A Lonely Death (4 page)

Rutledge glanced at Rosemary Hume. “I’ll see my friends home first,” he said. The inquest was that afternoon. Rosemary had asked for it to wait until after the funeral. He knew she expected him to be present.

She said, tentatively, “Ian?”

“I’ll put in a call to the Yard. This may not be as urgent as it appears.”

She shook her head. “It’s better if you go.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “But I thought—” and broke off.

“I have my family now, and my friends. I don’t need Max any longer. I don’t need Max’s friends.”

He was on the point of arguing when he caught Reginald’s eye. There was a warning there.

After a moment Rutledge said, “Yes, I understand. But you know how to find me if you should change your mind.”

“I won’t,” she said with finality. And when he had delivered his passengers at the Hume house, Rosemary offered him her hand as he stood ready to help her out of the motorcar. “Thank you for coming, Ian. It was very kind of you. Maxwell loved you in his way. I think because you understood better than the rest of us. Thank you for that, as well.”

And she turned to offer her support to Reginald, her back to Rutledge.

Reginald’s face was expressionless. But as he shook Rutledge’s hand, he said, “I’m glad you were here. Keep in touch, will you? I have a feeling about things sometimes. I’d like to hear from you.”

Rosemary had gone ahead to open the house door and was out of earshot as Reginald spoke the last words. And then she was back, taking his arm as she steadied him on the short walk to the house.

Rutledge saw them inside, and then turned to drive to the police station.

But the constable—his name was Becker—had no more information than the brief message he had passed on to Rutledge.

“The hotel sent someone to find me,” he explained. “It was a Sergeant Gibson on the line. I asked him if there was any further information to pass on to you, but he said that someone in Eastfield would explain all you needed to know. I was to tell you privately that the Chief Superintendent had not been at the Yard when the message from Eastfield had come through. And it was too urgent to await his return.”

Rutledge said, “My things are at the hotel. I’ll be packed and ready to leave in ten minutes.”

“I’ve taken the liberty, sir, to ask Samantha if she will put up sandwiches for you. It’s a long way. There will be a bottle of cider as well.”

Rutledge thanked him. And in fewer than the ten minutes he was on his way, the sandwiches in a small basket beside him. It was necessary to drive past the Hume house on his way out of town. The windows were open to the summer heat, and through them he could see silhouettes of people moving back and forth inside.

He felt a surge of something, he couldn’t have said what, and then returned his attention to the road.

And all the long way, Hamish kept him company, his voice just audible above the rushing of the wind. But it was not a pleasant companionship. As often happened in times when Rutledge’s mind was occupied, the voice found the chinks in Rutledge’s armor and probed them with a sure knowledge of what Rutledge least wished to hear.

It dwelt for a time on Max’s life and then the manner of his death, moving on to the woman who swore she hated her husband, but who had wept, bereft, on Rutledge’s shoulder before she could get herself in hand.

At one point as he drove eastward, Rutledge had stopped along a road in Hampshire to offer a lift to a woman trudging back to her village with her marketing in a basket. He had needed to hear a human voice, someone who knew nothing of him or his past. She was grateful for his kindness, and he set her down in front of her cottage without telling her how she had briefly lightened the darkness in his mind.

It was as if Hume’s death by his own hand had foreshadowed his own.

5

R
utledge spent the night on the road, driving into Eastfield in the early hours of the next morning. A watery sun had risen, and he could see that there had been a heavy rain in the overnight hours. Puddles stood about in spots, and a pair of farmyard geese were noisily bathing in what appeared to be an old horse trough, filled now with rainwater.

He found the police station halfway down the high street, tucked into a small building between an ironmonger’s and a milliner’s shop. He left his motorcar on the street, and went inside.

The constable sitting at the desk across from the door looked up, his attention sharp and questioning, as if dreading to hear what this new arrival had to say.

The look of a man, Hamish was noting, who expected more trouble than he was prepared to deal with.

Rutledge gave his name and added, “Scotland Yard.” The constable’s expression changed to intense relief.

“Constable Walker, sir. I wasn’t expecting you, sir, not for another hour or more,” he responded, coming around the desk to meet him. “The Yard told us you were in Gloucestershire and hoped to leave shortly. You made good time.” A wry grin spread across the man’s plain face. “I’m more than happy to turn this inquiry over to you. In all my experience I’ve seen nothing like it. Nor has Inspector Norman, in Hastings, I’ll be bound. A shocking business. We never expected one murder, sir, much less three. Sergeant Gibson told us he was sending one of the Yard’s most experienced men. Whatever I can do to help, you can count on me, sir.”

Rutledge was surprised to hear Gibson singing his praises. He found himself wondering why. They had always had a guarded relationship, drawn together more because of their mutual dislike of Chief Superintendent Bowles than because of any friendship between them.

“Thank you, Constable,” Rutledge began, hoping to cut short Walker’s effusive welcome, but the man was already moving past him to the door.

“If you’ll just follow me, sir? I promised to take you to Mr. Pierce as soon as you arrived. He’ll tell you what you need to know. His son was the third victim.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to speak to Mr. Pierce until you’ve given me a picture of what’s happened, why I’m here.” Rutledge followed him as far as his motorcar and stopped there, facing Walker.

The man turned to him, uncertain. “They didn’t tell you anything at the Yard? But I explained to the sergeant I spoke with—”

“That may well be. But as you say, I was in Gloucestershire, and I was ordered to come here directly.”

Walker stared at him. “I thought—” He recovered quickly and said, “It was Mr. Pierce who asked the Chief Constable if he would bring in the Yard. The Hastings police wanted to take over the inquiry, you see, and Mr. Pierce felt they wouldn’t address his son’s death as he would have wanted it done. It was cold-blooded murder, sir. It has turned Eastfield on its ear. Three men in nine days. All three of them garroted, and no sign of the murder weapon. William Jeffers, then Jimmy Roper three nights later, and three nights after that, Anthony Pierce. A farmer, a dairyman, the son of a brewer. One walking home, minding his own business and left dead in the road. One sitting with a sick cow in his own barn. And one at the brewery looking to repair a faulty gauge.” He went on earnestly, “Who is killing these men? How does he know where to find them alone? And why these three? Worst of all, who is next? Me? My neighbor’s son? The man who hires out for harvesting crops?”

Rutledge had listened closely, a frown on his face.

“Three dead. And no apparent connection among them? Except that they were alone at the time of their murder? And killed with the same type of weapon?”

“Well, there’s the war, sir,” Walker admitted. “And they’re of an age, having fought in France together. Please, if you will, sir, speak to Mr. Pierce.”

Rutledge agreed, although with reluctance. It was not usual to have a civilian passing on the details of an inquiry. But he could see, from Walker’s anxious face, that Pierce was a man to be reckoned with in Eastfield, and until he knew just exactly what he was dealing with, it might be as well to see what Pierce had to say.

Leaving the motorcar where it was, they walked to Drum Street and the tall, mellowed brick facade of the brewery buildings. A large gold arrow had been affixed to the front of the main building under the name
PIERCE BROTHERS
, and Rutledge realized that this was the beer famous in three counties for its Rose of Picardy label.

They found the senior Pierce in his office, an old-fashioned but elegantly styled room in oak, with paintings of the founders on the walls and a large marble hearth that held pride of place to one side of the partners’ desk by the windows.

A tall man stood up as Rutledge and Walker were admitted by an elderly clerk.

Scanning Rutledge’s face, he came forward and said to Walker, “Good morning, Constable.”

“This is Inspector Rutledge, Mr. Pierce. From Scotland Yard, as you requested.”

Pierce held out his hand, and Rutledge shook it, saying, “I’m told you would prefer to tell me what’s been happening here in Eastfield.” He had kept his voice neutral, neither accepting Pierce’s authority to do any such thing, nor disputing it.

Pierce led them to the chairs set out before the empty hearth. “I apologize for that, Mr. Rutledge. Constable Walker here has handled events so far with his usual skill, and I am grateful for that. It’s just that I have a very personal stake in finding this madman. Two days ago my own son was his third victim. That doesn’t make Anthony any more important than the other two victims, but William Jeffers’s wife and Jimmy Roper’s father aren’t able to speak for themselves at this time. Their loss was as devastating as mine, but they are alone in their grief, and I have a staff at my disposal to see me through the next few weeks.”

“I understand,” Rutledge answered, without committing himself. Pierce was a man used to giving orders, and it was possible that Mrs. Jeffers and Jimmy Roper’s father were grateful that he was taking charge.

Clearing his throat, as if to dispose of all emotion before he began, Pierce said, “The first Constable Walker, here, knew of Jeffers’s death was sometime after midnight when a goods van, driven by one Sammy Black, came through Eastfield on his way to Hastings. He’d had a problem with his van and was several hours late as it was. Soon after passing the church, he saw something in the middle of the road. To use his own words, he said that it looked like a bundle of old rags lost off a dustman’s cart. But he slowed, because there wasn’t sufficient room to pass on either side, and he was wary about driving straight over the rags. He’d served as a driver in the war and was accustomed to watching out for unexploded ordnance in his path. By that time his headlamps had reached the bundle and he could see it more clearly. He realized it was someone lying in the road, and he stopped to see if it was a drunkard or if the man had been struck by another vehicle.

“He got out of his van, and walked over to what lay in the road, getting in the way of his own headlamps and having to step aside. Now he had no doubt the man was dead. His eyes were open, and there was a great deal of blood around his neck. At first Black believed that the man had cut his own throat. Unwilling to leave him there, Black finally decided to protect his body by leaving the van in the road, and he walked back into Eastfield to find the police station.”

He turned to Constable Walker. “Have I got that right, Constable?”

“Yes, sir. It’s exactly what he’d written in the statement he signed.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to take up the account at this point.”

“I sometimes sleep on a cot in the room above the station, Mr. Rutledge, my wife being dead for some years. I heard Mr. Black banging on the door, as I had only just gone to bed. I opened the window and called out to him, asking what the problem might be. He told me he’d just discovered a dead man in the road and would I come at once? I asked if he was certain the man was dead. He told me he’d seen enough dead men in the war, and he was certain. All the same, I took the time to summon Dr. Gooding, and he brought his trap with him, in the event we needed it. We reached the body, and Mr. Black drew his van to one side. Both Dr. Gooding and I had brought a lamp with us, and we could see fairly clearly. Mr. Black was right, the man was dead, and as the light reached his face, both of us recognized him at the same time. Dr. Gooding leaned closer, and then straightened up, looking up at me. ‘He’s been garroted,’ he said, shock in his voice, and I bent over to see for myself. It was the only explanation—the wire had cut deep and yet it was clear from Jeffers’s face that he had been strangled. Mr. Black at this point had gone back to his van, and I believe he was sick by some bushes along the verge. Knowing that this was a heavily traveled route from about four o’clock in the morning until first light, we cast about to see if we could find anything of importance. Dr. Gooding in particular wanted to find the ligature that had been used. But there was nothing to find. Just the body in the middle of the road. The doctor did say that Mr. Jeffers had been dead for some time, an hour or more at a guess.”

His account had been vivid, where Pierce’s had been factual, without personal feelings coloring it. But Rutledge could see that Walker, whose quiet village must seldom produce violence of any kind, had been appalled by the brutality of Jeffers’s death.

“Dr. Gooding had brought a blanket, and we wrapped the body in it and I helped to set it in the cart. I drove back with Mr. Black, and the doctor took the body to his surgery. Mr. Black gave me his statement, and I found that Mrs. Sanders, across from the hotel, had spent a restless night and had seen the goods van come down the street just when Mr. Black had said it came, and it was very likely that his statement of finding the body when he did was true. I went back to the scene later and still found nothing that would tell me who or why murder had been committed.”

Walker paused. Rutledge thought that if the constable had been in his own office he would have got to his feet and begun to pace. There was more on his mind than the death, and Rutledge waited patiently to hear the rest of the story.

“Dr. Gooding came to see me at half past ten,” Walker went on reluctantly. “He asked me to come with him to the surgery. I found that he’d removed the victim’s clothing, and it was obvious that he had been garroted, although neither Dr. Gooding nor I had ever seen a case before. But that was not what he wanted me to see. He had probed the mouth of the victim and found that inside it, almost dried to his tongue, was an identity disc.”

Rutledge turned to stare at him. “From the war?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes, sir. From the war. I recognized it. But it wasn’t Mr. Jeffers’s disc, if he ever had one. There was another name on it. One I didn’t know—” He reached into his pocket and brought out an oiled cloth, setting it on the low table in front of the hearth before unwrapping it.

Inside were three flat fiberboard discs. In the war, both the Army and soldiers themselves had come up with ways to identify the dead and wounded, but none of them had been successful enough to see widespread use. Some men had simply sewn their names in their uniforms, a time-honored method. A variety of discs had been introduced as well, some on string, some on thin rope. These particular discs had an interesting history.

Stamped from thin layers of compressed wood fibers, they came in pairs and were worn around the neck on a thin length of rope. If a man was killed, one of the discs was placed in his mouth for the burial detail to use in marking his grave. The other of the pair was collected and sent back with his kit, eventually ending up with his family.

But the war had been over for nearly two years. Why would such a disc be placed in the mouth of a murder victim?

Hamish, who had been quiet for a time, said quite clearly, “Revenge.”

Rutledge suppressed a start, for it seemed that the soft Scots voice had echoed around the room, obvious to everyone. But when neither of the other men responded to it, he said after a moment, “There are three discs here.”

“One was also found in the mouth of Jimmy Roper, who was sitting with a cow suffering from colic when he was killed. There was no one else in the barn, no sign of forced entry, and no one in the house—Roper’s father or the maid who kept house and cooked for the two men—had heard anything,” Pierce answered. “As for my son, he was discovered on the ground floor of the brewery, just by the stairs. Dr. Gooding examined his mouth there and then, and found the third one.” Rutledge could hear the undercurrent of rage in the quiet voice.

Rutledge looked closely at the names on the discs. One belonged to a corporal in a Yorkshire regiment, the second to a Welsh sapper, and the third to a private from Cheshire. Turning to Pierce, he asked, “Was your son an officer?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Officers weren’t issued identity discs,” he pointed out. “I wonder if these men survived the war?” He shook his head. “Three different regiments. What could these three soldiers have had in common with three men living quietly here in Sussex?”

“That’s precisely why I asked the Yard to step in. We need to learn what we can about these soldiers if we’re to answer the question. I’m sure you must know someone in the War Office who can find out for us. Where they served, and if their paths ever crossed.”

Rutledge did know such a man but had no intention of applying to him for answers. But Sergeant Gibson would have his own way of looking into the matter.