Dr. Townsend was finally persuaded to see the advantages to himself of protecting the tutor, and then Rutledge went in to visit MacFarland. He was still pale and shaken, but he was quick to grasp what Rutledge had proposed. “I can’t think of any of my pupils who held a grudge. I don’t know what this is about.”
Rutledge made certain the door was closed and no one was listening outside it. Coming back to MacFarland’s bedside, he said in a low voice, “I think this has to do with the man who came unannounced into the house the evening you interviewed for the position of tutor.”
“But that’s decades into the past. I can’t imagine what it has to do with me.”
“You were there. You knew what had transpired. You could therefore point a finger at the man responsible.”
“Yes, but he is in an institution. Surely they knew why. There must have been some sort of treatment or the like. I’m not the only source of information. Am I?”
“They did know at the time why Diaz was there. But it wasn’t fully laid out in his records—perhaps to protect the French family. You are the last link with the truth. You could tell the police why Diaz came to St. Hilary and what he did that night that sent him to the asylum. You are not a member of the family, your evidence would be objective and accepted. And so you became a target.”
“Dear God. I’d not thought about it in years. It wasn’t until you came and asked questions that it popped back into my mind.”
“Do you remember anything at all about the attack on you?”
“Nothing. I seem to recall hearing a rustling in the high grass just beyond the arbor. I thought it was an animal foraging. We have quite a number of squirrels and other creatures that come quite close to the house. I sometimes watch them from my dining room window. And so I paid no heed,” he ended, regret in his voice.
Rutledge left soon after.
He found Agnes French at home, and reported to her that MacFarland had had a stroke as a result of his injuries. “I’m told you got a favorable report this morning. A sad turn of events.”
“Well, in a way it’s Mr. MacFarland’s fault,” she replied. “I’ve mentioned to him several times that he should clear out some of the undergrowth beneath the trees and open up the section of his property closest to our park. He harbors stoats and hares and heaven knows what else there, and we have trouble on our side of the wall because he refuses to do as I ask.”
Rutledge smiled. He had learned to expect Miss French to feel that other people’s problems were of their own making.
She thanked him for his news, sad though it was, and he left, glancing up at the painting above the Queen Anne table. He thought perhaps it had been painted in Madeira, which explained its pride of place there by the door. And he was struck again by the strong emotions caught by the artist.
He had put off the reason for being here in Essex as long as he could. Turning the bonnet of the motorcar toward the church and the cottage where Valerie Whitman lived, he prepared himself for what had to be done.
Walking up the path to the door, he remembered how she had reacted to visitors coming out of curiosity rather than compassion. He would pay her the courtesy of taking her away without making it obvious that she was his prisoner, destined for a London prison.
Hamish said, “She willna’ care for that either.”
And Rutledge thought Hamish was right.
Knocking at the door, he waited patiently for Miss Whitman to answer his summons. When she didn’t, he knocked again, a little louder this time. She still refused to come to the door. He was reaching for the latch when it opened just the barest crack.
“Go away. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
“Will you walk with me? I’ve left my motorcar on the far side of the churchyard, as usual. I’d like to talk to you where your neighbors can’t hear us.”
“Unless you’ve come to tell me that my grandfather has been released from prison and his name cleared, I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say.”
“Then let me in, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
“No!” Her voice was sharp. “Please, will you go away and leave me in peace?”
“I can’t, Miss Whitman. I’ll stay here on your doorstep until you agree to come with me.”
Her voice changed in an instant, low and hurt. “Have you come to arrest me?”
“Yes.”
“But why? I’ve done nothing. I can’t leave St. Hilary just now. If I do—if I do, I shan’t be able to face any of my neighbors ever again. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“I’m sorry. I’m a policeman, Miss Whitman. I do what I have to do for the sake of the law.” Surprised at the depth of his apology, he added, “I don’t want to do this. But I’ve been given orders, and I must obey them.”
She made to close the door, but his boot was in the crack, preventing it.
“Give me time to pack a few things,” she pleaded.
“Once this door is shut, I can’t rely on its opening again.”
Suddenly angry with him, her eyes a blazing green in her pale face, she reached behind her for a shawl, then flung the door wide enough to step out in front of him before pulling it shut with a snap behind her.
“I’ll go as I am,” she told him, and set off down the path toward the churchyard.
“Miss Whitman—”
Catching her up, he walked beside her in silence until they had crossed the road and entered the churchyard. He wanted to take her arm and make her face him, to tell her that he was trying to free her grandfather and keep her out of prison. But he couldn’t do either of those things.
They were beside the church when she finally spoke. “I daresay they won’t let me have my own things in a prison, anyway. I’ve read about the way the Suffragettes were treated. It was inhuman. I don’t expect conditions have improved in ten years.”
“A little” was all he could say. The warders would be cold, distrustful, and inured to pleas of innocence, and the other inmates would be of a class she had surely never known.
The curate was coming toward them as they rounded the apse, a broad smile on his face. “Well met. I’ve just finished the painting. How does it look?”
And only as he finished his greeting did he realize that there was something wrong.
Rutledge said easily, “I’ve come to bring Miss Whitman to London. I’m afraid I can’t stop. But from here, it appears to be quite good workmanship.”
The curate turned to Miss Whitman. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Nothing has been right since my grandfather was accused of murder.”
“For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine that he— I mean to say, I don’t know him well, but it seems impossible . . .” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.
“Thank you. That was kind,” she rallied enough to say.
He walked with them the rest of the way to the motorcar and, with an expression of concern on his face, watched as Rutledge helped Valerie Whitman into her seat. As if mindful of his duty, he sprang forward to turn the crank. “Is there anything I could do? Please tell me.”
But she looked away, not answering him.
And then Rutledge was driving down the lane toward the main road, his face grimly set. Beside him, for the first time, Valerie Whitman’s calm cracked, and she began to cry, turning away to look out the window, so that he couldn’t see the depth of her despair.
R
utledge found the turning for Flatford Mill and stopped up the hill from the river as he had before.
Valerie Whitman, alarm in her eyes, asked, “Why are we here? I thought you were taking me to London.”
“I am. We can afford a few minutes of grace. I shouldn’t worry if I were you. Let’s walk, shall we?”
He had to persuade her to go with him. They had reached the farm when he heard another vehicle stopping where he’d left his own. He thought it might be a motorcycle.
Someone had been following him at a discreet distance ever since he’d left Dedham behind, and he was worried. He had felt the presence, seen flashes of sunlight on metal, and yet no one caught up with him whether he slowed or sped up. He hadn’t expected Diaz to act so quickly. Not when there was a witness in the motorcar with him.
He urged her across the bridge and to the far side of the river, where there was a little more protection. The way they had just come was in the open. The reflection of the brick mill and the miller’s cottage was so perfect that it might have been a photograph. Not a ripple stirred it, and despite the age of the building and the need for repair, it was still a scene Constable would have recognized. But Miss Whitman ignored it.
They had just reached the trees when she stopped and refused to go on.
“What is it? I won’t go another step until you tell me.”
“The trees just there,” he said harshly, taking her arm and forcing her ahead of him. She turned on him, ready to struggle against his grip, when he saw something—someone—move to the top of the slope across the stream. But he had reached the shadows now, no longer a target for anything short of a rifle.
“Someone has been following us. I don’t know who it is. But I have made enemies during this inquiry. And I don’t want to drag you into my trouble.”
She stared at him, then turned to look back toward the slope they had come down. It had twisted and turned, shaped by oxen and drays and wains, but she could see no one.
“Are you certain?” Turning back to him, she studied his face. “I don’t see anyone. Is he waiting by the motorcar, do you think?”
“It’s possible.” He was still holding her arm, and he released it, stepping back.
“How did you make enemies?” she asked. “On my grandfather’s account? Or on mine?”
“I was looking into Howard French’s past. There was the possibility of an illegitimate child, and that was worth pursuing. But it led nowhere. And so I began to look at the other relationships in the family. That led me to something quite unexpected. One night a stranger came to the house and threatened French and his son. It was quickly covered up, the man taken away. I explored that link through MacFarland, and learned that the man not only was still alive but had been released from the asylum where he’d been locked up. I had little to work with, a hunch, the nature of the man himself, the feelings he must have harbored against the French family.”
“I’d never heard anything about this. Not from the family, not from my grandfather, no one,” she said. “Why haven’t the police arrested him, questioned him?”
His eyes still on the road, Rutledge gave her the briefest explanation, adding, “The problem is, whatever I want to believe, I can’t prove any of it. And the Yard requires proof. Evidence. Something to be going on with. In the eyes of the police, this man has not done anything wrong, and what’s more, there’s no real proof now he ever threatened anyone. Twenty years has seen to that.”
“Would what you believe clear my grandfather . . . and me?”
“Very likely. Yes, I think it would.”
Sunlight, filtering through the leaves, brought out the honey gold in her hair, and he found himself thinking that she should be painted this way.
Clearing his mind of anything but Hamish’s voice, he said, “Stay here. I’m going back to the motorcar. If no one is there, if the motor hasn’t been tampered with, I’ll come back for you.”
“No, I don’t want to stay here alone.”
“He couldn’t have reached the outbuildings over there without being seen. He’d have had to cross that patch of open, sunlit ground.”
“I know. But if you can circle around him, whoever he is, then he can circle around you. I’m safer if I go than if I stay.”
“If I give you an order at any point, you’ll obey it instantly, do you understand?”
“I do. I promise.”
“Then stay behind me.”
“He must know I’m here.”
“I’m sure he does. But any shot at me could hit you instead.”
“He’s armed?” That shook her, but she said stoutly, “I’ll stay clear.”
He walked briskly back around the millpond and over the bridge toward the clearing, his shoulder blades twitching as he waited for the shot that miraculously didn’t come. And then they began to climb the sloping, rutted track that led to the high ground where he had left the motorcar.
And still there was no challenge, no shot being fired.
Nor was there anyone there when they came in sight of his motorcar. It stood alone on the knoll. And although he looked the motorcar over carefully—tires, under the bonnet, and even under the frame—it appeared to be untouched.
Valerie Whitman, watching him search, asked, “Was it because of me? Was that the reason whoever followed you went away? After all, I should think that killing me would make the police wonder if my grandfather was guilty or not.”
Rutledge dusted off his knees, straightened his coat, and went to turn the crank. “I think he was here to verify certain information. That MacFarland was no longer able to testify to the past and that you were being taken to London.”
All the same, he was watchful on their way back to the main road, and most of the way to London.
Valerie Whitman was quiet the last twenty miles, her face pale and set.
“I’m frightened,” she said finally as the traffic grew heavier and the streets of London led inexorably closer to her incarceration.
“I’m sorry,” he said inadequately, and wished Markham at the very devil.
He stayed with her through Magistrate’s Court, where she was remanded to Holloway, and the last things he saw were her wide eyes as she was led away, half hidden by the prison matron who had taken her in charge.
I
t was a long night, spent with Hamish’s voice in his head and a glass of whisky, untouched, in his hand.
Who had followed them to Flatford Mill? It was far too soon to expect Diaz to have orchestrated an attempt on his life. And so someone had simply had a watching brief. Had Rutledge himself led the man to MacFarland? Quite unintentionally? Or had that ex-soldier passing through already made certain where the tutor lived?
There was a telephone at the inn in Dedham. If someone had been waiting for further instructions, it would have been easy to reach him. Rutledge wished he’d set the Dedham police to find out, but it would have required too much time, too many explanations, and no certainty of success in finding the contact. At least Miss Whitman was safely in Holloway, and the goat could confidently expect to hear again from the tiger.
Hamish said finally as Rutledge managed to fall into a restless sleep, “Ye claimed ye were his match . . .”
He reported to the Yard the next morning, told Markham that his orders had been carried out, and watched the man nod enthusiastically.
“Well done. Write up your report and see that it’s on my desk by the end of the day. Any trouble?”
“Someone followed us out of Dedham. I didn’t recognize the motorcar. It stayed with us even when I pulled off at Flatford Mill. And then it was gone.”
“Does Miss Whitman have any friends who might take exception to your bringing her in, hoping for a chance to intervene?”
Rutledge thought of the curate, but the man had only a bicycle.
“None that I’m aware of.”
“And you weren’t followed to London.”
“No. I made certain of that. It prolonged the trip, but I believed it to be a wise precaution.”
“Then I should think it was coincidence. Or mere curiosity.”
But Rutledge had spent four years in the trenches. He had smelled danger there at the mill. He had known that the shadowy figure had come most of the way down the steep slope of the track, before changing his mind and turning away.
Coincidence be damned.
He finished his report and set it aside to be picked up and carried to Markham’s office.
Restless, he looked out the window at the gathering clouds and the rise in the wind, lightly touching the leaves on the trees, then beginning to shake them in earnest.
Hamish was worrying the fringes of his mind, trying to bring back a memory that was elusive, almost imagined rather than true.
Rutledge tried to ignore it, but it was persistent, and he found himself going over every step of his arrival in Dedham, from the doctor’s surgery to Agnes French’s house, thence to the cottage where he’d taken Valerie Whitman away. And still whatever it was eluded him.
There was a knock at the door, startling him, and Gibson came in. “It’s dark enough out there to light a lamp,” he said, and Rutledge realized that he had been unaware of the gloom. As he reached over to turn on the lamp, Gibson went on. “A call from Maidstone. The Allington Lock on the River Medway. A body washed up against the fish pass. There’s a knife still in it. Markham wants you to go there. He thinks it could well be the man we’ve been searching for upriver at Aylesford.”
“I thought that was MacDowell’s case.”
“So it is, but he’s in Gloucester, and you’re in London.”
Any excuse to get Rutledge away from the Yard until his attitude toward the closed case had changed . . .
He said, “What else did Maidstone tell you? Am I to swim down and bring him up?”
“Just that their man is already on the scene. He’s asked for ropes and men to haul in the body, and Inspector Chambliss thought the Yard would wish to be present when they did. You can identify the man. You saw him before MacDowell did.”
“For my sins,” Rutledge answered. He picked up his hat and his umbrella and followed Gibson out of the office and down the passage.
“Do you need a map?” Gibson asked.
Rutledge knew the Lower Medway, where the river widened enough for boats to come down to this final lock and sail out into the Thames Estuary.
“Thanks, no. I can find it.”
The storm suited his mood as he stepped out the door of the Yard and walked toward his motorcar. The wind lashed him with rain, but he couldn’t open the umbrella, holding on to his hat as he ducked his head against the sting of the raindrops.
He thought as he got into the motorcar, relieved at being inside, that he was just in the mood for something, anything, taking him out of the claustrophobic Yard.
Moving slowly through the downpour, his eyes scanning the road in front of him, he made his way across the Thames and turned to pick up the road to Rochester, Canterbury, and Dover. The storm followed him, lightning flashing and nearly blinding him a time or two. He considered pulling over, then decided to keep up a slow but steady pace, watching darkness overtake him before he got to his destination.
After a while he saw the turning he was after, left his motorcar at the top of the low ridge, and walked down the long slope to the path along the River Medway. Behind him he heard a tree groan and then begin to fall. He whirled, expecting to see it crush the motorcar, but it landed with a
whoosh,
jarring the ground, not twenty feet behind the boot, blocking the track out to the main road. He swore. What if Maidstone had already retrieved the body and gone home, thinking he might not come in the teeth of this storm?
The Medway was popular with boaters along this stretch, and the lock was a fair size, allowing access upstream for pleasure craft and even the occasional rowboat. A few barges moored along this side offered a different way of life for those who preferred to live on the water, leaving the less accessible far bank open for boats coming into or out of the lock. Ahead of him across the river was the lockkeeper’s house, all but invisible in the pounding rain. There were lamps on inside, a beacon against the storm.
Hamish said, “It’s na’ use, the river’s in spate. Best to wait out the storm.”
But Rutledge was wet to the skin already, and watching the trees overhead bend and sway, he thought his chances were better going toward the river than sitting in the motorcar just as uncomfortable, waiting for the next tree to come down. “I can at least judge if the body is still there, and if it isn’t, I’ll go directly to Maidstone. It will save time.”
He kept to the path that led to the small dam. The roar of water from the sluices was deafening. The fish pass was on this side, and must be a whirlpool by now. Anyone caught in that had no chance, and the body would be battered before it could be brought out. He hoped like hell that it had been retrieved, or the identification would be all that more difficult. And he wanted a look at the knife.
There was no sign of the constable on duty. Either he’d gone, as Rutledge expected, or he’d taken shelter with the lockkeeper while he waited to report to whomever London was sending. But Rutledge glanced into the small gray stone building he was passing, on the off chance that the local man was in there. Somewhere among the trees upstream, another tall one came down, and Rutledge could feel it rather than hear it hit the ground. He was grateful the worst of the lightning had passed.
Moving on toward the dam, he fought the wind gripping him, and he kept well away from the water already lapping at the stones that set off river from land.
There was a steel bridge over the dam, and he went up the steps with a hand on the rail, trying to look down into the debris that had collected by the fish pass. If he saw nothing he would cross to the lockkeeper’s cottage. The man would know what had been happening on his turf.
Even Hamish’s voice was shut out by the roar of the sluices, and Rutledge cast a glance up at the bridge above them, searching for the constable.
Then leaning over as far as he dared, he pointed his torch down into the maelstrom that was the fish pass, where limbs and branches, leaves and whatever other flotsam the storm had picked up tried to get through the grating and into open water beyond. But there was no outlet for anything of any size, and the debris simply launched assault after assault against the immovable iron.