Charles Todd - A long shadow

"Then have yourself a nap, and I'll stay with Mr. Towson. I'm even capable of making him tea."

"He's had tea twice already. First with Mrs. Freebold, and then with Mrs. Arundel." She sighed. "I've never seen such a man for a little bite of something sweet, as he puts it."

"Yes, well, then, we shan't be having tea. Go on, I'll show myself up to his room." And with that, Mrs. Channing started up the stairs.

Rutledge was on the point of following her when she said, "No. You'll be bored to tears, Inspector. But you might see if you can find a Dickens novel in Mr. Towson's study. I'll read to him, if he cares for a little distraction."

Rutledge discovered Bleak House sandwiched between a book of sermons and one of O. A. Manning's volumes of poetry. He took the novel up to the rector's bedroom, where Towson and Mrs. Channing were deep in a conversation that stopped as he came down the passage.

"I'm well enough, Inspector," he answered Rutledge's greeting. "But I'm told you've had an accident of your own. A stolen lorry! Who'd have thought it here in Dudlington? I'm happy to see Dr. Middleton didn't clap you in your bed and leave you to die of boredom."

"With only a bruise here and there?" Rutledge responded lightly.

"What I can't understand for the life of me is why someone should steal the lorry in the first place, and then abandon it not a quarter of a mile away. Mrs. Freebold was telling me that there was a dark-haired man with thin lips and narrowed eyes driving it."

"He wore a hat," Rutledge said. "Pulled down low. I couldn't see more than that."

"Ah. Well, that explains why Mrs. Arundel heard he was a large man with an evil expression." He smiled.

"I doubt if anyone got a good look at him. He left the lorry where no one was likely to see him walk away. Either from windows at The Oaks or from the houses on Holly Street."

Mrs. Channing looked at Rutledge with a questioning glance. But the rector was in full cry, now.

"Are you trying to tell me he was someone here in Dudlington?"

"I don't know," Rutledge answered. "What do your callers have to say on that subject?"

"That he must have held a grudge against the firm doing the work at the Lawrence house. He must have had the fright of his life when he learned later that the man he nearly ran down in the lane was a policeman from Scotland Yard. Serves him right too." Rutledge found Mrs. Arundel in her little cage at the rear of the baker's shop. She smiled at him and said, "Is there a letter you wish to mail to London, Inspector? I'll see that it goes first thing in the morning." He showed her the map of Dudlington that Grace Let- teridge had helped him fill out. "Is this a fairly accurate list of residents?" he asked. She examined it carefully. "Yes. Yes, it is. You're very thorough, Inspector." "And there's no one else living in Dudlington besides the names given here?" "Of course you haven't listed the children, or any of the servants. And Mrs. Wainwright is a widow, Mr. Neville has never married-" "Thank you." He took back his list and folded it again. He could feel Mrs. Simpson's eyes boring into the back of his head as she strained to hear the conversation. He found Mrs. Melford at home, busy with a stew for his dinner, and he showed her the list as well. "That's correct, Inspector," she told him, handing it back. "I wonder you need the names of everyone in Dudlington. Surely we aren't all under suspicion." "Not at all," he assured her. "But it helps me form a better picture of the village." She said, "Then if that's all, I must get back to my dinner. Your dinner." And he left it at that. Hamish said, "It didna' work, yon map." "In a way it did." Rutledge sat at Hensley's desk and ticked off the houses he already knew. "Ellison, there. Let- teridge. Lawrence. Simpson. Freebold. Hensley here. The rectory. Baylor. And of course Keating at The Oaks. There's no Sandridge here. I hadn't expected it to be that easy."

He put the map away and stood looking round the room. "If I were hiding something, where would I choose? It has to be safe from prying eyes sitting here waiting for Hens- ley to come back to his office. Or even a determined search by someone intent on finding where Hensley kept files or money. Where?"

Still favoring his ankle, Rutledge began a thorough search, starting at the top of the house and working his way down. It was hampered by the dark day, when lamplight let shadows fall in corners and made it difficult to judge if a board was askew or only appeared that way in poor light.

Hamish reminded him that the house still belonged to the Freebolds, and it wasn't likely that Hensley would choose a secret place they might already know existed.

Room after room, Rutledge examined every possible place where something could be hidden. The bedrooms, the bath, the stairs, the sitting room and dining room, the kitchen, the cellar where the coal bin filled one corner and old bits and pieces filled another. Digging through that, he came across a sled, a broken drying rack for clothes, a chair with a missing leg, a box of dishes with chipped edges and only one cup, a stack of old newspapers for starting fires, a carton of tools, and a doorknob that had been tossed in by itself.

"Ye're wasting time," Hamish told him. "There's naething to be found."

But he refused to give up.

He came back to the lone doorknob and stared at it thoughtfully. It looked to be a more recent vintage than the rest of the bric-a-brac.

And then he began to pull the litter out of the corner, working fast and stacking each item in the center of the earthen floor.

When he'd pulled an old trunk filled with clothing half a century old out of his way, he could just feel, rather than see, the rough edges of a door.

There was a hole that looked more like a knot in the wood than an actual cavity, but he thrust the doorknob inside. There must have been a matching knob on the other side, because he was able, gently, to pull the door open just far enough to bring it the rest of the way with his fingers.

The knob on the far side had been nailed in place, giving it stability. And as the door opened to the point that he could see in, he realized this cabinet was shelved as if once used for jams or preserves.

It was empty now except for a dark leather satchel and a collection of papers.

He was just about to draw them out, when he heard a voice over his head.

Swearing, he left the door where it was and hurried up the stairs as fast as his complaining ankle permitted.

Mrs. Channing was standing in the parlor office, calling his name.

"I've forgotten you!" he said contritely. "I should have come back before this."

"No, I expected to make my own way to the inn. But what have you been doing? Is that a cobweb in your hair?"

He realized that there was even coal dust on one sleeve and a smudge across the back of his hand. "Searching," he said, telling the truth. "I'd hoped that Hensley kept his more important files somewhere less accessible than this room."

"And were you successful?" she asked, no inflection in her voice.

"I was debating whether to shift a large pile of coal when you called me away. As far as I can tell, that's the only task I have left."

"Yes, well, I'll not keep you. But if I were you, I'd be careful, digging about in cellars with those cuts and scrapes on your hands. They're still open wounds, and easily infected."

"I hadn't thought of that. I'll just find my coat and see you to the inn."

"Nonsense. I'm perfectly capable of walking that far alone."

He waited until he was certain she was gone, sitting in the dark parlor for a quarter of an hour. Only then did he go back down the cellar stairs with his torch and look into the closet.

The satchel contained money, far less than he'd expected. And the papers were an odd assortment. One of them was a letter to the young woman who had been searching for the man, Sandridge.