He walked over to the wardrobe and was on the point of opening it when Mrs. Ellison said sharply, “Only her clothing is in there. Dresses and coats and shoes. A hat or two. You needn’t pry into what she wore, surely.”
He had seen what he had come to see.
On the way down the stairs, he asked, “I understand Emma had been interested in practicing with a bow, when she was younger.”
They had reached the foot of the stairs by the time she answered, and she made a point not to invite him back into the parlor. “Emma went through a stage where she admired that young woman who was in the Robin Hood tales. I can’t think what her name was.”
“Maid Marian?”
She frowned. “My memory isn’t what it once was. It hasn’t been since—since she left me. At any rate, she read every book I could find for her about that forest—”
“Sherwood.”
“Yes. Thank you. She begged me to take her there. But it isn’t a great forest any longer, is it? I did ask the rector, and he said it would have been disappointing.”
“Frith’s Wood,” Hamish said. “She would ha’ seen it as filled wi’ bandits and heroes.”
It might have seemed an exciting, enchanting forest to a girl with an imagination that ran to old tales of adventure and damsels in distress.
“Can you tell me where her bow and arrows are now?”
“Good Lord, how should I know! It wasn’t I who gave them to her, and I disapproved of them from the start.”
“Then who did?”
“She never told me. I only discovered them by chance, and after that they were never left lying about.”
“Do you remember the coloring of the feathers at the end of the shaft?”
Mrs. Ellison stared at him. “You must be mad! Of course not. I’m not always certain what day of the week it is, young man. Dr. Middleton tells me it will get worse, this forgetfulness. Worry, he says, that’s what does it. But what do I need to remember, anyway? Losing my daughter and then my granddaughter? Hardly events one wishes to take into the shadows with one.”
He thanked her then, and left.
But he had the strongest feeling that she was watching him from behind the parlor curtains as he crossed the street and opened the door of Hensley’s house. She was right that he had no authority to poke about in an old mystery.
The problem was, it seemed to intrude of its own accord into the inquiry into Hensley’s wounding. And he’d learned, long since, not to ignore distractions until he was sure that they had no bearing on the main issue.
His next step must be going to Letherington to speak to Inspector Cain about Hensley and about the Mason girl. His excuse was the recovery of the bicycle. If he needed one.
There was a man sitting in the constable’s office, and Rutledge stopped in the doorway, wary and on his guard.
But the visitor came forward, his hand out, and said, “Inspector Cain. You must be the man they were sending from London. You got here sooner than I’d expected.”
Hensley’s superior officer.
Hamish said sourly, “He doesna’ know the Chief Superintendent well.”
Had Old Bowels’s need for haste been intended to shut Cain out of the inquiry?
The Inspector was young, with fair hair and a ruddy complexion, and his carriage was military.
“In France, were you?” Rutledge added, after introducing himself.
“Yes, worst luck. Took a bullet in my hip. The doctors patched me up, but if you want to know tomorrow’s weather, come and ask me.”
Rutledge lit the lamp, and they sat down, Cain choosing Hensley’s side of the table desk as if by right.
“Chief Inspector Kelmore sent word to me that you were here, but I had to wait for transportation from Letherington. Not much for bicycles yet, you know. And the carriage I generally use was busy elsewhere.” He grinned.
“My wife had errands to run. We’re expecting our firstborn in three months. It’s costing me more to set up the nursery than it will to send him to Eton.”
“Congratulations,” Rutledge said. “Yes, I visited Hensley in hospital. He’s still in a great deal of pain, but the surgery appears to have been successful.”
“Yes, well, he’s a tough old bird. I never understood why he came here from London. I’d have preferred to be working in a city, myself, given half a chance.”
“Much trouble in Letherington or Dudlington?”
“Not to speak of. This is cattle country, you know. Anyone who wakes up for milking at four in the morning isn’t good for mischief by eight at night.”
“I’ve hardly seen a man, much less a cow.”
“They’re in the barns in this weather. Most of them will bear calves in late winter. Lose a cow, and you lose the calf as well.”
“Makes sense. Did you see Constable Hensley in Letherington on Friday last?”
“Everyone maintains he was on his way there, but if he was, he never reached us. None of my people at the station saw him, and he wasn’t at his usual haunts. I’ve asked around. The fact of the matter is, I’d taken a bit of leave for personal business, because it was a quiet week. Or so we thought.”
“Which would lead us to believe that there wasn’t any pressing reason for him to speak with you. Nothing, for instance, so urgent that someone would go to any lengths to stop him.”
“I can’t imagine that’s the case. Here, in Dudlington?
It’s probably the quietest of the three villages. And if there was an urgent problem, I’d have got wind of it by now.”
“Since the attack occurred in broad daylight, we can’t make a case for mistaken identity. Any idea who might have set out to kill Hensley?”
“God, no. I’m glad to see you feel it was attempted murder, by the way. In the first place, it doesn’t make sense that someone would choose that benighted wood to play at archery. And in the second, Hensley’s too big a man not to be heard as he came through the trees and into range. Finally, no one’s stepped forward bow in hand with an apology. I’ve only been here two years—mustered out in late
’17. Still, I can’t think why anyone would wish him harm.
I’ve had no complaints against him from the local people.
That’s generally the precursor to any trouble.”
“What do you know about Emma Mason’s disappearance?”
“I wasn’t here, of course, when it happened. Pretty girl like that, though, might easily have her head turned by talk of better prospects than she could hope for here. Her mother ran off, I’m told. That’s probably what put the notion into her head. No trace was ever found of her, and that’s bothersome. But I would think that if she didn’t want to be found, she would make sure she couldn’t be. Grace Letteridge always believed she’d come back one day, weeping and repentant. If not pregnant.”
“I haven’t met Miss Letteridge.”
“She’s probably seen you, all the same. She lives at the corner of the main street and this lane. The thatched house, with the courtyard in front, and a garden.”
“Did she know Emma well?”
“I don’t know. The fact is, she doesn’t talk about Emma at all. And the general impression is that Emma disappointed her. Well, of course, so much was expected of the child. Mary Ellison is a Harkness on her mother’s side.
And the Harkness family owned all the land here for miles around. It was the Harknesses who didn’t care to see the muddy little village of Dudlington at their gates. And in 1817 they tore it down and rebuilt it here, out of sight— and presumably out of smell. That’s why Dudlington is all of the same period, it started from scratch. The church is said to be a simplified design of Wren’s. At least the spire is. And then in 1824, the Harkness manor house burned to the ground in a great conflagration, killing three people.