Well, then, Ian, my friend, I wonder what you will make of this!
Rutledge put down the letter. What indeed to make of it? He agreed with Cummins that the author of the letter had purposely made the clues difficult to follow. Still, if Cummins had happened on that flint knife in the course of another case, would he have followed the same steps toward finding an answer? Was that the point, that the killer had felt he had done his duty, secure in the knowledge that his role would never come to light?
What's more, were there clues in that letter that might lead to the name of the victim, if not the murderer?
Without the original, he wasn't able to make an educated guess about that. But surely Cummins would examine all the possibilities?
Hamish said, "Ye canna see ye're ain way. You canna' worry oe'r much about the ins and outs of anither man's inquiry."
But Rutledge said, "It's a puzzle. Like this one of Summers's doing. God knows how long he has planned his revenge, but so far he's carried it out without so much a qualm. The men he killed, the woman he took to France, the dog he'd abandoned."
"If ye had never gone to yon hotel room at The White Swans, you wouldna' ha' known about yon dog."
It was true. And the Dover police had been particularly interested in how he had known about the dog and how he had come to learn what it was called.
He'd replied simply that he had been several times to the hotel where the Pierces were staying. True, as far as it went.
Rutledge took a deep breath. "He's coming back. I can feel it," he said aloud into the silence of the room. "And sooner than we expect. And I don't know how to stop him."
Hamish said, "With any luck ata', he'll drown on his way back across yon Channel. I was never sea sick mysel', but ithers were, and dying was a cheering thought."
"But that's the problem. He could come back through a dozen different ports."
And hovering in the back of his mind was the inescapable knowledge that if he hadn't believed the false lead to Brighton, he could have reached Dover in time.
Rutledge let it go. There was nothing he could do this night, and sometimes an answer came more readily if he ignored the problem.
He went out to find his dinner, choosing a restaurant where he wasn't likely to encounter anyone from the Yard. The food there was edible, the clientele older and quiet, and he didn't linger over his meal.
When he came home again, there was someone huddled in the doorway of the flat, only a thicker shadow among shadows.
His first thought was Summers. Or-his wife?
Bracing himself, he called, "Who is it? Who is there?"
The shapeless figure turned, taking on the outline of a woman, and then a voice he knew said, "Ian? Please, I need your help."
It was Meredith Channing, and he went forward quickly, taking her arm with one hand, opening the door of his flat with the other. Thank God, he thought, he'd left a lamp burning. He put her into a chair, closed the door, and went to find a handkerchief, for he could see that she was crying. He gave it to her, and as she pressed it against her eyes, he said, "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I didn't know where to turn," she answered him after a moment, her eyes still hidden behind his handkerchief. And then as if she had found the courage to say what she had come to say, she set the rumpled white square of cloth aside. He could read the anguish in her face. "My friends-I could ask any of them, and they would help me. But then they would know, you see-once the words are spoken, I can never take them back. And when they look at me, I'll know that they remember, and I couldn't bear that."
He took the chair across from hers. "I've never judged you," he said quietly. And waited.
"Shall I tell you a story, Ian?" she said when she was calmer. It seemed like hours later but perhaps no more than ten minutes had passed. She had stopped crying now, resigned. "Much of it may be familiar. It's about a young man marching off to war. He was deeply in love, he said, he wanted to marry because even if the war only lasted until Christmas, he had a feeling he wouldn't come home again. I asked him how he could say such a thing, and he smiled and said, 'I just know.' I begged him not to go. I even promised I would marry him, if he'd refuse to join the Army. But he had to, you see, all his friends had already enlisted, they were excited and buying uniforms and talking about glory, and he was a man, he couldn't bear to be left behind. And I married him, because I thought if I do, he'll have a reason to keep himself safe, a reason to defy that silly superstition, and he'll come back. I didn't love him, Ian. I liked him. Immensely. And so I was willing to do this for his sake, even if it meant spending the rest of my life with him. I thought, it will be worth it. We can be happy. I was young-I thought, if he's killed, I'll never forgive myself."
She leaned her dark head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "He went missing shortly after the first gas attack at Ypres. I was suddenly neither wife nor widow. And I blamed myself for not caring, for not loving him in the way he loved me. I kept telling myself that he knew, that somehow he'd realized why I had married him, and he'd lost his talisman, so to speak. I couldn't bear the guilt, and so I thought, I'll find him and save him. And so I trained as a nurse, and I worked very hard, I did my best, from mopping ward floors to keeping my nerve in the operating theater, and soon I was shipped to France. But I went for selfish reasons, I see that now. I never found Mark among the unidentified wounded. I could find no one who had seen him die. It was as if he were in a limbo of some sort, and no one had the key."
It was hard to listen to her confession. Rutledge had wondered, time and again, but never asked. He realized now that he hadn't really wanted to know. Her marriage was in the past, let it rest there. But he said nothing.
"I paid for my folly. For not having the courage to tell Mark the truth. For thinking that I could save him. For thinking that I could find him." Her gaze came back to him. "One day in France, I saw someone who had been brought in for superficial wounds. He was dazed, and I was told he'd been buried alive when a shell fell short and exploded in his sector. He was the only survivor. All of his men were killed. But he kept asking for them, he didn't want to be treated until he was sure they were seen to. An orderly took him away to rest for a little while, and I asked someone the officer's name. I looked in on him later, and he was sleeping. I could see the shadows under his eyes, I could see that he'd been in the line through some of the worst fighting. And I knew I could love this man. I wanted to hold him and keep him safe. All I could do was ask that he be given a little longer to recover, but every man was needed. I was told to wake him up and send him back. I couldn't. I asked someone else to do it." She took a deep breath. "I never saw him again after that, though I'd hear some snippets of news from time to time and knew he was safe. I never asked. But I listened for his name. It wasn't until this past New Year's Eve that I found him again. I thought, we could be friends, it would be all right." She added wryly, "I was still lying to myself, you see."
He didn't reply. He knew she didn't want his sympathy or his compassion.
"I kept telling myself that I could always go away, if there were problems. After all, I was still married. And I couldn't-wouldn't-let myself deny that."