Hamish said, “It may be that yon constable lied to keep you from speaking to him.”
“That he wasn’t Sandridge? I’d considered that. I wonder how much he was paid to set the fire—and if it was enough to make it possible for him to purchase The Oaks.”
In the early-morning light Rutledge examined the motorcar carefully, but no one had touched it as far as he could tell.
He drove it without incident back to the house and put it away.
The time had come to speak to Mrs. Ellison.
He waited until it was nearly ten o’clock, and then walked across the street and knocked at her door.
It was some time before she answered. Her face was lined, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept well.
“Come in, Inspector,” she said, and this time led him to the parlor, indicating that he should sit down. “I’ve seen all the activity at your door. Something has happened, hasn’t it? You’ve—found Emma.”
Her voice almost broke on the last word.
He said gently, “We didn’t find her in the wood, Mrs. Ellison. I told you the truth, earlier. I’m sorry if you were still worried.”
She almost fell apart, then drew herself together again, and faced him with no sign of pain. It was an act of courage, and he had to admire it.
“Thank you.” She stood, the lady of the manor dismissing the policeman. “I didn’t like to ask, you know. I didn’t wish to break down in front of someone.”
He sat where he was. Reaching into his pocket, he held the toothpick out to her.
She looked at it, then lifted her eyes to his face. “Am I meant to know what that is?”
“It was, I understand, a gift from your daughter, Beatrice, to her father. Christmas 1881. The date is engraved on it.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Inspector.
It’s not the sort of thing a girl like Beatrice would give her father on any occasion.” Her expression was slightly puzzled, and she raised her brows, as if seeking an explanation.
“There are those who tell me otherwise.”
“Yes, I’m sure there must be people eager to tell you what they want you to believe. But that doesn’t make it true, does it? Good day, Inspector.”
She walked to the door and stood there, waiting for him to leave.
“You’ve never seen this object before in your life?”
“No. I can’t speak any plainer than that.”
Hamish said, as they reached the street again, “She willna’ break. And ye have only the word of the lass with the roses.”
Hearsay. Hardly evidence that would stand up in a courtroom against the patrician calm of a Mrs. Ellison.
The jury might not like her, but they would believe her.
“There’s the nonexistent grave in Highgate cemetery, in London.”
“You canna’ be sure it isna’ there. If she planned so carefully, she wouldna’ leave that to chance.”
But it was hard to believe that Mrs. Ellison had gone to so much trouble and expense, to bury an empty casket.
He drove to Letherington, to see if there was any news.
When he rang up the Yard, he found himself talking to Inspector Mickelson, his voice cold and distant over the line. Rutledge asked for Sergeant Gibson and was told he was out.
Rutledge rang off.
His second call was to Inspector Kelmore in Northampton, who, after speaking with several other people, informed Rutledge that they hadn’t any information on a Harkness of the age he described.
“We’ll need more details before we can pursue it. Although Sergeant Thompson tells me there was a Harkness who lived here at the turn of the century. She died in the same year as the Old Queen, he says. It was a sad story, which is why he remembers it. Her maid claimed she was poisoned, but no one believed her. She died soon after herself, and that was the end of it.”
“Was she a wealthy woman, this Miss Harkness?”
He could hear Kelmore in the distance, repeating the question. Then he came back on the line. “Thompson says she’d been very wealthy at one time but outlived her money, except of course for the house. That went to a family connection, who sold it shortly afterward to pay for the funeral.”
“How did the maid die?” Rutledge asked.
There was further consultation. “In a fall down the back stairs, Thompson thinks. But send us more information about the woman you’re after, and we’ll be happy to run her down.”
Rutledge thanked him.
He thought very likely he’d found the right cousin after all.
From the hotel he went to see Inspector Cain and discovered that he too had been called away.
Reluctantly, Rutledge drove back to Dudlington, feeling as if his hands were tied.
What he needed was a warrant to search the Ellison house, but he was inclined to believe that Inspector Cain would refuse to ask for it on such slim evidence. After all, Mrs. Ellison had connections. And Cain was ambitious.
Rutledge had learned to be wary of ambitious men.
31
Rutledge found Mrs. Channing sitting in the small parlor at The Oaks, writing a letter.
She looked up as he came in. “I never heard the end of the story about the cow.”
“She’d been taken from one of the barns past the church. Her owner was glad to have her back unharmed.”
“I’m sure he was...” She put her hand into the portable correspondence box she’d brought with her from her room and held out his torch. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
After a moment he added, “I need a favor.”
“What is it?”
“I’d like you to invite someone from Dudlington to have dinner with you in Letherington. Mrs. Ellison. I want her out of her house for several hours.”
She was ahead of him. “You’d search without a warrant?”
He said, “You don’t want the answer to that. It makes you an accessory.”
She looked at him. “You’re risking your reputation.”
“Yes. I won’t do any damage, I won’t take away anything. What I want to see is what sort of flooring she has in her cellar. I could go in at night, when she’s asleep, but there are times when she walks about the house. I shouldn’t like to frighten her.”
“What possible excuse could I have for asking a stranger to dine with me?”
“That you knew—or thought you knew—her family.
Harkness is the name.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
He was disappointed but said, “That’s all right. I understand.”
That night, when the street was dark and all the lights were out in most of the houses on Whitby Lane, Rutledge, dressed in a black sweater and black trousers, walked boldly to the door of the Ellison house and tried the lock.
It was open. He slipped into the entrance and listened.
From somewhere in the house he could hear snoring, a steady, rhythmic sound that indicated a deep sleep. Hard of hearing Mrs. Ellison might be, but sudden sounds in the night penetrated dreams.
He moved silently toward the kitchen, finding his way with his torch, his fingers shielding most of the light.
The kitchen was tidy, a kettle ready for morning, a cup and saucer set out on the table next to the floral tea caddy and the sugar bowl.
Looking at the doors leading off the kitchen, he decided that one was a pantry, another the door to the back garden, and the third possibly the back stairs. He tried them each in turn and found a fourth door near the back entry.
That proved to be a rough staircase into the cellar.
He went down carefully, as Hamish warned him to be wary.
“This isna’ the way to find an answer,” the soft Scots voice whispered.
“Cain won’t listen if there isn’t a very good chance I’m right.”
“Aye, but how will ye tell him ye’re right?”