Dr. Williams came then and gave Hensley something to make him quiet again. Rutledge stood by the bed, listening to the ragged breathing, and waited, but Hensley had gone where Rutledge couldn’t follow.
33
It was some time before Sergeant Thompson brought Rutledge a report on the contents of the chutney.
“It’s preliminary,” he said. “I’m to tell you that, sir. But Dr. Pell says you should know. He thinks it’s arsenic. You did say you were in a hurry for the answer.”
“How much arsenic?”
“Enough to kill a man. Or a woman. A good spoonful of the chutney might do it.”
His mind brought him an image of the rector spreading a lavish spoonful of jam on his bread, and he thought, If Towson hadn’t disliked chutney, he’d be dead by now. Or the Timmons girl and her family.
“I’d like a search warrant to go into the house of the woman who made up this pot. I’ve a strong suspicion that there are two bodies in her cellar. The sooner we retrieve them, the better.”
Thompson said, “What if you’re wrong, sir?”
Hamish interjected, “Aye, what if?”
“I don’t think I am. Will you ask Inspector Kelmore for the warrant, or shall I?”
“I’ll see to it, sir.” Thompson walked out of the small room Rutledge had been given while waiting for the test results.
It was late when the warrant was issued and Rutledge could leave.
It was nearly midnight when he reached Dudlington, and he was hungry, wishing now he’d stopped for his dinner on the road. In the dining room under a napkin, he found a plate of roast ham sandwiches. Mrs. Melford had been kind to leave them, he thought, and he went through to the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea.
He had poured it, sweetened it, and was looking for the tin of milk when he realized what Hamish had been telling him for the last ten minutes.
“Ye canna’ be sure Mrs. Melford made them—or who filled the sugar bowl. You canna’ be sure.”
Rutledge set down the cup of tea and pushed away the sandwiches.
He had been in Northampton for most of the day. The house was open, and anyone could have left the plate of sandwiches or added something to his sugar bowl.
He sat there for a moment longer, and then went to bed hungry.
Rutledge woke to a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.
For an instant he thought it was Hamish, and a half-stifled cry was wrenched from him as he froze, trying to shrink inside himself and away from the prodding fingers.
And even as he realized it wasn’t Hamish, but a human agency, he was unprepared for the voice in his ear.
“Inspector Rutledge—Ian!”
It was Mrs. Channing’s voice, low and strained.
He was fully awake by that time and answered her quietly, “What’s happened?”
“I don’t know. It’s Frank Keating. He’s been drinking all day. Since the fire. He closed the inn, and I tried to talk to him, but he’d have none of it. I went to bed and left him there in the bar, still drinking. I thought, he’s had enough that he’ll fall asleep in his chair, and won’t wake up before late morning.”
“Is he still there?” Rutledge asked, his mind beginning to work with some clarity.
“That’s the trouble. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought I might try a little hot milk. That was at two o’clock, and when I looked into the bar, he wasn’t there. But the door was standing wide, cold air filling Reception. I think he’s gone out.”
It had taken determination for her to walk this far in the night, not knowing where Keating was or what had sent him to the bottle.
Rutledge said, “Yes, all right, wait for me in the office.
I’ll dress and come down to you.”
She was gone in a whisper of clothing, her scent, like jasmine, lingering behind her. He remembered the per-fume that Elizabeth Fraser had worn and how it had suited her. Lily of the valley, very English and subtle. Jasmine on the other hand possessed a heady sweetness.
Dressing swiftly, he went down to Hensley’s office. The heavy odor of smoke still seemed to be caught in the very walls, acrid on the night air. Mrs. Channing was waiting there, her coat around her and her hands clasped together, as if she were cold.
“I thought about making us some tea,” she said, “but the fire appears to have gone out.”
“No, don’t touch anything in the kitchen. Stay here,” he told her, “while I search for Keating.”
“Oh, no, I’m going with you.” She looked around her and added, “I’ve never liked coming into this house.
There’s something here—despair, fear. I don’t know. It took all my courage to walk in here, into the darkness. To search the house for you. If I hadn’t seen the motorcar outside, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“You should have come sooner, if he’s been drinking all day.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, mocking him. “And where were you?”
He didn’t answer, saying instead, “I’ve brought my torch and Hensley’s field glasses. If you’re ready?”
She got up quickly, as if afraid he might change his mind. They walked in silence back to The Oaks.
Rutledge took her to her room. “Is there a key?”
She held it out to him. He went inside and made certain there was no one in the armoire or under the bed.
“Wait here, and keep the door locked. I’ll call you if I want you to open it, I won’t knock.”
“Yes, all right, I’ll brace a chair under the knob. Just to be safe!”
“Not a bad idea.” He waited for the sound of the key turning in the lock before going back down the stairs and into the public bar.
It was empty, as she’d told him it was. Still, he cast his light about the room, behind the bar itself, in the corners.
One table held a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and a glass that had left rings on the surface, as if at the end Keating had been careless pouring from the bottle.
From there he began a methodical search of the house, beginning with the public rooms, the small parlor where he’d talked with Mrs. Channing, the dining room with table linens set out for use, serviettes folded with almost razor-sharp edges.
The kitchen was surprisingly tidy, pots and pans set out on a side table, the worktable well scrubbed, and dishes stacked by size and ready to hand. The light moved on, and next to a cabinet he found a drawer upturned on the floor, its contents scattered, as if they’d been kicked about in a search for something.
Hamish said, “Cutlery.”
Their blades flashed in the torchlight, their wood and bone handles worn with use.
Knives of every size and kind, blades sharp enough to cut through hide and muscle and even bone.
“Ye canna’ tell what’s missing.”
“No. He must have pulled out the drawer in a fit of temper, letting the contents fall, and then he took what he wanted, and left the rest.”
If it was Sandridge, and he’d thought that the dying Hensley might give him up, he might have decided to kill himself rather than go back to prison, this time to hang.
The question was, where would he do it?
Rutledge went up the stairs two at a time, ignoring a dart of pain in his ankle. There were three bedrooms on this floor, and Mrs. Channing’s made the fourth. He searched the others, then went up another flight of stairs to what had been the servants’ quarters. He had given that up and returned to the quarters behind the kitchen where staff took their meals. Beyond there were sitting rooms for female staff and male staff, as strictly separated as in a convent in the year when The Oaks had been built.
One of the sitting rooms had been converted into a bedroom. It was almost monastic, the iron bed brought down from the servants’ floor, a stand beside it, two chairs, a table-desk, and a rag carpet over the floor. What had been a tall chest for the servants to keep their coats in had been converted into an armoire for Keating’s clothes.