Charles Todd - A Lonely Death

Rutledge was on the point of following up his advantage just as the outer church door scraped open and the beam of a torch swept them.

Both combatants froze, then turned as one to stare into the brilliant light as Mr. Ottley said sternly, "This is a house of God. Get out of here now."

The man in Rutledge's grasp, using all his strength, broke free, spun the rector into Rutledge's arms, and was gone.

The rector lost his balance and went down, taking Rutledge to one knee as the torch went skittering across the stone floor like a wild thing, the spinning light blinding both of them. Rutledge heaved Mr. Ottley away and was out the door after Summers, unaware he had not gone far.

This time the garrote didn't miss. It whipped over Rutledge's head and drew across his throat so quickly he was helpless to stop it.

And Summers pulled hard, with a force that was backed by anger and an intense will.

Rutledge spun, jerking his revolver from his pocket and raising it in the same motion. The barrel caught Summers with such force across the temple that he went down, the garrote slipping through his hands.

Just then the church door opened and the rector barreled out, torch in hand, shouting Rutledge's name. The beam caught Rutledge in the eyes, and Ottley stopped short.

"At my feet, damn it," he snapped, and the torch swept downward.

"Who is that?" Mr. Ottley asked, peering at the slack, unconscious face. "I've never seen him before!" There was astonishment and relief in his voice.

"At a guess, one Thomas Summers."

The rector moved closer, frowning. "Are you sure? That doesn't look like the Summers lad."

"You haven't seen him in fifteen years. He's changed. He's a man now, not a boy."

Ottley pointed to the blood on the side of the unconscious man's face. "Did you kill him?"

"No. But he'll have one hell of a headache when he comes to his senses," Rutledge said with some satisfaction, shoving his revolver back into his pocket.

His tone brought the flashlight upward, so that Ottley could study his face, but it stopped at Rutledge's throat. "What in God's name-"

"The garrote. He tried to kill me."

Ottley was about to say more when they heard shouting from the direction of the Hastings Road and Norman came charging into the churchyard. "What the hell is happening?"

As he reached the small tableau picked out by Ottley's torch, he added, "We heard the bell, but from where Petty stood, he could see a light in the school. He was certain someone was moving around in that room. Finally I went inside myself. We found a candle lit and a piece of paper on a string, hanging over it. When the candle flickered, the paper moved. We came here-" Norman ran out of words, staring from Rutledge to the rector, and finally noticing the third man lying in the shadows at Rutledge's feet.

"He left the school before we got there," Rutledge said. "He's been following Tuttle. From Eastfield to Hastings and back to Eastfield, I should think. I got in his way."

Norman stepped across to take the torch from the rector's hand and shine it down at Summers.

"Hold it steady," Rutledge said, and stooped to go through Summers's pockets.

There was no identification in any of them. Only, in a breast pocket, a single identity disc intended for his next victim's mouth.

Rutledge looked at it, saw the name, and said nothing. He passed it on to Norman, who brought the torch up to see it more clearly. "Well. We needn't ask if you're this man. Bertie Grimes, corporal, the Yorkshire Rifles."

As he handed it back to Rutledge he saw what was around his neck.

"What the hell did he do to you?" Constable Walker asked, stepping forward for a closer look.

Rutledge unwound the garrote and passed it to Inspector Norman. "The murder weapon."

"Yes, that's the garrote," Walker was saying as he took it. "But what's that around your throat?"

Rutledge reached up and touched the flanged band that encircled his throat. It was what he and the ironmonger's assistant had spent most of the afternoon devising: the only thing he could think of to protect against a garrote. "A gorget. Of a sort. It's meant to be similar to the armor a knight wore around his neck and shoulders to protect them. The ironmonger will have to cut it off. And the sooner the better. Meanwhile, we ought to take Summers to Dr. Gooding. In the event I hit him harder than I meant to."

But as they trooped toward Dr. Gooding's, carrying Summers on a table the rector brought from the church, the man came round, dazed and at first hardly coherent. And then finally aware of where he was, he started to struggle, only to be forced down by the ungentle hands of the constables carrying him. Subsiding, he lay there with one arm flung over his eyes.

Gooding, roused from sleep, pronounced Summers well enough to be taken to Hastings and charged with multiple counts of murder. Rutledge looked at the men surrounding the patient and said, "Norman, if you'll contact Dover police, and ask that a former sergeant named Bell bring the witness he has in his keeping to Hastings at his earliest convenience, we'll have one more piece of our case settled."

"Who is Bell? And what's the name of the witness?" Norman asked. "This is Summers, isn't it?"

"Yes. That's Summers. Bell will explain. Will you give me five minutes alone with the prisoner?"

After a moment they did as they had been asked, but it was clear that Inspector Norman was not best pleased.

When they had shut the door behind them, Rutledge said to Summers, "Is your wife still alive? It won't save you from hanging if you tell me. But there is someone very much interested in her condition."

Summers was staring at him, his eyes intent. "Why should I help the police?"

"Do you hate her as much as you hated the others?"

"I didn't hate her at all. I needed her money," he said coldly.

"You can't inherit any of it, if you've killed her. If she's still alive and you haven't treated her too badly, she might be induced to pay for your defense."

"Not bloody likely," he said harshly. "I killed her confounded little dog. As good as."

Which told Rutledge that Mrs. Summers was still alive. Where?

"I'll give you until nine o'clock in the morning to think that over and tell me where she is."

Summers gingerly touched the side of his head. A red welt marked where Rutledge's revolver had struck him. "You needn't have hit me so damned hard."

There was almost a whining note in his voice.

"Your fault for trying to garrote me," Rutledge said unfeelingly. "Why didn't you stop the killing when you could? Why not let Hopkins take the blame? Did your revenge matter so much that it was worth hanging for?"

"At first it was vengeance. I'd thought about it long enough. I decided it was time to show I had the backbone to do it. When they died, they were as alone as I was all my childhood. A lonely death in return for a lonely life." Summers's face changed, something in it that gave Rutledge pause. At length he said, as if it was unfathomable to him, "Then I found I liked planning and stalking and killing my victims. It brought the war back again. I hadn't realized it then, but it was probably the happiest time of my life. I felt so alive." He considered Rutledge. "You were in the war, at a guess. Do you know what I'm talking about? Did you feel it?"

There was an eagerness in his voice, a need to hear that others had been caught up as well.

Rutledge remembered the trenches, the stench of war, the broken bodies of the living, the torn, bloated corpses of the dead. The nightmare of trying to survive against all odds, and watching those under his command decimated day after day.

"No," he said. "I never did. And I thank God."

Turning on his heel, he left the room, telling Norman that the suspect was all his.