"Was your husband friendly with Daniel Pierce?"
"Mr. Daniel? Whoever told you such a thing? Will knew him of course, we all did. But Mr. Daniel's father had money, and our fathers didn't. That's a great barrier to friendship, even when you're young. Not that Mr. Anthony or Mr. Daniel put on airs, it was understood. They were different, even when they were doing what we were doing."
As he thanked her for her time, Mrs. Jeffers said, "Finding Will's murderer is the only thanks I need."
Leaving a brief message on Constable Walker's desk with a schedule for the nightly patrols, he packed his valise, left The Fishermen's Arms, and set out for Shropshire.
He had fewer than three days to find an answer.
Rutledge stopped in London for clean clothing, and found a letter waiting for him from Reginald Hume. I'm still with Rosemary. The thought of this empty house filled with Max's ghost was too much for her, I think, and caring for me has given her something to do. I'm no trouble, and I stay out of her way as much as possible. The doctors here are trying to persuade me to go to America and a place called Arizona. They believe the dry air there may help, but I don't believe I could survive the journey at this stage. And I have something to do before I die. Just wanted you to know that Rosemary is beginning to accept. But there's a long road ahead.
And then he was on the road north and west, to find Minton, Shropshire.
19
I t was late when he neared his destination. Rutledge had had to stop and ask for Minton half a dozen times before he finally learned that it was the next village over but one.
He stayed in a small inn that boasted no more than five rooms, and the next morning drove on to Minton.
He'd always liked Shropshire, sitting on the Welsh Borders. The River Severn divided the rolling land to the north from the southern plains, and just below Buildwas was the tiny village of Minton. It looked down on the tree-lined river and huddled together, as if half afraid of disappearing if it spread out.
Iris Lane was just that, a short track edged its entire length with beds of iris, the broad green swords of their leaves unmistakable, although there were no blooms now. Old Well House was a pretty cottage, windows open wide to the morning air and a line of wash already hung out at the side of the kitchen garden.
Rutledge tapped lightly at the door, and a young woman came to open it. Her face was flushed, as if she'd hurried down the stairs.
"Oh," she said, encountering a stranger on her step. Looking over his shoulder she saw the motorcar. "I thought you might be-well, never mind, you aren't. Have you got yourself lost?"
She was of middle height, with soft fair hair done up in a knot, and she wore a damp apron. He wondered if he'd caught her at the washtub.
"I'm Inspector Rutledge, from London. Scotland Yard," he began.
"Dear heaven, they've found Tommy!"
"Was he missing?" Rutledge asked, surprised by her shock.
"He never came home from the war. Well, not really. He was in hospital for a time, but then went back to France in October of 1918. I had a letter or two from him, and after that, nothing." She realized she was chattering on the doorstep and said, "I'm so sorry, please do come in." She led him to the front room. "You're from London, you said? That's a long way to come to bring me word of my brother."
"As a matter of truth," he said, "I've come to ask you about your brother. You lived in Sussex, when you were young?"
"Yes, and I cried for days when we left, I was so sad. My father had a better position, but I sometimes thought he'd left because of something else. My mother is buried in St. Mary's churchyard, you see. I thought perhaps he wanted to leave his memories behind."
"How did your brother like moving across England?"
"He was so excited. I thought, it will be the same, he'll annoy the other lads, and they'll play tricks, and then he'll be unhappy again, and nothing will change."
"It was his fault that he didn't get along with the boys in Eastfield?"
She frowned. "He didn't try. I'm sure he didn't. Other boys managed it, didn't they? That one-what was his name?-whose legs were crippled. He was the same way, never trying. A smile would have helped, or a willingness to be friendly. But Tommy surprised all of us, didn't he? He lost several stone of weight, his face cleared up, and he got along just fine. And I told him, it's wonderful how you've changed. He said the oddest thing then-he said, 'I had to change. And I hated it.' You would have thought he'd been forced to do something awful."
"How did he fare in the war?"
"He was a good soldier. He did everything that was asked of him. He told me he had learned that others wanted to make him over in their image, and so he did it for them, only it was merely on the surface, and they were too stupid to see."
"And after the war?"
"He was wounded in late spring of 1918, and he went to a clinic in Bedfordshire. I saw him there, and he seemed to be excited about what he'd done in the war. He was eager to go back. He admired the Ghurkas. Those dark little men from Nepal. He wrote that they were the best at what they did, which was killing people. He would have liked to be a Ghurka officer. They had English officers, didn't they? He stayed in France for six months after the Armistice. When he did come back it wasn't to Minton. He was searching for his nurse from the Bedfordshire clinic. It was closed, of course, the remaining men sent elsewhere, and no one knew just where she was. Such a pretty girl. I was happy for him, I hoped he would find her. That was in 1919. And after that, there has been nothing. It was as if he'd vanished. I reported it to the police in Buildwas. They asked me if I suspected foul play, but of course I had no reason to think any such thing. He was just missing. They were polite and kind, but they did nothing."
"Perhaps he found his nurse and together they left England."
"He'd have told me, wouldn't he? He'd have wanted me to be happy for him." Her eyes filled. "I was beginning to think he could be dead. People sometimes aren't identified straightaway, are they?"
Rutledge said gently, "We make every effort to find a name. Do you have a photograph of him? It would help."
"He didn't like being photographed. There's one with my mother, but he was only a year old." She smiled shakily. "You wouldn't be able to tell what he was like as a man, would you? And I'd rather not part with it anyway, I don't have many photographs of her."
Rutledge cast about for a better way to broach his next question, but there was no way to soften it.
"I'm curious. Did your brother harbor any hard feelings toward his schoolmates in Eastfield? Did he talk about them or wish he could-um-punish them for the way he'd been treated? Or didn't it matter, after he'd grown used to another life?"
"I asked him that, once. He told me it was all right, that he'd cursed them. I suppose it made him feel better, but of course that's all it did. Their lives went on, and I doubt they've given him a thought in all these years. He didn't matter as much to them as they did to him, you see. You'll keep looking for him, won't you? I'm to be married soon. My father's dead. It would be lovely if my brother could give me away."
He promised to do his best, and left.
She went with him to the door and watched as he reversed down the track.
Regina Summers was serene in her certainty that her brother bore no ill will for whatever had gone wrong in his childhood. And perhaps he didn't. But men's lives were in the balance.
Rutledge stopped the motorcar, got out, and walked back to the cottage door.
"Your father," he said. "Do you think he saw how wretched his son was, and decided to take him away from Eastfield?"
Her eyes widened in surprise. "That never occurred to me. For Tommy's sake? Oh, no, Tommy never told him about the things that went on at school. He never told the Misses Tate, either. He thought they would see. And they never did."