"What was the outcome?"
"The inquest brought in death by misadventure, but Mrs. Farrell-Smith was still under a cloud as far as the police were concerned. They couldn't find a motive for her to kill the man, and without that, they couldn't manage to charge her. It would have been easy enough, according to the sergeant I spoke with, for her to tip him over the edge if he was busy with his camera. The footing is uncertain at best at that spot."
Rutledge was reminded of the drop from East Hill in Hastings, the headland where Theo Hartle was killed.
"Was that because the Derbyshire police couldn't come up with a reason that satisfied the Crown, or was it because they didn't care for her on general principles?"
"I couldn't say. But there was no medical evidence that her husband had been struck or tripped. No bruises and the like. She claimed he'd experienced a bit of vertigo, that she put out a hand to him, and he turned the wrong way." He paused. "She had scratches on her hands from where he clawed at her as he went over. But no one could tell whether they occurred as she tried to save him or whether it was as he tried to save himself and she let go."
"Either way, she would have to move house, and live where she wasn't known." Rutledge nodded. "Very selfish of her to want the Yard out of the picture, but it's understandable. I need to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles."
"He's not here, he's on his way to testify in a trial in Lincoln. Remember that one? He had to examine the firm's books himself."
"Damn. It could be days before that's finished." He debated following the Chief Superintendent north, and then thought better of it. "All right, I'll go back to Sussex and have a word with the Chief Constable."
"I'd be cautious on that score, sir. The Chief Constable wasn't best pleased by Mrs. Farrell-Smith's complaint. Apparently he'd wanted the inquiry to be left in the hands of the local police, but Mr. Pierce had been very persuasive. He said as much to me, and then when I'd brought the Chief Superintendent to the telephone, he was still angry. I couldn't help but overhear the Chief Superintendent blaming you for the lack of progress in the inquiry, and he apologized for your conduct and your incompetence. Something was said about the fourth murder, because I heard Old Bowels reply that if you'd spent less time annoying people and more in finding the killer, someone would have been in custody by now."
Rutledge said only, "I'll be careful."
It was late evening before he left the Yard. He had used the time to put in two telephone calls of his own. He had managed to speak to the corporal in Cheshire whose name had been on one of the other identity discs-the inspector there had been more than willing to find and bring the man to the telephone. The corporal had never possessed identity discs, and he knew nothing about the men of the Eastfield Company The inspector had come back on the line and vouched for the man. That avenue had led nowhere, just as Rutledge had expected.
The second telephone call elicited the fact that the name on the fourth set had died of his wounds in England after a valiant fight against the odds.
Hamish said as Rutledge put up the telephone after the last conversation, "Ye ken, it was a trick. And a verra' good one. But is the war a trick as well?"
"Early days," Rutledge answered absently, thinking that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to draw the police into a lie. If that was true, then what secret had the discs been used to conceal? Was it a member of the company itself who was behind these murders?
When he left the Yard, the shadows were long and the heat of the sun already dissipating. He started the motorcar and drove with only half of his mind on what he was doing, still considering the case that was no longer his to think about.
Hamish was silent, and it was several minutes before Rutledge realized that he knew the motorcar just in front of his. It belonged to Meredith Channing.
13
A t the next intersection, as Mrs. Channing was preparing to turn left, Rutledge pulled up beside her vehicle.
"It's good to see you," he called.
In truth. The last time he'd spoken to her, he'd asked her not to go away on the extended trip she was planning to take. She had hinted at a year or more abroad, in order to put her own life back together. She had even admitted that there was someone she cared for, and that that had been a factor in her decision. All he could think of, in the face of her sudden, unforeseen decision, was to say what he felt.
And then he'd walked away, refusing to look at what had motivated his words. Afterward, he had avoided her-her house, mutual friends, and any place in London where he had encountered her in the past.
Now, he searched her eyes for something to guide his next words, prepared to drive on.
And then on the spur of the moment, he added, "It's late, but would you care for a coffee?"
She smiled. "Yes. Yes, I would, actually."
He tried to think of a restaurant that was open. "The Marlborough Hotel?" he suggested. Neutral ground.
"I'll follow you." She pulled back into the line of traffic just behind him. He reached the hotel first, and she quickly found a space for her motorcar as she caught up with him. They entered the hotel Reception together, and she saw a small table in the lounge, set in an alcove with a long window. Several other couples were having tea or coffee in the room, and the atmosphere was quiet, pleasant.
"There?"
He nodded. They sat down, and he ordered two coffees.
Into the silence that followed, Rutledge said, "You're out late."
"I went to a lovely dinner party." She smiled, reminiscing.
They had met at a dinner party. He had been afraid that she saw into his mind, her eyes seeming to read his thoughts. It was his own fear, he realized later. But she had a way of understanding people that was unexpected in one so young. And he had been drawn to her against his will.
Their coffee came. Rutledge waited until the young man serving them was out of earshot. Then he said as she passed the sugar bowl to him, "Why did you stay?"
He'd intended to keep his voice level, but it had taken an effort to achieve that. Hamish had set up a deafening roar in his head from the moment he'd recognized her motorcar.
She was playing with the silver spoon in her fingers, paying excessive attention to it, twisting it so that it caught the light and then went dark. Bright again in the lamplight. Dark again. He watched it too, thinking that it was very like their relationship, fragmented by too many shadows.
"Ian," she said finally, not looking at him. It was a warning not to open that door.
He drank a little of his coffee. It was bitter in his mouth. "I've been in Sussex," he went on. "Do you know Hastings? The water there is worth seeing." He swore to himself. It was hardly an exciting conversational opening, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.
"Is it? No, I've never been there." After a moment, as if she too was struggling to find common ground, she added, "I've always liked the sea. But I've never been fond of sea bathing. I'm content to sit and watch the tides."
He searched for something else to say. "How is your shoulder?" It had been dislocated a few weeks earlier when a train traveling north to Scotland had derailed on a curve, killing or injuring more than a score of passengers. He had been among the first on the harrowing scene.
"Quite well, actually. I thought at first-but the doctors were very good. And I stayed with friends in order to be near their surgery. I quite fell in love with Dr. Anderson. He must be sixty-five, at the very least. He has a way with patients. I wished many times that he'd been with us out in France. I trusted him, and did the exercises he prescribed to please him. But I missed London. I always come back here." Her voice changed on the last words.