Charles Todd - A Lonely Death

Her voice broke as she added, "I must go to Belgium, Ian. I need to see this man. And I can't go alone. Will you come with me? As a friend?"

He could hear only Hamish in his head, Meredith's words a distant hum, and yet he knew what she was asking. He didn't think he could do it. Not with this inquiry ongoing, he told himself. Not when I care too much, he added, facing the truth.

Someone was saying, "Yes, of course I'll do what I can. If the Yard will allow me to take leave."

A thought flitted through his head: the last time he'd asked for leave of his own accord, it was to attend Max Hume's funeral.

He expected her to cry again, then. Instead, she looked down at her hands and replied quietly, "Thank you, Ian. From the bottom of my heart."

"I'll speak to them tomorrow."

He took her home soon after, touching her only to help her into the motorcar, seeing her to her door, and saying good night when her maid had opened it.

She smiled a little, and went inside.

The next morning he was as good as his word. He went to the Yard, ignoring the stares and the whispers as he passed along the corridors. Chief Superintendent Bowles was in his office and was caught quite by surprise by his inspector's sudden appearance.

Rutledge faced him grimly, knowing Bowles for what he was, giving no ground as the man behind the desk seemed rattled for a moment, then collected himself.

"I thought you were in Sussex," Bowles said gruffly. "Or failing that, in Dover."

"There's nothing I can do in Dover. And as long as Summers is in France, then Sussex is safe. I've come to ask for a few days of leave."

Bowles's face brightened. But he said, "I thought I'd just given you leave."

"It's been some time since then. This is a personal matter."

He could see Bowles mulling it over, vacillating, emotions flitting across his face like shadows. The good fortune of being rid of Rutledge at this impossibly sticky time. The realization that if Summers reappeared in England while Rutledge was away, he could send another man to cope with it. The knowledge that Rutledge was the butt of gossip and speculation which Bowles himself could do without-they were all there. He had even heard one rumor that Rutledge had had his revenge for Mickelson's interference-embarrassing the Chief Superintendent.

"Yes, all right," Bowles declared finally. "Take your leave and report back in four days. By that time, something should have turned up at the ports."

He clearly expected Rutledge to be satisfied, for he picked up the paper he'd been reading when he was interrupted.

But Rutledge stood his ground, and said with something in his voice that made Bowles look up sharply, "About Inspector Mickelson's theory that I was involved in the attack on him. I would suggest that it's an aftereffect of that blow on the head. You know as well as I do that I was not involved. I couldn't have been. I had no reason to be. Whatever my personal feelings may be about Inspector Mickelson."

"A combination of misinformation and mistake," Bowles agreed hastily.

Rutledge left it at that. He would never have an apology from this man, and while he'd been angry enough to beard him in his den and tell him publicly what he thought about him, he had more to lose than Bowles: his position at the Yard, which was still his lifeline to sanity.

He didn't want to call on Meredith Channing. Last night was still too fresh in his mind. But he drove to her house anyway and knocked at the door.

And she had foreseen his difficulty. Her maid answered his knock, and he gave her the message for her mistress.

"Mrs. Channing would like to leave for Dover this afternoon, if that's possible," the maid replied. "Will that be convenient?"

The sooner it was over, the better, he thought, but said only, "I'll be here at one o'clock."

"Thank you, sir." She closed the door. He stood there for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Hamish was giving him no peace, a reflection of the strain he was under. As a precaution when he went home to pack a small valise, he added some things to his clothing and shaving gear.

One o'clock came all too soon, and he was outside the Channing house five minutes early.

And she was ready. The door opened almost at once, and he went to meet her, taking her case and adding it to his own in the boot. She said, "Ian-" and then shook her head, stepping into the motorcar when he opened her door.

They drove through London in silence, and were soon on the Dover Road.

They arrived in good time for their crossing, and Rutledge took a few minutes to call on Sergeant Bell.

"The laddie is still restless," he said. "I took him for a walk along the strand today, and he was searching for scents, wanting to run up to anyone he spotted. There's no word on Mrs. Summers?"

"None."

Bell said, "Well, then. We'll see that he's fed and kept safe."

The boat left on time. Meredith stayed below, while Rutledge stood by the rail, watching the water pass under the hull.

He had sworn, once, that he would never set foot in France again. And here he was, not on police business after all but to support a friend.

Friend.

He ignored that thought and instead considered the letter that had come into Chief Inspector Cummins's possession.

What sort of man would have a flint knife sitting on his desk, what kinds of interests would he have? Historian, schoolmaster, world traveler, expert in ancient weapons, geologist, even a collector of oddities.

It would take hundreds of man-hours to find likely men in those fields and interview them.

Schoolmaster… Hadn't it been a schoolmaster who had brought the latter-day Druids to Stonehenge for the summer solstice?

He was above suspicion, Cummins had said when Rutledge asked about him. But where had he taught? And were there other masters in that same school? Had Cummins interviewed any of them? But of course at the time Cummins hadn't had the benefit of Rutledge's find of the flint knife. He had been completely in the dark about the murder weapon.

Hindsight seldom caught murderers.

He walked along the deck, watching the white cliffs of England recede, the castle a gray mass on the top of the highest cliff. France was still a blue smudge on the horizon. The wind striking his face was warm, and sometimes laden with salt spray. Skirting the busy crew coiling ropes, stowing gear, and seeing to the general running of the ferry, he paced for a few minutes, deep in thought.

If the killer considered the victim's murder well deserved, what had the man done to earn it?

Rutledge recalled studying the photograph of the dead face and thinking that the victim looked far more intelligent and of a better class than Harvey Wheeler was said to have been.

There was only a small window of time when the body could have been carried to Stonehenge-or the living man brought there to be dispatched. After all, this was the shortest night of the year. And the situation was complicated by the latter-day Druids celebrating the Summer Solstice.

He could have been there when the Druids arrived, depending on what route they had taken to cross Salisbury Plain to the site. In fact, he must have been put there as soon as it was completely dark. Too much activity by the heel stone after they'd reached the stone ruins, and the killer could have been discovered in the act of tying his victim there. But had the killer and his accomplices known about the celebrants? Or had they left the body there because it was an isolated place and it was unlikely to be discovered for several days?

The letter writer hadn't mentioned the Druids.

But the Druids had been drinking mead and chanting. To distract them from what was happening just out of sight?

He must write to Cummins again and open a new avenue to explore.