Charles Todd - A Lonely Death

"Inspector Mickelson had Carl in custody but hadn't been able to lay hands on the murder weapon. Yes, it worked a treat."

"Was he able to give you a description of the man in the motorcar?"

"A hazy one at best. The reflection from the headlamps cast shadows. Besides, Mickelson was busy trying to decide how you'd worked it out about the garrote when he hadn't."

The question had to be asked. "Does Mickelson believe I lured him into a trap?"

"My impression was, he is still of two minds about that. His accident, after all, brought you back into the case."

"Yes, it did." Rutledge gave it some thought as they walked along the road above the net shops.

Norman hesitated. "The man in the motorcar told Mickelson his name was Daniel Pierce and that you'd asked him to handle this because his own brother was among the dead. Mickelson had no reason to doubt what he was told. The elder Pierce is an upstanding member of the community, after all."

"And Mickelson wasn't intended to live long enough to tell us that. Have you spoken to Tyrell Pierce about this?"

"Not yet. I wanted to hear what you had to say before going to him. You still maintain that this man you're chasing is not Pierce's son. I went to The White Swans. Whoever had stayed there registered as Pierce. And the description could fit him, with a little stretch of the imagination. He was never the man his brother was, to look at. It was as if Anthony's features had been passed on to his brother, only a little blurred, a little less distinctive."

And Summers had known that. He'd also known that Daniel Pierce hadn't returned to Sussex for two years. It was a safe enough gamble.

Rutledge related what had transpired in Dover, and Inspector Norman whistled.

"Any chance of bringing him back from France?"

"On what evidence?" Rutledge asked. "Whatever I can prove, it isn't strong enough to convince the French police."

"Damn." Norman glanced up at the headland where Theo Hartle had been found and said, "You make a good case for Summers. The question remains, what do we do about the inquests into these deaths? Now that we know Inspector Mickelson will survive, do we wait until he's well enough to present his case, or do we look to you?"

"Adjourn them again if you have to. But keep your eye on Eastfield. That's where our killer will turn up, as soon as he returns to England. Mark my words." They turned back toward the police station.

Rutledge stood there on the street for a moment, after Inspector Norman had gone inside, debating what to do. Waiting in Eastfield would accomplish nothing. The best course open to him was to return to the Yard and make certain that the watch on the ports was kept in place as long as need be. W hen he arrived in London, Rutledge found another letter from Chief Inspector Cummins waiting for him.

Opening it, he lit the lamp and sat down in the chair by the window, although the day had faded into dusk. Rutledge,

You're a marvel. I've considered everything you'd uncovered, and I decided (having the free time to do so) to drive to East Anglia and visit my grandfather's house. It was sold shortly after his death, but I remember it quite clearly. The present owners have kept it up amazingly well, even to the gardens that were his pride, and I sat for some minutes in my motorcar, remembering a very happy childhood. The man who lives there now happened to see me as he came back from marketing and he asked if I were looking for someone. I explained about my grandfather, and to my surprise, this stranger invited me inside. I must have an honest face!

He allowed me to walk about and reminisce, then to my even greater surprise told me he had something he thought belonged to me. He was gone several minutes while I strolled in the back garden, and then he reappeared with an envelope. He handed it to me, and I was stunned to see my name on the outside. I asked where in hell he'd got this, and he said that in 1908, a young man came to the door. His mother was living at the time, and said he was quite polite, asking if my grandfather still lived here. She told him that he had died. The man explained that he was looking for me, the grandson of the previous owner, and he asked if he might leave a letter here for me, in the event I came back to the house one day. She told the young man that she'd be glad to take the letter, but considered it was unlikely that I would ever return. But he claimed he might miss me in London, and it would be a kindness to know that one day I'd find the letter and know that he cared. And so, being the trusting soul that she was, she took the letter and kept it. Before she died, she mentioned it to her son-this was nearly ten years later, and the letter was still in her possession-and asked what to do about it. The son wondered if I'd been abroad, and felt that someday if I retired from whatever post it was that had taken me away, I might come here looking for it. And so he took on that charge in his mother's stead, and she died a few months later. He and his wife then moved into the house, and the letter waited. I could hardly believe anyone would have been that considerate of a stranger's request, but apparently the mother had been quite taken with him.

At any rate, I left soon afterward, letter in hand, and the man's last comment to me was, he hoped that I would be in England to stay now. I didn't open the letter until I reached London. It was a confession, Ian, a confession to that murder at Stonehenge. But the man wasn't fool enough to give me his name. He wrote that the man who was killed had deserved to die, but in fact, his death had been an accident. Now, Ian, I'd seen the body and that wound. It couldn't have been more accurate, that knife slipping in. How, pray, could it have happened by chance?

But the writer went on to say that the man had done terrible things, and his death had protected others from further cruelty. I found that self-serving. He did explain that the body had never been identified properly because the victim had been on the point of leaving the country, and everyone just assumed he had, without fanfare. He was not liked well enough for people to wonder why he had moved up his departure, and the feeling was he had not expected a send-off, a farewell dinner, that sort of thing. And so he had decided not to put himself in a position where people might assume he wanted a show of regret at his leaving. There was no one in England he cared for, and there had been some quiet speculation that his continued employment might soon be in doubt. Those who could have spoken out about his private life and assured his dismissal were too frightened to do so. "I was one of them" he wrote at the end of his confession. "I killed rather than endure silently as so many did. I took the knife he used as a desk ornament-someone had fashioned a handle for it, to please him, he said-and struck out blindly. I was astonished to see him fall, and thought it a trick. I left him there and went directly to a trusted friend. For my sake, he and one other person helped me dispose of my victim. I write this to ease my own conscience and to leave a legacy for you, since the crime has not been solved. But the clues I have left were obscure, and I wonder if-even to ease my conscience-I really am ready to face the horror of what I did."

Well, then, Ian, my friend, I wonder what you will make of this!

Rutledge put down the letter. What indeed to make of it? He agreed with Cummins that the author of the letter had purposely made the clues difficult to follow. Still, if Cummins had happened on that flint knife in the course of another case, would he have followed the same steps toward finding an answer? Was that the point, that the killer had felt he had done his duty, secure in the knowledge that his role would never come to light?

What's more, were there clues in that letter that might lead to the name of the victim, if not the murderer?