place and rose. Looking back down the road, the direction in which the body would have been carried by the motorcar, he had to agree with the constable. No sign at all, although the man was not slight, and even a sack of coal would have left some impression in the soft summer dust.
Meadows was saying, “For another thing, sir, the doctor told me he’d been dead longer than I’d thought. I walk this street at least once every hour on my rounds, and he wasn’t here before half after four. I’d swear to that. For another, there’s nothing in his pockets to show who he is. And you’d expect to find a wallet, if he was coming home at this hour.”
“Was he robbed, do you think?”
“Sir, no. No sign of that that I could see. Pockets weren’t turned out. And there’s a watch in his vest pocket. Rather a nice one. French, at a guess. No one would miss it, even in the dark. There’s a nice chain on it as well.” He held out his hand, and in the palm lay the watch and chain.
They were expensive. Rutledge could see that for himself, both case and chain well made and of smooth, heavy gold. They matched what he had seen of the man’s clothing.
Flicking open the case, he looked for an inscription, but there was none. “The jeweler or watchmaker who sold this might have a record of it,” he said. “Before the war, I should think. And you’re right, the face appears to be French.”
“I’ll see that’s passed on, sir.”
“Better still, I’ll ask a jeweler I know what he makes of it. And then the Yard can begin a search for the owner.”
Just then the undertaker arrived, and Meadows stepped forward to speak to the driver.
At the sound of a door closing, Rutledge looked up the street. A constable was coming down the steps of a house near the corner, and he turned in Rutledge’s direction.
Rutledge went to meet the man, leaving Meadows to deal with the removal of the body.
“Constable,” he said. “Found a witness, I hope?”
“Sir, not precisely. But the footman in the house with the iron railings above the door was waiting up for the owner to return from a dinner party, and I spoke to the gentleman as well. When he came home at a quarter past twelve, he saw nothing in the street. He’s willing to give a statement to that effect.”
“Was he driving? Could he have knocked the man down?”
“I’m to look at his motorcar, sir. The footman has gone to bring it around. But I’d say Mr. Belford was unlikely to have been the one we’re looking for.” The constable cleared his throat. “He’s a rather formidable gentleman, sir.”
“Perhaps I should have a word with him. After we’ve looked at his motorcar. He was driving himself? There was no one else with him?”
“No, sir, he was alone.”
“Could he have been too drunk to realize what he’d done?”
“According to the footman, Mr. Belford isn’t one for the drink.”
“Indeed. Ah, here comes the motorcar. Let’s have a look.”
The footman was an older man, to Rutledge’s surprise. As a rule it was a position for younger ones. He drew up in the street next to the two policemen and said, “Here you are, Constable Doyle. Have a look.” He nodded to Rutledge. “Sir.”
But they could see straightaway that the meticulously maintained motor had not been involved in any street accident. It could have rolled out of the showroom door only yesterday, it was in such excellent condition. As he was examining it, Rutledge saw the footman take out a handkerchief and briskly rub an edge of the near-side headlamp where Constable Doyle had briefly rested his hand as he bent to look more closely at the frame. The frown on the man’s face as he polished away the offending print indicated that the motorcar was in his charge and his joy.
Rutledge turned to Constable Doyle. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Belford. Will you tell Constable Meadows that I’ll be back shortly? He’s not to leave until I return.”
Doyle, still minutely examining the motorcar, said, “Yes, sir, I’ll pass the word.”
Rutledge walked on to the Belford house and knocked at the door. A housemaid answered and showed him into a small parlor. It was rather formal: dark blue and cream, the drapes dark, lined with the lighter color, the carpet the reverse, cream with a dark blue pattern, the chairs covered in a shade that complemented the drapes. Still, it had the appearance of being well used, as if the owner preferred it in the evening to the drawing room.
Within less than a minute after the housemaid had left Rutledge there, Belford came into the room.
He was a man of medium height, with iron gray hair and a trim mustache. There was an air about him that would have suited an earl, and he said without waiting for Rutledge to speak, “I’ve told Constable Doyle all I can about last night and sent out Miller with my motorcar. What is it now?”
There was neither irritation not curiosity in his voice, only impatience.
“I’m Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard,” he answered easily. “I understand that you saw nothing unusual when you returned to your house last night a little after midnight.”
“That’s true.”
“The dead man was lying on the far side of the road. Could you have missed him? You were driving yourself, I understand.”
“I was. And I would most certainly have noticed a corpse on my street.”
“And your footman returned the motorcar to the mews where you keep it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you be certain that he didn’t strike the man?”
“Miller? He would have told me.”
But would he have? Still, there was no damage to the vehicle.
“Before the body is taken away, I’d like to have you look at the victim and tell me if you recognize him. He could well be a neighbor, although Constable Meadows didn’t know him.”
“Very well.” Belford turned on his heel, led the way out the door and through the foyer to the street, not waiting to see if Rutledge was following. The body had just been put into the rear of the van when Belford reached it, and he said, “Show me the man.”
The driver hesitated, looked over his shoulder at Rutledge, who nodded once, and then uncovered the face of the corpse.
Belford peered at it intently, as if to memorize the dead man’s features, then turned to Rutledge. “I have never seen him before. I can be quite sure about that.”
“Can you?” Rutledge asked as the hearse’s driver waited for permission to cover the body again.
“Absolutely. He does not live on this street, he did not serve under me in the war, he does not move in circles that I frequent, and I can think of no other occasion when he should have come to my attention.”
“Thank you, Mr. Belford.” Rutledge gestured to the driver, who nodded, dealt with the corpse, and shut the doors of the hearse.
Belford stepped to one side, waited until the hearse was driving away, and then said, “I should like to know what he was doing here, on this street.”
“There is no identification on the body,” Rutledge said. “We have no idea who the man is, where he lives, or what brought him here.”
“Then I can be of no further service to you.” With a brisk nod, Belford walked away. But he’d taken no more than a half-dozen steps when he turned and said, “Constable Doyle said the man was dragged some ten feet. I should think that would indicate an intent on the driver’s part to see his victim dead.”
“We haven’t determined whether he was or not,” Rutledge replied. “Constable Meadows could find no evidence of dragging after he discovered the body. But judging from the scrapes on the man’s face and the state of his clothing, it struck him as very likely.”
“Then you must take your inquiry elsewhere,” Belford said with some satisfaction. “Because the likelihood is that the dead man was not killed on this street at all, but brought here and left for someone to find.”
Rutledge studied Belford for a moment. “That’s an interesting supposition. What evidence is there to support it?”
“See for yourself, Inspector. He appeared to have been dragged after he was struck by the motorcar, but you can find no marks on the street, no tracks where his heels dug in or his body disturbed the dust. Nor does there appear to be any blood where he was found. Therefore he must have been dead for some time before he was left here. He’s not a resident of this street, and he couldn’t have been leaving a dinner party at that hour because he isn’t dressed for dining out. Those are more country clothes, in my opinion. Your men are going house to house, and if you came to call on me, then asked me to identify the victim if I could, you have had no success thus far. My motorcar bears out the fact that I have not run anyone down. Nor, clearly, has my footman. The question you must now ask yourself is, who wanted this man dead, and who brought him here after killing him elsewhere? I have no enemies who could have done that to embarrass me, and I think you’ll find that this will also hold true for my neighbors, when you have interviewed the remaining residents here and those in the streets on either side of this one. Now I have other matters to attend to, and I will leave you to your own work.”
Rutledge took out the watch. “This was in his vest pocket.” He held it by the chain, and it twisted for a moment before stopping, the early morning sun reflecting from the gold case. “Is there anything about it that strikes you?”
Belford reached out to touch the watch with the tip of his finger, turning the face his way. “You’ve looked inside for an inscription?”
“Yes.”
“It’s French, of course. And expensive. A gentleman’s watch, I should think, possibly inherited, because of its age. That’s all I can tell you.”