He said to the sergeant, trying to delay entering his cell, "Am I the only prisoner here?"
"No, sir. There's another man at the end of the row. We were preparing for the inquest to be held this very week, but it must wait now for the Inspector to recover."
This must be where Carl Hopkins was also being kept, as he'd thought, and he said under his breath, "Poor devil."
He went into his cell and watched the door swing shut with a clang and the large key turn in the ancient lock. It sounded like a death knell.
This time he couldn't ignore his surroundings. He had no idea how long it would be before Hubbard arrived, and he was faced with the possibility that he would remain in this place for several days, at least until it was certain whether the charge was going to be attempted murder or murder. He wasn't sure he could manage it.
The cell contained a narrow cot, a bucket, and a basin on a shelf with a pitcher standing in it. Near the flat, ugly pillow, a tin cup lay on the blanket that covered the cot. What little light there was came through the barred square in the door. The walls were painted a dreary dun color that had faded into a shade like cream gone off. Although the cell was clean enough, and the water in the pitcher fresh, there was a lingering odor of urine that rose from the floor, and the smell of fear that seemed to cling to the walls. He hadn't noticed it before. He'd been too intent on matters being set straight in a hurry. Now-now, his fate lay in the hands of Inspector Mickelson.
Hamish said derisively, "Ye've been inside a cell before this."
But always knowing that he wasn't the occupant, that when he was ready to leave, the door would open and there would be a reprieve from the panic. Now Rutledge was battling his claustrophobia, fighting the urge to promise anything if they would leave that door unlocked. He thought about the night to come and shuddered, then began to pace. In the dark, the walls would begin to close in.
Hamish cautioned, "There's no help for it, ye ken. Sit doon and close your eyes. Ye willna' see the door, then."
I'm going to make a fool of myself, he thought, when I start screaming. And then they'll know. But after a time, he sat down and shut his eyes, as Hamish had counseled, imagining the room to be as long as the drawing room in Melinda Crawford's house, counting first one and then another of the furnishings and treasured objects that filled the space. It helped, but only a little against the rising tide of dread.
A constable brought him a meal later, as well as fresh water, and he realized it must be noon, or possibly one o'clock. The food was hot, plentiful-fried fish, roasted potatoes, fresh bread and peas. He wondered if Inspector Norman was hedging his bets by treating his thorny prisoner with some care in the event the Yard had to eat its words.
The afternoon dragged by, and Rutledge set himself the puzzle of why there was murder being done in Eastfield.
If Inspector Mickelson had taken the wrong man into custody, the murderer had only to bide his time, and then kill again. It would have made Mickelson look a fool. Why then had he targeted Mickelson?
What had the man done that had angered the killer? From the time that Scotland Yard had arrived in the village, whoever was behind these murders knew he was risking being unmasked. He must also have known that dispatching one inspector would only bring another in his place, someone even more determined to search him out.
What had made it necessary to rid himself of Mickelson before the inquest? Rutledge had told Norman that it was what Mickelson knew-or was about to do. But was that true?
Or had Kenton, trying to persuade Mickelson he was wrong about Hopkins, lost his temper and acted rashly? Something as simple as that?
He went to the door and raised his voice, but only loud enough to reach to the last cell down the passage. He had heard the door being unlocked and a lunch tray passed to the prisoner there. But the man had been quiet. If he had spoken at all, it was so softly that the words hadn't carried.
"Carl Hopkins?"
There was no answer.
Rutledge tried again. "Mr. Hopkins. I'm a policeman. I was in Eastfield before Inspector Mickelson."
"I remember." There was a pause. "Why are you in a cell?"
"Inspector Mickelson was attacked. For lack of a better idea, they think I'm involved. I didn't like the man. The feeling was mutual. Meanwhile, I'm waiting for my movements to be cleared up." He hoped that was true.
"It's a trick of some sort. Well, it won't do you much good. I didn't kill anyone. I have nothing to confess."
"It's no trick."
But Hopkins wouldn't say anything else and Rutledge let it go.
I didn't kill anyone…
Rutledge sat down on the cot, staring at the walls, hearing in the back of his mind the distant French guns, and then the artillery from the English lines. Before very long, he knew he'd begin shouting commands to his men, and then he would be lost.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He had even lost track of where he was, the tramp of men's boots as they formed a line in the trench, waiting their turn to go up the ladder and follow their officers into battle, had seemed so real he could smell the stench of the water in the bottom of their trench and hear the whispered prayers of men who knew they could die in the next five minutes. He was preparing to blow his whistle for the charge when the present intruded.
The sound of voices drifted down the passage and then grew louder. After a moment the constable appeared to unlock Rutledge's door. The relief that swept over him as the door swung wide was almost physical, and for a moment he had to struggle with the images fading into the back of his mind.
"You're wanted in Inspector Norman's office," the man said and stepped aside.
Rutledge got up from the cot and walked out the door. He knew that Hubbard must have arrived, and when he stepped into Inspector Norman's office, the first person he saw was the Chief Inspector.
"A mistake has been made," the Chief Inspector was saying to him. "I'm sorry."
Rutledge stood by the doorway, waiting.
Inspector Norman said to Rutledge, "Come in." He pointed to the other chair.
Rutledge joined them. But still he said nothing.
Chief Inspector Hubbard turned to Inspector Norman. "Chief Superintendent Bowles was misinformed. Inspector Rutledge was visiting friends in Kent when the murder occurred. We've spoken to Mrs. Crawford. She was quite clear. Inspector Rutledge couldn't have left her house, driven to Eastfield, and returned without the staff or she herself being aware of his absence. What's more, his leave had been requested before the subject of Mrs. Farrell-Smith's complaint had been brought up with him."
It was an outright lie, blandly told.
"She's made a second statement this morning. She claims she saw Rutledge speaking to Mickelson and then taking him up in his motorcar the night before the attack was discovered. How do you answer that?"
Hubbard was clearly unprepared for this information. He recovered quickly. "She reported this to Constable Walker?"
Norman hesitated. "Not straightaway. No."
"Had you sent your men to look for Rutledge in Eastfield, after you spoke to the Yard?"
"I saw no harm in sending Constable Petty to keep an eye on things. Until someone arrived from London." He shot a glance in Rutledge's direction, then returned his attention to Hubbard.
"And Mrs. Farrell-Smith didn't speak to Constable Petty about what she'd seen?"
"He's still in Eastfield," Norman said, grudgingly. "I don't know. She didn't mention having spoken to him."
Chief Inspector Hubbard said, "I must wonder why she felt it necessary to leave the school and come directly here to you, when there were other avenues in Eastfield open to her. Mrs. Farrell-Smith, it appears, prefers not to deal with underlings."
Norman said, "You haven't read her statement. But you're convinced her evidence is flawed."