Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

We stopped briefly for tea and sandwiches in a small shop in Sevenoaks, then drove on to Ashdown Forest. This time as we approached, I recognized the first signs of it now.

“I don’t think I shall be invited to stay with the Ellis family this time,” I said ruefully.

“No. I expect not.”

“I can’t think of why I should be summoned from France for the inquest. After all, the police have my statement. Have you heard anything about the case since we left?”

“Only what you already know, that the inquest was adjourned.”

We drove through Hartfield, the street deserted, the houses already dark. I glanced toward Bluebell Cottage and saw that it looked closed and somehow forlorn. I was suddenly reminded of the cat I’d seen on a blue cushion asleep in the window.

“Simon. What’s become of Davis Merrit’s cat? Surely it wasn’t abandoned, when he didn’t come back!”

“You must ask the police.”

We left Hartfield behind and soon came to the turning where the left-hand track went to Wych Cross and the right to Wych Gate.

In the far distance, across the barren landscape, I could just see the lights of Vixen Hill as we passed the place where the lane ran into the darkness under the trees where Simon had left his horse one night.

I’d been to St. Mary’s Church, but not into the village of Wych Gate itself. It lay on the far side of the trees that stood to the west of the church, over an ancient bridge that crossed the little stream where George Hughes had died. There was a cluster of houses that clung to the road in defiance of the heath that all but surrounded them. Half the size of Hartfield, it was neither bustling nor busy, and most of the inhabitants worked elsewhere in the Forest or just outside it. But once it had been a very wealthy village based on the wool trade, when sheep had replaced the deer and other game that had drawn kings and their courts to hunt. The church was a mark of its past, and of a time when a village could afford to build it.

Inspector Rother lived on the corner of one of the two side streets in Wych Gate. We found him there after going to the police station, once a gaol for poachers and other village miscreants, that stood foursquare between the bakery and a solicitor’s chambers. He had left a note on the door directing me to his house.

He must have been watching for me. He came out of his door almost as soon as we pulled up, and said, peering into the vehicle, “Sister Crawford?”

“Yes, Inspector?”

Reaching for the handle to the rear door, he said, “I’d rather speak to you in the police station, so as not to wake my family.”

He wasn’t the sort of man I’d associated with having a family, a home life. He had seemed to be wedded to his work. I’d never quite pictured him at the breakfast table, his children around him, as I could Inspector Herbert, whom I’d known in London.

Simon turned the motorcar and drove back to the station. We hurried through the rain in Inspector Rother’s wake and waited for him to light a lamp.

In his office the furnishings were plain, with a narrow desk, a chair, and two others in front of it. Over Inspector Rother’s head as he took his seat was a photograph of the King in his naval uniform, staring at the opposite wall.

I made the introductions.

“I expected the station carriage,” he said sourly, “from Hartfield.”

“My family sent Mr. Brandon to see me safely here,” I answered. “It’s rather late, after all.”

“Yes, yes, I recall seeing Mr. Brandon in Hartfield before Christmas. You must be tired, Miss Crawford. I’ve taken a room for you at The King’s Head.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated. It seemed very odd to have made the long trip here only to be told that he’d taken a room for me. Was there more? I added, “Have you found Lieutenant Merrit? The last news I had was that the inquest had been adjourned while the police continued to look for him.”

He considered me, then glanced at Simon, standing behind my chair, leaning his shoulders against the corner of a tall bookcase. “There were questions that only the Lieutenant could answer. For example, why was a watch removed from the body of the deceased when other valuable items were not taken? What became of the murder weapon?”

“You haven’t found it?” I asked, feeling a frisson of guilt when I remembered the marble kitten slightly out of its accustomed place.

Although I had listened, I hadn’t heard the slightest sound from behind the cell door I’d glimpsed at the end of the passage some ten feet beyond Inspector Rother’s office. If Lieutenant Merrit had been taken into custody, he must not be held here.

“So far we’ve been unable to account for it.”

When he didn’t immediately go on, I asked, “When I was at The King’s Head using the telephone-this was before Lieutenant Hughes was murdered-I noticed a cat asleep in the window of Bluebell Cottage. Has anything been done about it?”

“We brought Mrs. Roger Ellis to Hartfield and asked her to look through Bluebell Cottage. She was there very early on the morning of the murder, and we wished to know if the cottage appeared to be the same as when she saw it then. She found the cat and insisted on taking charge of it. We had no objection to that.”

Lydia hadn’t told me that in her letter. “This was before the inquest?”

“Yes, in fact, later in the afternoon of the day you left for London.”

“And was the cottage the same?” Simon asked.

“It was, as far as she could tell. There was no sign of a hasty departure. Lieutenant Merrit had changed into his riding clothes and gone out. He had a habit of riding out early in the morning. We believe that he had either intentionally gone in search of George Hughes or encountered him by accident. Constable Bates found signs of someone standing by a horse for several minutes. And then the two went on together. Where they went from there was lost when a flock of sheep moved through the same ground. A clever piece of police work, that. It placed Lieutenant Merrit not far from Wych Gate Church.”

Suddenly I knew why I had been sent for. “I was told in France,” I began, “that I was required to testify at an inquest. But you haven’t caught Lieutenant Merrit, have you? And you haven’t taken anyone else into custody. Does this mean that Davis Merrit is dead?”

I felt Simon stir behind my chair.

Inspector Rother held my gaze for a long moment, then said, “Either you are quite perceptive or you have heard something in spite of our efforts to keep the discovery from the public.” He went on slowly. “Five days ago, we found the remains of Davis Merrit’s body. On the heath, in a dell that the locals call The Pitch. It appears that he died by his own hand, after returning to Hartfield long enough to pass the watch to the man we call Willy. He had taken great care to make us believe that he had then left the Forest.”

I was shocked, in spite of my premonition. “But if he’s dead, why is it necessary for me to come back from France to give evidence? Surely my statement would be sufficient, if the case is already closed?”

“I don’t care for loose ends, Miss Crawford. Why did Merrit feel it necessary to come back to Hartfield long enough to give that watch to Willy, when no one suspected him at that time and probably would not have done. If he intended to tell us that he was the killer, then why do away with himself here in the Forest? It would be more useful if he went to Devon, or Northumberland, where he could conceivably remain unidentified.”

“I don’t know. Described that way, it seems rather odd.”

“Yes. And so we find ourselves back to the beginning of the case. It’s late, and you must be tired. I hadn’t intended to speak of this tonight.”