A Long Shadow

23

Meredith Channing had also found it difficult to sleep.

When the scraping screech of metal had brought her to the door of the constable’s house, she had stood there transfixed.

Rutledge was lying in the lee of a destroyed wall, one arm thrown out to brace himself, the other one pinned under him.

And then doors were flung open on all sides as the lorry roared on up the lane, and a young woman had come rushing out of a house to scream at the fallen man.

It was like seeing something in a dream, she thought, only the sounds were real, the shouts and the cries and that unbearable scraping of metal against stone.

The doctor had come running then, though she hadn’t known who he was, taking charge and silencing the angry woman while Rutledge had struggled to one knee, then dragged himself to his feet.

She’d come to her senses at that stage, knowing what she must do.

And so she had called out to the doctor, and the woman in the house but one had stood there with her, saying something about dinner and what on earth had been in that driver’s mind, to do such damage and then flee.

When Rutledge reached the house, she had looked at the scrape on his cheekbone and the bleeding wound in his leg, his hands scratched and filthy from the soft earth in the garden.

Lockjaw, the woman called Mrs. Melford was saying, and she herself had hurried to the kitchen to heat water and find strong soap. After all, she’d been trained, she knew what to do in emergencies. More to the point, it kept her hands busy.

And all the while her heart had been thudding in her chest, like a drum.

It had been a near thing, she thought. Too near.

It wasn’t until later, when she was walking through the winter darkness with her arm touching his, that she realized she had stopped thinking about him as a policeman.

It didn’t do to know people, she thought. It was better to hold them at arm’s length, and then it was easier, much easier, to stand aside and let them die.

She had learned that in the war.

Rutledge woke with a start and groped for his watch, lying on the bedside table. It was late, already half past seven.

He groaned. How many hours had he slept? At most two or three. He felt as if his eyes had never closed.

He put his foot gingerly over the side of the bed and was relieved to feel less pain than he had during the night.

Hamish, his voice muted this morning, said, “Aye, but it’s no’ verra’ handsome.”

True, the swelling was still noticeable, the discoloration was worthy of an artist’s palette. But he could stand with his full weight on it, after he had laced his shoes. The rest of his bruises were complaining, but not as vociferously.

Stiffness plagued him, though, for a good ten minutes before he’d worked it out.

He shaved with haste and presented himself to Mrs.

Melford, only two minutes late for his breakfast. He had to smile at her examination of the way he walked.

“Aye, she has a cane in yon umbrella stand.”

And so she did. But she said nothing about it and disappeared into the kitchen as he sat down to eat.

When she brought in his tea, she finally said, “I’m still shocked by what I saw last night. It was some time before I could sleep.”

“Accidents do happen,” he told her. “The driver couldn’t have been familiar with the weight of a lorry.”

“Inspector, you needn’t try to put a better face on it. Everyone in Dudlington is talking about your narrow escape.” She looked down at him in the chair at the head of her table.

“That’s three—Hensley, the rector, and now you. What’s wrong here? What kind of monster are we harboring!”

Hamish clicked his tongue at the turn gossip had taken.

“I don’t think—” Rutledge began.

But she shook her head. “I’d wondered why Scotland Yard sent an inspector all the way to Dudlington just because a constable had been injured. I couldn’t see why Northampton shouldn’t look into it. But you know something, don’t you? That’s really why you’re here—there’s something else that you’re keeping from us. I might as well tell you what people are whispering.”

She wouldn’t listen when he tried to convince her there was no conspiracy to keep the truth from Dudlington. She simply walked away, saying she was tired of lies.

Trying to shrug off the depression settling over him, Rutledge finished his breakfast and was just stepping into the street when the postmistress came out of Hensley’s house.

“There’s a letter for you, Inspector. From the Yard. I thought it best to bring it to you straightaway.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled, one professional to another, and went hurrying back to her little cage in the corner of the shop.

“It’ull feed the gossip frenzy,” Hamish told him. “A letter from London.”

“Yes.”

In fact, the letter had come from Sergeant Gibson.

“I’m writing this at home,” it began. “I dare not leave it lying about at the Yard.”

Rutledge sat down at the desk in the little office and looked through the two pages of Gibson’s scrawl, hoping to find something of interest.

What the sergeant had written, distilled into its essence, was that the search for evidence against Hensley was hopeless. The sprawling black lines went on.

The fil e is straightforward. The fire, the blame settling on Mr. Barstow’s competitor, and the charges brought against the man. But they never went to trial, those charges. Howard Edgerton’s death was put down to infection. It’s what took him off, true enough. I tried to look up his widow, but it appears she went to live with her family in Devon. The competitor, a Mr. Worrels, lost his business when the whispers had done their work. The file is presently listed as

“Unsolved.” I did discover the name of the man said to have set the fire. Barstow didn’t do it himself, you understand. He hired a J. Sandridge, who was never caught. He’d been employed by Mr. Worrels and held a grudge over a promotion that never came his way—

Rutledge stopped reading.

Sandridge. Where had he heard that name?

Hamish said, “He doesna’ live here.”

But Rutledge had a good memory for names. It had served him well in the war.

He got up and went searching through the files in Hensley’s box.

Sandridge—someone had written a letter inquiring for him. It was from a Miss Gregory asking if there was another address for him.

Coincidence? Or was there a connection?

Dudlington was too small to hold so many coincidences.

Rutledge went back to Gibson’s letter, but there was nothing else of interest, except the last line.

I’d take it as a favor, if you burned this after reading it.

After committing the details to memory, he did as he’d been asked.

Although his foot was complaining stridently, Rutledge drove to Northampton to see Hensley. But the man was feverish, his face flushed, his body racked by chills.

Hamish growled something about infection.

As Rutledge drew up a chair, Hensley said, “I’m ill. It’s that damned sister, she’s been neglecting me.”

But the ward was filled with cases, and the nurses were trying to cope.

Matron had ordered Rutledge to stay out of their way.

The wall of a building had collapsed on Mercer Street, and five of the workmen had been brought in for surgery, along with two civilians unlucky enough to be walking beneath it. Rutledge had seen their families waiting in the corridor, wives white-faced and anxious, children with large, frightened eyes, clinging to their mothers and aunts.

He said, “Constable. Why did Bowles send you to Dudlington? There must have been a good reason for the choice.”

“There was a man retiring. Markham. I was given his place. What does it matter? I was just as glad to be away from London for a bit.”

“For a bit?”

Hensley moved restlessly, then grimaced. “They lanced my back this morning. I could have told them their inci-sions weren’t healing properly. They thought I was a complainer and ignored me.”

“Why were you happy to leave London and move to the North?”

“I was tired of hunting German spies. Half of it was someone’s warped imagination. The butcher is surly, he has an accent, he’s given some woman a bad bit of beef. Or the waiter doesn’t look English. The man bringing in the luggage at a hotel seems furtive, won’t meet the eyes of patrons when he’s spoken to. You’d think, listening, that half the population of Germany was sneaking about England, looking to stir up trouble.”

The speech sounded—rehearsed. As if Hensley had told the story so many times he half believed it himself.

“It had nothing to do with Edgerton, then.” It wasn’t a question.

Hensley turned to look at Rutledge. “Don’t put words in my mouth, damn you.”

“But you know very well who Edgerton was. And how he died. Did you also know someone named Sandridge?”

Hensley said, “Look, I’m not well, I shouldn’t be badgered like this.” His voice was sour. And he had long since stopped using “sir” when he addressed his superior.

Although Hamish was accusing him of badgering as well, Rutledge persevered. “Tell me about Sandridge.”

“A woman wrote to the police in Dudlington, in search of someone by that name. I thought she might be looking for a soldier in the war, someone who’d made promises he didn’t keep. Or he’d been killed, and she hadn’t been notified, not being a relative, so to speak. I told her to try another village by the name of Dudlington, in Rutland.”

“Your reply wasn’t in the file.”

“It ought to have been. I put it there myself.”

Rutledge wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

“And that’s merely a coincidence. The fact that the fire setter in the Barstow arson was also a Sandridge?”

“I never put that together with London. Why should I?

It’s not that rare a name, surely. Sir.”

“There were rumors that you’d taken money to look the other way, when the fire occurred. And rumors now that you were responsible for Emma Mason’s death. Where there’s smoke...”

“I didn’t do nothing of the sort. Here, I won’t stand for this, I’m a sick man. Sister! ”

A tall, thin woman with reddish hair came at his urgent call.

“What is it, Constable?” she asked, beginning to smooth the rumpled bed linens.

“I’m not well, Sister, I need to rest. I think my fever is worse.”

She touched his forehead, then turned to Rutledge. “I think you should leave, sir, if you would. We mustn’t distress him just now.”

Rutledge stood to go. But looking down at Hensley’s face, the eyes turned away, his skin taut and red, he said,

“When you come back to Dudlington, will you be safe?”

The eyes swung back to Rutledge, something in them that reminded him of a cornered animal.

Rutledge felt a surge of guilt.

“I won’t be coming back,” Hensley said tensely. “I’ve been thinking. I could take an early pension and go abroad. They do say Spain is all right. One of the night sisters lived there for a time, with an elderly couple. I think I might like it.”

“They speak Spanish there, you know. Not English.”

And then Rutledge was walking down the ward, toward the door.

When he looked back, Hensley was slumped in his bed, exhausted.

The drive back to Dudlington ended in a sudden downpour, wind whipping the rain through the motorcar. One sleeve was wet nearly to the shoulder by the time Rutledge turned down to Holly Street and put his car beside the house. And Hamish, still irritated with him for his callous-ness in the hospital ward, made certain that Rutledge was aware of it.

Still, he wondered if Hensley had told the truth regarding a copy of his response to the letter about Sandridge being in the file. Had he even written it? Or let sleeping dogs lie.

Rutledge got out stiffly, his ankle cold and more painful than he was ready to admit.

The house was chilly and dark, unwelcoming. And he always felt a sense of unease when he came in.

But there was no reason to think anyone had been there, although he went into each room to give it a cursory glance.

Changing out of his wet clothes, he laid a fire on the hearth in the sitting room and sat down, leaning his head against the back of his chair.

Hamish said, “I wouldna’ let down my guard sae far.”

Rutledge said, his eyes closed, “I’m not asleep.”

“The lassie. With the garden. She came to apologize.

You gave her short shrift.”

“So I did. I was nearly as angry with her as I was with the bastard in the lorry.”

“It was just as well yon woman from London wasna’ with you when the lorry came up the lane.”

“I don’t know that he’d have tried to run me down, with witnesses there.”

“On the ither hand, he could ha’ waited until she was no’ in the way, before taking the lorry.”

Rutledge rubbed his eyes with both hands, then mas-saged his temples. “I would like very much to know why she told me there was a shadow at my back, in Frith’s Wood. What she’d really seen there.” Yet he’d felt eyes watching him, every time he’d been in that wood. “Why would she lie? She has nothing to do with this business in Dudlington.”

“You havena’ asked her about Emma Mason.”

He heard someone at the door, and then Mrs. Melford called to him.

He got up to walk to the parlor, his stiffened ankle giving him some difficulty. He found Mrs. Melford standing there with a basket in one hand and a streaming umbrella in the other.

“You missed your luncheon,” she said. “I thought you might like the sandwiches for your tea.”

“Yes, thank you.”

He took the tray from her and said, “Come in, if you will. You’ve lived here for many years. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” she asked, still holding the umbrella.

“About Beatrice Ellison, and her daughter, Emma Mason.”

She reluctantly furled her umbrella and stood it by the door, which she then shut behind her.

“I don’t know anything other than gossip. You must know that. I haven’t been friendly with Mrs. Ellison since Beatrice left. I thought the least her mother could do was to let the girl study painting for a bit and see if she was enthusiastic about the discipline of learning it properly.

That must be quite different from painting for one’s own pleasure.”

“How did Beatrice get on in London?”

“Splendidly, as far as we knew. One had only to ask Mrs. Ellison, to hear a glowing report.”

“Who was her daughter’s teacher. Do you know?”

“If I heard the name, I don’t recall it. You don’t question Mrs. Ellison, you see. She’ll tell you what she feels is any of your business, and nothing more than that. But I gathered that she was happy for the world to know that Beatrice had prospered. Even if she’d been against the whole idea.”

“And then Beatrice came home with her child.”

“Yes, that was the first and only time she’d come back.

There were a few people who were terribly catty about it, saying that Beatrice had grown too famous to bother with Dudlington anymore. And of course there were others who were saying she hadn’t come back because she had nothing to show for her years in London but the little girl.”

“And then Emma left. What was the gossip then?”

“Of course it was that she’d gone to London to find her mother. We were sure Mrs. Ellison would rush after her and bring her back. That is, if it were true that Beatrice was a failure. And then the whispers began that Constable Hensley had had something to do with Emma’s disappearance.”

“What sort of whispers?”

“That since he knew London, he’d helped Emma escape her grandmother’s clutches. That somehow he was involved. I can’t tell you when the suspicion arose that he’d had more to do with her disappearance than was proper. That he’d asked a price for helping, and when Emma got frightened, he did away with her, to keep her from telling her grandmother. Mrs. Ellison is related to the Harkness family. Everyone is wary of that, even the constable. I don’t precisely know what she could do—but I imagine if she were to ask for an investigation, someone would listen.”

“Do you think Mrs. Ellison knows about such whispers?”

“And who do you think would be bold enough to tell her!”

It was a good point.

“Thank you, Mrs. Melford. You’ve been very helpful.”

He was beginning to take her measure, the briskness that concealed her fear of being hurt again, the kindness that had remembered his tea. And he rather liked her. He thought she deserved more happiness than had come her way.

She nodded and turned to go, then asked, “Who was the woman with you yesterday? A relation?”

The gossip mill... She hadn’t brought the sandwiches out of kindness after all. Or at least not completely.

“We have mutual friends,” he said lightly.

“She was so clever about how to prepare for the doctor,”

Mrs. Melford answered, and picked up her umbrella. “It surprised me.”

When she’d gone, Rutledge went back to the fire and ate his meal to the accompaniment of Hamish’s voice, still in a foul mood.

The rain faded in another hour, and Rutledge limped down to Grace Letteridge’s house, stopping for a moment to look at the scene of the collision between wall and lorry.

It had indeed been a near thing, he thought.

And Hamish, who had been silent for a time, said, “No’ death, perhaps, but verra’ severe injury. You’d lie like yon constable in a ward, with the sisters ignoring you.”

Rutledge went on up the walk.

Grace Letteridge answered his knock and couldn’t stop her eyes from dropping down to his ankle.

“You’re walking, I see.” She opened the door wider and reminded him to wipe his feet on the mat.

“I am. Someone has been seeing to your roses. The wall will take more work, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, well, I had hoped this rain would settle the canes into the ground again. I won’t know until the spring if they’ve survived.”

“I’ll pay for the damage,” he said. “It was your garden that saved me from more serious injuries.”

“Too bad for my garden,” she answered, and led him into the parlor. “Was that why you came, to offer to pay?

Or was there something else on your mind?”

He had intended to ask her outright if she recognized the name Sandridge, and then decided, as Hamish growled in the back of his mind, that he wasn’t sure where Grace Letteridge’s loyalties lay. Instead he had brought a rough map he’d made of the village and asked her to pencil in the names in the box representing each house.

“Why bring it to me? Mrs. Melford or anyone else could have done it for you.”

“That’s probably true. On the other hand, I’d rather not have the fact that I’m doing this bandied about the neighborhood.”

She took the sheet of paper and unfolded it, frowning over it. “You draw surprisingly well.”

“Is there some requirement for policemen to be poor at sketching a map?”

Ignoring him, she began to put in the names of each householder. He waited patiently, letting her work without interruption.

After ten minutes, she sat back, the tip of the pencil between her teeth as she regarded her handiwork. Nodding to herself, she passed the sheet back to Rutledge.

He scanned it, searching for one name. But it wasn’t there.

He did see that where Hensley’s house ought to be was the name of the greengrocer, Freebold.

“Doesn’t Hensley own the house he lives in?” he asked, pointing to it.

“Perhaps he does. Constable Markham paid to rent it. I don’t know what arrangement there is with Constable Hensley. I really don’t care to know.”

So Hensley could pull up his roots with ease, and make Spain or another country his home. He could also disap pear with ease, and no one would be worried about property left behind. Certainly the furnishings in the house, while adequate, were far from valued pieces.

An interesting point, Hamish agreed. “But look you, where is the money he took as a bribe? He canna’ put it into a bank, and he canna’ leave it lying about, where anyone stepping in the door can find it.”

Put his hands on that money, Rutledge thought, and he might have some leverage with Hensley to pry out the truth.

“Aye, but it’s no’ a part of your duty.”

Just how much did Bowles know? Or care?

Grace Letteridge was saying, “Inspector?”

He came back from his thoughts. “I’m sorry—”

“I can’t believe it was an accident. What happened last night. But why should someone want to kill Constable Hensley, and then when you come here, want to kill you as well?”

It was an echo of what he’d heard Mrs. Melford say.

He answered, “I don’t believe the attacks are related.”

“What else could they be? In a village this size?”

But he couldn’t tell her about the cartridge casings.