Charles Todd - A long shadow

On the way back to Hensley's house, he thought about what he'd learned that day. It was still a jumble of impressions and facts, and he wasn't sure where they were leading. But he had come to rely on intuition over the years and never discounted the smallest bit of information. It sometimes loomed large in the end, once he'd pried open the secrets locked in a silent village.

Hamish said, "Ye're wasting time climbing the kirk tower. It willna' tell you who hated yon constable."

"Grace Letteridge for one. Possibly Keating. There may be others keeping their heads down. Even Ted Baylor, who had the best view of Frith's Wood and may have seen his chance. Though what he has against Hensley I don't know yet. Unless it has to do with his dead brother and Emma Mason."

Rutledge listened to his footsteps echoing against the stone walls of Whitby Lane, keeping pace with his thoughts.

Were the small windows of Dudlington meant to keep the cold out or to conceal what was inside?

He realized, glancing up, that there was a motorcar just by the door of Hensley's house, and he stopped, trying to place it.

But it wasn't one he could recall seeing at The Oaks.

He walked through the door, but there was no one in the parlor. He went through to the sitting room beyond it, and stopped stock-still on the threshold, unable to believe his eyes.

In the chair on the far side of the room, half-hidden in the shadows, was Meredith Channing.

Mrs. Channing spoke first. "Yes, well, I thought I ought to come." It was as if she had answered the thought in his head. Hamish, unsettled and pressing, hissed, "Send her away." "There have been no more casings," he said baldly. "I think it's finished." "No. Not finished. Waiting." She began to remove her gloves. "How could you possibly know that?" "It doesn't matter how. You're being lulled into dropping your guard. Forgetting to look before you find yourself in a position where you can't fight back. Where you're a perfect target and helpless." Rutledge saw himself in the spire, pinned there in the wooden octagon of boards, unable to protect himself. His skin crawled. "You understand, I see." She dropped her gloves into her handbag. "Why should it matter to you one way or another?"

She smiled. "How like a man! You're a friend of Maryanne's-I've met your sister. And a few of your other friends. How could I turn away?"

"It was a long distance to drive, just to deliver a warning. You might have written instead."

"Oh, do stop being suspicious and sit down!" She had lost patience with him. "I'm here. What I want to know is, what can I do?"

He stood there for a moment longer, then realized how foolish he looked, like a defiant child. Crossing the room, he sat down in the chair on the other side of the oval table at her elbow.

Glancing around, she said, "These are spartan quarters! Waiting for you, I looked in the kitchen, hoping for a little tea to warm me. There's none in the tea tin, and none on the shelves."

"It's Constable Hensley's house," he said. "I'm using it while he's in hospital."

"I've a very nice room at The Oaks. I'm surprised you aren't staying there."

He smiled grimly. "Then you haven't met the owner. He'll have nothing to do with a policeman under his roof."

"Have you asked yourself why?"

"He's something of a curmudgeon, I'm told."

"I found him very polite. Although he may not go on being polite, if he discovers I'm here to see you."

"How did you find me?"

"I sent you the small package, if you remember."

He felt like a student being put in his place by his teacher. "Yes, of course. Sorry. I've got other things on my mind."

"I can see that." She rose to go, and he stood as well. "I'll find out if the inn can run to a cup of tea." For a moment she regarded him intently. "If there's anything I can do, please ask. I'll only stay on for a day or two. But I was worried, you see. And you did come to me first."

With that she walked out of the room, and he let her go.

Hamish said, "She's an outsider. She's no' afraid of the wood."

It was a change of mood that surprised Rutledge. But he answered slowly, considering the matter, "Yes, it's true." He crossed the street to Mrs. Ellison's house and knocked loudly. She answered the door and for a moment was clearly considering shutting it in his face. But he said, "It's about your daughter."

She allowed him to come in, then, to stand like a tradesman in the entry.

"What do you want with my daughter?"

"Inspector Cain discovered a letter in his predecessor's files. It was from a Mrs. Greer, of London, asking to be paid for six months' lodging at her house. Your daughter had left without settling her account."

She replied curtly, "To my shame. But I will say on her behalf that she'd lost her husband, she had had to give up her child, and she went to France to heal. I haven't told anyone, it's too embarrassing. I hope you'll respect my request to keep the matter between us."

"What's become of Beatrice Ellison Mason, Mrs. Ellison. You must know."

She looked away from him. "She's dead. I never told Emma that. She preferred to think her mother was in London, painting. She went to Paris, you see, married a Belgian there, and she was in Liege when the Germans bombarded the city. She must have been one of the casualties, because I haven't had any news of her since July of 1914."

"She wrote to you?" he asked with surprise.

She turned away from him, scorn on her face now. "No. I had other means of learning her whereabouts. Someone I went to school with was living in Paris, and she sent me news when she could. That's how I knew of my daughter's second marriage. I would think that other children had come then, and Beatrice must have felt awkward telling her new husband about Emma."

"Why should he care, if he loved her?"

"Beatrice often made rather free with the truth. And Mason isn't the most romantic name for an artist. She called herself Harkness, I understand. It has a finer ring to it, I expect."

"Is she telling the truth?" Hamish asked.

Rutledge thought she was. There was conviction in her voice, and he could see that she was tense with feeling, her hands clenched together until the knuckles showed white.

"Why did you let your granddaughter write to a London address that didn't exist? That must have been a cruel disappointment when the letters were returned unopened."

"You aren't a mother, Inspector," she snapped at him. "How can you be the judge of what's best for a young, easily impressed child who thought Maid Marian was a heroine and who wanted to spread her own wings?"

"The truth from the beginning might have been easier. There's still the chance that she went to London in search of her mother. And London is no place for a young girl alone. Anything could have happened to her there. Doesn't that frighten you?"

"She would never have done such a foolish thing. You didn't know her."

"Then perhaps she went there looking for a young man who had marched off to war."

If he had struck her, she wouldn't have looked any more shocked and angry. "How dare you!"

"You were young once-"

"My granddaughter was a God-fearing young lady. I saw to that. Get out of my house!"

He left then, aware that he had upset her and that any other questions would have been useless.

Mrs. Ellison had barricaded herself in a comfortable, private world of her own, secure from hurt. Struggling to ignore the loss of her only child and her only grandchild. Refusing to understand that she might have driven both of them away with her strong sense of propriety and family duty. Artists came to a no-good end, and it could be argued that Beatrice had chosen her own fate. But that young girl's bedroom was still waiting for young Emma, regardless of the fact that she might have grown into an entirely different person if she was still alive. Harder, perhaps, disillusioned, certainly, and possibly no longer innocent.