Charles Todd - A long shadow

"Why were you happy to leave London and move to the North?"

"I was tired of hunting German spies. Half of it was someone's warped imagination. The butcher is surly, he has an accent, he's given some woman a bad bit of beef. Or the waiter doesn't look English. The man bringing in the luggage at a hotel seems furtive, won't meet the eyes of patrons when he's spoken to. You'd think, listening, that half the population of Germany was sneaking about England, looking to stir up trouble."

The speech sounded-rehearsed. As if Hensley had told the story so many times he half believed it himself.

"It had nothing to do with Edgerton, then." It wasn't a question.

Hensley turned to look at Rutledge. "Don't put words in my mouth, damn you."

"But you know very well who Edgerton was. And how he died. Did you also know someone named Sandridge?"

Hensley said, "Look, I'm not well, I shouldn't be badgered like this." His voice was sour. And he had long since stopped using "sir" when he addressed his superior.

Although Hamish was accusing him of badgering as well, Rutledge persevered. "Tell me about Sandridge."

"A woman wrote to the police in Dudlington, in search of someone by that name. I thought she might be looking for a soldier in the war, someone who'd made promises he didn't keep. Or he'd been killed, and she hadn't been notified, not being a relative, so to speak. I told her to try another village by the name of Dudlington, in Rutland." "Your reply wasn't in the file." "It ought to have been. I put it there myself." Rutledge wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. "And that's merely a coincidence. The fact that the fire setter in the Barstow arson was also a Sandridge?" "I never put that together with London. Why should I? It's not that rare a name, surely. Sir." "There were rumors that you'd taken money to look the other way, when the fire occurred. And rumors now that you were responsible for Emma Mason's death. Where there's smoke…" "I didn't do nothing of the sort. Here, I won't stand for this, I'm a sick man. Sister!" A tall, thin woman with reddish hair came at his urgent call. "What is it, Constable?" she asked, beginning to smooth the rumpled bed linens. "I'm not well, Sister, I need to rest. I think my fever is worse." She touched his forehead, then turned to Rutledge. "I think you should leave, sir, if you would. We mustn't distress him just now." Rutledge stood to go. But looking down at Hensley's face, the eyes turned away, his skin taut and red, he said, "When you come back to Dudlington, will you be safe?" The eyes swung back to Rutledge, something in them that reminded him of a cornered animal. Rutledge felt a surge of guilt. "I won't be coming back," Hensley said tensely. "I've been thinking. I could take an early pension and go abroad. They do say Spain is all right. One of the night sisters lived there for a time, with an elderly couple. I think I might like it."

"They speak Spanish there, you know. Not English." And then Rutledge was walking down the ward, toward the door.

When he looked back, Hensley was slumped in his bed, exhausted. The drive back to Dudlington ended in a sudden downpour, wind whipping the rain through the motorcar. One sleeve was wet nearly to the shoulder by the time Rutledge turned down to Holly Street and put his car beside the house. And Hamish, still irritated with him for his callousness in the hospital ward, made certain that Rutledge was aware of it.

Still, he wondered if Hensley had told the truth regarding a copy of his response to the letter about Sandridge being in the file. Had he even written it? Or let sleeping dogs lie.

Rutledge got out stiffly, his ankle cold and more painful than he was ready to admit.

The house was chilly and dark, unwelcoming. And he always felt a sense of unease when he came in.

But there was no reason to think anyone had been there, although he went into each room to give it a cursory glance.

Changing out of his wet clothes, he laid a fire on the hearth in the sitting room and sat down, leaning his head against the back of his chair.

Hamish said, "I wouldna' let down my guard sae far."

Rutledge said, his eyes closed, "I'm not asleep."

"The lassie. With the garden. She came to apologize. You gave her short shrift."

"So I did. I was nearly as angry with her as I was with the bastard in the lorry."

"It was just as well yon woman from London wasna' with you when the lorry came up the lane."

"I don't know that he'd have tried to run me down, with witnesses there."

"On the ither hand, he could ha' waited until she was no' in the way, before taking the lorry."

Rutledge rubbed his eyes with both hands, then massaged his temples. "I would like very much to know why she told me there was a shadow at my back, in Frith's Wood. What she'd really seen there." Yet he'd felt eyes watching him, every time he'd been in that wood. "Why would she lie? She has nothing to do with this business in Dudlington."

"You havena' asked her about Emma Mason."

He heard someone at the door, and then Mrs. Melford called to him.

He got up to walk to the parlor, his stiffened ankle giving him some difficulty. He found Mrs. Melford standing there with a basket in one hand and a streaming umbrella in the other.

"You missed your luncheon," she said. "I thought you might like the sandwiches for your tea."

"Yes, thank you."

He took the tray from her and said, "Come in, if you will. You've lived here for many years. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"About what?" she asked, still holding the umbrella.

"About Beatrice Ellison, and her daughter, Emma Mason."

She reluctantly furled her umbrella and stood it by the door, which she then shut behind her.

"I don't know anything other than gossip. You must know that. I haven't been friendly with Mrs. Ellison since Beatrice left. I thought the least her mother could do was to let the girl study painting for a bit and see if she was enthusiastic about the discipline of learning it properly. That must be quite different from painting for one's own pleasure."

"How did Beatrice get on in London?"

"Splendidly, as far as we knew. One had only to ask Mrs. Ellison, to hear a glowing report."

"Who was her daughter's teacher. Do you know?"

"If I heard the name, I don't recall it. You don't question Mrs. Ellison, you see. She'll tell you what she feels is any of your business, and nothing more than that. But I gathered that she was happy for the world to know that Beatrice had prospered. Even if she'd been against the whole idea."

"And then Beatrice came home with her child."

"Yes, that was the first and only time she'd come back. There were a few people who were terribly catty about it, saying that Beatrice had grown too famous to bother with Dudlington anymore. And of course there were others who were saying she hadn't come back because she had nothing to show for her years in London but the little girl."

"And then Emma left. What was the gossip then?"

"Of course it was that she'd gone to London to find her mother. We were sure Mrs. Ellison would rush after her and bring her back. That is, if it were true that Beatrice was a failure. And then the whispers began that Constable Hensley had had something to do with Emma's disappearance."

"What sort of whispers?"

"That since he knew London, he'd helped Emma escape her grandmother's clutches. That somehow he was involved. I can't tell you when the suspicion arose that he'd had more to do with her disappearance than was proper. That he'd asked a price for helping, and when Emma got frightened, he did away with her, to keep her from telling her grandmother. Mrs. Ellison is related to the Harkness family. Everyone is wary of that, even the constable. I don't precisely know what she could do-but I imagine if she were to ask for an investigation, someone would listen."