A Long Shadow (36 page)

"But can you be absolutely positive those bones are Ellison's remains? Not just someone walking on the road who fell ill, got to the wood, and died."

"And buried himself afterward?"

"Time covered his remains, not a human agency. You've got to admit that that's possible. Look, you came here to deal with the attack on Constable Hensley. There was nothing in your brief about Emma Mason. Nor her mother, nor her grandfather. Who shot Hensley?"

"Mrs. Ellison. She's admitted that her granddaughter was interested in bows and arrows. She had the means."

"I've met Mrs. Ellison socially. Frankly, I can't quite see her wandering in Frith's Wood with the intention of killing anyone. Besides, how could she have walked boldly toward the wood with a bow in her hand?"

"She could have left it there for use if Hensley got too close. And she felt the time had come."

"Premeditation."

"Yes."

"No one goes to that wood, Rutledge, if they can help it."

"Do you think Mrs. Ellison is superstitious?"

Cain shook his head. "We're not getting anywhere. Bring me proof, Rutledge, beyond hearsay and suspicion. I must have something I can actually hold in my hand, as it were." Rutledge left, his anger barely controlled. But he knew that Cain was right.

He drove back to Dudlington with Hamish making his presence known through an undercurrent of disapproval.

"She kens what you know. You canna' change that. And if she's been sae clever all these years—"

"She's not likely to give herself away now."

He concentrated on the road, watching the fields speed by his motorcar, thinking about Dudlington, and how blind the village had been to what was happening. Cain couldn't overlook Mrs. Ellison's connection with a once-prominent family, and neither could Mrs. Ellison's neighbors.

He arrived to find chaos.

Smoke was billowing out the door of Hensley's house, a dark plume that was acrid and choking. He could hear the coughing as the men worked to smother the blaze with water and blankets and buckets of sand from somewhere.

Hamish was urgently reminding him of papers that were at risk in the cupboard behind Hensley's desk.

Rutledge plunged through the door to see what the damage was. The fire hadn't reached the office, but it appeared that a live coal from the hearth had exploded onto the carpet in the sitting room, and the flames had run up the sides of a chair before someone had stepped into the office and smelled smoke.

Or had the coal had help moving from hearth to carpet?

There was no time to wonder. Rutledge inserted himself into the chain as those pumping water from the sink passed buckets down the line and others clattered down the steps with more bedclothes and linens to help smother the blaze.

Rutledge saw Keating stop and pick up papers being trampled underfoot in the office and set them out of the way. They had fallen from the desk and had been scattered by the multitude of feet hurrying through.

The greengrocer was there, the baker and his helpers as well, and someone from one of the houses on the other side, as well as a half dozen men he didn't recognize.

The burning carpet was now a smoldering, blackened ruin, and half the chair was gone. The wood of the floor had been heavily scorched. Ten minutes more, he thought, and the drapes would have caught as well.

Men were moving outside into cleaner air, and water sloshed under their feet and was tracked through the office.

Keating was still there, rapidly sorting papers, as if looking for something. Rutledge had put away most of the concealed papers he'd discovered, and the rest were the routine reports Hensley hadn't got around to filing. He turned away as Keating stepped outside and, without waiting for thanks, walked on up the hill to The Oaks.

Someone brought a bucket of hot tea, sweet and leavened with milk, and it was poured into mugs. Sweaty faces, covered in grime, grinned in reaction and relief. One man even called to Rutledge to ask if he'd ever worked with a fire brigade before. Then Rutledge remembered that the house wasn't Hensley's, only let from the greengrocer. The willing hands had come to help one of their own.

Still, he thanked them, walking among them and talking with each man.

Ted Baylor was there, saying, gruffly, "It's the least I could do," as if his presence was repayment for the safe return of his cow.

The air was still heavy with smoke, and the house would have to air before he could sleep in it that night.

Looking up once, toward the house across the way, he could see Mrs. Ellison standing back from the window but watching what was going on.

"You aren't the only one to watch from windows,"
she'd said. But had she had anything to do with the fire?

He left the men to their tea and went across to knock at her door.

To his surprise she came to answer it.

"Did you see who went in, before the fire was discovered?" And then he added, "It's not my house, or Hensley's. It belongs to Freebold."

"Why should I help you?"

"Because you're a Harkness, and must set a good example."

Her eyes were cold as glass. "You have enemies," she said. "And I wish them well!"

With that she closed the door in his face.

Mrs. Channing had come down from The Oaks and was helping Dr. Middleton bandage hands and offer a soothing cream for singed faces. When she'd finished, she came to stand by Rutledge, out of reach of the lingering wisps of smoke still coming from the house.

"Was it an accident—set on purpose?" she asked in a low voice.

"I don't know. It wouldn't have done much harm, unless I'd been in bed and asleep."

It was then he remembered the figure in his room in the middle of the night.

How could a village this size turn a blind eye to a stranger coming and going, without gossip flying?

He looked at the men still standing about, talking. The excitement had died, and ordinary conversations had sprung up among them.

They wore heavy corduroy trousers, sturdy boots, a tweed jacket or one of heavy canvas, and hats that they pulled down over their faces to fight the harsh wind blowing across the fields.

Turn their backs, he thought, and they were more or less indistinguishable, save for variations in height and breadth from man to man.

As a rule, people here weren't likely to stand at their small windows with nothing to do but watch the passing scene. On the other hand, the inspector from London glimpsed knocking at a neighbor's door would command a second glance. The familiar sight of a stockman striding past, hunched against the cold, would not. He could come and go at will, without attracting attention.

Even Harry Ellison had kept a set of work clothes by the outside cellar door.

It was similar to ex-soldiers in the cities, all of them so much alike, so many of them out of work or trying to fit into a world that had changed while they were away, that people looked away from them. Invisible.

"A dead soldier. . ."

He'd seen them in Kent and again in Hertford, and never given them a thought. But here, it would have been different. Disguise meant to fit in, and not stand out.

It explained why his tormentor was never seen, his appearances were never marked. He was invisible because he was not out of the ordinary.

When people had finally gone about their business, Rutledge went inside and spent an hour wiping up the wet floor where the scorched remnants of carpet had been cleared away to the dustbin. Then he finished cutting out the worst of the charred horsehair in the side of the wing chair. It helped, a little, to disperse the heavy odor of fire. Hamish noted, "A fine way to cover up the smell of death." Rutledge wondered if Mrs. Ellison had thought of that. Afterward he walked to the rectory and found Towson sitting at his study desk, trying to write with his left hand and very frustrated.

"Pshaw!" he said as Rutledge tapped lightly at the open door. "I shall have to deliver my sermons from memory. This scrawl is hardly legible."

"No one will mind. You should have half a hundred committed to memory by now."

Towson grinned as he set his pen in the dish. "One of the great things about age is that what happened twenty years ago is more easily recalled than what happened twenty days ago." His grin faded. "You smell strongly of smoke. Has there been another fire? Has someone been injured?"

"There was a small blaze at Constable Hensley's house. A spark from the fire fell on the carpet. No harm done, except to the carpet."

"Poor man, he's suffered enough. I shouldn't like to think of him coming home to more adversity. What can we do? I'm sure we can manage to find him a new carpet somehow."

"He's developed a fever. The hospital staff is worried about infection."

Towson clucked his tongue. "I ought to go to Northampton and spend some time with him. Do you think you could see your way to driving me there?"

"I think Mrs. Channing might be happy to drive you." Rutledge paused. "What do you remember about the day you fell down the stairs?"

"It's still a trifle hazy, I'm afraid. Bits and pieces are coming back to me. There was something about money—I was happy about it. But I can't think what it was!"

"Had you by any chance just spoken with Mrs. Ellison?" He blinked. "Mary Ellison? I don't believe—Mary Ellison?" He leaned back in his chair, his face changing from uncertainty to a growing surprise. "Yes, by God, that's who it was! I
do
remember! She came down the passage calling to me, and I answered from the head of the attic stairs. She scolded me for taking such a risk and asked if I went up there often." Towson suddenly looked sheepish. "I'm afraid I was annoyed. Hillary Timmons and Dr. Middleton have lectured me on going up there, in fact just last week. I'm afraid I told Mrs. Ellison rather blithely that I went up several times a day to enjoy the view from the windows."

Hamish said, "It wasna' the answer she'd expected to hear."

"Why had she come? Surely not just to scold you?" Rutledge persisted.

"That was what astonished me, you know. She didn't generally call on me. But she said she was here to donate fifty pounds to the church fund. It was an unexpected gift, but one we need rather badly. When I started down the steps to thank her, she told me to go on and finish what I was doing—which was searching out a pair of gloves, though I hadn't said anything about that."

"She didn't speak of an emergency?"

"Not at all. It was afterward that someone shouted for me to come at once. I'm sure she'd been gone for, oh, a good five or six minutes. I'd been thinking how best to use the money, enjoying the prospect."

But she hadn't gone very far, Rutledge found himself thinking. She must have looked in the kitchen and the laundry to see if Hillary Timmons was in the house. "Have you seen her since?"

"Now that was the odd thing. She came just this morning to ask me about a pot of chutney she'd left on the table in the hall a day or so ago, not wanting to disturb me while I was convalescing. Sadly she never mentioned the donation to the church fund. I wish I'd remembered it and brought it to her attention."

"Chutney?" Rutledge asked, feeling his heart lurch. "Hillary found it there on the hall table and set it in the pantry. She didn't know where it'd come from, but she thought I did. So when Mrs. Ellison asked me about her gift, I blurted out that it was delicious, and I thanked her profusely. I was too embarrassed to admit I had no idea what she was talking about."

"Towson—"

"She went on to say she wondered if it hadn't gone off. She even suggested bringing me another pot. White lies do have a way of coming back to haunt you. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. How was I to tell her I'd never seen it, couldn't return it if my life depended on it? All I could do was assure her it was of excellent quality."

"And so you found it and tasted it as soon as she'd gone." It was the sort of thing he was sure the rector would do, to make good his white lie.

"Good heavens, no! I asked Hillary if she'd seen it, and she told me where she'd put it. I don't care for chutney, you see, and so I told the girl she could take it home to her family."

"Rector. Will you take me to Hillary Timmons's house? I want that pot of chutney."

"I'll ask her for it tomorrow, if you like. I wasn't aware that you were so fond of it."

"You must take me there now!" He was on his feet, standing in the doorway, urging the bewildered clergyman to follow him.

"But I don't understand, why shouldn't Hillary enjoy it? They're not very well off, you know. I don't particularly like taking it back, as if I'd found someone else to have it. You've only to speak to Mary Ellison. I'm sure she'd be happy to give you your own."

And he was just as certain that she would not. "All right, first we'll look to see if Hillary already has taken it. If she has, we'll go directly to her house." He was firm, but when Towson didn't move, he started down the passage to the kitchen. Reluctantly the rector limped after him.

"You must tell me—what's wrong?"

"I don't know. Where's the pantry?" Rutledge asked, opening the door to the kitchen. It was warm and cheerful, and he remembered standing in Mrs. Ellison's kitchen, feeling like an interloper in her private world.