Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

There was a dry goods shop near the greengrocer’s. They were just closing, but I went in to look at men’s gloves, resenting the wasted time. But it was necessary, and I waited my turn with the clerk, counting the seconds as she finished wrapping a scarf for the woman ahead of me, assuring her that it was pure Welsh wool and would last a lifetime.

I bought the gloves and asked that a scarf be added to my purchase, then hurried back to the street to find Willy.

But he’d vanished, just as Sophie had done.

I hurried back toward the inn with my purchases and met Simon coming to find me.

“No one seems to know the name Halloran. He’s changed it. He must have done.”

I told him about my conversation with Willy. “He knows something. He must. He wanders through the village at will, and people are so accustomed to seeing him that they almost overlook him. Or else he’s our killer.”

“Keep looking. I’ll go with you. Mrs. Ellis is exhausted. I asked the rector to take her home with him.”

“He’s been so clever thus far, Simon. Why take Sophie? What earthly good will it do him?”

“Something frightened him. And there was no time to plan.”

The rector’s motorcar was passing us, on the way to the Rectory. I smiled at Mrs. Ellis and waved.

“Simon. Remember the night when Willy came into the inn yard to inspect your motorcar?”

“I do.”

“You’re Army. One has only to look at you. Is that why Willy was anxious to find out about you? Was he once Army too?”

“There’s Margaret’s husband. And that Major of yours.”

“Henry is artillery. So, come to think of it, was the Major. And he isn’t mine.”

Just ahead of me I could see Constable Bates coming out of the inn. I called to him and hurried to catch him up.

“We’re looking for Willy, Constable. Have you seen him?”

“I have not, Sister. Is it important? I’ll carry a message for you.”

“Just tell him that I need urgently to speak to him. Thank you, Constable.”

As he walked off, I said, “Did you search everywhere, Simon?”

“As well as I could. Ellis told me what to look for.”

We began again, knocking on every door, taking people from their dinners, rattling the doors of closed shops until someone came to let us in.

No one had seen Willy.

“Where does he sleep?” I asked.

But no one knew.

When anyone asked, I told them I’d bought gloves and a scarf for him.

“You’ll spoil him,” the baker’s wife told me flatly. “I don’t hold with beggars.”

Willy’s wet gloves were still dripping on the bush where he’d hung them. He hadn’t come for them when my back was turned.

When we asked the stationer where Willy slept, he replied, “In the old livery stable, that’s now a garage. There’s a shed out back he’s allowed to use. Keeps him out of doorways. Not good for business, having to step over a beggar on the stoop.”

The livery stable cum garage was close by the railway station, where the carriage was kept. I thanked him as Simon touched my arm and said, “We’ll drive. It saves time.”

His motorcar was still in the inn yard. In the glow of the headlamps as we drove to the station, I saw a hare zigzagging across in front of us before darting into the dry brush at the side of the road.

A little farther on, Constable Bates was coming toward us, and Simon pulled over. “Any word?” he asked.

“No, sir. I was just coming from the station. He sometimes sleeps in the ticket office.”

And we went on our way, the livery stable already clear in our headlamps. As we neared, I could hear the stamp of horses’ hooves, and once the sound of one blowing. Simon and I left the motorcar ticking over and went around back to where the shed stood at the end of the yard, ramshackle and bare of paint, the boards a silvery gray in Simon’s torchlight. The door hinges were rusty and squeaked loudly as he dragged the door open.

I shone the torch into the black interior, glad of the shelter of the door as the wind blew hard across the bare fields beyond.

The shed was barely large enough to hold the battered old mattress on the floor. A peg for clothing was on one side, and on the other, a spirit lamp for making tea. A tin stood on the shelf above, and a cracked jar that held a little honey.

And it was only marginally warmer than the outside. I shivered at the thought of living here through the winter.

“No wonder the man begs,” I said.

Shutting the door again, we turned back toward the motorcar. In the darkness I tripped over something underfoot, nearly sprawling on my face in the torn grass of the yard.

Simon put his torch on whatever it was, saying, “Careful. These old stables are a minefield. Horseshoes, wire-” He broke off as the light caught the side of a torn shoe, and then came back again to pin it squarely in its beam.

“Willy was wearing that shoe when I met him. Just over an hour ago.”

“No one said anything about the man sleeping in the railway station. Except Constable Bates.”

He flashed the light around, but there were no other signs that anyone had been here before us. Then he walked to the barn where the carriage horses were kept, shifting the door to walk inside. “Stay here,” he said to me, and I stopped in the doorway. He disappeared for a minute or more, then came back to where I was standing. “One of the horses is sweating. Someone rode him recently.”

“And there’s no train at this hour of the night.” I could just see his face in the faint light of the stars as we made our way back to the motorcar. “What’s more, I don’t remember the carriage in Hartfield. Not tonight.”

“No. But there must be a way to reach the heath without going through the village, if you are leading a horse. I think we’ve found our killer.”

“Constable Bates?” I felt a surge of relief that it wasn’t anyone from Vixen Hill. “Do you think he’s Sergeant Halloran? Yes, it would explain- Simon, I told him I was searching for Willy. I’m responsible.”

“You had no way of guessing.”

As we drove back to Hartfield, I said, “It was Constable Bates who found the tracks where George Hughes and Davis Merrit met and then walked on together. Inspector Rother praised him for that bit of excellent police work. But he must have been following Merrit and saw them together. He was already suspicious of Merrit, surely. Who did he kill first, do you think? George or Davis Merrit?”

“Merrit. Before he could ride back to Hartfield. And then Hughes.”

“Yes, of course. He could have hidden Merrit’s body until George was dead, then arranged his supposed suicide. Simon, he was right under our noses. At the heart of the inquiry. Able to cover his tracks. But why take Sophie? I can understand about Willy. I’d wanted to question him, and that was too dangerous. Men like Willy can remember, sometimes.”

We had reached Hartfield, and I scanned every face, searching for Constable Bates. Instead I saw Roger Ellis, just pulling into the inn yard as we came up. In the glare from his headlamps, his face looked haggard.

“Anything?” he asked, hailing us as we slowed.

I said quickly, “We’ve been searching for Willy. He’s missing- I think we’ve just found his shoe.” I was about to add that we feared that Constable Bates was involved, but for some reason I stopped myself. This was hardly the place…

“Good God-why Willy?”

“It’s possible he saw who took Sophie.”

Just then Lydia and Gran drove up. Gran’s face told me that they’d had no more luck than Roger had. Her usually stiff back was hunched with fatigue.

“Any news?” Lydia asked quickly. But I shook my head.