Charles Todd - A long shadow

"Aye, but if yon laddy, Tommy Crowell, was right, the shooter is dead," Hamish told him, his voice a taunt.

Once again his luncheon was waiting for him on the sideboard in the dining room, covered by a serviette embroidered with Mrs. Melford's initials. Sandwiches, with ham and a very good cheese. There were pickles in a dish, and sliced apples, looking very much like those he'd seen that morning at the greengrocer's.

Rutledge sat down in the silence of the house, wondering if Mrs. Melford was at home and avoiding him, or if she had gone out.

He was halfway through his second sandwich when there was a knock at the house door. Rutledge hesitated, unwilling to answer it if Barbara Melford was not at home. Then it opened, and a male voice called, "Barbara, are you in there?"

The man came into the hall and then as far as the dining room, on his way to the kitchen. And almost fell over his own feet when he saw Rutledge.

It was Ted Baylor, his boots cleaned and his trousers changed, his hair freshly brushed.

"Good afternoon," Rutledge said, concealing a smile. Baylor was completely disconcerted, uncertain at first what to say, like a suitor stumbling over his rival. "I didn't know you were invited to lunch here," he finally blurted out. Hamish said, "Yon's a verra' possessive man!" Choosing his words carefully, Rutledge answered, "Mrs. Melford was kind enough to offer to prepare my meals. I'm staying in Hensley's house, and his kitchen leaves much to be desired." "Is she here, then?" Baylor looked around the room, as if half expecting her to be hiding behind the furniture. "I haven't seen her. If you'd care to wait-" For an instant he stood there, debating his choices. "The hell with it, then," Baylor said finally, and turned on his heel. The front door slammed. Hamish commented dryly, "He willna' screw his courage up to come again." Rutledge answered, "You may be right. I don't think I'll tell her she missed Baylor." He finished his sandwich and the apples, then took the empty plates and his cup into the kitchen. It was his turn to stop on the threshold in surprise. Mrs. Melford was sitting at her own kitchen table, her face in her hands, crying. "I'm sorry," he began, uncertain now what to do with the dishes. She looked up at him. "Why couldn't you stay in the dining room, where you belonged?" Her voice was bitter and accusing, as if he'd come into the kitchen on purpose, with malicious intent to embarrass her. "I thought you'd gone out." He set the dishes by the sink and turned to go. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked, concerned for her. "No! Yes! You can go away and leave me alone." "When you've assured me that you're all right." She took a deep breath and found a tea towel to wipe away her tears. "It's nothing. Or at least nothing you can repair. Worst luck."

"You ken, she heard the man's voice. But you were there, in the way, and he wouldna' go on to the kitchen."

Rutledge disagreed. There was more to her distress than a missed rendezvous. She could have come through from the kitchen and taken Baylor into the parlor, out of earshot.

He felt helpless, uncertain whether it was best to leave her to cry or to try to comfort her. Because there was anger mixed with her tears, he decided he ought to go.

After a brief hesitation, he walked to the door and reached out to push it open.

She said, at his back, "Sometimes I don't understand how a man can tell you he loves you more than life itself- and then can walk away, leaving you to believe he's a liar."

Without turning, he stood there facing the door and said, "Had he made promises?"

"He wrote to me during the war. He said if he lived, he wanted to marry me. I'd lost my husband only a year after our wedding, in 1912. Ted and I had known each other since we were children, and I cared for him. I told him I'd be here waiting when he came home. And he was one of the fortunate ones, he survived. The day he came back to Dudlington, I was twenty again, as excited as a girl. You can't imagine how I felt. He went past the house, without a glance, I saw him. And he shut himself up in that farm of his and never said a word to me. Then or later. I could hardly knock at his door and ask him why. I had my pride."

"Why did he come here today? After all this time?"

"God knows. I don't. Oh, we've met before-this village is too small to avoid running into each other at St. Luke's or in the shops. We nod without speaking. I have my pride," she repeated, through clenched teeth. "I won't let him see that it matters. And it's too late to make amends. What I might have felt for him is gone" Her voice broke again on the last word.

Rutledge stood there, waiting. But she'd said all she needed to say. He pushed open the door and left her in the kitchen.

When he came to the house for his evening meal, he expected to find the door locked. But it was open, and his food was ready for him on the sideboard. Mrs. Melford didn't put in an appearance then or at breakfast. The post brought Rutledge a package the next morning. The handwriting was unfamiliar but graceful. Inspector Ian Rutledge. Dudlington, Northants. There was no return address.

He opened the small box and inside, folded in a sheet of paper, was the cartridge case he'd inadvertently left at Mrs. Channing's.

The sheet of paper was a note.

I asked Miss Rutledge for your present direction, and she has found it for me. You hadforgotten to take this with you when you left, and I dislike having it in my house. I don't know why, it's merely a metal casing. But the more I look at it the more uncomfortable I feel. There's something evil about it, in a way. I'd have liked to bury it in the dustbin and be rid of it. However, it isn't mine to dispose of, and so I return it.

He could hear her low, pleasant voice in the words as he read them, and for a moment he could see her sitting at the little walnut desk in her drawing room, writing the letter. It was such a vital image that he was surprised. He laid the letter aside and looked again at the case. Once more he asked himself if the shot on the road to Hertford had been meant to kill him. Or only to frighten him?

Hamish said, "If it was to kill, why leave the three casings in the hedgerow?"

Because, Rutledge thought, he came prepared. For either eventuality. Which said that he hadn't really cared how it had turned out. He had just folded the letter and put the shell case in his pocket when there was a timid knock at the door, and a young woman stood on the threshold, poised to back away. He put her age down as sixteen.

"Come in," Rutledge said, giving her his name and moving around the desk to the far side, to leave the room to her.

She stepped shyly into the office, looking around as she introduced herself as Martha Simpson.

He thought, She's never been in Hensley's house before. "Please." He pointed to the chair across from the desk.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you. But I've overheard my mother tell a friend that you'd been asking questions about Emma…"

What had the rector said about gossip?

"Yes, that's true. Did you know her?"

She glanced at the other chair as if uncertain whether she ought to sit or remain standing. "I went to school with her. We weren't the best of friends-her grandmother didn't approve of me."

"Why on earth would you believe that?" he asked, trying to put her at her ease. "You seem perfectly respectable to me."

She laughed. "I'm the baker's daughter, you see. Not grand enough for Mrs. Ellison. But I rather liked Emma, and I've been very worried about her. I wondered if you'd had news of her. I couldn't ask her grandmother directly, I was always afraid I'd be told to mind my own business."

"Sadly, no, I haven't anything new to tell you. I asked questions for the simple reason that Constable Hensley had put down very little about her disappearance in his files. It seemed strange, given the fact that it was possible that murder had been done."