Charles Todd - A long shadow

"Do you think Mrs. Ellison knows about such whispers?" "And who do you think would be bold enough to tell her!" It was a good point. "Thank you, Mrs. Melford. You've been very helpful." He was beginning to take her measure, the briskness that concealed her fear of being hurt again, the kindness that had remembered his tea. And he rather liked her. He thought she deserved more happiness than had come her way. She nodded and turned to go, then asked, "Who was the woman with you yesterday? A relation?" The gossip mill… She hadn't brought the sandwiches out of kindness after all. Or at least not completely. "We have mutual friends," he said lightly. "She was so clever about how to prepare for the doctor," Mrs. Melford answered, and picked up her umbrella. "It surprised me." When she'd gone, Rutledge went back to the fire and ate his meal to the accompaniment of Hamish's voice, still in a foul mood. The rain faded in another hour, and Rutledge limped down to Grace Letteridge's house, stopping for a moment to look at the scene of the collision between wall and lorry. It had indeed been a near thing, he thought. And Hamish, who had been silent for a time, said, "No' death, perhaps, but verra' severe injury. You'd lie like yon constable in a ward, with the sisters ignoring you." Rutledge went on up the walk. Grace Letteridge answered his knock and couldn't stop her eyes from dropping down to his ankle. "You're walking, I see." She opened the door wider and reminded him to wipe his feet on the mat. "I am. Someone has been seeing to your roses. The wall will take more work, I'm afraid." "Yes, well, I had hoped this rain would settle the canes into the ground again. I won't know until the spring if they've survived."

"I'll pay for the damage," he said. "It was your garden that saved me from more serious injuries."

"Too bad for my garden," she answered, and led him into the parlor. "Was that why you came, to offer to pay? Or was there something else on your mind?"

He had intended to ask her outright if she recognized the name Sandridge, and then decided, as Hamish growled in the back of his mind, that he wasn't sure where Grace Letteridge's loyalties lay. Instead he had brought a rough map he'd made of the village and asked her to pencil in the names in the box representing each house.

"Why bring it to me? Mrs. Melford or anyone else could have done it for you."

"That's probably true. On the other hand, I'd rather not have the fact that I'm doing this bandied about the neighborhood."

She took the sheet of paper and unfolded it, frowning over it. "You draw surprisingly well."

"Is there some requirement for policemen to be poor at sketching a map?"

Ignoring him, she began to put in the names of each householder. He waited patiently, letting her work without interruption.

After ten minutes, she sat back, the tip of the pencil between her teeth as she regarded her handiwork. Nodding to herself, she passed the sheet back to Rutledge.

He scanned it, searching for one name. But it wasn't there.

He did see that where Hensley's house ought to be was the name of the greengrocer, Freebold.

"Doesn't Hensley own the house he lives in?" he asked, pointing to it.

"Perhaps he does. Constable Markham paid to rent it. I don't know what arrangement there is with Constable Hensley. I really don't care to know."

So Hensley could pull up his roots with ease, and make Spain or another country his home. He could also disappear with ease, and no one would be worried about property left behind. Certainly the furnishings in the house, while adequate, were far from valued pieces. An interesting point, Hamish agreed. "But look you, where is the money he took as a bribe? He canna' put it into a bank, and he canna' leave it lying about, where anyone stepping in the door can find it." Put his hands on that money, Rutledge thought, and he might have some leverage with Hensley to pry out the truth. "Aye, but it's no' a part of your duty." Just how much did Bowles know? Or care? Grace Letteridge was saying, "Inspector?" He came back from his thoughts. "I'm sorry-" "I can't believe it was an accident. What happened last night. But why should someone want to kill Constable Hensley, and then when you come here, want to kill you as well?" It was an echo of what he'd heard Mrs. Melford say. He answered, "I don't believe the attacks are related." "What else could they be? In a village this size?" But he couldn't tell her about the cartridge casings.

Meredith Channing was waiting for him when he came home. She had set her umbrella by the door, and it was dripping a puddle of water across the floorboards when he stepped over the threshold. "Ah. You've been away most of the day. I wondered how you were managing." "Well enough." She nodded. "So I can see. Sit down. You look very tired. It can't be easy, concealing the pain for hours. Even from yourself." "You must have been a terrifyingly good nurse, if you could read your patient's mind." "Some of them couldn't speak, you know. After a while one got used to making a fairly good guess about their needs." "Why did you come here?" He'd asked it before and couldn't stop himself from asking it again. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. What I felt with that shell casing on the table in my house was not particularly pleasant. And so I sent it back to you. But the darkness was still there, as if it had left a-shadow behind. I could see it there, feel it even in the night. If it disturbed me so intensely, I was concerned about how it must have troubled you." "Did you know anyone by the name of Edgerton, in London?" "Edgerton. Wasn't there a cricket player by that name, before the war?" "A tennis player, I think," Rutledge said, watching her face, but she showed no reaction to his fabrication. "Well, then. What about him?" "He died of burns after a fire." "How horrible!" She stared at him. "Was he a friend?" "I never met him." "Then why do you think I may've?" She frowned. "Are you feeling feverish?" Hensley was feverish, and that was a cause for anxiety. "I'm trying to learn how a man named Edgerton tied into this business with the constable." "Your tennis player?" He smiled at her. "Indeed. Never mind. I expect he died while you were in France. There's no reason you should remember him." "No. We were quite cut off from everything but the fighting. We seldom had time to think about anything else. Sorry." "There's another name I'm curious about. Sandridge." Either she was a very good liar or this name also failed to mean anything to her. Shaking her head, she said, "No. Not familiar at all." So much for that, he thought. He couldn't fathom her. As well as he read most people, she was an enigma. Behind the charming facade, behind the gracious manner and the warm, mesmerizing voice, what was she? "I thought perhaps we might call on the rector," she was saying. "If you are up to walking so far. He must be lonely."

He went with her, though his preference, if asked, was to stay by the fire and let the ache in his ankle fade a little.

They reached the rectory in time to see a woman coming down the walk, and Rutledge recognized her as the postmistress, Mrs. Arundel.

She nodded to him, tipping back her umbrella to say, "I'm glad to see you suffered no lasting harm. From the look of Grace Letteridge's garden wall, you ought to be on crutches."

They knocked on the front door, and Hillary Timmons answered it, looking harried. "Good day, sir. They've all come to bring himself something-a pot of jam, a treat from the bake shop, a little broth. I'm fair run off my feet, trying to keep up."

"We've brought nothing," Mrs. Channing said soothingly. "Why don't I sit with him for an hour or so, and allow you to rest."

Hillary Timmons teetered on the thin edge of duty, and then capitulated.

"Just an hour, if you wouldn't mind," she said.