“You’re incorrigible, my friend. Hammond will snap her up if you don’t.”
Laughing, they went up to bed.
The wedding was held in St. George’s, a small gem that had once been part of a long-vanished priory before becoming a parish church. It boasted a magnificent wagon roof and what was said to be the longest rood screen in England, but all eyes were on the bride as she walked down the aisle. Photographs of the wedding party were taken in what had once been the Prior’s Garden, and there was a breakfast, and music, but not for dancing, in The Luttrell Arms, across from the Yarn Market. A quartet played softly in the background, and the cake was a masterpiece of culinary art. On the top sat an elegant sugar swan, wings spread wide and a ribbon in its beak bearing the names of the bride and groom in gold lettering. Rutledge, seated next to Edgar, led the toasts, and then as the conversation grew more general, discovered that Elise’s father was a longtime friend of his godfather, David Trevor, who lived now in Scotland.
“Wonderful architect,” Caldwell said. “It’s a pity that he retired so early. But then I understand—I also lost a son in the war. Elise’s middle brother. Not something you get over, is it?”
“No, sir, it isn’t. Have you also retired?”
“To my sorrow, no. I advise people on how to invest their money.
And they won’t hear of my giving it up.” Caldwell smiled. “The day will come, inevitably. I expect I shall have to ease them into accepting it. My wife is eager for me to grow roses and spend more time with her.” He made a face. “I’d much rather fish, you know. I’m an angler by nature, not a gardener.”
In the early afternoon, the bridal pair set off on their wedding trip.
Edgar drove, waving gaily to guests as he and Elise bounced over the cobbles and turned beyond the castle. The motorcar had been modified so that he could manage. It was, he’d told Rutledge, a matter of pride.
Once out of sight, Elise would take the wheel for the rest of their journey.
The remaining guests left the inn in the next hour, many of them on their way back to London, and Rutledge found himself face-to-face with Meredith Channing as she came to say good-bye. They had been thrown together often during the morning, and Rutledge had to admit that he’d enjoyed her company.
“Safe journey,” he said, and she nodded.
“Same to you. I’m driving with friends. We ought to make good time. That was a lovely toast you proposed to the bride and groom.
You have a way with words.”
“Thank you. It was heartfelt.”
“Yes, Edgar was touched. It was good to see you again, Ian.” She offered her hand, and he took it. They shook briefly, and then she was gone, leaving an unexpected emptiness behind her.
Rutledge told himself it was because everyone else had left, and the day that had begun with such glorious sunshine for the wedding was now changing.
He turned to say good-bye to Elise’s parents as they followed the last of the guests out the door. Caldwell clapped him on the shoulder and said, “If you’re in the City, stop in.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
And then he was back at the house on the hill, where the view was magnificent and his footsteps echoed through the rooms. The ghosts of laughter and excitement and happy voices made the silence seem almost ominous, and he shrugged off the sudden upsweep of melancholy.
He spent the next hour clearing away, as Edgar had asked him to do, preparing to close up the house before he left in the morning. And then he sat on the terrace to watch the sun set behind a bank of clouds.
Restless, he was in no mood to sleep, but finally he took himself off to bed, with a small whiskey and the voice of Hamish MacLeod for company.
When someone knocked at Maitland’s door shortly after midnight, Rutledge came awake with a start. He fumbled for his dressing gown and slippers, then went to answer the summons.
At first sight of the grim-faced uniformed constable standing on the doorstep, he thought, Oh, dear God, Edgar insisted on driving all the way—and there’s been a crash. And then the next thought, Pray God they aren’t hurt badly!
He could feel the presence of Hamish, stark and loud in his ears as he said, “Good evening, Constable. Not bad news, I hope!”
And waited to hear the worst.
But the middle-aged man standing there in the quiet night air asked, “Mr. Rutledge, sir?”
“Yes, I’m Rutledge. What is it, man?”
“There’s been a telephone call from London. Chief Superintendent Bowles, sir. He says you’re the nearest man to the scene and would you return his call at the Yard straightaway.”
Relief washed over him.
“Let me find my shoes and a coat.”
He went back up the stairs to the guest room, leaving the constable standing in the hall, waiting for him.
When Chief Superintendent Bowles wanted a man, it paid to be prompt. Throwing his coat on over his pajamas and thrusting his bare feet into the shoes he’d worn for the wedding, he wasted no time wondering about the summons. Closest to the scene generally meant that Bowles had little choice in the matter of which man to send and was putting speed before preference.
He helped the constable lash his bicycle to the boot of the motorcar rather than the rear seat, unwilling in the dark to risk finding Hamish in what always seemed to be his accustomed place, just behind Rutledge’s shoulder. It was a silent drive down to Dunster; the air was warm and heavy, the stars vanished. The only sign of life they saw was a hare bounding off into the high grass by the road.
The constable commented as they reached the town’s outskirts,
“Easier coming down by motorcar than peddling up as I did on that confounded bicycle.”
Dunster’s streets were quiet, the police station’s lights almost blinding as Rutledge stepped through the door. It was five minutes after the connection was made before Bowles’s voice came booming down the line. “In Somerset, are you?”
“Yes, sir. I took several days’ leave,” he reminded the chief superintendent. “For a friend’s wedding. I’ll be back in London on Monday.”
“Indeed. Well, there’s a change in plan. You’re to go at once to Cambury. It’s just south of Glastonbury, I’m told. The local man is on the scene already, and he’s handing the case over to us. You’re the closest inspector I’ve got to Cambury. By my reckoning you can be there in three hours or less.”
“Why is he asking for our help at this early stage?”
“A man’s been killed. Name of Quarles. His place of business is in Leadenhall Street here in London. His country house is in Somerset, and apparently he’d come down for the weekend. Ghastly business, I can’t think why anyone would wish to do such a thing, but there you are. They’re expecting you, see that you don’t dally!”
“No, sir—”
But Bowles had cut the connection and the line was dead.
6
Rutledge closed up Maitland’s house, left a note for Edgar regarding the sheets the laundress wouldn’t be able to collect with the door locked, then took his luggage out to his motorcar. He thought ruefully that evening dress and casual attire would hardly be what Cambury was expecting, but it was all he had with him.
A low-lying mist had crept in on the heels of the warm air, wreathing the night in a soft veil that threw the light from his headlamps back in his face and from time to time made the road seem to vanish into a white void.
He was given directions to Cambury by the police in Dunster and found that the road was fairly good most of the distance. “It’s a village that’s outgrown itself,” the constable had said, “and much like Dunster in its own way. Though we have the castle, don’t we, and there’s none such in Cambury. Still, there are those who claim King Arthur knew it, and might be buried thereabouts. My wife’s sister plumps for Glastonbury, of course. That’s where she lives.”