Rutledge caught her arm to stop her. “You don’t intend to tell her this, do you? It would serve no purpose now.”
“No. Never. I couldn’t bear her to know.” She left the room.
Rutledge went to find transportation back to Uffington. That done, he put in a call to the Yard.
Hamish said, “How can ye be sure it was suicide and not murder?”
“Because,” Rutledge said, “it explains Rebecca’s behavior. That’s why she was ready to humiliate a dead man, because he wasn’t there to hate any more. If he came back to Partridge Fields to be buried in a churchyard, like a decent man, then it was over, he’d won. To be abandoned in Yorkshire was to leave him outside God’s grace, so to speak.”
He said good-bye to Rebecca. Sarah was resting and didn’t answer as he stepped briefly into the room. But Rebecca raised haunted eyes to his.
Then his driver was at the door and Rutledge left.
By the time he reached the inn, it was early morning, and Hill had left a message for him.
“Your motorcar is in Oxford. My sergeant will drive you there. As for Singleton, he was caught in the train station, as you’d expected. It’s finished.”
25
Rutledge arrived in London and went to his flat to change his clothes.
His first duty, he knew, was to go to the Yard and report.
After that he would find Frances and talk to her about Simon Barrington. He knew his sister. All she needed was to be told Simon hadn’t deserted her. She’d be able to cope after that.
The Yard was bustling, the passages crowded. He asked Inspector Peterson as they met turning a corner what was happening and Peterson said, “There’s been a murder in Kensington. It’s taken most of our manpower to cover the ground. On top of everything else on our plate. Old Bowles is in a foul mood. Walk clear of him if you can.”
Rutledge took the warning to heart. But there was no avoiding the upcoming meeting.
Chief Superintendent Bowles lived by the philosophy, rock everyone’s boat but mine. Only it wasn’t working today. He’d been called on the carpet for lack of progress.
Still, he sat there and listened to what Rutledge had to say about Berkshire, then nodded. “It’s been a bugger here, everything at sixes and sevens. I want you ready to help Chief Inspector Johns with Kensington.”
There was to be no respite, then. Rutledge said, “I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.” Bowles went back to the letter he’d been reading when Rutledge had knocked. Rutledge took that as his dismissal.
But Bowles stopped him at the door as he was about to open it.
“I explained matters to Martin Deloran after your preliminary report from Salverton. Whoever he may be when he’s at home, Deloran’s a nasty piece of work. This letter came an hour ago. Here, read it.”
Rutledge took the letter from Bowles and scanned it quickly, then read it more slowly.
Martin Deloran was a bad enemy.
The letter said,
It has come to my attention that Inspector Rutledge is being considered for advancement to Chief Inspector.
My recommendation is that he is not ready for greater responsibility. His handling of the recent affair in Berkshire showed a lack of understanding of the facts and a grievous failure to follow instructions. The feeling in certain quarters is that Inspector Rutledge has not earned promotion at this time.
Rutledge looked at Bowles. “You know none of this is true.”
“I don’t care if it’s true or not. I’m not going to fight him or I’ll be brought down with you. I’ve told him that you went to Berkshire against my advice and I wash my hands of you.”
“You told me that the Yard doesn’t take orders. That murder was murder, wherever it occurs.”
“So I did. It was a mistaken belief. You’ll take your medicine like a man and not cause more trouble. That’s an order.”
Rutledge stood there, hearing what Bowles was saying. If you think Deloran is a bad enemy, drag me into this and you’ll discover what kind of enemy I can be.
Rutledge took his time replying. “I understand,” he said, and left the room.
This time Bowles didn’t stop him from going.
He walked out of the Yard and debated bearding Deloran in his den. But it was no use.
He went back to his flat. The mail had arrived in his absence, and he looked through it quickly before dropping it on the table by the door. And then he went back again to the large manila envelope that he’d glanced at and passed over. The return address was Slater, Andrew, Tomlin Cottages, Uffington, Berkshire.
He turned it over in his hands several times before opening it.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he tried to tell you.”
And I ignored him, Rutledge answered.
He set the packet on his desk and went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, then changed his mind and came back to take it up again.
Inside there was no letter of explanation. Only a sheaf of paper that Miss Chandler had taken such pride in typing.
Rutledge read through it, following the chemistry as best he could.
Here was Parkinson’s new discovery, with the admission that he hadn’t completely worked out the formula to his satisfaction.
Another gas, this one deadlier than anything used in the war.
Rutledge saw Rebecca Parkinson’s face, and then thought about Deloran’s retribution for defiance.
By rights these pages should go to Deloran. For some reason Parkinson hadn’t delivered them himself. Because of his wife’s suicide, two years ago? Instead he’d had them typed, then had deliberately given them to Slater to keep for him, where Brady couldn’t find them. And Slater had kept them faithfully until he knew for certain that Partridge was dead. Then he had passed them on to the only person he trusted.
Hamish said, “He’ll be pleased, will Deloran. Ye’ll be given your promotion after all.”
Rutledge considered that.
Still holding the pages, he went into the kitchen, struck a match, and over the sink burned them to ash.
Parkinson knew what was in these sheets, and still he’d withheld them. It was enough for Rutledge.
Hamish said, “That was no’ wise.”
“It isn’t a matter of wisdom.” He watched the ash cool and turn gray-white. “Or spite. I’ve killed enough men to last me a lifetime.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It is a fact that most of the gas stockpiled until the 1950s was based on the World War I models. But in World War II the Germans were on the brink of new types of poison gas that were far more lethal than anything used in the trenches. And the Allies were quick to scoop them up and see where they led. We’ve been cursed with variations of them ever since.
Was it possible, scientifically, to be close to the same formulas as early as 1917? The answer is yes, that a clever mind accustomed to playing with poisons from around the world could have stumbled over something that didn’t disable armies, it killed them fast and in great numbers. The amazing thing is not that it was possible then but that it took thirty years, once the can of worms was opened at Ypres.
Of course, early attempts might also have led to another dead end. Who can say?
The what-ifs of history can be fascinating.
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of nine Ian Rutledge mysteries—A False Mirror, A Long Shadow, A Cold Treachery, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, Search the Dark, Wings of Fire, and A Test of Wills—and one stand-alone novel. They are a mother-and-son writing team and live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.