Charles Todd - A long shadow

"Which is apparently the way he wants it."

"Nothing wrong with that, is there? Why the interest? Did he have a grudge against Hensley?"

"Possibly. He was ferocious in his defense of Emma Mason's good name and reputation."

"And a good many people would like to think that Hens- ley knows more about her disappearance than he's willing to say. Yes, I see where you're going."

"What I'd like to know is how Keating came to know Emma well enough to defend her."

"You may have it backward, you know-it could be Keating has something against Hensley, and Emma's just the smokescreen to conceal that."

Hamish said, "Aye, if yon constable recognized him."

Almost as if Middleton had overheard the voice in Rut- ledge's head, he added, "Wasn't Hensley a policeman in London, before he came here?"

Rutledge walked up the hill from Holly Street to The Oaks, and this time found Keating in the bar serving a late breakfast to two travelers driving to Lincoln. He listened to the conversation for some time, the man and the woman chatting with Keating about an inn they'd stopped in the night before in Colchester. Finally, their meal finished, they went up to their rooms to finish packing, and Rutledge followed Keating through the door into the kitchen.

Keating had done the cooking himself. Hillary Tim- mons was still watching over the rector, and Keating had shown himself to be competent in the kitchen. The clutter of pans and dishes on the worktable and the spills on the stove indicated haste, but the remnants of toast, poached eggs, a side dish of bacon, and a plate of sausages were cooked well. He took off his apron and turned to face Rutledge.

"I have to be there when they come down to pay their reckoning. What do you want?" "How long have you known Constable Hensley?" he asked abruptly. "Since he came here three years ago. Why?" "There's reason to think you knew him in London." "Has he told you as much?" "Someone else suggested it." "Well, 'someone' is wrong." "There was a motorcar here yesterday morning. It left quickly, running up the road to the north. Who was driving?" "How the hell should I know? A man came in to ask directions, and then walked out. I'd never seen him before, and I don't expect to see him again." "What sort of directions?" "He asked if he was on the right road for Stamford. I told him he could reach it from here, but it was more direct if he took the turning at Letherington and got himself over on the main road." Keating had met Rutledge's eyes as he spoke, and there was no way Rutledge could call him on his answer. Not yet. And Hamish was hammering at the back of his mind. "You've let your imagination run away with ye." He remembered his certainty just before he'd seen the motorcar that someone had been standing in an upstairs window watching him. But that certainty had begun to fade. And he felt suddenly angry with himself. The cartridge casings had got to him after all. After Keating had carried the luggage of his guests out to their motorcar, and seen them off, he came back to the kitchen where Rutledge was still standing by the cluttered table. "Not satisfied, are you?" he asked. "Look, I've kept myself to myself, ever since I came here. I have no truck with Dudlington, and Dudlington has none with me. I prefer it that way." "Hillary Timmons works for you. She's from the village." "So she is. She needed the work, and I gave it to her, on the condition that what happens here stays here. And I made it clear that if I learned she'd been gossiping about me or my patrons, she was out on her ear. She makes good money. She's not likely to go against me."

"She cleans for the rector as well, when she's not here. And perhaps for others."

"She's got a father who can't work. And there're three younger ones at home. She's the only income they've got."

"Not much of a life for her, is it?"

"I pay her a fair wage. That's all I'm responsible for. I can't save the world."

"No. Why do you like your privacy so much? Dudling- ton's small enough, you might have done better if you'd tried to fit in."

"I'm not interested in fitting in. Or doing better. My life satisfies me the way it is. And I'll thank you to keep out of it." As Rutledge was walking back to Hensley's house, Hamish said, "Ye're no closer to finding who shot the constable than you were when you came here. It's been time wasted."

Rutledge swore. It was true, he'd found himself caught up in his own troubles and intrigued by the disappearance of Emma Mason, rather than looking strictly into the attack on Hensley. And yet he could see that the constable, Frith's Wood, and the girl's fate must somehow be tangled together. Find the answer to one, and the others might fall tidily into place.

Hamish said, "Aye, but yon constable's an outsider. He wouldna' ha' felt the same about a Saxon wood. Wouldna' have feared it."

"Yet he knew, very well, that the villagers avoided it. And I don't think Hensley would have set foot in it either, if he hadn't had a damned good reason. That reason has to be something to do with Emma Mason. It fits too well. But it was personal, not a part of his duty. Otherwise there'd have been a file. And it's not likely that we'll have the truth out of him anytime soon."

"Why was he shot and left? It would ha' been easy to finish him, if that was the intent."

Rutledge had reached the house and was stepping in the door. He said aloud, "I think we may find it was a warning."

"What was a warning?" Inspector Cain stood up from the chair behind Hensley's desk. "Don't tell me you've started talking to yourself! A bad sign, man!"

Rutledge could feel his face warming uncomfortably. "Bad habit indeed. What brings you here?"

"I found this last night, when I was going through some of my predecessor's files. I thought you might be interested."

He held out a folder, and Rutledge opened it as they sat down.

It was a query sent to Inspector Abbot about a missing woman. Her name was Beatrice Ellison Mason, and the letter had come from London.

Rutledge could see, reading the first sheet of paper, that a Mrs. Greer had let a room to Beatrice Mason for several years and was now asking the Northamptonshire police to find her and inform her that she was in arrears for six months' rent. The period in question was March to late August 1904, and the letter was dated July 1906.

It ended, "For I am a poor woman and in need of that money for a new roof. I'd be obliged if you would tell Mrs. Mason I can wait no longer."

"Mrs. Greer ought to have spoken to a solicitor, but it appears she couldn't afford one," Cain said. "That's why she wrote to Abbot."

"This letter may also explain why Mrs. Mason brought Emma to Mrs. Ellison for safekeeping. When her husband died, she must have been destitute. So much for the famous artist living in Paris."

"Yes, well, that's another interesting bit. Read on."

Rutledge turned the page. Abbot, Cain's predecessor, had noted in an awkward scrawl, Spoke to Mrs. Ellison. She says her daughter is studying on the Continent, and she herself will see to this outstanding debt with an apology for the oversight.

Cain, watching him, said, "Which she apparently did. Pay the debt, I mean. There's no other correspondence on the subject. And by the time Emma went missing, the local police, Abbot in particular, had either forgotten this file or felt that it had no bearing on the girl's whereabouts. After all, her mother hadn't lived at that address since 1904. Ancient history, in fact."

"Still, he should have looked into it."

Cain was defensive. "He may have asked Mrs. Ellison about it, of course. As I've told you, his strong suit wasn't keeping records. But stepping into his shoes, I've discovered how good Abbot was at dealing with people."

It could be said of many policemen in villages and small towns, and was probably the secret of their success as an unarmed force. The opposite side of the coin was that some of them grew set in their ways and bloody-minded.