“With or without a child?”
Towson stared. “You are a very hard man, in your own fashion. That was a cruel thing to say.”
***
Rutledge, leaving the rectory with a borrowed umbrella in his hand, asked the Reverend Towson if there were other strangers in the village, either as visitors or on business.
Towson, shivering in the cold air after the warmth of his parlor, answered, “I’ve not heard of anyone. And as a rule, in time I hear most gossip. Are you suggesting now that it could be something in Constable Hensley’s past that caught up with him? Rather than trouble over Emma Mason?”
Rutledge fell back on the tried-and-true formula of an inquiry. “Early days, yet, to be sure of anything. I’m keeping an open mind.”
Towson said doubtfully, “Yes, I see.”
But Rutledge tilted his umbrella against the downpour and began picking his way over the flagstones that made up the path to the rectory gate, unwilling to be drawn into any explanation for his personal interest in strangers.
When he reached the constable’s house again and climbed the stairs, intent on changing out of his wet clothing, the shell casing was gone.
He left early the next morning, as soon as it was light and the rain had become a raw drizzle.
Hamish was in a worse mood than the weather warranted and kept up a running argument about what Rutledge was intending to do.
It was a long drive back to London, and he was, in fact, absent without leave from his duties.
But Hensley was safe in hospital, and his wounding could wait for twenty-four hours.
“Aye, but no’ if he’s released, and you havena’ taken anyone into custody.”
“Hensley is as safe as houses. For now. On the other hand, someone was there in Dudlington, to leave and retrieve that cartridge case. He’s playing with us. When he’s bored with that, or satisfied that he’s put the fear of God into us, he’ll decide whether we’re to live or die. It’s a matter of time. Do you want to take that risk?”
He hadn’t realized that he’d used the plural we.
Hamish said, “I willna’ die twice. Until I’m ready.”
“No. But it’s rather like crossing No Man’s Land again.
You don’t know where or when death is coming. And there’s no way to stop this fool, unless we look into the shadows for him.”
Outside London there was a brief smattering of sleet before the temperature climbed again and the sun bravely tried to find a way through what was left of the clouds.
Rutledge stopped at his flat long enough to look through the post lying on his parlor carpet and then put in a call to Maryanne Browning.
She was at home and surprised to hear from him.
“Ian, how are you? Frances had said you were in the north on a case.”
“I am, or should be. Other business brought me back to London. Can you give me Mrs. Channing’s direction? I’d like to contact her.”
“What on earth for? Don’t tell me you believe she could help you with your inquiries?”
He laughed. “Hardly that, Maryanne. Where can I find her?”
“Well, she’s on the telephone,” she answered doubtfully, and gave him Mrs. Channing’s number.
“I don’t want to ring her up, I want to know where she lives.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” She rummaged in some papers, their rustle coming through clearly to him, and he could picture her sitting in that tiny closet, looking for her address book. Finally she gave him what he needed, and he rang off.
Mrs. Channing lived in Chelsea, in a small house near the hospital. He’d interviewed witnesses in Chelsea any number of times, but now he felt a sense of unease as he reached her door.
It was intensified by stiff resistance from Hamish, who clearly wished to be elsewhere.
“I didna’ care for this woman then, and I do na’ care for her now.”
She answered his knock herself and said without any inflection of pleasure or surprise, “Mr. Rutledge. Or should I address you as Inspector? This isn’t a social occasion, I take it.” Her voice was as he remembered, low pitched and compelling.
“I want to talk to you, if I may. About the séance,” he told her baldly, and she stepped aside to invite him into the house.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find here. It would have been easier if the furnishings had been exotic, with gypsy flair or an aura of the Arabian Nights, to dismiss her as a fraud. A woman who used her parlor tricks to gain entrance to society homes. Instead he’d walked into the sort of house any relatively well-to-do widow might own, for there were no men’s coats on the rack in the entrance hall, no hats on the hooks, and no sign of a man’s taste in the small drawing room decorated in pale shades of lavender and rose. She herself was dressed in black, with a white lace collar, an ordinary woman on the surface.
But what lay below that surface?
She sat down opposite him and waited. He suddenly found it awkward to begin. Mrs. Channing’s face showed only polite interest, her hands folded in her lap, her seren-ity unruffled by the brief, uncomfortable silence.
“She kens why you’re here,” Hamish warned silently.
Finally she said, “It was something about the séance, Inspector?”
“I left early the evening you entertained Mrs. Browning’s guests. As you may recall. And I found something unexpected on the step outside her door.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the first of the machine-gun cartridge casings, which he’d retrieved from his desk at the flat.
She leaned forward to see it more clearly but made no effort to take it and examine it closely. “It’s a cartridge case, of course. I have no idea what kind.”
“It’s from a Maxim machine gun.”
“Indeed,” she commented, sitting back in her chair. “Why have you brought this to me? Did you think it was mine?”
“Or meant for you. Anyone who knew the guest list might have assumed that a woman alone wouldn’t choose to stay as late as a couple. But I received an unexpected call from the Yard, and so I was the first of the guests to go down the front steps.”
She smiled. “My dear Inspector, I’d never have given it a thought, even if I’d seen it. And if Dr. Gavin had left before you did, I don’t believe he’d have paid it any attention either. Commander Farnum on the other hand was in the Royal Navy. He’d have recognized it, no doubt, and even wondered how it had got there, but he wouldn’t have picked it up and kept it.”
“Yes, I’ve considered that.”
Mrs. Channing studied his face for a moment. “But you were in the trenches, I’m told. This would have taken you back, I think, to the killing. And you’d have wondered why the war had intruded again on a peaceful London.”
It was so close to the mark, he was silent.
“Have there been others?”
Rutledge was on the verge of denying it, and then answered truthfully. If this woman had had anything to do with the cartridges, she already knew the answer. And if she hadn’t, telling her would do no harm.
“There’ve been three others.”
Hamish was clamoring for his attention, warning him to walk carefully.
“Yes, that’s when you realized that the first one was indeed intended for you. But why have you come here, if you knew the answer to that? Why would you think I might recognize them?”
“A policeman always makes certain his information is correct. You were the only person at Maryanne’s party I didn’t know.”
“I see.” She digested that.
“You hold séances for the amusement of your friends.
What would you do, if you raised the dead during one of them?”
“I’d be stunned, Inspector. It isn’t my intention and I have no—talent in that direction, thank God! What I do have is a rather good instinct for what people find entertaining. As soon as one of Maryanne’s guests thought that the King’s spaniel was her own beloved dog, I made certain not to tread in that direction. We had a rather interesting discussion instead on whether or not Charles II had climbed that oak tree, or if it were merely a legend. After that we had a few words with Lord Nelson, to amuse Commander Farnum. You had nothing to fear, you know.”