A Long Shadow

28

It was the middle of the night when Rutledge woke with a start. There was someone in the bedroom. Standing somewhere between the door and the window.

Half-asleep, his first thought was that it must be Hamish, coming out of the shadows of his mind, the voice at last assuming shape and depth and reality.

He lay where he was, fighting to hold his body quiet, keeping his breathing even.

A silhouette paused briefly against the pale light from the window, and then was gone. Rutledge had the distinct feeling that it had moved nearer to the bed.

He counted the seconds, waiting. If it was Hamish—

He didn’t finish the thought.

He could hear the faint sound of breathing, but he couldn’t see who was there, a shadow in among darker shadows. His heart began to pound.

Please, God, not Hamish—!

And then he was awake enough to realize his danger.

“I know you’re there,” he said softly into the blackness of the room. “Is that what you want? Or have you come to leave another shell casing by my pillow?”

There was silence.

“What do you want? What is it that makes you want to kill me?”

It was a challenge, thrown down deliberately.

But it brought him no response.

The lamp was on the table by his bed. It would take too long to light it. And he cursed himself for not bringing his torch upstairs with him. It was a blunder he wouldn’t repeat.

“Did I send you to prison? Or does it have to do with the war?”

He’d lost track of where the breathing was coming from. And then the silhouette was passing the window again, on its way back to the door.

Rutledge had a split second to make his decision. Then he was out of the bed in one smooth motion, muscles tight as a spring as he launched himself at the figure.

But it eluded him, and he crashed into the tall dresser instead. Swearing as he hit his shoulder hard against the corner, he wheeled toward the door and felt cloth rip though his fingers, his hands coming up empty.

He went down the stairs as fast as was safe, plunging out the open door and into the empty street.

Whoever it was had gone, or had slipped into the shadow of a doorway, invisible in the night.

He went back inside, his bare feet cold from the cobblestones and the threshold.

“Was it you?” he asked Hamish. “Tell me if it was you!”

Hamish said, “He’s still in the house. You were tricked.”

Firmly shutting the door, Rutledge found his torch where he’d left it on Hensley’s desk and began a search of the ground floor.

But as he walked into the kitchen he knew it was too late.

Behind him the outer door opened and closed so quietly he wasn’t sure at first that he’d heard it. The intruder had doubled back and gone.

His presence had been a message. “I could easily have killed you as you slept.”

So much for Meredith Channing’s prediction that it was over.

Rutledge stood in the parlor that served as Hensley’s police station and realized that without a key, he was at the mercy of someone intent on terrorizing him. It would be only a matter of time before the sport palled, and the decision was made to take this game to its logical conclusion.

And he had a feeling that he wouldn’t see the blow coming.

Rutledge went to call on Grace Letteridge that morning, finding her brooding over her roses.

“I don’t think this one will live,” she told him as he came up the front walk. “The roots aren’t stable.” She rocked the offending canes back and forth. “I won’t know for certain until spring, but the signs aren’t good.”

“Yes, well, that one left a thorn in my back, I’d swear to that.”

She stood up and dusted her hands. “You’re a liar.”

“Probably. Come inside and let me ask you a few questions.”

“Why should I do that? I’m not guilty of anything. And what’s more, I don’t know anyone who is.”

“Still—”

She reluctantly preceded him into the parlor and sat down, prepared to block him at every turn. He could feel her resistance across the room.

“Tell me about Robbie Baylor—no, don’t fly off at me.

This is more important than your pride.”

Grace Letteridge glared at him. “That is my pride!”

“I know. It’s why you went to London, to be rid of him and of Emma and of Dudlington.”

“She was beautiful. He told me he couldn’t help himself, that he hadn’t meant to do more than take her in his arms, and the next thing he knew, he was pinning her down on the grass, kissing her. She clawed his face. And then he slapped hers.”

“And so you left.”

“He’d already decided to join the army. But every time I looked at Emma, she reminded me that he’d found her beautiful, and his pledge to me hadn’t stopped him from— from whatever it was he intended to do. Emma wouldn’t tell me her side of what had happened. I expect she was ashamed, that it had shocked and frightened her and made her feel as if she’d betrayed me. But for a very long time, I believed she must have encouraged him in some way. I preferred to blame her than blame him, even though I knew that was wrong. Constable Markham had taken pleasure in dropping hints, you see. And of course I’d seen the scratches on Rob’s face. After nearly a week of wondering, I cornered him and forced him to tell me the truth.”

“What brought you back to Dudlington?”

“When Rob was killed, they found a letter among his things. It was addressed to me, to be sent in the event of his death. He told me again what had happened, that he’d regretted it ever since, and that he didn’t want to die with that on his conscience. That he had truly loved me—that he wanted forgiveness.”

She bit back tears and looked away from him.

“What did you say to Emma when you came home?”

“I showed her his letter. I thought she had a right to know.”

“All of it?”

“All that mattered. But our friendship was never the same. I hadn’t trusted her, I deserted her when she needed me most, and I couldn’t make amends.”

“If you had your chance to live through that summer of 1914 again, would you have done the same thing—walk away?”

She turned back to face him. “Oh yes. I believed he loved me. But he couldn’t have loved me as deeply as I thought he did, if he was attracted by Emma. And she was only fourteen then.” She paused. “To try to kiss her was bad enough. To slap a child because she spurned him was a side of his nature I hadn’t seen before. What hurt most of all was that I’d misjudged him so completely. I thought he was the best of that family, but he was just like his brothers, selfish to the core.”

“The fact that Emma was Mrs. Ellison’s granddaughter didn’t stop Rob Baylor?”

Grace Letteridge laughed, but it was harsh and full of pain. “At the time, I don’t believe he was thinking very clearly about anything, least of all the Harkness bloodline.”

“Did Mrs. Ellison know that Emma had attracted such unwanted attention?”

“They quarreled about it sometimes. Mrs. Ellison was of the opinion that Emma encouraged men. That if she were truly a lady—and a Harkness—even the most hardened seducer would step aside, abashed.” Her mouth twisted wryly.

“That made Emma cry. She told me she wanted to go to London and find her mother. And I told her that she didn’t even know where to begin to look. After all, her letters had come back, she couldn’t be sure where her mother might have gone next. Bath—Winchester—Oxford—Paris—”

“Do you think she heeded that? Or in desperation went anyway?”

“I thought she was dead. And that Constable Hensley had killed her. I always wondered, you see, what Robbie might have done if he’d gone too far. As it was, he’d slapped her and called her a tease. But she hadn’t told her grandmother that part of it, she was too ashamed. Constable Hensley could have felt that he ought to be more successful than a farmer’s son. And realized too late there was no turning back. Mrs. Ellison’s name carries a good deal of weight in this part of the county. And she’d have gone after him tooth and nail, even if she thought Emma was to blame. He wasn’t popular here, and everyone would have sided with Mary Ellison. Still, the skeleton you found in the wood wasn’t Emma’s, was it? So I was wrong, after all.”

Hamish said, “You canna’ be sae sure she’s telling the truth.”

“No, it wasn’t Emma’s body,” he agreed, ignoring the voice. And after a moment, he added, “I find myself wondering if it was her grandfather’s.”

He held out the gold toothpick and watched her face.

Surprise gave way to a rapid shift in emotions. Recogni-tion. Understanding. Fear.

“It was the last Christmas present Beatrice ever gave him. Where did you find it? Surely not in the wood with the skeleton? Dear God! ”

Rutledge said, “How did you know about the toothpick?”

“Beatrice told me about it. She chose it herself, a child of five, in Northampton. Her mother had taken her there to visit a cousin, and she saw it in a shop. I doubt if she knew at the time what it was, she just thought it was pretty, and the cousin let her buy it for her father. Mrs. Ellison wasn’t pleased with the choice. But the cousin told her not to be silly, the child could do as she liked. And so it was engraved and wrapped in silver tissue and a green ribbon.”

“And you’re certain she gave this to her father?”

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about it. She recalled it vividly and talked about it when she missed him, because she wished she’d found something more—I don’t know— more respectable? A watch fob or shirt studs, even a chain for his keys. I expect Mrs. Ellison took mean-spirited pleasure in telling her that a toothpick, even a gold one, was hardly worthy of a Harkness. For whatever reason, Beatrice couldn’t forget it.” She reached out to touch the slender length of gold with the tip of a finger. “There couldn’t be two such, could there?”

“What became of Ellison?”

“He died in London, struck by a runaway horse. It was sudden and dramatic—I remember my father saying that Mrs. Ellison screamed when she got the news. It was so out of character, everyone talked about it.”

“Where is he buried?”

“You just told me he was the man in the wood.”

“Yes, he probably is. But if he ‘died’ in London, there must have been an inquest, a funeral? His wife would have had to be present.”

“Mrs. Ellison went to London to take care of the arrangements. She left Beatrice here with the rector’s wife, because what could a child that young understand? He was buried there. She said she couldn’t bear to bring him back to Dudlington, that she herself wished to be buried in London with him when the time came. My father remembered that too. He told me long afterward that he was shocked.

But then it’s what Mary Ellison wanted.”

“And Beatrice never doubted that her father was buried in London.”

“She even knew the name of the cemetery—Highgate.

There was a great stone lion near the grave, and its name was Nero. Beatrice longed to go there and see it for herself. Surely, if she went to London—but that may explain why she was estranged from her mother. The grave wasn’t there!”

“Would you be willing to swear under oath to what you’ve just told me?”

She clearly hadn’t considered that. She glanced toward the window, as if she could see Mary Ellison from where she sat. “Must I? I can’t—do you really believe that Mary—”

“If she told everyone that her husband was buried in London, then why is there a skeleton in the wood, with the toothpick that Beatrice had given her father? Do you believe Mrs. Ellison gave away the toothpick out of a callous disregard for her daughter’s feelings?”

“I don’t know. But why would Mary make up such a complicated story—the runaway horse, the cemetery lion.

And how was he actually killed?”

“There’s no way to be certain.”

“Well, I’m glad that Beatrice isn’t here. It would have broken her heart.”

“I think Beatrice is dead as well. And Emma.”

She stared at him, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.

“No, please, I don’t want to hear this.”

“I can’t prove it just yet,” he said, “but I’ve got to try.”

“But how—I can’t see Mary Ellison, for God’s sake, taking up a gun or a knife, or a flat iron to her own flesh and blood. She’s not—it sickens me to even think such a thing.”

Rutledge hesitated, and then told her: “It’s often said that a woman’s weapon is poison.”