Part 9 (1/2)
Weaver stared down at the broken stalks of last summer's wildflowers. ”I don't see Will Taylor mixed up in anything sinister. He was bent on feeding his family. Took losing his leg hard, an active sort who liked working out in the air. But he was trying to manage somehow.”
Rutledge said, ”Did his wife have anything to tell you?”
”I questioned Alice myself,” Weaver responded. ”But she didn't know much. He was staying over in Seelyham to finish the fence, saying he'd come home when it was done. She didn't expect him for another day or two. Sergeant Burke went on to Seelyham and asked about Taylor's work. The fence was done properly, and a day early. Taylor was told he could wait until the morning, but was eager to get home, and set out after his dinner.”
”Was Taylor carrying his pay?”
”Yes, sir, and it was still there, in his pocket. You'd think, wouldn't you, sir, that a thief wouldn't fail to find that!”
THE SECOND VICTIM had been found on the road from Helford. It ran into the Seelyham road at an angle, just outside Marling. Lying in a ditch by the side of fields, he was almost invisible until the sun rose high enough to pierce the shadows. had been found on the road from Helford. It ran into the Seelyham road at an angle, just outside Marling. Lying in a ditch by the side of fields, he was almost invisible until the sun rose high enough to pierce the shadows.
Beyond where Weaver stood with Rutledge, the hop gardens spread out toward a distant farm, tucked into a fold of land. Their frames and their green vines gone for the winter, the gardens looked bare and fallow. An oast house, one of the most recognizable features of the Kent landscape, reared its head like a decapitated windmill close by a stand of trees, its white walls streaked and wet from the rain. Inside it was an oast, the drying kiln that was an essential part of the processing of hops.
”Tell me about this man-Webber?” Rutledge encouraged Weaver as they got out in the rain and stood by the spot. ”What sort was he?”
”Most everyone in Marling knew who he was. Not the sort you'd find carousing of a Sat.u.r.day night. He'd had a strict upbringing, and his mother was Temperance-mad. A carpenter by trade. Made tables and chests and the like, as his father had done before him. He was in Helford, recaning chairs. The caning Webber did was known all over. No breaks and no missed steps.”
”Was there money in his pocket?”
”Yes, sir, we found two pounds.”
Hamish commented, ”A clever man, now, he'd ha' taken the money and put it in the puir box. To confound the police.”
Rutledge responded aloud without thinking. ”Both of them married: Taylor and Webber. Not likely to be unfaithful, would you say?”
Weaver answered him. ”They weren't likely, no, sir. Past an age for wild oats, and that. There's no jealous husband looking for revenge.”
THE THIRD BODY had been found close by the crossroads where Rutledge thought he'd seen a face in his headlamps. He felt an odd frisson of cold down his spine as he got out of the motorcar, as if there were traces of something unnatural here still, a scent or lingering shadow. had been found close by the crossroads where Rutledge thought he'd seen a face in his headlamps. He felt an odd frisson of cold down his spine as he got out of the motorcar, as if there were traces of something unnatural here still, a scent or lingering shadow.
Hamish, ordinarily quick to point out foolishness, was a Highlander, who understood moods.
But the corpse was a local man, not a straying doppelganger. Harry Bartlett had gone to visit a friend who was ill-and ended by dying before him.
”Bartlett wasn't what you'd call a staunch churchgoer,” Weaver was saying. ”He had a reputation as a h.e.l.l-raiser before the war, and was the first in Marling to sign up. Told everyone he was tired of bas.h.i.+ng local heads, and thought he'd try a few Germans. He was a good soldier, from all reports. That lot often are. But he got hung up on the wire one night that last spring of the war and when they brought him in, he was near to bleeding to death.”
Hamish was asking a question. Rutledge said, ”Did these three men serve in the same unit?”
Weaver blinked. ”Yes, sir, I expect they did. The Kent men stayed together. Looked out for each other.”
Officers had found that men who knew each other fought better side by side. They often died side by side, when a sh.e.l.l went up in their faces.
Rutledge walked along the road for some distance, then turned and walked back. ”All right then, the war. Find out all you can about where they served, and who their friends were.”
”Sir? I can't see how that might help. The war's been over for a while now.”
”It hadn't ended for them, had it?”
After a last look around, Rutledge turned back to the motorcar. They drove back to Marling as dusk was falling, and the road seemed long, lonely.
Hamish commented, ”A man with crutches would accept a ride.”
”So he would,” Rutledge silently agreed. ”But why should he be saved from a painful walk-and then be killed?”
Still, it was something to consider. What had these three men had in common, besides lost limbs? According to Weaver, not much beyond their working-cla.s.s backgrounds and their service in the war. Bartlett's wife, Peggy, was a girl he'd married since coming home, and there were no children.
Dowling had been right. There was hardly any evidence to build on. What had brought these men face to face with a killer? Greed? A secret that was dangerous to know? A killer wouldn't offer a man a gla.s.s of wine and then fill him with laudanum, unless he first wanted to learn something from his victim. . . . Where had they drunk together?
Rutledge, listening to Hamish in the back of his mind, wondered how many more would join this unholy clutch of dead men, before the police found any answers.
THE RAIN FELL with depressing steadiness, cold and coloring everything a bleak gray. Even the church at the top of High Street seemed dark and dreary, its ragstone facade streaked with damp, and the dead flower stalks among the churchyard stones a sign of desertion rather than loving memorials. What did you grow in the churchyard in winter besides ivy and h.e.l.lebore? Rutledge wondered as he drove back to the hotel. Too late for Michaelmas daisies and too early for pansies. with depressing steadiness, cold and coloring everything a bleak gray. Even the church at the top of High Street seemed dark and dreary, its ragstone facade streaked with damp, and the dead flower stalks among the churchyard stones a sign of desertion rather than loving memorials. What did you grow in the churchyard in winter besides ivy and h.e.l.lebore? Rutledge wondered as he drove back to the hotel. Too late for Michaelmas daisies and too early for pansies.
He washed up and unpacked his luggage, then came down to the dining room-to find Melinda Crawford ensconced at the best table. She looked up as he came into the paneled room and smiled broadly.
”Either I'm in my dotage, or you've answered a maiden's prayers.”
He laughed and came to join her. ”What brings you to Marling?”
”I could ask the same of you, but I've already guessed that in your case it's murder. In mine it might well be. I've been left at the altar, in a manner of speaking.”
”By whom?” he asked, surprised.
”I was invited to dine with the Masterses, but Bella says that Raleigh is in the foulest of moods and the cook is threatening to give notice, and poor Bella's at her wit's end. So I left. Fortunately I remembered that the hotel here has quite good food, and I thought I might perhaps ask Elizabeth to join me.”
”And have you?” He couldn't alter the wary note in his voice.
”She wasn't at home, either.” Mrs. Crawford sighed. ”The one thing I hate about getting old is one's shrinking circle of friends. But here you are, quite a delightful surprise, and I'm going to enjoy my evening with a handsome young man rather than a crabby old one.”
”Has Masters taken a turn for the worse?”
”I doubt his body has, but his temper most certainly did. I could hear him roaring from the front hall. If the man hadn't been such a brilliant barrister and the most charming of people, I'd say he was paying for past sins. Still, I have both my limbs, and I can't imagine what it must be like not to.”
”No reason to take his temper out on his wife.”
”Bella's not as cowardly as you might think. In fact, she may in the end prove to be stronger than Raleigh. If she doesn't poison him first. I think tonight I'd have had a go at it.”
Rutledge felt his spirits rising. Melinda Crawford was a charming woman, possessed of wit and insight and a very clear view of human nature. At the moment, she was the perfect antidote to his depression.
The meal was excellent, and the conversation exhilarating, leaving Hamish out as if shutting the door. The Scot was still making up his mind about Mrs. Crawford.
”In another time,” Rutledge heard him muttering, ”she'd ha' been burned at the stake for witchcraft.”
Amused, Rutledge had silently answered, ”Or been the mistress of Kings.”