Charles Todd - Wings of Fire

And he’d be forced to reveal more than he could, at the moment, defend. Publicly. But he knew he was right. All his experience at the Yard, his own intuition, the facts that he could be sure of, pointed to a long, cold-blooded series of killings that had spanned years. Cunningly planned, meticulously carried out, skillfully concealed.

A few more days He’d have to wait, damn it! On the statements. It would be foolhardy to push on and wreck everything.

Which merely added to his frustration, and Hamish was there, already taking advantage of it. Rutledge tried to shut him out. The clamor in his head was ferocious, and he forced himself to ignore it.

Very well, then, he promised himself. Wait he would- until he had finally talked to the local man, Inspector Harvey, and seen the way the wind blew there. It could make a difference in his planning, he had to accept that.

Sidestepping someone coming down the stairs as if he owned them, Rutledge settled for mentally laying out his schedule, which of the villagers should give statements first, what approach he was going to take in the questions asked, how he might draw out of each witness exactly what he wanted without arousing rampant speculation, and how fast he could accomplish the lot. There was also the dilemma of what had become of Olivia’s papers. He was going to have to find them He realized the man on the stairs was staring hard at him, eyes narrowed and angry. Rutledge looked up at him for the first time, and swiftly shelved his own thoughts.

“Rutledge?” the stranger demanded. “Inspector Rutledge?”

“I’m Rutledge, yes.”

“Inspector Harvey,” the man retorted with equal curtness. “I’ve come to speak to you.”

Swearing silently at the timing of Harvey’s unexpected appearance-splitting headaches were not the frame of mind in which to conduct painstaking interviews with choleric Cornishmen -Rutledge led the way to the small parlor, where today sunlight tried fretfully to light the gloom. “We can have privacy here,” he said, holding open the door. And advantage to me, on my own ground, he thought to himself. It appeared that he well might have need of it.

Harvey followed, still huffing from the stairs.

He was a bluff man, neither tall nor short, but heavy in build, with a red complexion and thinning dark hair. There was an air of having his own way about him, as if on his own ground he was used to being heeded, and his advice or instructions followed. There couldn’t be, Rutledge thought to himself, many police matters in this pan of Cornwall which might draw the attention of London. What there was in the way of crime and mischief would be comfortably divided between the police and the local magistrates.

In short, tread carefully.

“I’m glad to meet you finally,” Rutledge said, holding out his hand. Harvey looked pointedly at it and walked on into the room, refusing to take it.

“Finally is the key word here, isn’t it?” he asked, keeping his voice flat.

“You were in Plymouth when I came. And you’ve only just returned, I think. Dawlish told me you were somewhere on the moors, talking to a farmer about wild dogs attacking his domestic animals.”

“So I was. It doesn’t mean I’m blind to what’s happening. I don’t like strangers meddling on my patch. Not without my keeping an eye on them or having regular reports from them to keep me in the picture. Looks bad when I know less than my constable, and less than London. I don’t see what’s wrong with our initial investigation into the three deaths in question, and I don’t see why you haven’t long since come and gone with a clean bill of health on my desk to clear the air in Borcombe.”

“As a matter of fact, nothing appears to be wrong with your initial inquiries. I believe that Stephen FitzHugh died as you said he did. In a fall. It’s the other deaths that interest me. And I accept them as suicides.”

“Just because Miss Marlowe turned out to be famous? Is that’s what this is in aid of? Sending a detective inspector all this way? Playing merry hell with my reputation and her family’s reputation, all to suit the wigs in London who realized too late they’d missed the opportunity of seeing their names in the Times in connection with her death? Or are you in fact looking for a wee success to set off the Yard’s regrettable failure to stop this knife-wielding idiot on the loose in London? Oh, yes, I’ve seen the papers-nobody has a clue! Now the local people tell me you’re trying to find a link down here with Master Richard Cheney, the boy lost on the moors. Ridiculous doesn’t cover it!”

“That’s because what you hear from your own people is not in any way the point of my investigation. But if that’s what they’d prefer to think, then I’d prefer to let them.”

Harvey all but snorted. “What I’m asking you, man, is to tell me what you’re after, not what you want the villagers to believe!” Harvey was feeding on his own sense of betrayal, letting it fuel his anger. It was a technique used sometimes by men wanting their own way-make life unpleasant enough for the other party, and he’d be too busy defending himself to attack.

Rutledge considered his own tactics, then said, “Nicholas Cheney had a brother who’s been missing since he was five. We presently have no way of knowing if the boy is dead or alive. If alive, he may be an heir. If dead, there’s a possibility it wasn’t accidental. That he was deliberately murdered.”

“By whom, pray? And if the family was concerned about him still being alive after the search was called off and the posters brought in no responses, or later was wanting to know something more about his death, why didn’t they come to my predecessor? Or to me?”

“Would you have listened? Or would you have assured them they could safely believe what they’d rather believe, that the boy died of simple exposure? Any new search was bound to lead to the same conclusion.”

Harvey bristled. “I don’t tell comfortable lies, whatever you’re used to in London. And I know how to conduct a search.”

“I’m sure you don’t tell comfortable lies,” Rutledge agreed. “And given the facts at your disposal, where would you start searching? From what I can see, there was very little evidence of foul play, unless some passing gypsies carried the boy off, or someone wandering on the moors stumbled on him and killed him for reasons of his own. And the officer in charge examined those possibilities very thoroughly at the time Richard went missing. Even when you took over here, you had no reason to suspect more than some sort of tragic accident. What has changed now is the way we’re looking at the disappearance, and that in itself may prove to be the key.”

“And what is that, pray? He wandered off during a family picnic. And was lost. And is long dead, most likely, because the moors are unforgiving. Why should I have raised false hopes? And as to the present cases, would it have prevented Miss Olivia Marlowe from taking her own life? Or Mr. Nicholas from doing the same? Would it have straightened Mr. Stephen’s cracked neck? I think not!” His own neck was red to his collar with the power of his anger.

“No. But it might have righted a very old wrong. It might have revealed secrets that the family itself didn’t know the answers to. It might make it clearer to us whose will took precedence, and at what time. Who has the right to sell Tre-velyan Hall, and who has none.”

“It was my understanding-still is-that Miss Olivia and Mr. Nicholas had nearly identical wills. In that event, I don’t quite see legal quibbling over which is which. And I can tell you that Mr. Nicholas was a very straightforward man, very able, concerned about his responsibilities to the church and the village. Fought in the war, did his duty like the gentleman he was-”