“We can’t go meddling into matters that are none of our business.” There was alarm on Bowles’s face now. He’d already run afoul of his superiors this week.
“The dead man could be anyone. From anywhere in England. But if Inspector Madsen has his way, he’ll call him Henry Shoreham and take one Albert Crowell, the schoolmaster, into custody on a charge of murder. We can’t seem to lay hands on Shoreham. Before we can say with any certainty that he’s the victim, we must make certain to eliminate the choice that sent me to Yorkshire in the first place. I’d like to ask someone who knows—knew—Partridge well to tell me the man in the sketch I had made is not Partridge. It will clear the field to pursue the issue of Shoreham’s whereabouts. If it is Partridge, we can save a good many man hours searching for Shoreham.”
Bowles considered his options. In the end, it would be his duty to report to his own superiors how and why Rutledge came to be meddling in affairs that were none of his business. On the other hand, the Chief Constable of Yorkshire was not to be trifled with. He was vocal and did not suffer fools lightly. If there was any chance that one of Bowles’s men was intent on pursuing a wrong course that could lead to a public embarrassment—
He wiped a hand across his face.
“Damned if we do, and equally damned if we don’t,” he said. “All right. Look into the business. But hear me, Rutledge! I won’t have toes stepped on for naught. You’ll go about this quietly, whatever you do. Tying up loose ends is all very well, but we needn’t bruit it about. Ask your question without prejudice and come back to London with your answer. Understood?”
“Understood, sir. I’ll leave in the morning.”
He went back to his flat that evening, packed his valise with fresh clothing, ready to set out for Berkshire.
He got a late start through no fault of his own.
His sister was at his door just after breakfast, and he could tell from her face that all was not well.
She toyed with a slice of toast in the rack, buttering it and then putting it down untouched.
The purpose of her visit was—ostensibly—to ask his opinion of a new hat she’d bought the day before.
It was quite fetching, as her hats generally were. On the other hand, Rutledge thought, on her, most anything would look fetching.
“You aren’t here at this ungodly hour because you have doubts about your milliner,” he said lightly. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Simon,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “He’s been avoiding me. I know that for a fact, I have it on good authority, so don’t tell me I’m imagining things. I don’t know why he’s doing this. I thought—well, I thought we were good friends.”
“Why should he avoid you?” He threw up a hand, adding, “No, I’m not saying you’re imagining anything. I want to know what reason you think he might have. Something you commented on, for instance, that you regretted as soon as it was out of your mouth. A remark you shouldn’t have made about one of his friends. Something you said that might have led him to believe your feelings for him were stronger than his for you.”
“Ian. I’m not likely to make stupid remarks, and I’m not likely to criticize him or wear my heart on my sleeve. You aren’t helping.”
He laughed. “I’m a policeman, not a seer.”
“And a very good policeman at that,” she retorted. “But you’ve given me an idea. I think I’ll invite Meredith Channing to have lunch with me.”
He was immediately on alert. “Frances. I think that’s a very poor idea. Mrs. Channing isn’t going to look into a crystal ball and tell you what’s in Simon’s mind. Or heart.”
“I don’t expect her to look into a crystal ball. She’s a very astute woman, Ian, she can give me her opinion. And it could be what I need, to understand how to go on. I mean, people are asking. We’ve been seen together more than a little these last two months. I don’t know how to answer them. ‘Where’s Simon, my dear? I saw him last night at the Collinses’ and you weren’t with him.’ Or, ‘What’s happening between you and Simon? Has there been a falling-out, a quarrel? Have you lost interest in him?’” Her eyes filled with tears but she refused to let them fall.
“And how do you answer these questions?”
“I say that I’ve been terribly busy and so has Simon. Or that I couldn’t make the Collinses’ party, I had other plans. But it’s growing old.”
She stood up. “You’ll be late, Bowles will be clamoring for you. I’ll go and speak to Meredith Channing. If nothing else, she’ll cheer me up. I’m in need of cheering right now.”
And she was gone, despite his protests, smiling at him over her shoulder as she went out his door.
He spent the better part of the morning scouring London for news of Simon Barrington. There was no one he could ask outright, and so he had to make time to listen to various friends they held in common.
Hamish was not pleased with his decision.
“It willna’ help, even if ye find him. Ye ken that as well as I do. Ye canna’ speak to him.”
“I don’t intend to speak to him. Or try to fix whatever happened between Barrington and my sister. But if there’s something wrong, something I ought to know, then the sooner the better.”
“Aye, but are ye the brother now? Or the policeman?”
He couldn’t answer that. And at the end of the day, there was still nothing he could point to as a reason why Barrington should avoid his sister without explanation. The closest he came to an answer was an offhand remark by Tommy Aspell. That Simon had something on his mind and had been damned poor company for a fortnight or more.
With that he had to be satisfied.
It was close to nine in the evening when he arrived in Berkshire. But The Smith’s Arms was well lit, the bar noisy with shouts of laughter and the stamping of feet. Not a drunken crowd, from the sound of it, but one where men were relaxed and enjoying themselves.
Rutledge went to the tiny desk in Reception and signed the register. Then he walked into the bar.
There was a sudden silence as patrons looked up at the newcomer and judged him from his clothes.
Half a dozen lorry drivers were busy with a game of darts. One man, in the process of taking his turn, scowled at the interruption. Two farmers were watching the proceedings from the bar, keeping to themselves.
Rutledge nodded to them as the game resumed and found himself a table in a corner by the front windows. He smiled as Mrs. Smith came over to him and asked what he’d have.
“A room, if you please. I’ve signed the register. And dinner, if there’s any left.”
“This lot isn’t staying over. There’s the room you had before, and a bit of roasted ham and some bread left. Mustard sauce as well.”
“That will do very well.” He’d missed his lunch, and could hear the growling of an empty stomach.
“What will you have to drink, luv?”
“A Guinness, if you please.”
“Smith u’ll bring it shortly.” She skirted the players and disappeared into the kitchen as another burst of laughter met a wild throw.
Rutledge watched this leg end in a victory for the bald man with a birthmark on his face. The man went to the bar to claim his wager, another glass of his choice. A shorter man, broad in the shoulders, called out to Rutledge, as he pulled the darts out of the board. “This is a worthless lot. Will you have a turn?”
It was a dare, not an invitation.
Rutledge got to his feet, shrugging off the long drive, and answered, “I’ll give it a try.”
They eyed him with interest as he took the three darts and lightly hefted them in his hand. Judging his skill. Or lack thereof.